It was early evening when Orienne reached the city itself. The overcrowding was immediately apparent. Every inn she passed had a “No Vacancy” sign hung out; tents lined the wider streets, marketplaces, and courtyards; food sellers’ and other merchants’ stalls were thronged with customers.

Orienne stabled her horse and made her way on foot up towards the city’s peak. It had been too long since she’s last prayed in the Aijalon; she knew the Shield heard her in Breah, or anywhere else for that matter, but there was something about being so close, about sitting or kneeling in His temple mere feet below the cloth canopy veiling the glow of His presence…something she had missed deeply.

To get there, she had to pass through the area of the city where most of the Ransom lived. Where she had lived. She saw no one she knew, but being there brought a long list of practical matters to mind. She would need someone to let her into Allegar’s house to take care of his things. She wondered whether her own house was as she had left it, or if her things had been stored somewhere else and the house sold or let. She would go to the cemetery, of course, but…not yet. She was avoiding it, she realised, putting it off pointlessly, but…not yet. Just not yet.

As she walked, a lanky grey wolfhound trotted around a corner and bounded to her when he saw her.

“Val!” Orienne bent and vigorously rubbed the dog’s ears as he pressed himself against her, licking at her face and smacking her with his tail. “What are you doing here?” she asked, kneeling and wrapping her arms around his neck.

Someone must have taken Val in after Allegar’s death; he certainly didn’t look like he’d been living on the street. Orienne found herself tearing up as she hugged the dog’s neck and buried her face in his coarse fur. She and Val had had their share of disagreements and she loathed his licking and shedding, but Allegar had loved him, and now seeing the dog was like having a living piece of Allegar with her. She wondered if whoever had taken him in would be willing to give him to her, so she could have that piece of her brother with her always.

Val suddenly jerked away, hitting Orienne’s jaw with his head and clacking her teeth together, and perked his ears in the direction he had come. Grimacing and rubbing her jaw, Orienne followed his stare.

A man shuffled around the corner of the next building, walking with the aid of a cane…but he was young. Val bounded towards him like a puppy, and Orienne slowly rose to her feet, staring in disbelief. How was he here…?

Allegar dropped his cane as she ran to him, swept her into an embrace as she threw her arms around him.

At first she could only cling to him, sobbing, as he kissed her hair and the side of her face, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe. Finally she put her feet down and took his face in her hands.

“How are you alive? The healer said you would never wake up!”

“They didn’t think I would.”

“I’ve thought you were dead all these months! Why didn’t you send word?!”

“I didn’t know where you’d gone, what city you were staying in, if you were even using your own name…” He touched the side of her face. “I would have come to find you after the war, no matter what. I promise.”

Orienne wrapped her arms around him again and closed her eyes as another bout of crying won out. “I’ve missed you so much,” she managed.

His arms tightened around her. “I’ve missed you too.”

Orienne would have been content to stand there in his arms for hours, but after only a few moments he jumped slightly as if startled, and pushed her back to look at her face.

“Orienne—what are you doing here?” he demanded. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is?”

“Yes,” Orienne said. “I’ve spoken to people along the way, and they’ve told me.” She raised her eyes to his. “I had to come back, Allegar. I was in Breah; word came to us there that Farindel was in trouble, that it might not even survive, so I—”

“And it’s true! We’re overflowing here with people from the surrounding towns and farms. There’s practically no one to plant or tend the crops we’ll need to feed them all. The brillam harvest is already behind and probably won’t be completed, meaning we’ll have no money to keep funding the war, and it’s only a matter of months—maybe only weeks—until our army has been pushed back here and we’re all under siege.”

“I know,” Orienne said, putting her hands on his arms. “That’s why I came back.”

“To die with us?” There was a quiver in his voice at the end, and he squeezed her shoulders. “Orienne, I didn’t try to find you, to tell you I was alive, because…because I don’t know how much longer any of us will be. I thought it was better for you to think I’d died last summer than to find out I was alive, only for me to die again.”

Orienne closed her eyes and breathed in, slowly. “I understand.”

“You’ve wanted out of the war for so long,” Allegar said, “and I wanted that for you.”

“Well I don’t want it anymore,” Orienne replied. “Not in the same way I did. I found the most beautiful life in Breah—peaceful and simple and safe—and it was hollow, because I was conscious every moment of what I had abandoned. And I realised I would rather die here, fighting for what I love, beside the people I love, than live a long and peaceful life in Breah, having abandoned everything I claimed to love.”

Allegar’s brow furrowed with emotion. “I don’t want you to die here, Orienne.”

She wrapped her hand around his and squeezed. “That is not your decision to make. What the Shield sees fit to do with us, whatever fate He chooses…that is His decision.”

Allegar pulled her into another tight embrace and held her for a long time. After a while he started rocking her side to side like he’d done when she was a girl and needed cheering up. She smiled at the sweet memories it brought back, until Allegar gasped and released her, clutching at a nearby hitching rail.

Orienne stepped back and looked around in alarm for the cause of his pained expression. “Allegar?”

“I’m fine,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “It’s just—it startled me, more than anything.”

Orienne picked up his cane from where he had dropped it and offered it to him. “Let me go find a chair for you.”

“I can walk to one.” He straightened and slowly tested before putting weight on his right leg again. There was a bench in front of the next building, and he made his way haltingly towards it. Orienne stayed next to him, wanting to help but afraid of making things worse or throwing him off balance.

“Is that better?” she asked as he eased himself onto the bench.

He closed his eyes and nodded, exhaling a long breath. “Thanks.”

She sat down next to him. From this side she could now see the scar running beneath his jaw, partially obscured by his beard. It, at least, appeared to have healed well. “What do the healers say about your leg?” she asked. “How long until it heals completely?”

He hesitated.

“Allegar, I will find out, one way or another.”

He took her hand and looked down at his leg. “It will never be normal again.”

“What?! Why? What happened to it?”

“When…when the Cytharocian soldiers went made during the battle and I was wounded, I fell off my horse and landed on my leg. My knee was broken in several places, but I wasn’t strong enough to move to Farindel for the surgery it needed. By the time I was, the bones were already fusing back together and the surgeons couldn’t repair everything completely. They think it will still improve beyond where it is now, but they can’t be sure.”

Orienne squeezed his hand, tears welling in her eyes. “Allegar…”

“Don’t,” he said, finally making eye contact. “Don’t be sad for me. So I have a bit of a limp. But I’m alive, for however long or brief a time the Shield sees fit, and I’m still able enough to serve Farindel. I’m grateful for that.”

A spark of anger flared in the back of Orienne’s mind. Allegar, who’d been betrayed by his dearest friend and nearly killed, who would never have a normal leg again, was still grateful for what he had—because he was a better man than that traitor could ever dream of being.

Though it was still true: for all the Shield had taken away, He had left more than enough for which she could be thankful, and now that she had Allegar back she could truly forget the rest.

Everything else was part of the past, and she no longer had any reason to think about it or confront it.

***

Sorek emerged from the Eastern Mountains onto the Drelick Basin, shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun, and scanned the horizon, but saw no sign of anyone nearby. Through the early spring mist rising from the damp fields, he could just make out the towering form of the city of Farindel to the southwest.

He would have to stay close to the mountains in order to reach Traden without encountering any Farin. They were certain to have scouts in the Basin, watching the pass for troop movements, bu alone, he could probably remain unseen as long as he was careful. Now that he’d had time since leaving Catzlan to think abut what he was doing, he realised how unlikely he was to succeed. Jaquenon had thousands of sorcery-crazed soldiers at his command, in addition to his personal abilities. And if Shekiah had deduced where Sorek was going and warned Jaquenon—which she almost certainly had—how could Sorek get through the army surrounding Traden to even reach him?

Even on the chance that he did manage to kill the sorcerer, what then? Would he simply go about commanding the army and finishing the war? What was the purpose of that?

What was the purpose of anything anymore?

He supposed he could just leave it all behind…but where would he go? He couldn’t get to Breah or Arcamere without crossing the entire kingdom of Farindel. He supposed he could go to the Southlands—no one there wanted him dead, at least-but that still didn’t resolve the utter meaninglessness of everything.

The sun was dark orange and had sunk below the level of Farindel’s highest pinnacles when Sorek spotted the riders ahead. They rode in formation—a military detachment. As they drew closer, he could see their uniforms. They were Farin, and they were riding straight towards him. What were they doing this far east, and so isolated from the rest of the army?

The rider at the head of the group pointed in his direction, and they sped forward.

Sorek swore, wheeled his horse, and raced back in the direction he’d come, but his horse was tired from two days of travel, and the horses of the other riders were fresh. He could hear them gaining on him. His chest burned with panic, and a sudden flash of clarity made him realise that he, not Jaquenon, was the fool. By killing Perrin, Jaquenon had played Sorek right into the hands that would certainly kill him—and Sorek in his blind rage had fallen for it.

The other riders overtook him, spreading out to surround him.

Too late he wondered why had had run. He was native-born Farin! These men wouldn’t know him on sight—he could have lied his way out if he hadn’t fled like an idiot!

The riders closed in, cutting him off. His horse skidded to a stop and at least half a dozen swords were leveled at him.

“I yield! I yield!” he shouted in panic, raising both hands above his head.

A Farin soldier moved in from his left to take his sword belt, and another reached from the right to take his horse’s reins.

“Check his shirt!” one of them said.

A third soldier jerked at the lacings of Sorek’s shirt and pulled his collar open, searching for one of the stones. “He doesn’t have one.”

“You speak Reyemen?” the one who had taken his sword asked.

“Yes, I—I’m Farin,” Sorek said.

“Really?” The soldier held up the sword and examined it. “Because our scouts in the mountains saw you coming up the pass from Theona Valley, and this very much looks like a Cytharocian officer’s sword.”

Sorek swore internally as his mind scrambled, clawing desperately for anything he could use to buy himself time. “I—I’m here seeking asylum,” he said. “I have information I’m wiling to offer in exchange for protection.”

The soldier, evidently the group’s leader, looked sceptical. “What kind of information?”

“Information that will turn the course of the war in your favour.”

“More specifically?”

“How to stop the madness in the Cytharocian soldiers.”

The looks the Farin exchanged told Sorek that he finally had their attention.

“What is your name?” the leader asked.

They were certain to recognise his real name, if he used it. “Perrin,” he said.

The leader stared at him. “Perrin…?”

“Taerka.”

“Rank?”

“Commander.”

“Well, Commander Perrin Taerka, as it happens, our base camp isn’t far from here, and it is commanded by the Fourth-Born of the Ransom. There aren’t many men with more authority than him that you could talk to. You’re in luck.” The leader gestured to the man holding the reins of Sorek’s horse, and the party turned south again.

Fourth-Born, Sorek thought. Which one is he? He tried to sort them out in his mind: Ivan had been first, then that old man who couldn’t leave the capital, then Cyrus, but he had disappeared—had he ever returned or been found? And then…Sorek’s stomach twisted. Gabriel—the angry one with all the weapons, the one who had been so close to Ivan. He was the Fourth-Born, or at least he had been, the last Sorek had known.

These soldiers were taking him to one of the only people in the kingdom who would recognise him, and the person Sorek felt most certain would kill him without asking a single question. Luck indeed—the same kind of luck he’d been cursed with his entire life.

***

“Send for Fourth-Born Denorric!” the leader of the group called once they reached the Farin base camp.

Denorric, Sorek thought. It was Gabriel.

The soldier dismounted and allowed Sorek to do the same, then stood in a semicircle around him as they waited. The dusk was deepening, and out of sheer panic Sorek’s brain threw out the absurd idea that maybe Gabriel wouldn’t recognise him in the dark. If only. Sorek thought about confessing the false name he had used to the soldiers who had captured him and begging them to protect him from the Fourth-Born, but that was nearly as absurd.

Sorek struggled vainly for a plan, an escape, but nothing that made any sense would come to him, and suddenly Gabriel was there.

The Fourth-Born stopped in his steps, staring at him.

“Fourth-Born Denorric, this is Commander Perrin Taerka,” Sorek’s captor said. “He says he can help us end the Cytharocians’ madness if we offer him asylum.”

“Commander Perrin Taerka.” Gabriel repeated it slowly, his voice low and shaking. “Is that who he told you he was?”

The soldier blinked in surprise. “Yes, sir?”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched and he started forward again.

“Please, let me try to explain,” Sorek said, stepping backwards with his hands outstretched in front of him, but before he’d gone more than a few steps Gabriel’s fist knocked him to the ground.

Voices shouted around him, muffled and distorted through the ringing in Sorek’s ears. He frantically struggled to get back on his feet, certain he was about to be mobbed and beaten to death, but the world still reeled around him and he couldn’t find his balance.

“This is Sorek Ronarres, the traitor responsible for First-Born Romarck’s death!” Gabriel announced to the surrounding soldiers as Sorek’s hearing finally began to clear. “He is the reason the war stands as it does! I want him chained and under heavy guard. We’re sending him back to the capital at first light!”

Hands from all sides pulled Sorek upright and pinned his arms behind his back. He got his bearings and saw Gabriel inches away, just in time for the Fourth-Born to spit in his face.

“I told myself I would never enjoy watching an execution,” Gabriel growled, “but I am going to relish yours!”

***

Sorek pulled his knees up and shifted, trying to position his shoulder blades more comfortably against the post he was chained to. The combination of the spring chill, the dew beginning to settle on him, and his abject terror had set him shivering violently.

When Perrin was murdered, Sorek had thought he didn’t care anymore whether he died, or what happened to him afterwards—that there couldn’t be that much difference between an afterlife of damnation and his present life of the Shield’s constant, hounding antagonism. Now he realised that he did still care, that he very much did not want to die…but now his death was guaranteed.

Would the Farin even bother with a trial—it wasn’t as if there was any question about what he’d done—or would they simply execute him as soon as he arrived?

As if execution wasn’t bad enough, of course his would have to be in the capital, the city where the Shield literally inhabited a temple, the very centre of the Shield’s territory and control. Whatever other fates may have existed elsewhere, there was no question that Sorek’s would fall inescapably into the Shield’s hands.

“You win,” he’d said after Perrin’s death, thinking that the Shield had finally taken everything from him. But now the Shield had gone a step beyond even that, sealing a complete and utter conquest.

What Sorek couldn’t understand was why. Had someone cursed him at birth? Had he been born under and evil star, or somehow unknowingly committed something unforgivable, that he should find himself singled out for the Shield’s contempt? If he had done something to merit this, why didn’t the Shield say so? How was it fair to torture him like this without even telling him why? What kind of sadistic monster did that?

“I don’t understand,” he said to the sky, not caring that the guards standing nearby could hear him. “What did I do to offend you so badly, that you hate me this much?”

“What makes you think that I hate you?” a voice said.

Sorek jumped, glancing around to see whether the guards had heard it too. A few of them gave him strange looks for talking into the air, but none of them appeared to have heard the voice. Was it only in his thoughts?

Hello? he thought.

“What makes you think that I hate you?” the voice repeated.

Sorek scoffed in disbelief. The Shield chose now to talk to him? Well fine, then. If the Shield wanted to gloat, Sorek couldn’t stop him, but he could at least make sure his side was heard too.

What makes me think that? he asked. You have systematically taken everything from me. Everyone I ever cared about is dead, or wants me dead. You’ve either denied or poisoned everything I’ve tried to accomplish in my life. And now that I have nothing left for you to destroy, you’re finally killing me and I’ll be yours to torment for all eternity.

“What part of any of that is my doing?”

Sorek’s jaw dropped. The Shield had the gall to deny responsibility? How about starting by killing my entire family?

“Hundreds of people died in that epidemic, Sorek. That is the broken nature of the world. It was not a personal affront against you.”

Then what about everything else? Sorek demanded. You’ve done nothing but hound me all these years—

“Are my people planning to execute you because of something I did?”

Sorek wasn’t going to walk into that trap. I had no choice but to do what I did!

“You could not have chosen to live a life of faithful service in Farindel?”

“You didn’t want my service!” Sorek shouted, forgetting himself in his rage. The guards all turned to stare strangely at him, and he looked at the ground to avoid eye contact.

I offered you my service, he continued internally. Even after my family died I offered it, and you didn’t want it.

“You had every opportunity to serve me.”

As a smith, pounding metal in a sweltering forge? You know how much I hated that! You know that isn’t what I wanted!

“Then were you serving me, or yourself?”

Sorek’s retort fell away.

“I do not exist to manifest your will, Sorek,” the Shield continued. “I exist to manifest mine. And serving me means surrendering your own will, and serving mine instead. No conditions, no withholding.”

Sorek sat back against the post, stunned into silence. So being relegated to a forge in the middle of nowhere and denied a chance at the officer’s career he wanted had been a test—a measure of his devotion.

And he had failed.

Suddenly he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. Everything he had witnessed with Orienne, Allegar, Ivan—this was how they all remained loyal despite everything they had suffered. They had understood this all along!

A knot formed in Sorek’s throat, and tears burned in his eyes. This was what the Shield had meant by His offer of protection in exchange for service: He hadn’t only meant mimlitary service, a willingness to charge into battle and slay the kingdom’s enemies…He’d meant a willingness to shoe horses and hammer dents out of armour. A willingness to be a nobody. A willingness to surrender personal dreams to whatever He saw fit to offer instead.

Sorek felt himself deflating. It seemed so obvious now…now that it was too late. Now that he’d demned himself.

His heart sped, and nausea suddenly roiled in his stomach as the reality of his circumstances sank in. He tried to think, to find any last shred of hope that might remain. He was still alive, so surely there was something he could do to try to atone for his betrayal and find mercy—if not for his life, then at least for his soul. But what could he possibly do? What did he have to offer?

“There is still mercy to be had, Sorek,” the Shield said.

Sorek’s breathing quickened. “What—what do I need to do? How do I get it?” In his excitement he was talking out loud again, but he didn’t care what the guards thought of him. This was too important, too desperate.

“Give yourself to me,” the Shield said. “Serve me faithfully—that is all I have ever required.”

But—but how could he do that? He was a prisoner about to be executed! At most he might have a few days left to live. Maybe…maybe if he went willingly to his execution, if he accepted it freely, acknowledged that he had brought it on himself…

But then, even that didn’t seem sufficient retribution. He had no idea how many people had died because of what he had done. How could one man’s death compensate for the deaths and suffering of so many? It was a feeble excuse for justice, but what more could he possibly give?

“Much more.”

Sorek jumped a little as the Shield’s voice startled him out of his racing thoughts. What?

“There is much more that you can give.”

More than my death? How can I give more than that?

“Give your life.”

Sorek hesitated. I don’t understand.

“Give me, and my Protected, your life in service.”

But…how?

“Replace the leader you took from them.”

Sorek suddenly felt paralysed. Do what?

“I have chosen you to follow Ivan, Sorek.”

Sorek’s heart pounded faster with every breath he took. You want me to be the First-Born?

“Yes.”

“I can’t,” Sorek whispered aloud as sweat beaded on his forehead. “I cannot be their leader after everything I’ve done!”

“I have not chosen you for what you have done, Sorek. I have chosen you for what I can do through you.”

“How in Reyem am I supposed to lead the people I betrayed?” Sorek knew his voice was getting louder and louder, but he couldn’t help himself. “How can they let me?”

“My messengers will know that I have chosen you. The Protected will listen to them.”

“But what if they don’t?”

“That is not your concern.”

Motion at the edge of the torchlight caught Sorek’s eyes, and he looked up to see Gabriel coming towards him. He fought down the useless urge to run.

Gabriel stopped a few steps away and stood, arms crossed, staring down at him. “Do you have something you want to say?”

Panic shot through Sorek’s chest. Did Gabriel know what the Shield had just said? Was Sorek supposed to be the one to tell him? Why had the Shield not chosen Gabriel as the next First-Born—or anyone else, for that matter? Any man in Farindel was better suited to the task than Sorek was.

“Gabri—” Sorek caught himself. “Fourth—” And he suddenly couldn’t remember if that was the correct rank. He took a breath and started over. “Sir…” And by now he had forgotten the question he was supposed to be answering.

“One of the guards came and told me you’ve been sitting here talking to yourself, things that don’t make sense,” Gabriel said. “So is there something you want to say, or are you just a lunatic?”

Sorek tried to think of an answer, of anything he could say. “I—I want to help Farindel win the war.”

“We don’t need help from you, Ronarres.”

“I…happen to know that you do,” Sorek replied. “I know how many troops you have, and that they’re overstretched; I know your supply reserves are woefully inadequate for the number of refugees crowding into your capital. And I know the threats you’re facing, because I put them there. You do need my help. Without the knowledge I have, you will lose the war.”

“We’re losing the war because of the knowledge you have, that you gave to the enemy!” Gabriel dropped to one knee next to Sorek and grabbed a handful of his shirt, jerking him forward until the chains on his wrists held him back. “You have cost us thousands of lives! Ivan is dead because of you! Why come back and pretend to care about what happens to the rest of us now?”

“Because I’m trying to atone for what I’ve done!” Sorek said.

For a moment Gabriel was silent, glaring at him. Sorek felt the hand clutching his shirt start shaking.

“You think you can atone for Ivan’s death?” Gabriel asked, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling with rage.

Sorek truly didn’t know how to answer that—not in light of what the Shield had just said. “I—I don’t—”

“You are not worth the dirt on the bottoms of his boots,” Gabriel said. “We are going to execute you because it’s the most we can possibly do to you…but your miserable life will never make up for you taking him from us.”

“You’re right, I can’t make up for Ivan’s death, or anyone else’s. But I can help you,” Sorek insisted. “If you just give me a map==or even a piece of paper and a pen, I can show you how to defeat Cytharoc!”

Gabriel released Sorek’s shirt and stood up. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you for as long as you’re in this camp.” He turned and walked away, pausing as he passed the perimeter the guards maintained around Sorek. “If he says anything else, come and get me. If he tries anything…” He turned to glare at Sorek over his shoulder. “…kill him.”

The entire city was eager, but Orienne was nearly frantic. Lhia told her that the first pedlars to arrive were usually from neighbouring towns, but that traders from Arcamere and Farindel were never long in following. Orienne yearned to talk to someone who could give her news. Anything could have happened after so much time, and wondering was about to eat her alive.

As Lhia had predicted, the first two or three traders to trundle into Breah with their goods were merchants coming up from the south, bringing no news that even remotely pertained to Farindel. Orienne and Lhia were in the marketplace together when the first Farin craftsman, a metalworker, arrived with his cart of tools for sale.

He was easy to spot, standing head and shoulders taller than everyone else. When Orienne say him, she hurried through the crowd to get closer to him.

“Hello? Excuse me? Farin!” she called.

He turned around and blinked in surprise. “Well hello there! I didn’t expect to see a countryman here this early in the season. WHat’s your trade?”

“I’m not a tradeswoman,” Orienne said. “What news do you have of the war?”

The man shrugged. “Not much.” He stepped away to help a customer with a set of rasps.

“Please, tell me anyway,” Orienne said when he was finished. “I’ve heard nothing since autumn.”

“It’s not just that I don’t have much news,” the man said, “it’s that there isn’t much news to be had. Things are—” Another customer approached, and the man broke off to help them.

Orienne’s impatience screamed in the back of her mind, but this was getting her nowhere, and she knew she shouldn’t take the man from his work.

“Would you like to come to dinner this evening?” she asked when he finally returned again. Only after she asked did she think to glance at Lhia for approval—it was Lhia’s house after all—but Lhia was already nodding. “We’ll have time then for you to tell me everything.”

An expression of surprise flashed on the man’s face, but he smiled and bowed. “I would consider it an honour.”

“Wonderful.” Orienne gave him directions to the house, and she and Lhia set about finishing the rest of their errands before going home.

The afternoon passed in suspenseful agony. Even when the man—Quinn was his name—arrived, it took all the self control she had to let him eat in peace before bombarding him with questions.

“We have the Cytharocians outnumbered—every soldier in the kingdom has been transferred to the Basin to hold them,” he said. “But whatever power Cytharoc is using in their men, it’s still working. They’re like…they’re like animals.” He shook his head. “You can’t imagine what it’s like—the stories I hear from the front.”

A chill threaded down Orienne’s back. She didn’t have to imagine.

“The snow slowed them down a bit,” Quinn continued, “enough for our army to put up fortifications between Traden and the capital. But I don’t think it will be long before we start losing those fortifications, and have to fall back to the capital. And it appears most of the kingdom shares that opinion.

Orienne tightened her hands around her mug of brillam. “Why do you say that?”

“People are coming to the capital from everywhere for safety. They city’s filling up with refugees, and the farms out in the countryside are being left unplanted. Brillam will be ready for harvest in another week or who, and there’s no one out there to harvest it.”

“So there will be no food to feed everyone,” Orienne said.

“And no money, if the brillam isn’t brought in,” Quinn added. He took a drink of his own brillam and shook his head. “Not that it will matter, if Farindel falls.”

Orienne stared down at the table. The capital had never been breached before…but it had never been assaulted by an army of sorcery-controlled madmen, either. “What…” She sorted through the countless questions in her mind, tring to choose which one to ask first. “What news of a new First-Born?”

“None. Not a single word, from the Avelin or anyone else.”

“But…” Orienne stared at him in shock. It wasn’t uncommon for a new First-Born to be announced before his predecessor was even cold in his grave. Why such a delay? “It’s been months!”

Quinn shook his head. “Some have started speculating that the Shield may never name a new one—that He’s withdrawn His protection and left us on our own.”

“That isn’t true!” Orienne said. “The writings—He promised!”

“I’m not saying I agree with them,” Quinn said, “…necessarily.” He looked down and ran his hand over the grain of the table. “But a lot of people are starting to point out that we still don’t know what actually happened to the First Ones, why an entire kingdom of people just vanished.”

Orienne sat back in her chair, stunned into silence. Lhia deftly took over the conversation and managed to see Quinn on his way naturally and graciously.

When he had gone, the two women sat by the fire for a long time without speaking.

Orienne imagined the chaos the capital must be in—trying to feed and house everyone fleeing to it for safety, with no one to plant the farms, trying to see to medical needs with so many healers having moved out of the city and onto the battlefield to take care of the soldiers…

So many people needing help, and so few people by comparison to provide that help.

“You be makin’ a decision,” Lhia said after a while.

Orienne shook her head. “Decision” implied multiple options, and she certainly didn’t have that, not if she wanted to live at peace with herself. It was time to tell Lhia everything. Time to stop ignoring the self-serving path that had led her here…and to make it right.

She straightened in her chair and took a deep breath. “I’m going back to Farindel.”

***

A mixture of dread and revulsion churned in Sorek’s gut as he stood outside the doors of the office in Catzlan where he kept the stone Jaquenon had given him. During the winter, when the passes through the mountains between Cytharoc and Farindel were blocked with snow, the stones were the only means of communication they had.

It was only a short conversation, he reminded himself—he just had to listen to Jaquenon’s report from Trade, and then he could lock the stone away for another week. He took a deep breath, entered the office, and shut the door behind himself before he could think of another excuse to avoid it. Short conversation or not, allowing Jaquenon that kind of contact with his mind sickened him. It always had…but the incident with Shekiah had made it markedly worse.

Sorek retrieved the locked wooden box from one of the office cupboards, placed in on the conference table, and unlocked it. He couldn’t even numb his revulsion beforehand; he didn’t dare do anything that might make him more vulnerable in any way. At least, he told himself, this was the last or close-to-last time he would have to communicate with Jaquenon in this way. There were two passes through the Farin side of the mountains, and the norther one was already clear of snow. The southern one they used as a route to Traden should be open any day.

He took another breath to brace himself, raised the lid on the box, and took out the stone, a small leather pouch cinched around it. He wore leather gloves as well; the stone required contact with living skin to function, and he wanted to allow it as little opportunity as possible.

His skin crawled, as always, as he fastened the leather cord around his neck and unlaced his shirt to let the pendant rest against his chest. He slowly let out the pouch’s drawstring, braced himself again, and slid it off. The stone’s cold, smooth surface sent chills across his skin; somehow it felt not just inanimate, but dead.

Immediately he sensed Jaquenon’s presence, a defiling otherness pressing against his mind. The sorcerer must have been waiting for him.

“There you are, Sorek. A bit late,” Jaquenon’s voice came through the stone into Sorek’s thoughts.

“Just give me your report,” Sorek replied.

“Of course, of course, always so focused.”

Sorek sat at the table with pen and paper, taking notes as Jaquenon blandly listed off supply inventories and personnel reports. The winter had been hard on the troops—it always was, but the madness of the stones seemed to exacerbate the usual winter illnesses, and more than normal had died.

“Wait, wait,” Sorek cut Jaquenon off midway through. “You have how many action-ready infantry?”

Jaquenon repeated the number.

Sorek stared at his notes in disbelief. “How do you have four hundred fewer infantrymen than last week? Are that many of them ill?”

“Oh no, our sick wards are nearly empty since the weather has warmed,” Jaquenon said.

“Then where are your other four hundred men?”

“We lost them in combat three days ago.”

“What—what combat?!”

“The troops were restless,” Jaquenon said. “I let some of them out for exercise.”

“Let them out—what are you talking about?”

“I sent them to assault some of the Farin fortifications. With spring coming on we have to find out exactly what kind of strength we’re up against anyway, don’t we?”

“And four hundred of them got killed?” Sorek shouted. “Di you send them out naked? You shouldn’t have been able to lose that many if you tried!”

“Easily said, when you’re nowhere near the front.”

“I don’t have to be at the front to know that, Shalen! You weren’t even authorised to initiate combat! The southern pass isn’t open yet—we don’t have a way to get reinforcements to you quickly! If you run your numbers so low that the Farin try to retake the city, I can’t help you from here!”

“It was one excursion,” Jaquenon said. “No Need to get irate. Would you rather I keep them cooped up here and let them start tearing each other apart?”

“We are in the most vulnerable part of this entire campaign right now, Shalen, and you’re running the risk of letting the Farin see that vulnerability! If they decide to move in force on you now, I repeat: I. Cannot. Help. You.”

Jaquenon chuckled. “It’s amusing that you still fancy yourself that indispensable. You really don’t understand the power I command, do you?”

“Power is only as useful as the intelligence behind it!” Sorek snapped. “Your precious abilities will merit us nothing if you keep wasting effort and resources doing stupid things like that!”

“Ah, yes, because I’m the one wasting my abilities. I’m not the one who’s been brooding since summer, Sorek.”

“And I didn’t just throw away four hundred soldiers for nothing. Don’t try to make this about me—I’m actually doing my job!”

“Yes, General Ronarres, paradigm of single-minded dedication and undivided loyalties—”

Sorek grabbed the stone around his neck with a gloved hand and pulled it off over his head. Jaquenon’s voice went silent, and Sorek dropped the stone into its box and slammed the lid. He locked the box in its cupboard and returned to his chair, staring at the notes he had gotten down before Jaquenon’s ineptitude had distracted him.

He read back over the numbers, shaking his head. The idiot. The idiot. Four hundred men lost—and that after the catastrophic losses they had suffered last summer thanks to the Avelin. They couldn’t afford to keep losing men like this; now Sorek was going to have to find a way to reinforce Traden…though with what soldiers, and from where, he had no idea.

He shoved the paper across the table and sat running his hands over his face, breathing deeply to try to calm his anger, but minutes passed and it didn’t leave. And added to it was the usual violated, needing-to-bathe feeling of having allowed Jaquenon to communicate directly with his mind.

He couldn’t focus. He realised that he wanted to hit something.

It had been days since he’d spent any time with Perrin; the guilt of that ate at him, even though the boy’s adoration was just as guilt-inducing. But, stabbing and hacking at a practice dummy with a wooden sword sounded refreshing, and Perrin would be more than eager for another lesson and practice session.

Sorek left the office and went to his quarters, where he changed out of his uniform into plain clothes, then walked out to the stables.

“Perrin?” he called when he didn’t immediately see the boy.

There was no answer.

Strange—this time of day he was usually easy to find, cleaning stalls or washing and refilling water troughs.

“Perrin?” Sorek called again.

Still, no response. Sorek stepped outside and looked towards the well in the courtyard. Perrin wasn’t there, but Sorek noticed three horses tied, unsaddled, outside. Perrin always tied the horses outside while he cleaned out their stalls.

Sorek made his way down the centre aisle of the stable, glancing into the stalls on each side as he passed. Halfway down the aisle, he saw a rake lying on the ground in a vacant stall.

“Perrin?”

Sorek stepped through the stall gate and nearly fell backwards at the sight of Perrin lying motionless on the stall floor, limbs splayed at ghastly angles, his face contorted in a horrifying, wide-eyed mask of agony and terror.

“Perrin!” Sorek threw himself to his knees at the boy’s side and pulled his scarf away from his neck to feel for a pulse. There was none.

“No, no, no, what happened here?” Sorek could see no injury. Had a horse kicked him? Had he fallen, hit his head on something? Sorek felt over Perrin’s head for a knot or indentation, but there was nothing. He unclasped Perrin’s cloak and threw it aside, then jerked his shirt open, searching for a wound, a bruise, anything…

In the centre of Perrin’s chest, suspended from his neck by a leather cord, lay a blue and green stone.

For one instant Sorek sat frozen in shock. Then he grabbed the stone and jerked so hard the leather cord broke. He hurled it away as hard and as far as he could before turning back to Perrin.

“Perrin? Perrin, can you hear me? Are you with me? Perrin!”

Tears filled his eyes and ran down his face as he put his ear to Perrin’s chest and listened, but hear nothing.

“Perrin, no, no, listen to me! Wake up!”

There was no breath, no heartbeat, no movement.

Sorek tried to think. His hands shook, his mind screamed, but there had to be some solution, something that could be done. Perrin’s limbs were still limp, his skin still warm—he’d been dead minutes, at most. Was there some way to counteract the stone?

Shekiah—if anyone in Catzlan could save him, it was her.

Sorek gathered Perrin’s body in his arms, struggled to his feet, and ran as best he could back into the keep, screaming at anyone within earshot to find General Hyn. He laid Perrin’s body out on the table in the hall just as Shekiah entered through another door.

“Sorek, what happened?” she asked, hurrying to the table.

“I found him like this,” Sorek said. “He had one of the stones around his neck—one of Jaquenon’s stones!”

“What?” Shekiah put a hand to Perrin’s throat and held it there for several seconds.

Sorek wanted to scream at her to hurry, to do something before it was too late, but he forced himself to speak softly. “Shekiah, I beg you—I will do anything, just please, please save him.”

Shekiah was silent and still for a few more seconds, then pulled her hand away and hesitantly met his eyes. “Sorek, I’m sorry.”

“No!” Sorek slammed his fists against the table, tears running down his face again. “No, no, there has to be something you can do! You’re Jaquenon’s ally, can’t you reverse it somehow?”

“He’s dead,” Shekiah said, gesturing at Perrin’s body. “Even if I could counteract the stone’s power, the dead are beyond anyone’s reach.”

That was it then. Perrin was gone. Sorek put his hands on the table and leaned against his arms, bowing his head over Perrin’s body as the realisation sank through him like a blade.

“Sorek, who is this boy?” Shekiah asked after a moment. “I don’t understand why he would even have one of the stones, much less why Jaquenon would care to kill him with it.”

Sorek slowly raised his eyes to Shekiah’s. “Is that what happened?” he asked. “Is the stone really what killed him?”

Shekiah shrugged with hands spread. “I’m not a physician, Sorek, I suppose it’s possible the boy could have had some sort of stroke or something, but it certainly looks like the stone’s work.”

So then. This was Jaquenon’s response to Sorek raging at him: he’d retaliated not against Sorek, but against an innocent, defenceless boy who had nothing to do with the situation.

Something inside of Sorek broke, and a dark, heavy resignation fell over him.

“You win.”

Shekiah looked around in confusion. “What?”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Sorek slowly backed away from the table, staring at Perrin’s body—the broken shell of the only reason he’d had left for carring on, for continuing his miserable existence. The only thing giving him strength to even try to care what happened to him anymore.

“See that he gets a proper burial,” Sorek said to Shekiah, his voice low and broken.

“Where are you going?” Shekiah asked, but Sorek ignored her, turned, and left the hall without looking back.

In his quarters, he buckled on his sword belt and winter cloak, then took an empty bag to the kitchens, where he filled it with food. No one spoke to him, though several of the staff stepped out of the way with wary glances as he returned to the stables, saddled a horse, and rode to the gate.

“General Ronarres?” one of the guards said as he approached.

“Let me through,” Sorek ordered.

“Of course, sir, but—may I ask where you’re going?”

The gate groaned open, and Sorek paused to look at the guard. “Where it seems I’ve been destined all along,” he said.

The Huldremose woman, discovered by a peat cutter in Denmark in 18791, is often referred to as “history’s best-dressed bog body.”2 She was found wearing a stunning plaid wool skirt, a wool scarf, and a pair of layered sheepskin cloaks or shawls. Evidence suggests that she was also wearing at least one other garment made of unknown plant fibres, which has not survived.3

Like most bog bodies, we know next to nothing about this woman—her name, who she loved, who loved her back, what she dreamed of at night, what made her laugh, what songs she sang, what dances she danced, what stories she told and heard, what community she had around her, what role she filled in that community. One of the very few things we do know is that her clothes had been repaired many times.

To me those repairs are the most striking and profound thing about her—a powerful point of connection to a woman who lived and died thousands of years before me, because they are moments of her life.

I don’t know her name, or who she loved or quarrelled with, or what she thought of as she stared at the stars or watched the northern lights…but I know at some point she sat down, perhaps near a fire, perhaps while talking with her friends or listening to a storyteller, and patched her cape with a piece of goatskin. I don’t know what she dreamed of, but I know that her skirt was valuable enough to her that when it became damaged or deteriorated she took the time to repair it.

How many people with names and dreams and loves have vanished utterly from the record of history? How many have lived and died and there is nothing by which to remember them, not even a body remaining? Of those bodies that do remain, how many still carry details of their lives (aside from evidence of the means of their deaths)? How often do we receive an opportunity to glimpse, to connect to, a moment of their life that was peaceful, mundane, creative? And through those tiny moments, I am, in the faintest ans most tenuous of ways, connected to the whole of her life, even if I cannot see it or know what it contained.

That’s why I love the Huldremose woman—because I have a way to connect with her, to know her in however tiny of a way. No one knows her name anymore, or remembers the timbre of her voice, but some tiny fragment of her life is known and remembered, felt, shared, witnessed, in her work of repairing her clothes.

A Story in Thread

I have feelings about fast fashion. I either buy clothes for myself, my husband, and my children secondhand, or I make them myself. I have a few garments still in my closet that I have literally owned (and worn regularly) since high school. I mend, repair, make over, and up-cycle old clothing to extend its wearability. When a garment is worn out or damaged beyond repairability it gets cut into rags and used to clean my house for as long as it lasts before it either unravels or gets used for a nasty job, and is finally thrown away.

I have always taken this approach to our clothing mainly for economic and environmental reasons. But recently, when I noticed a couple of holes developing in one of my jumpers that I’ve been wearing regularly for several years, as I debated whether to repair the holes or retire the jumper to cleaning rags, I found myself thinking of the Huldremose woman. I decided to repair the holes. I didn’t have any yard in the same colour as the jumper…but the Huldremose woman’s sheepskin capes were repaired with goat skin of a different colour. I decided it would add character. It would add a story.

It’s not that I have any expectation of becoming a bog body when I die (though if somebody wants to submerge me in a bog after I’m gone, hey, I’m game), or that I think some archaeologist is going to analyse my clothing with a microscope a thousand years from now. It’s more about interweaving all the parts of my life on the deepest level I can, of infusing my life, my soul, into everything I own.

A fast-fashion garment straight off the rack, worn for a season or two and then discarded when it goes out of style, has no life in it. It may hang on my body for a few hours, but it is not connected to me. It says nothing about who I am, and none of my life is infused into it.

Stitching a Legacy

My daughter has a beautiful quilt that a family friend made for her when she was born, that she sleeps with every night. A few days ago she brought it to me and showed me that the binding along the edge had popped loose in a couple of places, and asked me if I could repair it. At the moment she came to me, I was desperately trying to get some writing done, after a long morning of breaking up toddler squabbles, and at first I was exasperated by yet another interruption. I found myself thinking about my hopes of leaving a legacy through my written body of work, and wondering how on earth that is ever going to happen if I can never get any time to actually write. I briefly considered telling her no, not right now, Mommy will fix it later, right now I want to write.

And then I thought of the Huldremose woman.

If the Huldremose woman made any stories or songs, we don’t know what they were. They have not survived with her. But the stitches in her clothing have. I found myself wondering, which is going to be a more meaningful legacy to my daughter when I am gone—a novel I wrote while begging her to leave me alone for just a few minutes, or the tangible stitches I put into her treasured baby quilt when it needed repair? Which legacy interweaves my daughter more closely with me, on a level that is deeper and more meaningful to her?

I closed my laptop, retrieved my sewing basket, and fixed her quilt for her.

My writing still matters immensely to me, and always will. I am still teaching my children that Mommy needs to be given time and space and quiet for her own interests sometimes, just like they do. I still believe and intend for my body of writing work to be a major part of the legacy I leave behind me when I die. But the Huldremose Woman helps me understand that it will not be my only legacy, and that I can interweave my legacy throughout so much more of my life than just writing. It is deeper, more alive and complex, than a cleanly-defined monolith of the completed novels I leave behind. Someday when I’m long gone, perhaps my daughter will still have that quilt; perhaps she’ll give it to her daughter one day, and as she does she’ll see and remember the stitches I put in for her when she brought it to me and asked me to fix it. I didn’t make that quilt for her, but I left my mark on it, and perhaps someday she’ll treasure that mark the way I cherish the marks my grandmother left me.

Echoes of Presence

In 2010, the year I turned twenty-two, I lived with my grandmother as her full-time caretaker for the last seven months of her life. The last book she ever read was my copy of The Secret Garden; dementia had made her anxious and restless, but that book calmed her and delighted her in a way nothing else could anymore. I loved pausing my cooking and cleaning to peek into the sunroom of her house and see her lying on the couch, reading contentedly. Only after she had died did I discover that she had dog-eared some of the pages…and I cried because I was so happy she had.

Those faint little dog-ear creases are some of my most treasured possessions, because they connect me to the grandmother I adored, who had such an impact on the person I became—they are a tangible mark of her presence. I can touch that little crease and it’s almost like touching her fingers through the paper.

My grandmother and Huldremose Woman both teach me that tangible marks of presence are connections to each other.

Adding Personality to Practicality

If mends and repairs are going to serve as a tangible part of my legacy, they might as well carry some of my personality too. I can see glimpses of the practical tasks of the Huldremose Woman’s life through the repairs to her clothing; there is a faint glimpse of her personality through the plaid weaving pattern of her skirt, and perhaps the contrasting colour and material of the patches in her capes are glimpses of it as well. But how I would love to see even more of her personality! She encourages me to put more than just the minimum of necessity into my work.

Recently my husband brought me a pair of his trousers with a hole worn in the thigh, and one of his shirts with a tear in the front, and asked me to mend them. Due to the nature of the damage (and the fact that he neglected them for a while before bringing them to my attention) they both had to be patched as well as stitched. There was no way to fully conceal the patches or repairs, so I decided I might as well make them intentionally decorative.

My mother and grandmother taught me a few basic embroidery stitches when I was a little girl. I haven’t done it in decades, but I recently found the desire to re-learn and improve my skill at it. I decided that the regular mending I have to do anyway is a good way to get some extra practice in.

My husband’s feelings when I handed back his trousers, patches with their zig-zagging red edge embroidery were…mixed. So when I did the repair on his shirt, I kept it all one colour instead of adding contrast.

When I finished his shirt, he still felt that using embroidery for stabilising stitches was a bit excessive, but he was at least glad I had kept it all white, and glad to have his shirt repaired rather than having to purchase a new one.

I think of Huldremose Woman, and I am glad that she repaired her clothing and continued to wear it after, rather than discarding. The unromantic mind will relegate this fully to the difficulty and expense of manufacturing clothes at the time in which she lived, and of course there is in all likelihood a practical truth to this. But I think of the historical garments found around the world—a Tudor-era shoe pulled from the Thames, a Viking-era jumper revealed by a receding glacier in Norway—that were found discarded or lost, apart from their owners. The connection to that person still exists, but it is so much fainter, a fingerprint on a window we cannot open, a nameless calling card left by someone who will never return, and whom we cannot call on in return.

Stitching Everything Together

Leaving legacy behind in every way I possibly can isn’t important to me simply because I fear being forgotten. The idea of being forgotten both does and does not matter to me, in different ways.

It does not matter to me in that I do not believe I need to be personally remembered centuries after my death for my own sake or well-being. I do not feel the need to cling to being remembered out of a fear of death or ceasing to exist. (And while we are learning lessons from the ancients, let us learn from Ea-nāṣir4 that being remembered by name is not necessarily always a positive thing.)

It does matter to me in that if I am forgotten, it means I have not accomplished what I desired to accomplish with my life: to have left an enduring body of written work, yes, but also to have left imprints on as many other lives as I possibly can in countless other ways—through recipes freely given from my kitchen, through baby quilts that survived because I mended them, through hats and vests and cardigans I knitted for children and grandchildren and village children, through hospitality that encourages others to welcome the neighbour and stranger under their own roofs, through prayers taught to my children that they in turn teach to theirs, through skills taught to others, through notes of life lessons and wisdom jotted down in notebooks. It matters to me because the more we interweave our lives with the lives of others in lasting and tangible ways, the tighter-knit our families, our clans, our communities, indeed, humanity, will be. And the better it will endure, a many-times-mended garments of the Huldremose Woman.

Whether she was someone’s mother or grandmother biologically is unknown. But she has taken on a sort of motherly, grandmotherly, wise-matriarch-mentor place in my heart and mind. I think of her fondly, and often, and I remember what she teaches me through the only pieces of her life that remain—that mends and repairs we make connect us to each other, thereby stitching humanity closer together in a very real way. She teaches me that mending and repairing are stronger, more lasting connections than discarding.

As I write this, I’ve noticed that the sleeve cuff of my cardigan—a cardigan I have owned and worn for something like seventeen years now—is beginning to unravel. Fast fashion and the “disposable” culture tell me to throw it out, it’s served its purpose, lived its life, it’s time to move on.

Huldremose Woman teaches me to go and mend it, and that by doing so I may just be stitching a connection to something or someone I can’t even imagine yet.

He had hoped getting away from Jaquenon, who was wintering in Traden, would bring relief, however slight, from his misery, but it didn’t. He had thought that perhaps spending more time with Perrin, the only bright spot left in his life, would help him forget, but he was wrong. Sorek had led the boy to believe that the details of his mission to Farindel were classified secrets, and so avoided telling him about it, but that was no comfort. He still know what he had done, and the ugly facts soured Perrin’s continued adoration of him.

In truth, Jaquenon was only a surface irritant and Perrin a superficial balm to the festering anguish and fury Sorek carried inside.

His guilt over what he had done and grief over what he had lost melted together into anger—a deep, seething rage that burned constantly. Anger at the Shield for taking everything from him and driving him to Cytharoc in the first place. Anger at the Farin for letting him taste the life he had always wanted with them, now, after he’d given up his chance to have it. Anger at the miserable future he faced in Cytharoc. Anger at people like Jaquenon Shalen and Shekiah Hyn, who would help make that future miserable. Anger at what he had become…and anger at the Shield again, for letting him become it.

This wasn’t what he had wanted, what he had set out to do. All he’d wanted was a purpose, a cause to which he could give himself, something to stand and fight for. He’d been denied that in Farindel, reduced to a menial, meaningless life of the blacksmith work he hated. Joining Cytharoc had been nothing against the Shield or Farindel, it had just been a desperate search for meaning and purpose.

He thought he’d found that purpose in the open arms of Cytharoc, in the way his talent had raised him to the rank of general in less than a decade. But now the Shield had denied him even that, punishing his change of loyalty by poisoning what should have been his greatest success. The admiration Sorek had developed for Ivan, the warmth of his rekindled friendship with Allegar, and his stupid, stupid mistake of falling in love with Orienne, had together ensured that his greatest achievement as a Cytharocian general would bring him only anguish.

And now here he was—a traitor forever barred from the land and people he loved, and a bitter, miserable hero to a place and people he was doomed to spend the rest of his life hating.

***

To her delight, General Shekiah Hyn had been ordered by King Saras to spend the winter in Catzlan. While the confinement imposed by the harsh mountain winter was a nuisance, spending months in forced proximity to Sorek was exactly the opportunity she needed, the chance she had been trying for since summer.

The anger she sensed in him was powerful, and at least part of it was already rooted in his hatred for Jaquenon; if Shekiah could find out how much, and what the rest of it stemmed from, she was reasonably certain she could turn it to her advantage and use Sorek to eliminate the increasing threat Jaquenon presented.

King Saras would be angry at Jaquenon’s death, but he could be appeased—though even if he couldn’t, it mattered little as long as Sorek was the one to do the deed. Losing Jaquenon would damage her own powers of sorcery, but any abilities she lost could be rebuilt with time, and it was worth the sacrifice to be rid of him—better than letting him become so powerful that he no longer needed her, at which point she knew he would waste no time killing her.

She spent several days planning the best way to approach Sorek and conduct her search for information, then put the plan into action.

Her set of Cyth medallions had waited, unused, for a long time. Their magic was weak and shoddy compared to the strength and fluidity of Thallanic sorcery, but they were the best choice in this case. Sorek was less likely to detect the weaker, more innocuous magic working on his mind.

Shekiah unlocked the jewellery chest where she kept the medallions and chose Hentshenaq, the Sleeping Dragon—perfect for an aggressive, angry man guarding something he didn’t want stolen or seen. She clasped the chain behind her neck and tucked the medallion inside her shirt out of sight, then went to look for Sorek.

She found him in one of the rooms off the main hall, sorting a large, disorganised stack of reports and other correspondence. It was completely unlike him to let so many pile up. Whatever ate at his mind was distracting him from his work—a very good sign. People were strongest within the confines of their character; once they stepped outside their own personalities and principles, they became much easier to manipulate.

“There you are,” she said, pulling a second chair over and sitting down next to him.

Her entrance into the room barely drew an identifying glance from him.

“My goodness, Saras is putting a great deal on your shoulders,” she remarked. “Can I help in any way?”

“No.” He tossed the report in his hand aside and grabbed another from the pile.

“From Jaquenon,” Shekiah observed, noting the name on the outer fold. “How do things fare in Traden?”

“As well as can be expected,” Sorek muttered.

He was guarding himself fiercely, but the turmoil within his walls was apparent. Shekiah needed an opportunity to touch him in some way he wouldn’t recoil from.

“It’s a bit dim in here, don’t you think?” she asked, rising from her chair. “Let me bring that other lamp closer.”

She retrieved the other extra lamp from atop the writing cabinet at the end of the room, brought it back to the conference table, and leaned over Sorek’s shoulder from beind to place it in the midst of his scattered documents.

He straightened from his reading, letting out an exasperated sigh as her arm blocked his view. “I don’t need another lamp, Hyn, just get out of my way and let me work.”

“There,” she said as if she hadn’t heard him, “now you’ll be able to work longer without your eyes getting tired.” She straightened, placing her left hand on his shoulder, as if for balance, and used the moment of contact to duplicate the outline of the medallion around her neck on his shoulder with the tip of her finger. The image would penetrate his subconscious and relax the safeguards around his thoughts, making him more willing to share them with her.

“I’m glad to hear things are going well in Traden,” she said, returning to her chair. “These last few months have been hard on you, I can tell. It’s time things went well for a change.”

Sorek silently scanned the report in his hands for another few moments, then tossed it aside.

“Something wrong?” Shekiah asked.

Sorek moved on to the next report without answering.

Shekiah concentrated on the medallion resting against her chest, focusing its magic. “You’re angry,” she remarked. “At Jaquenon?”

“He’d never have made it as far as corporal, much less general, without his abilities as a sorcerer,” Sorek said. “He’s an idiot with absolutely no leadership ability.”

Shekiah smiled. Sorek was far from the only person to feel that way about Jaquenon, but she’d never heard him express it so bluntly before. The Hentshenaq medallion had been enough to start him talking. Now that the dragon was asleep and his treasure unguarded, Shekiah could put the real power, Thallanic sorcery, to work.

She reached across the corner of the table to rest her hand on Sorek’s forearm. “There is more than than to your anger, though,” she said, studying his face. “What is it?”

“Everything!” Sorek snapped, throwing down the paper in his hands. The movement put his arm out of Shekiah’s reach, but it didn’t matter—the connection she had established was secure now.

Sorek ran his hands back over his hair, his face tight and teeth clenched. “It’s you, it’s Jaquenon, Saras, the war, the Farin, the Shield, me…” He slammed his forehead into his hands, clenching fistfuls of his hair. “I wish all of it would go down in flames and burn to ashes! I wish I’d never been born to see it or have a part in it!”

A powerful surge of rage emanated from him as he spoke—so powerful that Shekiah had the sensation of being pushed back by its force—and its scope was astonishing. It consumed him. Its roots were deeper, and far more tangled than she had ever imagined. She would have to decipher some of its complexities before she could manipulate it to her purposes. Her left hand still rested on the table. She subtly lifted her fingers towards Sorek, channelling more power towards him, and probed into the burning mass of his rage.

The thread of his anger at Jaquenon was thick and hot and writhing, but connected to nothing—a dead-end, which was surprising but unhelpful. Next she followed Sorek’s anger at himself. It branched, one strand merging into his anger at the Farin, and the other, much stronger strand connecting to a massive, powerful stream of anger at…the Farin’s deity? Strange, but it did explain his willingness to his own homeland, she supposed.

There were faces in the anger, portraits wreathed in snarls of black tendrils. Shekiah found her own face, and that of King Saras, among others she had never seen before. As she sorted through them, moving as quickly as she could, she suddenly found one with no anger connected to it. Instead of a twisted wreath of black, it was framed with a soft glow of joy and affection. Shekiah was certain she had seen the face before, but it took her a moment to realise it was one of the stable boys from right here in Catzlan.

Why would a random stable boy be the only spark of light in Sorek’s mind? Shekiah searched briefly for some connection to explain it, but found none.

She pulled her gaze back to her physical surroundings to glance at Sorek. He sat, still with his hands on his head, breathing but otherwise frozen by the magic in his mind. Good. Shekiah returned her hand to his arm, not that he was past sensing her touch, and went back to work.

She needed to know what set the boy apart from everything else, and what connected him to Sorek. They both had fair hair, skin, and eyes. Was he Sorek’s son? He looked around sixteen or so, and Sorek was thirty, Shekiah knew. A father-son relationship was not strictly impossible, but seemed very unlikely. A younger brother, perhaps? But nearly all of the army’s stable hands were under indentured servitude, and Sorek was a Farin defector who had been here for ten years; it made no sense for them to be brothers either. Was the boy…a lover? Shekiah was admittedly no authority on Sorek’s tastes, but she didn’t think they ran in that direction.

She widened her search, browsing for connecting tendrils she may have missed. As she moved deeper into Sorek’s mind, the darkness thickened to be almost suffocating.

Another face appeared—a woman with dark hair, her face a mask of raw fury, her eyes a pupil-less obsidian black. The image was unnerving, to say the least. Shekiah felt the urge to back away from the woman’s unsettling glare, but forced herself closer instead. The emotions ringing this image were different than any of the others, blurred together beyond recognition. Shekiah pushed further into Sorek’s mind, until she could touch it.

Sorrow, rage, loss, grief, heartbreak, all crashed against Shekiah’s mind like a wave.

Sorek flinched.

Shekiah caught her breath and stared at him, wide-eyed, as he shook himself out of the trance. His sorrow was more sensitive than his anger, more closely guarded. The dragon had awakened. He stared at her, then looked down to see her hand on his arm and slapped it away.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

Despite the genuine fear Shekiah felt seeing the murderous look in his eyes, she managed to smile disarmingly as she scrambled for answers. “Trying to help you,” she said. “I can see you much you’re suffering from this anger, but there is no need to. A nepenthean spell is so easy—let me help you!”

She reached for his hand, but he jerked away and stood up, toppling his chair. If I want your help I’ll ask for it, witch! Keep your black powers out of my affairs!” He shoved past her and stormed out of the room, the papers on the table scattering in the gust from the slammed door.

Shekiah sank back in her chair and released a shaking breath. For a moment she had feared Sorek was going to kill her, and wasn’t actually sure why he hadn’t. As she rubbed her hands together to stop their trembling, she tried to clear her mind enough to assess the information she had acquired.

Who the woman with the terrifying obsidian eyes was, or what her connection was to Sorek, Shekiah had no idea. The nature of Sorek’s connection to the stable boy also remained a mystery. And now that Sorek had detected her and would be far more wary of her in the future, she would have no chance to find out. Still, she considered this endeavor a success. She had witnessed a mind dangerously close to breaking, and discovered its only remaining source of light and joy. That was enough.

Sorek was at her disposal, and Jaquenon’s days were numbered.

***

Sorek locked his door, though there was absolutely not point in doing so. Shekiah couldn’t possibly invade his privacy any more by coming into his room than she already had by snaking her way inside his head.

He paced the room’s perimeter, racking his brain for any trace she may have left, any clue as to what she’d been doing or looking for. How much had she seen? What did she know? He cursed himself for the idiot he was, letting her get close to him. That she would use any knowledge she had gained against him was certain, but how? They were equals in rank, and Shekiah’s abilities as a sorceress made her indispensable to King Saras. Sorek was no threat to her position. What else could she want?

Sorek had nothing she could possibly envy. Wretched as it was, what Shekiah knew of him was the only pathetic shred of a life he had left.

He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it, weapons and all, onto the table in the middle of the room, then slumped into the chair beside it. This was all the life he had? This misery, this anger, this bitterness—these were what he had to hang onto? Why should the thought of Shekiah’s interference bother him, then? Could she really damage what he had already destroyed so completely? He had nothing good to lose.

His eyes drifted almost of their own accord to the table, and to the dagger on his belt. It was tempting…very tempting. All of this could be over in just a few minutes. Such a simple solution.

It was the coward’s way out, true, but why should that matter? Did he really care what anyone thought of him after he was dead? Did he really have any delusions of not being a coward?

Now that he found himself entertaining the thought of death, though, coldness tightened in his stomach, and he realised that it terrified him. If he could be certain there wasn’t an afterlife, he would kill himself now, without hesitation.

But what if there was?

If, as the Farin believed, it was the Shield who determined men’s fates, Sorek knew well enough what the afterlife would hold for him. He could expect no mercy or peaceful rest from a deity he’d been at such odds with for so long. Even if there was some other, unknown being responsible for his fate, what hope did that give him? He had betrayed his homeland. He’d exploited Allegar’s trust and friendship. He’d stolen Orienne’s love and broken her heart. He hadn’t personally killed Ivan, but the man’s death was still arguably his fault, as were countless hundreds of others who’d died in the battle for Traden. Any deity willing to overlook such offenses was not one to which Sorek would willingly hand his fate…which left him trapped here, existing in misery he was too afraid to end.

He swept his sword belt off of the table with his arm and dropped his face into his hands. How did they do it, people like Ivan—Ivan, who had so tragically lost the wife he had obviously adored? People like Orienne, whose happiness Sorek had destroyed? How could they lose everything and still remain so devoted to a being who could have stopped all of it, and didn’t? It had seemed to obvious that the Shield favoured Ivan, that Orienne’s devotion deserved better, and yet…

With a growl, Sorek stood up, threw open the door of his quarters, and made his way to the kitchens. There were too many contradiction concepts at war in his mind, too many questions he couldn’t answer.

He took a glass and the largest bottle of wine he could find in the cellar, returned to his room, and poured the glass far too full.

It was the only semblance of escape he had left.

***

While winter deepened, pressing its heavy hand down tightly over the mountains of Breah, Orienne found herself settling into a simple, peaceful routine.

Lhia made her living taking in leather and raw wool from Breahan farmers and making it into bridles, harnesses, yarn, felt, and cloth. She offered to take in double her usual amount so Orienne could make a living of her own, and Orienne accepted the offer. She had worked some with leather years before, when Allegar was a young recruit, caring for his armour for him to allow him extra sleep during his exhausting training schedule, but wool was something new and a challenge to learn. The way the fibres caught on the calluses of her hands almost drover her mad, but Lhia had assured her that the oil in the wool would soften her skin and make it easier with time.

Lhia went to great lengths explaining to Orienne how eggs worked, attempting to put her mind at ease about eating them. Orienne already knew how they worked, it was just the idea of eating them that was completely foreign, but she gradually became more comfortable with them, and even learned to crack them and use them herself.

She also proved to Lhia that bread and custard could indeed be made without eggs, and Lhia introduced her to the delicacy that was meringue. It took Orienne only two sweetly dissolving bites to declare herself an unapologetic addict.

In the dark, blustery evenings they say by the fire and read, talked, or did handwork. Aside from cleaning leather and polishing armour, Orienne knew very little by way of craftsmanship, but Lhia was patient to teach her spinning, knitting, weaving, and embroidery, all of which she gradually came to enjoy once her beginner’s frustration began to fade. Their conversations often lasted long into the night, ranging from the heavy subjects of theology, science, and history, to the lighter topics of childhood memories, humorous anecdotes, and favourite poems or songs or books.

True to her promise, Lhia never asked about Orienne’s past or the events that had brought her to Breah. Now and then Orienne felt that she ought to tell her—the woman had opened her home and put Orienne on her feet when she had nothing; surely she deserved an explanation. But another nagging sensation kept Orienne from speaking: the realisation that, finally, she had the life she had always wanted, a life of simple routine far from any effect or threat of war, a life in which “tragedy” was burning a batch of pastries or cutting a piece of leather the wrong size or spilling dye on herself.

And she didn’t want it anymore.

In the privacy of her own thoughts she raged and berated herself, reminded herself how long she’d wanted, dreamed of, prayed for this. She accused herself of ingratitude, of being a fool and a dozen other things, but as weeks stretched into months the peace, the satisfaction, the fulfilment she had expected never came. The silence that the mountain winter imposed on the outside world began to eat at her. She religiously watched the news notices posted at the town hall for any official update from Farindel, and as weeks went by with nothing it became harder and harder to get through the days—and even worse, the nights—without giving in to the countless what-ifs that offered themselves in the place of actual news.

The routine she had wished for began to feel like monotony. Simplicity became insignificance, mundane became meaningless.

What was she doing here? Knitting and baking when Shield-only-knew what could be happening to her countrymen and her homeland, drinking brillam in front of a fire while Cyrus and the others could be fighting for their lives, besieged in Farindel, or even dead, living the life she’d always fancied while everyone she knew sacrificed everything for their cause…

How was she any different than Sorek?

No! she furiously told herself, they were nothing alike. She had fled for her own safety, and that at her brother’s dying behest. She hadn’t allied herself with the enemy in a war against her own people, she hadn’t lied to anyone or betrayed anyone’s love or friendship. They were nothing alike!

And yet…she had left behind a cause in which she was needed, in which she could have served and aided countless others…and for what? For her own peace and comfort. To pursue her own desires.

And as winter wore on and the contentment she sought continued to elude her, she began to fear that she had made a horrible mistake.

***

Shekiah kept her eyes on her plate and concentrated on drawing as little attention to herself as possible as she ate her noonday meal in Catzlan’s dining hall.

Across the table from her sat Sorek—who had only just come down from his rooms for the first time since the previous night. His uniform appeared to have been slept in, but his haggard face certainly didn’t look as thought he had slept. A serving woman brought him a plate of food, but he waved it away with an expression of disgust. The serving woman left, and Sorek downed a glass of water, refilled it from the pitcher on the table, and downed another.

Shekiah stole brief glances at him, concern flitting around her thoughts. In the years she’d known him, she had rarely seen Sorek drink; a glass of wine at the occasional state dinner was about the extent of it and, to her knowledge, he was always judicious about it. She had never seen him even slightly intoxicated before. But, since probing his mind, this was the second time she had seen him hung over.

She had learned from the staff that he’d taken several bottles of wine from the kitchens over the last few weeks, and that the bottles had all been found empty in his rooms. His beard, usually well-groomed, was longer than she’d ever seen it, and was beginning to appear ragged and unkempt. He was harsh and short-tempered with everyone from officers down to the serving staff and, of greatest concern, even his warmth towards the stable boy seemed to be cooling. Shekiah had had them watched in an efort to learn more about their connection and relationship. Sorek was apparently teaching the boy to use a sword, but their practice sessions were becoming less frequent and Sorek had less enthusiasm for them. Shekiah didn’t have to probe his mind again to know what that meant: the last spark of light in Sorek’s mind was dimming.

She needed to act, if he was to be any use to her. If the boy’s light went out in Sorek’s mind, there would be nothing left she could use as leverage, and no one should could use to get rid of Jaquenon. But she couldn’t put her plan into action yet, not until the passes through the mountains were clear of snow—there was no point in driving Sorek to kill Jaquenon if he couldn’t get to Jaquenon.

All she could do was hope and pray that the passes opened soon, but she was beginning to fear he might kill himself before then.

Her clothes had become more inadequate by the day as she travelled higher into the mountains. She had left the Farin war camp with few supplies and fewer clothes. The clothes she did have were for warm weather and did little good against the mountain winds and the damp chill of the perpetual fog. Her first order of business once she reached the city and secured lodgings would be to buy some new, warmer ones.

“Lo derr!” a voice shouted, repeating itself as it echoed off the rocks.

Through the haze of clouds Orienne saw a small, blond-haired boy high on the slope above her. He waved and hurried down the mountainside, a band of long-haired goats bounding after him. Orienne’s horse shied at their bleats and collar bells, but she calmed him and dismounted to speak with the boy.

“Hello! Do you live in the city?” she asked, hoping he could tell her how much farther it was.

The boy, who barely came to her waist, looked up at her with a puzzled frown. “Des pars fromi no?”

Orienne groaned inwardly. She’d been afraid of that. Farindel and Breah shared Reyemen as their official language—that was why she had chosen to come to Breah instead of crossing the mountains into Arcamere—but Breah, with its surrounding cluster of tiny mountain settlements, was known for its many complex rural dialects, of which she spoke none. She pulled a map from a saddlebag, unfolded it, and held it out to the boy. “How much farther to Breah?”

The boy’s eyebrows flicked up. “Breah?”

Orienne nodded. “Can you tell me how far it is?”

The boy curled his fingers around his chin, studied the map, then jabbed confidently at the dot marked “Breah.”

“No, no.” Orienne tried again, gesturing southwards down the road. “I am going to Breah. How far?”

“Ah!” The boy started down the road, motioning for her to follow him. “Comi! Ah tekka derra!”

Orienne pulled her horse’s reins over his head and led him as she walked beside the boy, the ragtag herd of goats following.

The boy talked without ceasing for the next two hours. About half of the time Orienne thought he might be singing, but it was difficult to discern what might be a chanted melody from the natural lilt of his speech. She let him carry on without interruption; he probably spent most of his time along with his goats and had few opportunities to talk to anyone. Or maybe the talking was why he was sent out to mind the goats in the mountains. But after days alone with her thoughts, it was good to listen to another person’s voice…even if she couldn’t understand a word he said.

It was late afternoon when the boy ran ahead and stopped on a ridge, his arm flung out dramatically like an apprentice presenting his masterpiece.

Orienne came up beside him and stared out at the city before her. Breah had been carved from the centre of a hill, whose sides stood like bookends on the east and west of the city, their grassy tops rising slightly higher than the tops of the tallest buildings between them. Every building and wall was made from the same grey stone, and most of the roofs were thatched.

As Orienne and her guide descended the switchbacked road from the ridge and approached, she began to suspect that Breah was not merely constructed between halves of the hill, but that the buildings, houses, walls, and fences were actually carved out of the living stone of the hill itself.

Walls like great stone wings came out from the ends of the hill and enclosed the north side of the city except for a small gap, where iron gates stood open.

Orienne’s chattering escort marched through the gate and into the middle of a central street filled with people. He pointed at various buildings and streets around them, giving what sounded like directions. When he finally stopped he held his arms out in a gesture that seemed to say “We’re here!”

“Thank you so much for helping me,” Orienne said. She turned to get some money out of her saddlebag for him, but when she turned around he was gone, and the last of his goats were disappearing through the crowd of passersby.

Today must be a market day. The street was packed with people, and nearly all of them were staring at her. Orienne suddenly felt the urge to hide, the wish to vanish or at least blend in. She hadn’t prepared herself for the reality and logistics of being the only Farin in Breah, or at least the only one in sight. She craved anonymity, invisibility, a chance to start a new life no one would notice.

Instead everything about her, from her stature and dark hair to the tall, sleek horse she led, screamed in stark contrast to the small, fair-complexioned people and furry ponies filling the street. Her travel-stained riding clothes looked ghastly amid the thick shawls, scarves, vests, sweaters, and skirts the women of Breah wore, and her gaunt, pale face, complete with the last greenish stages of a black eye and bruises, no doubt made her look like a spectre to the round-faced, rosy-cheeked people around her.

“Y’ are a Farin, and bein’ a stranger here.” The man who spoke was broad and muscular, but barely came to Orienne’s shoulder.

“Yes,” she said.

“An’ what bringin’-a-ya to Breah?”

Orienne was disinclined to simply announce it to the first stranger she met on the street, but decided there was nothing to be gained by secrecy. “I’m seeking refuge from the war in my country.”

The man gave her an appraising look up and down. “I’dn’t realise things a-been comin’ to that,” he muttered, before meeting her eyes again and continuing, louder. “Ye’ll needin’ a-goin’ the towl ‘all, ‘en.” He pointed across the street. “Speakin’ a-to the gov’ner and he’ll hearin’ ya.”

“Thank you.” Orienne followed his direction to the town hall building—she was at least moderately certain that was what he’d said—and tied her horse the a rail at the end of a row of stocky ponies that pulled against their tethers to stretch velvety noses towards the newcomer in greeting.

Orienne took a stone staircase up to a door where a young man (who also only came to her shoulder) asked her business. She repeated what she had told the man in the street and the guard allowed her inside, not sparing her an odd look.

Inside, she was shown through an anteroom and into a central chamber where the seamless stone floors and walls confirmed her suspicion that the buildings were not constructed, but rather carved directly out of the mountain, like the inside of a giant puzzle box. The room’s light came from narrow arched windows lining both sides of the hall, and was supplemented by a large wrought iron chandelier overhead.

Several people stood in line down the centre of the vaulted room, and Orienne was directed to take a place at the back. Her height, nearly head and shoulders above even the men, made her embarrassingly conspicuous—and everyone noticed—but it enabled her to see over the others in line to the front of the room, to where the governor, a middle-aged man with light brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, sat at a heavy desk talking with the weathered man at the front of the line.

Apparently anyone in Breah had access to an audience with the governor; while standing in line Orienne listened to a complaint about a city drainage ditch overflowing and ruining a vegetable garden, an ownership dispute over the offspring of accidentally mixed sheep herds, and several cases in dialects she couldn’t understand.

With each case that was heard, the other Breahans standing in line exchanged significant looks with each other, raised eyebrows, shook heads, frowned, or snickered, depending on the nature of the matter. Orienne realised with a sinking feeling that the public nature of these audiences must make gossip in Breah horrific…which meant whatever she told the governor would likely be the talk of the city within a day. She would have to be very judicious in what she disclosed.

Even still, it was oddly refreshing to listen to such trivial issues…because they weren’t trivial here. Breah was a kingdom at peace. It was Farindel’s land and brillam industry that Cytharoc was after—the people of Breah had nothing to fear from that conflict. To them, spoiled vegetable gardens and illegitimate lambs were the greatest troubles in the world. How many years had Orienne longed for a life that simple?

“Greetings, lady, and I welcome you to Breah,” the governor said when she reached the front of the line.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“You are Farin. What brings you to our city?”

Orienne suppressed the memory of Allegar’s face that immediately came to the forefront of her mind. Now was not the time to cry. “I am seeking refuge from the war in my country.”

The governor raised his eyebrows and laced his fingers. “While your appearance certainly suggests you have been through some trouble, I was not aware things in Farindel had come to such a state as that.”

“They…they soon may,” Orienne said, “if they haven’t already, since my departure.”

“And this seemed likely enough to prompt you to leave?”

Orienne hesitated, the images and sounds of crazed, bloodthirsty Cytharocian soldiers overrunning the medical camp playing through her mind. “Yes, sir.”

The governor tapped his thumbs together and nodded. “Here in the mountains we do not get news quickly. That is why I ask.”

“Then you’ve received no news in the last few days?” Orienne had hoped a messenger swift might have passed her on the journey, bringing some official dispatch with news.

The governor shook his head. “I know less than you do.” He sighed. “Well, Farin, do you have a name?”

“Orienne Verasi.”

“And do you have any family remaining in Farindel, Orienne Verasi?”

Again Orienne forced Allegar’s face from her mind, and swallowed hard as her throat tightened. “No, sir.”

“None?”

Orienne clenched her teeth as her eyes burned, and it was a moment before she could speak again. “Not…” Her voice shook, and she took a breath to steady it. She had given up the agonising uncertainty that had plagued the first few days of her journey, wondering whether Allegar still hung on or had died. The healers hadn’t even expected him to last the night; there was no chance anymore. He was gone. “…not since the battle for Traden.”

The governor closed his eyes and bowed his head. “You have my sympathy, my lady.” He raised his eyes to hers again. “If it is refuge you seek, you will find it in Breah. You are welcome to our city.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He nodded benevolently, then leaned to one side to look at the line of people behind Orienne. “Next!”

Next? Surprised and a little stung by the abrupt dismissal, Orienne moved awkwardly to the side of the hall and made her way outside to where her horse was tied. Getting permission to stay in Breah had been easier than she expected, but now she had to find a place to lodge, and then she would have to find work. The money she had left would pay for perhaps ten days of room and board, and only if prices in Breah were comparable to those in Farindel.

“Pardon me?” someone said.

A young woman Orienne guessed to be about her own age stood near her horse. She was taller than the other Breahans, coming to Orienne’s neck, and had a bright smile, blue eyes above high, rounded cheekbones, and pale blond curls that were twisted into a jumble at the back of her head.

“Hello,” Orienne said.

“Hello. I am Lhia Oroash.” Her voice had a soft brogue to it. She reached out from under her heavy shawl and offered her hand, palm turned to the side. “Forgive me, but I was in the hall and overheard you. You be needin’ a place to stay in Breah?”

“Well—yes, actually.” Orienne extended her hand tentatively, unsure of the proper response to Lhia’s gesture. Lhia clasped her hand and gave it a warm squeeze, similar to the way Farin men shook each other’s hands in greeting, before letting it go again.

“I don’t mean to be seemin’ too forward,” she said, and Orienne hid a smile. Forwardness seemed to be the dominant trait among the people of Breah. “I can offer you a place to stay. I have an extra room, and Azor be placin’ it in my mind to help you.”

Orienne paused at the name. “You know the Shield?”

Lhia smiled. “There be those of us here who do. Farindel may be havin’ the monopoly on brillam, but it hasn’t a monopoly on the Shield.”

“I’m sorry, I meant no offence—”

“And none be taken. You be in a strange land, and it’s a time you’ve had gettin’ here. Anyone can see that.”

Orienne tightened her lips as tears encroached on the rims of her eyelids yet again. Something prompted her to accept Lhia’s offer. What other option did she have? The woman was a total stranger, but so was everyone else in Breah, and perhaps her mention of the Shield was a sign. Orienne hadn’t been aware that there were people in other nations who even knew of Him, much less served Him.

“Thank you,” she said, “I would be happy to rent your spare room.”

“Rent? Nonsense. For now you be my guest. Come with me. I’ve a place where you can keep your horse, and then I’ll be makin’ dinner. You look like you’ve not been eatin’ much.”

“I haven’t,” Orienne admitted, “but I don’t want to trouble you. I can take care of my own dinner—”

“Nonsense,” Lhia declared again. “You be my guest now, so I’ll be subjectin’ you to my cookin’.”

***

At first Orienne’s intent had been to eat merely out of politeness since her appetite had long since abandoned her, but one bite of the meal to which she found herself “subjected” brought her hunger back with a roaring vengeance. The food—small, round loaves of crusty bread hollowed out and filled with a thick stew—boasted a range of rich, herbaceous flavours she’d never tasted before, and it was delicious. To her own surprise, she ate all of it.

After dinner Lhia showed her to the upstairs of the house, which was surprisingly cosy for being solid stone. An attic room ran the length of the house, with slanted ceilings, a board floor, and a bed against one wall with a dormer window above it. After innumerable nights being either awakened by nightmares or unable to sleep at all, Orienne was unprepared for how wonderfully inviting the bed looked.

“I haven’t a bureau for you to use,” Lhia said apologetically.

“That won’t be a problem,” Orienne said, “I have no extra clothes anyway.”

“Wait there.” Lhia hurried to the far end of the room, opposite the window, where several trunks and chests were arranged against the wall. After a moment of rummaging she came back with a folded blue cloth in her arms. “This be my lana’s nightgown. I think it be the right size for you, and I’m sure it would feel good to be wearin’ something fresh and clean for a change.”

“Your lana…is you mother…?

Lhia nodded, looking around the room as though seeing the years of memories that had been made there. “She’s been gone about a year. This was my room before she had Haza passed on.”

Orienne glanced at the bed and the nightgown in Lhia’s arms. “If this is too much, I can sleep somewhere else. I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Not another word. I be happy to welcome you into my home.” She offered the nightgown to Orienne.

Orienne took it and shook it out. It looked like it would fit. “Wait…” She lowered the gown and stared at Lhia’s tiny stature. “Your mother’s gown is my size?”

Lhia smiled. “I be only half Breahan. Lana was Farin, like you. It be from her I know the Shield.”

“Oh. I see,” Orienne said, trying not to smile as she imagined the couple Lhia’s parents must have been. It did explain why Lhia was taller than all the other Breahans Orienne had seen so far.

“You be welcome to laugh,” Lhia said, detecting Orienne’s struggle. “Yes, Lana was much taller than Haza. They were quite a sight together.”

Orienne let a laugh escape. “How did they meet?”

“My grandfather was a travelling craftsman. Lana—his daughter—happened to be with him on one of his stops in Breah. From all accounts, it was love at first sight for Lana and Haza both.”

Orienne smiled. “They must have loved each other very much.”

Lhia was smiling, but there was the sadness of nostalgia in her eyes, too. “So they did. Now come on. THere be water heatin’ in the kitchen. Nothing better to wash away travel weariness than a good hot bath!”

Orienne could not argue with that.

After her bath, before returning to her room, she stopped Lhia, who never seemed to stop on her own. “I want to thank you for helping me today,” she said, “and for taking me in—for everything you’ve done. I’m not sure I could have communicated well enough to find lodgings myself.”

Lhia laughed. “The Dialects can be confusing, but once you be gettin’ an ear for them they be just variations of Reyemen with different heavy accents.” She leaned in to whisper: “Though some of ‘em be so thick even those of us who’ve been livin’ here our entire lives don’t know what they be sayin’.”

“I felt so lost,” Orienne said. “I don’t know what I would have done without you”

Lhia put her hand on Orienne’s arm. “I don’t know what you’ve come through to get here, and I won’t be askin’ you to tell me, but I could see it in your eyes, clear as day: you needed someone to offer you shelter. That was somethin’ I had to offer, so I did.”

Orienne desperately wanted to hug Lhia, but they had only just met and she was uncertain whether such a thing was appropriate in Breahan culture. “You cannot know what that means to me,” she said simply.

Lhia patted her arm and stepped back. “Get some sleep. Let me know if you be needin’ anything at all, and sleep as late as you wish tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Orienne said, and started up the stairs.

“Orienne?”

Orienne looked back down to where Lhia stood on the landing.

“I said I wouldn’t be askin’ you to tell me about yourself, and I won’t. But if you ever want to need to talk, I be a very good listener.” She disappeared through the kitchen door without waiting for a reply.

Orienne stood staring after her. There were so many things she wanted to tell someone, but where would she even begin? And would it accomplish anything? She hurried to her room, fighting the onslaught of memories. Allegar had told her to start over and make a new life. Perhaps the best way to do that was to cut the past off, as though it had never existed—to leave it unspoken and dead.

She shut the door and crawled into bed, and pulled the blankets up. Tense muscles all over her body relaxed for the first time in weeks, giving her the sensation of melting into the mattress. As she drifted towards sleep, her mind toyed with a new dilemma:

She could choose to leave the past where it was and never mention it. Especially in a place like Breah, where gossip appeared as natural as breathing, that seemed a wise choice. But then, everything she had ever had was now a part of the past—family, home, love, purpose, all of it. Nothing of her former life remained.

Nothing…except the Shield.

Orienne’s chest ached and tears slipped down her face onto the pillow as she realised that the Shield and her devotion to Him remained—He had confirmed it, in sending another of His servants to her in her moment of need. It had been a sign. The Shield wasn’t just in the Aijalon, back in Farindel. He was here, in Breah, too.

So much of her life had crumbled and fallen into ruin. Sorek, Farindel, Allegar…but now, as the smoke and dust cleared, she could see that a single pillar—the Shield—still stood.

***

Orienne was awakened by a strange sound, something between a wail and a screech, crying out an off-key, four-note tune.

She took a moment to get her bearings, trying to determine whether she could have dreamed such an unearthly noise. It came again: the same four-note screech, coming from outside. She got to her knees on the bed to look out at the window at the cool grey morning. Below the window was a small are enclosed by a stone wall, where her horse, two nanny goats, and a few large, brightly-plumed birds followed Lhia across the small yard, eyeing the basket she carried. As she dumped its contents into a feed trough, one of the birds hopped up onto the trough’s side and craned its neck, letting out another screech.

How strange. She assumed Lhia kept them for meat, but had no idea what sort of birds they were.

Orienne climbed down from the bed and picked up her leather bag from the floor, but all of her clothes were gone. Only her boots and belt remained where she had left them. She pulled the blanket from the bed, wrapped it around herself, and walked downstairs. She hoped coming out of her room in her nightgown wouldn’t offend Lhia, but she’d hardly been given a choice.

In the morning light she noticed details about the house she had missed the night before: long chains of onions with their stems braided together hanging from pegs driven into the stone walls, baskets of raw wool sitting in a corner, a large loom and a spinning wheel standing against one wall, bundles of leafy herbs hanging from beams and hooks to dry. A cord was stretched in front of the fireplace in the main room, with all of Orienne’s clothes hung across it.

Lhia had been busy this morning. The cloudy sky made it impossible to guess the time, but Orienne must have slept quite late for her hostess to have done so much already.

Just as Orienne stepped from the stairs onto the floor of the main room, she heard a door open, and Lhia came around the corner. “Ah, you be awake! Did you rest well?”

“Better than I’ve rested in a long time,” Orienne said.

“Are you hungry? I’ve kept breakfast hot.”

Orienne smiled, hoping to conceal her embarrassment. “I don’t know how I can repay you for all of this.”

Lhia shook her head. “No need. This be my gift. Now come on. Breakfast won’t stay fresh forever.”

Orienne followed her through the arched stone doorway into the kitchen and was presented with a cup of brillam and a plate of baked apples, oatmeal, and some kind of yellow, fluffy stuff she could not identify. When she looked closely, she saw veins of white marbled through the yellow.

“Eat up!” Lhia ordered. “I be thinkin’ it’s time for my second cup of brillam.” She pulled an enormous kettle from the hob, hefted it onto the table, and sat down opposite Orienne.

Orienne picked up her fork and poked at the yellow stuff on her plate, curious to learn what it was. It was soft and broke apart easily. She took a bite and was surprised by the salty flavour and spongy texture. “This is good,” she said after she had swallowed. “What is it?”

Lhia paused in the middle of her sip of brillam, looked at the plate, then back at Orienne, a puzzled expression on her face. “It’s just eggs.”

Orienne gulped, almost swallowing her second bite without chewing. “Eggs?”

Lhia laughed in disbelief. “Don’t be tellin’ me you’ve never had an egg before!”

The idea of eating an egg had never even crossed Orienne’s mind. Eggs were where baby birds and reptiles came from. You could eat them?! She glanced at her plate, wondering nervously if there could be a baby bird or lizard in the mix that she hadn’t spotted yet.

“I have never even heard of eating an egg before,” she said.

“Then how do you Farin be makin’ bread? Or custard? Or meringue?”

I don’t know what meringue is…but we don’t use eggs for the other things.”

“Why not?”

Orienne groped for an answer. “Because we…we just don’t? Don’t…don’t eggs have baby birds or snakes or turtles inside?”

Lhia burst out laughing. “So that’s why you be lookin’ at me like I’ve poisoned you! There be no little creatures in these eggs, I promise.”

“But…how is that possible?”

Lhia shook her head, still laughing. “I’ll explain it to you, but first finish your breakfast, before it gets cold.” She winked. “Cold eggs be terrible.”

Orienne wasn’t very reassured, but she forced a smile…and another bite of eggs.

Sorek and Jaquenon had always clashed—an hour after they were first introduced, King Saras had predicted that they would eventually kill each other—but now Sorek found his hatred of the sorcerer becoming almost uncontrollable. More than once he dreamed about killing Jaquenon and woke up shaking, panting with rage. Once he found himself holding a knife when he awoke. The imagines from his dreams began leaping to the forefront of his mind every time he and Jaquenon interacted.

Saras would naturally be angry at the loss of one of his generals, but Sorek began to wonder if risking the king’s wrath would be worth it. He knew Jaquenon had designs on Saras’ throne; perhaps if he pointed that out at a strategic moment His Highness wouldn’t mind the loss so badly.

Unfortunately, however grotesquely satisfying the fantasies, Sorek knew killing Jaquenon would not rid him of his misery. The sorcerer was a convenient scapegoat, an easy target at which to direct his rage, and little more than that. A part of Sorek even feared Jaquenon dying, because it would leave him without that target, with nowhere to direct his anger but at its true source.

But then, the fact that he was the person he most hated was in itself enraging.

“It’s not my fault!” he chanted through clenched teeth in moments of solitude—moments that became more and more frequent as the fleeting northern autumn scurried past like a spider, and the people around him heightened their efforts to avoid him.

It was not his fault that Farindel and its Shield had abandoned him, starved him out by stealing his family, his dreams, everything he had ever known, loved, or wished for. It wasn’t his fault he’d had to seek a life elsewhere, and it likely hadn’t made any difference anyway. Ivan’s death was proof of that: Ivan, who had made immense sacrifices and suffered horrible loss in service to the Shield, and remained loyal in spite of it, had still ended up dying in battle for a cause that would, by next summer, be lost.

The Shield had done nothing to spare the man who was said to carry his favour, either from loss or from death itself. What good was that supposed favour, then? The Shield claimed to be the protector of those who served him—that was why was called the Shield, after all—so why had he let Ivan die?

What kind of protector would let someone like Sorek cause the death of someone like Ivan? What kind of being could claim to be good while allowing him to crush the heart of someone like Orienne, and betray the friendship of someone like Allegar?

Why didn’t you stop me?

***

At a table in front of one of the towering windows in the Hall of Records, with a waxcloth-wrapped lunch to one side and a stack of reference books to the other, Velkenar sat sorting a chaotic pile of loose papers, all covered front and back with his notes. He normally kept them in better order than this, but the events of the last few months had not exactly been accommodating to orderliness. As he found pages that corresponded to one another, he marked each one with a number and set them aside in a neat stack. And, on a new sheet of paper, he made notes of which page numbers corresponded to major events, to make finding a referencing them easier, later.

A shadow fell across his pages, and he looked up to see a woman silhouetted by the window in front of him.

“I knew if I came here often enough I was sure to find you,” she said.

Her voice…

Velkenar stood up, and the changing angle of the light allowed him to see her face. She appeared to be around sixty; her hair had once been dark, but was now streaked with grey, and there was a tiredness to the skin around her eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there before…but he could never mistake those eyes.

“Rozahna?”

The smile in her eyes spread to her lips. “Hello, Velkenar.”

He shoved his chair in and hurried around the table to wrap her in an embrace that lifted her off the ground. “I can’t believe it’s you—that you’re here!”

She laughed, squeezing him as hard as he did her. “I’m so happy to see you again,” she said, and he could hear the emotion in her voice. “You haven’t changed at all!”

Velkenar broke their embrace and pulled back to look at her, and a sharp ache went through him. He couldn’t say the same of her. They looked like mother and son…and she was his younger sister. He looked at the floor as tears warmed his eyes, but he blinked them away and hugged his sister again. Then he pulled up a second chair, and they sat down on the same side of the table, facing on another, to talk.

“How is Ashnin?” Velkenar asked. “She must be…what…?”

“Twenty-five,” Rozahna said.

Velkenar jerked back. “Twenty-five!”

“She’s beautiful,” Rozahna said. “She’s the living image of her father. When she makes certain expressions, I could swear it’s him looking at me.”

“And…and what is she doing?”

“She’s a healer. A very good one.”

Velkenar smiled. “Like her mother.”

“And she just got married, a few weeks ago,” Rozahna added.

Velkenar sat back in his chair, stunned. The last time—the only time—he had seen his niece, she had been a rose-petal soft newborn, small enough to cradle in one arm. And now she was a healer, and married.

“Who did she marry? What is he like?”

“His name is Ryker—he’s a captain in the army. He was wounded in combat back during the winter, and Ashnin was the one who took care of him most of the time.” She shrugged, grinning mischievously. “One thing led to another.”

Velkenar sat shaking his head, struggling to adjust to the idea.

“You can meet her if you like,” Rozahna suggested.

“No. We agreed. I can’t see her. We can’t risk letting her know—”

“She doesn’t have to know who you are,” Rozahna said. “There are plenty of ways we could arrange it.”

Velkenar debated in his mind, waffling between his desire to see her again, to be a part of her life, and the command that forbade him to reveal his identity. Meeting and talking to Ashnin seemed like running too much of a risk, but he wanted to meet her so badly…

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Rozahna said. “We’ve moved here, to the capital. You have all the time you need.”

“You’ve—you’ve moved here?” Velkenar said, unable to keep from smiling at the news.

Rozahna nodded. “Ashnin’s husband lost the use of one of his arms when he was wounded, and First-Born Romarck made arrangements for him to transfer here when he could travel again, so he can work with the healers who specialise in that sort of thing. I didn’t want to be the pesky mother-in-law, but there was no reason for me to stay where we were if Ashnin had left, so I moved here too. But enough about me!” She reached across to give Velkenar’s hand a squeeze. “Tell me what you’ve been doing!”

“Well…” Velkenar laughed a little. “Of course, most of my time is spent in gathering and chronicling information for the history I’m writing. And that has been…that has kept me thoroughly occupied of late.”

She nodded sympathetically.

Velkenar smirked. “I was recently captured as a prisoner of war by the Cytharocians. That made an interesting few days.”

Rozahna’s eyes widened. “You’re…you’re serious?”

He nodded.

“But—but you’re an historian! Why would they capture you? They—” She sat forward in her chair to whisper in alarm, “They didn’t know who you were, did they?”

“No, no,” Velkenar assured her. “It was really just a matter of me inadvertently being in a bad place at the wrong time.” He related a basic overview of the events. When he came to the part about Sixth-Born Seritan rescuing them from Catzlan, Rozahna stopped him.

“Wait—the Sixth-Born?”

Velkenar frowned in confusion. “Well—he’s Fifth-Born now, since Fifth-Born Branam was killed, but…yes.”

“You said the woman who was held prisoner with you was his sister?”

“Yes…”

“Orienne?!”

Now Velkenar was the one who jumped in surprise. “You know her?”

“Of course I know her!” And Rozahna recounted the time she and Orienne had worked together in the healers’ ward in Sutton Fort, mentioning several times what a lovely woman Orienne was, and how fond she and Ashnin had both been of her.

“That poor woman, I cannot imagine what that experience must have done to her.”

“She…” Velkenar looked down at his hands. “She was very brave. And…” He found himself rubbing at the necklace chain against the back of his neck.

Rozahna smiled slyly. “And…?”

“Rozahna, she challenged a trained Cytharocian soldier to single combat, trying to defend me when I was injured, and won. That general offered her freedom and protection if she would join him, and she refused. And when her brother rescued us and brought us back to Farindel, she chose to go to Traden to work in the medical camp instead of going back to the capital. She’s…”

He sat back in his chair, shaking his head. “If more of our people had been like her…things could have been so, so different.”

He glanced at Rozahna, and the expression on her face only intensified the emotion he was already struggling to hold back, because he knew exactly what she was thinking behind that look in her eyes.

“Stop it,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Velkenar, you love her!” Rozahna beamed when she said it, leaning forward to squeeze his hand again.

“It doesn’t matter.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

Velkenar took a breath and concentrated on saying it without his voice breaking. “Orienne was working in the medical camp during the battle for Traden.”

“Yes,” Rozahna said.

“The medical camp that was overrun and destroyed when the Cytharocian soldiers went mad.”

Her brow went up and her jaw dropped in shock. “Velkenar…”

“I haven’t seen or heard of Orienne since then,” Velkenar said. “I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

“Orienne, can you hear me?”

She squinted against the sunlight and slowly blinked her eyes open to see Cyrus kneeling over her, still wearing dented, bloodstained armour. Her memory was cloudy, jumbled, but she remembered the battle…and her brother.

“Allegar…” The word felt like a shard of glass in her throat, and came out her mouth as a feeble moan. The pain in her face tightened as tears welled in her eyes and sob built in her chest. She struggled to sit up, but the hand on her shoulder held her down.

“I’m not sure you should move yet,” Cyrus said. “Just rest for a while. The battle is over—the Avelin drove them back. It’s over. You can rest.”

“Allegar,” Orienne repeated. “I have to find him.” She pushed Cyrus’ hand away and tried again to sit up, but there was something rigid against her back that prevented her, something across her chest that seemed to be holding her down, so she rolled to her side and pushed herself up to sit, bracing her hands against the ground for support.

“Orienne…” Cyrus was looking over her shoulder. “You have Ivan’s sword.”

The sword… Orienne looked down at her chest and saw the buckle of Ivan’s belt. The rigid weight against her back…she remembered. She closed her eyes as the sobs in her chest broke loose.

Cyrus moved closer to wrap his arms around her. “Shh.”

“He died,” Orienne said.

She heard Cyrus draw a deep breath, and it was several seconds before he spoke. “The Avelin,” he said, his voice thick.

Orienne nodded. “They came because of him.” She moved her arms to return Cyrus’ embrace as he breathed in short, shaking breaths. For a while they sat, not moving, not speaking, silently grieving the loss of their leader.

Orienne’s memories gradually coalesced back into order, and she pulled away from Cyrus. “Allegar,” she said. “I saw him carried into the camp—he was wounded. I have to find him.”

Cyrus got to his feet and offered his hand. “Come on.”

Orienne took his hand and stumbled to her feet, grateful for his support—her face throbbed with a heavy pain as she straightened, and for a moment she felt as if she might collapse again.

When her head cleared she looked around and saw several of the healers who had stood with her, lying dead. A few of the wounded they had tried to protect had died or been killed as well; the rest had presumably been carried away already.

Orienne suddenly turned, bent double, and vomited. War was a hateful, hideous thing, but this..turning soldiers into raving animals…attacking a camp full of healers and wounded…this wasn’t war anymore.

This was Hell itself.

***

Sorek stormed towards the main chamber of Traden’s council hall. Jaquenon’s strategy of channelling Thallan’s power into the soldiers had only succeeded in costing them unnecessary lives on the field, since the Farin had countered the move by calling in their Avelin.

Of course, King Saras wouldn’t see it as Jaquenon’s fault, and certainly not as his own fault for authorising Jaquenon’s use of sorcery. Sorek was the one with intimate knowledge of Farindel, so this would all come back on him for not anticipating the Avelin’s arrival. Would Saras believe that the dragons only appeared when it suited the—and that wasn’t often? It had only happened a few times in Farindel’s history.

And while it was true Sorek had never imagined they might show up, he had no doubt that it was a direct response to Jaquenon. According to the old writings, the Avelin and Thallan were ancient and bitter enemies. Today was the first time so much of Thallan'‘s power had ever been released at once. Was it any wonder it had awakened the Avelin’s vendetta against it?

If Saras gave him a chance, Sorek would explain that and hopefully place the blame for this disaster where it belonged.

He entered the hall just as Jaquenon did the same through another door. The sorcerer wore an enormous, self-satisfied smile.

“There you are, Sorek! Would you like to join me in addressing the soldiers?”

“Those possessed animals out there?” Sorek said, flinging his arm at the outside door. “Address them on what—how we could have been even more counterproductive in our battle tactics today?”

“I thought in light of the circumstances you might let go of your moodiness long enough to deliver a celebratory address.”

Sorek stared at him. “A celebratory address? Jaquenon, in case you were too busy basking in your own power to notice, we just lost a major battle. Resoundingly.”

Jaquenon hesitated, and a smile lit his eyes. “The messenger didn’t find you, did he?”

“What messenger?”

Jaquenon drew himself straighter, smiling openly again. “Well, then, I suppose I get to be the one to deliver the news.” He beckoned with a finger and walked to the outside door. “Come.”

Sorek followed uneasily as the door swung open, letting in evening light and the clamour of thousands of soldiers still feverish from the rush of their new-found madness. Jaquenon had assured Saras that the power now fuelling the men was completely controllable, but Sorek still found it unnerving to stand in a courtyard packed with bloodthirsty demoniacs.

Jaquenon sprang onto a low stone landscaping wall and raised his hands for quiet. Sorek stood to one side, wondering what the sorcerer could possibly know that he didn’t.

“Brethren!” Jaquenon shouted, his voice echoing around the stone buildings, “congratulate yourselves and enjoy some well-deserved celebration tonight! I have just received word that the leader of the Farin, the one they call First-Born, is dead!”

The courtyard erupted in crazed howling.

Sorek took a step backwards, his discomfort around the soldiers lost in the shock. Ivan is dead?

Jaquenon thrust a fist above his head, encouraging the soldiers’ cheering.

Sorek couldn’t move. He felt like the breath had been knocked out of him.

Jaquenon signalled for quiet again. “Those flying beasts may have driven us back, but they were too late to save him!”

Another roar from the soldiers.

The Avelin—of course, Sorek realised. That was why they had come. He should have known…

“So much for the Farin’s claim that the First-Born holds the favour of their god!” Jaquenon declared.

Another eruption of cheers.

Sorek’s hands shook, and he clenched them into fists to still them.

“Today,” Jaquenon went on, once again arresting the army’s attention, “their god’s favoured one fell to our power!”

The soldiers roared a collective “Yes!”

“The leader of the so-called ‘Protected’ was crushed—”

“Yes!”

“—by a battleaxe wielded by one of our own!”

The next cheer dissolved into a clamour of shouts claiming responsibility for Ivan’s death. Jaquenon ignored them and continued his speech.

“Now, men of Cytharoc, it remains only for us to complete the conquest we have begun! We’ve taken one small city in this short season of the sun. But by the next season we will have taken the very heart of their kingdom—” He raised a hand to point over Traden’s walls toward Farindel. “—and that great white city you see on the horizon will be ours!”

Sorek walked back inside and shut the door, muffling the cheering. He had no desire to listen to Jaquenon’s indulgence in the details of Ivan’s death and Farindel’s inevitable defeat. He made his way to his quarters on the second floor, bolted the door, and flopped onto his back on his bed, staring at the beam of sunlight illuminating a slanted shaft of dust across the room. The exhaustion dragging at his limbs was normal for him following a battle, even one he hadn’t personally fought in. The illness churning in his stomach was not.

From a purely military perspective, today’s battle had been a victory after all, despite their heavy casualties. Ivan’s death and the demoralisation and disorder it would bring were worth almost any number of soldiers lost. But from a personal perspective, Sorek drifted in shocked numbness, like the sensation immediately following a severe injury, before the pain arrives.

Who else had died today? What about Allegar and the others? Orienne—where was she? What had happened to her after her escape from Catzlan? Was she out there, somewhere?

He stood up and walked to the window. It faced west, toward the Farin war camp. He could only imagine the chaos and devastation there.

The dark silhouette of the Avelin swept across the sunset, reminding Sorek of a whole new set of problems. Jaquenon was, as usual, overconfident. Historically, the Avelin arrived following the death of a First-Born and stayed until his successor had been chosen and instated, but there was no consistent precedent to how long that could take. If it took any length of time now, the Avelin’s presence was going to create a serious delay in Cytharoc’s plans, but at least Allegar and the others, whoever remained, would have help coping with the horrendous turn of events that had just befallen them.

But wait—what was he thinking? The army he commanded had just won a victory, yet here he was, more concerned that the enemy would have help in dealing with the defeat. He cared far more for the people on the opposing side of the war than he cared about anyone else. The only people he cared about, in fact, were the enemy.

No…not the enemy. He could never truly think of them that way.

What way, then? He had no right to consider them friends, not after lying to them, using them, betraying them all. He couldn’t honestly call them his countrymen either, in spite of his Farin blood and birth. His treason had erased any rightful claim to kinship he possessed.

He paced the length of the room, beginning to think he was a completely hopeless fool. He was a general in Cytharoc’s army, but identifying himself with them repulsed him. He was sure he could watch the entire Cytharocian army die and feel no regret, not a shred of sorrow.

The only people in Reyem he cared about were Farin, but he had abandoned his loyalty to Farindel long ago. He was a man with no country and no true loyalties, nothing binding him to anything or anyone.

There was no sense of freedom in the thought. It only left him feeling utterly alone.

***

A heavy summer haze hung over the hills, and a white sliver of the moon appeared in the blue above the fading sunset.

The medical camp was madness, swarming with disorder as the surviving healers hurried among wounded arranged on cots or blankets on the ground and shouting at aides for more supplies, now scarce, scattered, or lost after the camp’s destruction.

Ivan’s body had been located in the aftermath of the attack, and placed in a pavilion separate from the rest of the dead. Cyrus had taken the First-Born’s sword from Orienne and placed it in the pavilion by Ivan’s side; both would be transported back to the capital with those of the wounded who could be moved, as soon as a convoy could be put together.

Orienne had spent hours searching for Allegar. Cyrus had searched with her at first, but was quickly called away, inundated with countless issues to deal with.

As Orienne walked, the rows of sheet-covered bodies lining the aisles between surgery tents nagged from the corner of her eye, but she refused to look at them or think about it. Not yet—not until she had searched every single corner, identified every single face among the living.

Blood was everywhere. Even in the dimming light it was visible, ruining bandages, staining healers’ aprons, soaking piles of cloth and rags. The air buzzed with insects drawn to the scent of blood and the glow of torches, their collective hiss intermittently drowned out by the cries of the dying. Orienne tried to ignore the smell and the horrible sounds, brushing and swiping at the insects that inevitably landed on her, praying she wouldn’t be sick again.

“Orienne!”

She turned to see Cyrus and a healer coming toward her.

“Allegar is alive!” Cyrus gestured to the healer. “He’s on his way to him now!”

He was still alive! Orienne ran to them, and she and Cyrus followed the healer through the camp to a darkened tent. The healer stopped outside the tent and turned to her.

“Lady Seritan, I warn you: your brother is very badly wounded. He may not be conscious, and even if he is he may not recognise you.”

“I don’t care,” Orienne said. “Just let me see him.”

The healer pushed the flap aside and ducked into the tent. It was almost completely dark inside, and the air was stale and hot. At least it shut out the insects, thought the metallic odour of blood remained. Orienne didn’t move for fear of tripping in the dark, but the healer stomped around the tiny space like a penned bull, grumbling.

“Where is an aide? I need light in here!”

“I’ll get it for you.” Cyrus slid past Orienne, took the dead lamp from the healer’s hand, and stepped outside. Moments later he returned and the light revealed Allegar lying on a stretcher on the ground, covered in bloody bandages that had obviously been applied with extreme haste. There were bandages on his left shoulder, his left side, in the hollow of his neck beneath his left jaw, and his right leg still lay twisted at a grotesque angle.

Orienne dropped to her knees by his side. His eyes were closed but his expression was pained, and his breathing was sharp and irregular. “Allegar?” She gently brushed the backs of her fingers against the side of his face. “Allegar, can you hear me?”

His eyes struggled halfway open. “Orienne…”

“Yes.” She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “I’m here now.” She gently wrapped her fingers around his hand as the healer stormed in from Allegar’s other side and began removing makeshift bandages to examine the wound beneath them.

Allegar’s eyes narrowed and he reached weakly towards her swollen, bruised face. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

Orienne shook her head and pushed his hand back down. “It doesn’t matter.”

His eyes fell closed. Orienne started to brush his sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead, but he suddenly stiffened and crushed her hand in his. A whimper escaped through his clenched teeth as the healer worked on the wound in his side. Orienne wrapped both of her hands around his and let him squeeze. Images of Ivan squeezing her hand the same way only a few hours before flickered in her mind.

She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the back of Allegar’s hand, waiting, hoping the intensity of the pain would pass for him, but it went on…and on. His breaths were shallow, their irregular rhythm broken every few moments by a sharp gasp at something the healer did, and his face bore the taut, flickering expression of someone having a nightmare.

“Healer,” Cyrus said after several minutes,” isn’t there something you can give him for the pain?”

“All I have left is a sedative,” the healer said, “but in his condition it would probably kill him.”

The healer worked a few seconds more before turning to rummage through a nearby box, muttering under his breath. Finally he shoved the box aside in frustration. “Bah! Cytharocian scum, I don’t have anything I need. Aide!” He rose and stormed from the tent.

Allegar’s face and his grip on Orienne’s hand gradually relaxed, and his eyes opened halfway again.

“Orienne…”

She touched the side of his face. “I’m here.”

“I want you…” His voice was strained and hoarse. “…to go.”

“Go?” Orienne frowned in confusion. “Go where?”

“Anywhere. Arcamere…Breah…anywhere that isn’t Farindel.”

She recoiled. “What? No! I can’t just leave—”

“You can’t stay here,” Allegar said. “I don’t know…what happened out there today…what they’ve done…but I want you far away from it.”

Orienne saw the fear in his eyes, and her own skin chilled at the memories of what she’d seen.

“And if this is Sorek’s doing,” Allegar added, “I want you out of his reach.”

Orienne hadn’t thought of that, but she shook her head. “I’m staying.”

Allegar was silent, holding her gaze for several seconds. “I know you’ve only stayed… because of me… these last few years.”

Orienne shook her head again, tears running down her face. She wanted to deny it, but how many times had Allegar been the only thing keeping her from leaving to find a different life? “I’m not leaving. You need me here.”

He hesitated, then weakly squeezed her hand, tears in his eyes. “I’m not going to be here, Orienne.”

“Don’t you say that!” she ordered. “Do not say that again!”

“Orienne…”

“No!” She let go of his hand and jumped to her feet. “You’ll see! I’m going to go find the healer, and he’ll tell you you’re wrong!”

“Orienne—” Cyrus said, but she pushed past him and out into the open to search for the healer.

She found him returning with a box of supplies under one arm and an aide in tow, and hurried to fall into step beside him. “Healer, he’ll recover, won’t he?” she asked as they watched. “He’ll live?”

The healer shoved the box into the aide’s arms and pointed at the tent where Allegar lay. “He’s in that one there. Go get these things in order!”

“Healer, will my brother live?” Orienne repeated.

He stopped walking, and the gruffness of his countenance slipped away. “My lady,” he said, “your brother is severely wounded and has lost a great deal of blood.”

“You’ve said that already. I want to know if he’ll live!”

The healer lowered his eyes. “I do not expect him to, my lady. In fact, if he were not one of the Ransom, I would turn my attention to others with greater chances of survival.”

“You don’t…expect him to?” Orienne’s voice was barely a whisper, and her eyes widened as she stared at the healer in shock.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You have my word, I’m doing all I can for him, but I do not expect him to last the night.”

Not even the night…

Orienne stood paralysed, and the chaos of the camp faded into a distant, echoing blur as a smothering numbness descended on her. The healer excused himself and returned to the tent, and Orienne was distantly aware of his voice ordering the aide around, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t.

A hand settled on her shoulder. “Is there anything I can do?” Cyrus asked.

Orienne’s quivering chin was the only part of her that moved. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

“I meant—for you. To help you.”

“I know what you meant.”

Allegar was the only thing holding the remnants of her shattered existence together, the last pillar of her world still standing. And the healer did not expect him to survive the night.

She left Cyrus and returned to the tent, where the healer and aide jostled and crowded in the limited space. The shredded remains of Allegar’s shirt were gone, and the healer had begun stitching the wound in his side. Allegar stared listlessly, appearing not to notice the healer’s working as Orienne knelt beside him and took his hand again, but he knew she was there—his fingers tightened slightly around hers.

“Please, Orienne,” he whispered, his words beginning to slur, “don’t stay for me.”

“I can’t leave you here alone.”

“You can’t wait—” He flinched at something the healer did. “They already attacked here once…the Avelin surprised them…that’s all that saved us.”

“At least…” Orienne bit her lip and glanced at the healer, still scowling as he worked. “At least let me stay until morning.” He didn’t need to know why.

“They might attack again in the morning. Orienne…” Allegar’s hand tightened feebly on hers. “…I would rather die alone…knowing you’re safe. Please.”

Orienne bowed her head against his hand, crying as she warred within herself, whether to do as he asked, or stay. When she raised her face again, several minutes later, the healer and his aide were still working, but Allegar lay motionless, ashen, and unresponsive.

“Healer, is he…?”

The healer straightened slowly. “He has lost consciousness. We’re still doing what we can, but he almost certainly won’t wake up again, my lady.”

And Orienne knew—she couldn’t watch him die. Not him. She had witnessed countless deaths in healers’ wards; she had held Ivan’s hand as he died; she had thought she knew how to face death…but not Allegar’s, she realised. Maybe he had known that too.

She pressed a kiss against his face and heard a shallow breath, but there was no response to her touch. She closed her eyes and touched her forehead to his, praying he had known how much she loved him. Then she stood and backed out of the tent, away from the healer and aide still engaged in their futile efforts, without a word.

Cyrus met her outside, leading a horse. He gestured at the bag behind the saddle. “I put some supplies in there for you.”

She stared at him. “You think I should leave, too?”

“I think Allegar knows what he’s doing. And if you were my sister I wouldn’t want you here, either.”

She looked around at the chaos, the destruction, the desperation…the death. “What about the rest of you?” she asked. “What will you do?”

Cyrus shook his head and shrugged. “Go on as best we can, I suppose. We have the Avelin now—that should help hold back the Cytharocian army, at least—but we lost a lot of men today. And without Ivan, without Allegar, without Miletus…”

“Gabriel?” Orienne hadn’t seen the Fourth-Born since the battle. “Is he…?”

“He is…” Cyrus glanced away, searching for words. “…not taking Ivan’s death well.”

Orienne nodded, and they stood in silence for a minute. Finally, Cyrus offered her the horse’s reins. “You should go while you can.”

Orienne took the reins and climbed into the saddle, and Cyrus put a hand on the horse’s neck. “Orienne, I want you to know I’m sorry. If I hadn’t—”

“Not another word, Cyrus,” she ordered. “You’re not to blame for any of this.”

He hesitated a moment before extending his hand, palm down. “Whatever happens, I’m glad to have known you and served the Shield beside you.”

She laid her hand on top of his. “The same to you, Third-Born.”

She glanced back at the dimly lit tent where Allegar lay. “Will you stay with him? Will you make sure he isn’t alone when…?”

Cyrus nodded solemnly.

Orienne kicked her horse and rode out of the camp, down the torch-lined supply road leading west.

Sorek rode to the council hall, which had been converted into the operational headquarters for the Cytharocian army. Jaquenon was already there, leaned back in a chair with his booted feet resting on a table.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “A messenger just arrived. Three thousand more Farin troops have arrived from the north.”

“That’s hardly surprising,” Sorek said, walking past without sparing Jaquenon a glance. “After that slaughter on the Drelick they’ve no need to stay up there.”

“You’re not still brooding over that, are you?” The front legs of Jaquenon’s chair banged to the floor, and he stood up and stretched.

“Over you throwing away two full divisions against a force three times their size for absolutely no purpose?”

Jaquenon shrugged. “They’re soldiers. They’re expendable.”

“But not unlimited!” Sorek turned to shout. “How are we supposed to win Saras’ stupid war for him if you keep throwing away our resources?”

Sorek withheld the retort that jumped to his lips, refusing to take Jaquenon’s bait. Instead he clenched a fist, pointing a finger. “Your orders threw away the lives of those soldiers, not mine. There is enough blood on my hands already; I’m not taking the blame for the blood on yours.”

“Feeling guilty, are you?”

Sorek’s very bones burned with hatred, watching the gleam of delight in Jaquenon’s eyes.

“Not too guilty to mind staining my hands one more time, as long as it’s with your blood.”

“Do it.”

The sorcerer knew full well how tempting that dare was. Not now, Sorek told himself. Cytharoc couldn’t afford the uproar of losing Jaquenon now, even if he was a demon-possessed egomaniac and an idiot to boot. Saras had gambled too much on Jaquenon’s sorcery. Sorek left the room without another word, slamming the door behind him.

King Saras had promised that once the war was over he wouldn’t prevent Sorek and Jaquenon killing each other. With Saras, one could never be entirely sure whether he was joking or not, but in this case Sorek had every intention of taking him seriously.

The end of the war couldn’t come fast enough.

***

The last time Orienne had seen Traden, it had given the appearance of a great bronze crown resting on the grassy brow of the hills. Its buildings, made of the warm brown stone native to the lake area, had stood in rich, beautiful contrast to the surrounding pastureland.

Now the city languished at the center of a sea of tents that seemed to stretch for miles over the hills. Withered columns of smoke rose from Cytharocian campfires and smoldering rubble alike.

Sitting on the back gate of an empty supply wagon at the edge of the newly-erected medical camp, Orienne stared across the miles separating the armies. The setting sun had worked its wonders on the lake and the surrounding hills, brushing everything with deep colours and an aura of mystique. It would have been breathtaking were it not for the blight that had descended upon the city and spread outward in the form of the enemy encampment.

And it would only get worse—so much worse. Soon the miles between the sprawling camps would become a battleground, a field of blood and death.

A shudder ran through her, body and soul. She’d thought she was free, that she’d finally found a way to escape this life and be free from the shadow of war. She had wanted to be free so badly…so desperately.

Perhaps that desperation was what had blinded her, driven her to clutch at the first faint glimmer of hope. Was that the only reason she had loved Sorek—for the chance at freedom he had offered her? Was there ever anything to their relationship beyond his need to use her as cover, and her desire to escape?

Did it matter?

There had been no real hope. The ray of light had been an illusion, and Sorek’s promise of freedom had only pulled her deeper into the life she now realised she truly hated.

“Orienne?”

She turned at the voice. “I thought you’d have gone back to the capital.”

Velkenar shook his head, coming to stand near the wagon gate she sat on. “May I?”

“Of course.” Orienne scooted over to make room for him, and he sat down.

“How is your shoulder?” Orienne asked.

“It still hurts, but I had one of the healers here in the camp look at it, and they said it’ll be fine if I’m careful with it for a while. They said you did good work setting it back in place.”

“You should have it in a sling to keep the strain off of it,” Orienne said.

Velkenar smirked. “I can’t write with my arm in a sling.”

She smiled. “Fair enough.”

“I’ll be leaving for the command camp soon,” Velkenar said. “I’ll stay there during the battle.”

“That’s a dangerous place to be.”

“But it’s the best place for keeping records of events as they happen.” He looked down at his hands, absently rubbing at the writer’s callus on his forefinger. “I overheard you tell your brother you’ll be staying here to help with the wounded?”

Orienne nodded.

They sat in silence for a while, before Velkenar spoke again. “Orienne, if I don’t see you again, I just want you to know…”

She turned her head to look at him as he searched for words.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said finally.

Orienne raised her eyebrows. “Thank me? For what?”

He looked at his hands again. “Not…not everyone who claims loyalty to the Shield would have held to it as you did, in the circumstances you were in.”

“I only did what any loyal Farin would do—”

“No.” Velkenar turned to stare at her. “There are far too many who wouldn’t.” He hesitated, pressing his lips together as though debating whether to say more, then looked back towards Traden. “Farindel would be a very different place if more of its people were as loyal as you.”

Orienne didn’t know what to say. For a few minutes they were both quiet.

“I should be the one thanking you,” she said after a while, “for looking after me, for being there with me. I would have been so much more frightened without you there.”

A smile flickered faintly across his lips. “I’m glad I could be there, Orienne.” Then his expression changed, and he rose from the wagon gate. “I should get going, if I want to get to the command tent before dark.”

Orienne blinked and sat straighter. His departure seemed abrupt…or maybe she was just distracted. But then he was walking away without another word or even a glance back.

“Velkenar!” She hopped off the wagon gate, and he slowly rotated to face her, but said nothing. Orienne didn’t know what she had thought she would say either, but after all they’d been through together, surely they needed a better goodbye than that. She searched for something to say; no words came to mind, but something else did.

She pulled her necklace off over her head, gathered the shield pendant and chain into her hand, and held it out to him. “I want you to have this.”

His lips parted, and a line appeared on his forehead as he looked from the necklace to her. “I can’t take that, Orienne.”

“But I want you to—to remember me by,” she explained, “since we don’t know what will happen or whether we’ll see each other again.”

His eyes went back to the necklace in her hand, and he slowly moved close enough to take it from her. He slipped it on over his own head, and Orienne smiled.

“Goodbye, Velkenar.”

He swallowed, once again appearing to hold back something he wanted to say. Then he nodded and walked away.

***

Sorek concluded his final briefing and dismissed his officers to go and join their men on the field. As they filed out one of Traden’s council hall doors, Sorek took a different exit and walked into the street. He passed through the soldier and workers crowding the square, ignoring salutes from the soldiers and making eye contact with no one. He needed to be alone, with no one asking questions or requesting his input on a thousand mundane issues.

He rounded a corner into a residential area of the city, but pulled up short. A black stain darkened the paving stones in front of him, flies congregating around its edge. A citizen of Traden had fallen here when the city had been taken. A sick feeling stabbed down through Sorek’s stomach as he skirted the stain and caught its smell. Now that he took time to notice, he realised there were many such stains. They were everywhere. The sickness in his stomach grew, and anger began to grow with it.

Why were these stains even here anymore? The soldiers had been instructed to clear the streets of bodies after the city had fallen, but what was the point of removing the bodies if their blood was left behind to bake in the sun? Was it not enough to have the blood of civilians staining their consciences? Why would anyone think it was acceptable to leave it here, staining the streets as well?

Sorek looked around and spotted a crossroads with a well at its centre. He made for it, grabbed a bucket that was lying nearby, and pumped it full, working the lever furiously.

He carried the bucket to the nearest puddle of blood and poured it out. The water was colored with blood as it flowed away, trickling between the cobblestones, but after days of baking in the summer’s sun and heat, the majority of the stain remained.

Sorek pumped another bucket full and poured it over the same stain. Again, the water coloured, but the stain remained.

A third bucket yielded the same result, but now the stain began to spread with the water.

After a fourth and fifth bucket, the stain was nearly three times its original size and still refused to disappear.

Sorek lost count of the buckets of water he filled and poured out, filled and poured out. He worked faster and faster, desperate for some sign of progress but finding none.

The sun beat down on his head and back and shoulders. Sweat soaked his shirt. There were so many stains, so much blood, and it refused to be washed away. A kind of desperate panic took hold of his mind as he pumped water, carried it, flung it out on the ground, and accomplished nothing.

Finally, short of breath, dripping sweat, shaking from the heat, he let the bucket fall from his hand and sat down on the step before the pump, unable to continue. He wiped the sweat away from his eyes with the back of his hand, and realised there were tears mingled with it.

Around him, a few localised stains had become an enormous unified stain. Far from getting rid of it, he had only succeeded in making it larger and exhausting himself.

This, he realised, was what his life had become: a sea of bloodstains and guilt…and there was nothing he could do to be rid of it. Just as there would forever be blood on these stones, there would forever be blood on his hands.

When did I become this person?

Hoofbeats clattered on paving stones, and a soldier careened towards him on horseback. “General Ronarres, the Farin have mobilised their main force! It’s beginning!”

Something in Sorek faltered at the thought of another battle, more bloodshed. But as he stood and moved mechanically toward the soldier, he stared at the sea of blood that now surrounded him, and realised that another battle would make no difference. Not for him.

He moved to the horse’s side and held up his hand. “Take me back to the command centre.”

The soldier clasped his forearm and Sorek swung into the saddle behind him. Then they rode back to the council hall as quickly as the slick stones of the street would allow.

As they rode, Sorek pushed the incident at the well from his mind. He was a general, and he had a task to perform—a task that would change nothing. One more battle would leave his soul no more and no less damned than he already was.

***

Between the Farin war camp and Traden, but still well behind Farin lines, a medical camp had been established. Healers’ aides stood along its edge, outfitted with weapons and armour, ready to rush onto the field and carry the wounded to safety.

Orienne did whatever she could to ready supplies and keep the camp tidy and free of obstacles. Once the wounded began arriving, every second efficiency could buy them would be needed. In the meantime, busying her hands kept her fear from taking over.

A horn bellowed from the field—one deep, ringing blast, then a second. Orienne made her way through the network of pavilions to the edge of camp, where she could see the army arrayed across the slopes below. As a third horn blast died away, the Farin forces went into motion and raced across the field, towards Traden and the waiting Cytharocian army.

Orienne stood on tiptoe and tried to spot Allegar leading the southern division, but it was pointless. He was too far away, surrounded by too many others. When the Farin reached the middle of the field, a red flare went up from the Cytharocian line. Orienne clenched her teeth as the enemy swept forward, the distance between the armies now narrowing twice as fast, closing to only a sliver.

She shut her eyes as the forces collided.

***

A sound like a crack of thunder ripped over the hills as the lines slammed into each other. From the roof of Traden’s council building, Sorek could almost feel the shock of the collision.

Anxiety gripped his chest as he watched; it always did at the beginning of a battle. He paced the edge of the rooftop, rolling his shoulders and neck, breathing deeply. He’d learned to use the time it took for a pitched battle to get well and truly underway to push through the tension and relax himself. Then when the confusion of the first moments cleared, he was calm and attentive, and could focus on directing the troops.

Another horn blast sounded from the field, and a Farin division closed in from the south. Now surrounded on two sides, the Cytharocians’ south flank was quickly being crushed.

“Signal the southern rear division to meet that advance!” Sorek ordered the herald stationed at the corner of the roof.

The young man pulled an arrow from one of the half-dozen quivers mounted on a bracket in front of him, lowered the tip into a brazier, and fired it in a high arc towards the southwest. It burst into a bright yellow streak of flame, and a section of the army moved south in response.

“General Ronarres,” a watcher called, and pointed towards the opposite end of the battlefield.

Sorek walked to that edge of the roof and saw a similar situation unfolding on the northern end of the battle—the Farin forces were closing in, crushing the Cytharocian flank from two sides. Sorek signalled the herald again, and another yellow flare shot over the field. Buoyed by the reinforcements, the Cytharocian lines held.

“All right, Ronarres, you’ve done your part,” a voice behind him said. “Now it’s my turn.”

Sorek turned to face Jaquenon, standing near the centre of the roof in front of a small table. On the table an iron tripod held a blue-green stone the size of a melon. Sorek’s former anxiety flared for a moment, and he fought the urge to reach for his neck to be absolutely certain he wasn’t wearing one of the pendants all of Cytharoc’s soldiers wore. He’d taken his off and locked it away as soon as he returned from his mission in Farindel, but the sight of the master stone still made him uneasy.

“Not yet,” he told Jaquenon.

“We had a deal, Ronarres!” Jaquenon barked angrily. “Your methods failed, so it’s time to use mine!”

“You’ll get your end of the stupid deal,” Sorek snapped, “but if you want it to be of any use the army needs time to work their way into the Farin lines!”

“I think you underestimate its power,” Jaquenon said, smirking. “I could have done it before the lines ever met and it would be just as effective.”

For an instant, Sorek considered arguing. But, King Saras knew Jaquenon for the tactical idiot he was; if he still wanted to hand the outcome over to him, so be it.

“Fine.” He gestured towards the battlefield with his arm, making a shallow bow. “The battle is yours.”

Jaquenon grinned, even as his eyes darkened. He wrapped his hands around the curved surface of the stone and slowly closed his eyes as he began to chant sharp, staccatic words in a foreign tongue.

Sorek’s gut twisted, and he moved as far away as the confines of the roof allowed. By now it was difficult to tell one army from the other from this vantage point. The haze of sweat and blood hanging over the field had blurred the bronze-coloured armour of the Cytharocians and the silver-coloured armour of the Farin into the same indeterminate colour.

Within moments, the sounds of battle were nearly drowned out by an eerie, wailing roar that made Sorek’s skin crawl. The entire tone of the battle changed as Cytharocians became wild, enraged maniacs, screaming and throwing themselves on the Farin with inhuman ferocity. The Farin advance slowed, stopped, and reversed, forced back by the sheer savagery of their enemies. Their northern division disappeared completely, and the southern division had broken off from the army’s main body. To the west they held together, but were still falling back.

Sorek could barely contain his disgust. This wasn’t war—this was slaughter.

***

“We have First-Born Romarck!”

Orienne looked up from the discarded armour she was clearing out of a recently-vacated surgery pavilion as two aides rushed into camp with a stretcher between them.

“We have First-Born Romarck!” one of them shouted again. “He needs attention now!”

“Bring him here!” Orienne called, waving them over with her arm.

The aides carried Ivan into the pavilion and set the stretcher on the waiting frame as a healer and another aide rushed to his side.

Orienne gasped at the jagged gash that cut through the centre of his breastplate into his chest. Shreds of steel and splinters of bone were mangled throughout the wound.

“Battle axe,” the healer muttered. “You,” he said to Orienne, “get his helmet off.”

Trying to control her hands’ violent trembling, Orienne unbuckled and pulled off Ivan’s helmet. His hair and face were drenched in sweat, and she had never seen anyone so pale while they were still alive. His eyes were closed tightly, his lips pressed together until they were as white as his face.

“First-Born?” Orienne whispered.

“Speak up,” the healer said as he and the aide unbuckled Ivan’s armour. “Talk to him, call his name, ask him questions, anything to keep him focused.”

Orienne nodded. “Ivan?” she said, louder this time.

“We have to get his breastplate off,” the healer said. “It’s holding the wound open, letting it bleed.”

A short breath hissed out between Ivan’s lips as the healer and his aide slid bandaging underneath the breastplate. Orienne saw him feel for the side of the cot and grip it with a shuddering hand. She pulled it away and wrapped her own hands around his.

“Just hang on, Ivan,” she said, “just hang on.”

“Ready?” the healer asked.

His aide nodded, and they began pulling the breastplate away.

Orienne clenched her teeth as Ivan crushed her hand in his, grinding her bones together with the strength of his grip. The healer and aide shoved more bandaging in as the twisted claws of metal around the gash pulled free bit by bit. Ivan’s head tilted back, his mouth open in a silent scream.

The breastplate came free and the healer tossed it aside.

A sob tore from Ivan’s throat and he went limp.

Orienne’s heart seized with panic. “Ivan!”

“It’s passing,” he breathed. “It’s passing.”

“Talk to him,” the healer said.

Orienne leaned forward. “Ivan, can you hear me? Look at me.”

His eyes opened, bloodshot and weak. They searched for her face, found it, and struggled to focus.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Orienne…” His voice was hoarse and gravelly.

“That’s right,” Orienne said, “and what is—”

“No…Orienne, listen to me,” he slurred. “The sword.”

“What?”

“The sword of the First-Born—where is it?”

Orienne glanced around and saw it on the ground of the pavilion with his armour. “Here,” she said, picking it up and holding it where he could see. “It’s right here.”

“I can’t get this bleeding stopped!” the healer said. “Go, get more bandaging!”

The aide ran from the tent.

“Good.” The word came out as a cough as Ivan looked at the sword. “I’m entrusting it to you.”

Orienne felt herself go pale. “What?”

“Take care of it. It belongs to the next First-Born.”

“Ivan, no, don’t say that.” Orienne found a cloth and wiped the sweat from frighteningly cold face.

“I’m not—” Ivan coughed again and blood speckled his lips. “I’m not going to live, Orienne.”

“Yes you are! Don’t say that!” she shouted. “You have to fight! Keep fighting!”

“I can’t…” His voice was a ragged whisper.

“We’re losing him,” the healer said as the aide rushed back in and they both continued working frantically.

“What? No! Ivan, don’t give up!” Orienne said.

His grip on her hand weakened, and Orienne tightened hers as if she could hold onto him, keep him from slipping away.

“Ivan! Listen to me! You can’t give up now!”

“We’re losing him!” the healer said again.

Ivan’s hand went limp. A weak, shallow breath whispered out through his lips, and his eyes drifted blankly to the side.

“Ivan? Ivan, no! No!” Orienne squeezed his hand, touched his face, but there was no response. “Healer!”

The healer kept up his efforts a few moments longer before stepping away. “He’s gone.”

“No, no, there has to be something you can do!”

The healer shook his head. “The wound hit his heart. I don’t know how he lived even this long.”

Suddenly there was a shift—a sensation as though the air itself has shuddered. Orienne and the healer caught each other’s eyes, confirming that they had both felt it. A moment later the thunder from the battlefield became a howling roar that turned Orienne cold despite the suffocating heat of the pavilion.

“What was—” Orienne began, but a panicked voice from outside cut her short.

“Farindel’s forces are retreating! Prepare to break camp! Farindel is in retreat!”

Orienne stood paralysed.

“How can we break camp?” the aide cried, casting a panicked look between Orienne and the healer. “We can’t move these wounded!”

The healer jerked a sheet over Ivan’s body. “We’re not going anywhere on the word of an hysterical page. You, though—” He pointed at Orienne. “You were entrusted with the sword. Take it and get out of here.”

“Where?”

“To the war camp first, if it isn’t overrun. If it is, ride for the capital and don’t stop until you get there.”

Orienne obeyed mechanically, terror and shock overriding thought. She returned Ivan’s sword to its scabbard, then buckled his belt over her chest and one shoulder so the heavy blade hung across her back.

Outside, dozens of riderless horses, many with injuries, had been pulled from the battlefield and tied to temporary hitching rails. Orienne took the nearest one that didn’t appear injured and led it towards an open space, but just as she was about to mount it a black shadow passed over her, a mighty rush of wind following in its wake. Orienne instinctively ducked, and the horse bolted in fear.

Crouched on the ground, Orienne shielded her eyes and craned her neck as a second form darkened the sky. Two enormous winged creatures swept over the field and the battle stopped cold as both armies stared, awestruck. The creatures filled the abrupt silence with their own ground-shaking roars, their voices a wild blend of thunder and savage screams.

Orienne stumbled to her feet, eyes wide and jaw slack at the sight.

The Avelin had arrived.

As a single entity, the Cytharocian army turned their faces skyward, opened their mouths, and unleashed a unified scream of rage that sounded nearly identical to that of the dragons above them.

The battle resumed. The Avelin joined in the fray from the air, cutting bloody swaths through the Cytharocian army with each sweeping pass. The Farin fought with renewed hope and energy, but the madness that had overtaken their enemies seemed to have only increased.

Remembering her task, Orienne found a second uninjured horse, this one with a bow and quiver of arrows strapped to its saddle. She mounted it and turned its head south to skirt the edge of the medical camp before she turned to ride for the command camp. Aides carrying the wounded laboured up the hill, panting with the strain and heat, and Orienne reined the horse in to let a group of them pass in front of her. The man they carried was still in full armour, but covered with blood, and one of his legs twisted at an unnatural angle at the knee. His helmet covered his face…but there was a flame insignia on his sleeve.

“Allegar?”

“Hurry!” a voice cried from down the hill, closer to the battlefield. “Go! They’re coming!”

“Allegar?!” Orienne turned the horse to follow the aides carrying the stretcher.

“RUN! someone screamed.

Orienne looked back towards the battlefield to see that the last of Farindel’s northern division had collapsed. The enemy now swarmed unimpeded up the hill towards the medical camp. Aides carrying more wounded ran as fast as they could, trying to get out of the path of the onslaught, but were swallowed by it.

Frightened by the noise, Orienne’s horse danced in a circle to face the approaching surge of maddened enemy soldiers. Orienne glanced back at the medical camp, filled with wounded and the healers trying to save them—and Allegar. The main body of the army was too far away, and still engaged in battle. They would never get here in time. There was no one to protect the wounded, no one to protect Ivan’s body, no one to protect Allegar.

No one but me.

Orienne jerked the bow from the horse’s saddle and drew an arrow from the quiver. Her hands shook as she struggled to fit the arrow on the string. She hadn’t shot a bow in years, and never at a living target. Tears of terror blurred her vision as she took aim and released.

She immediately fumbled for another arrow without seeing where or if her first shot had hit. There were so many of them—she almost couldn’t help but hit someone, but she would never hit enough to make a difference.

The soldiers were close enough now that Orienne could see their blood-smeared faces and weapons, their open, screaming mouths. The horse she rode was battle-trained and should have held its ground, but the animalistic screams of the Cytharocians sent it dancing backwards, fighting Orienne’s attempts to keep it still, moving too much to allowe her to aim or fire any more arrows.

The first of the enemy reached the edge of the camp. They ran in straight lines like charging bulls, heedless of anything in front of them. Tents and surgery pavilions toppled as madmen threw themselves against them. Healers and their aides tried to escape and were attacked. Screams of victims joined with the screams of the enemy.

Where was Allegar? She had to find him! Orienne released the reins and let her horse run, searching for her brother. They were both going to die here. At least she could die beside him.

The sky went black and a wind roared through the camp. Orienne’s horse bucked sideways at a gallop, flinging her from the saddle. She instinctively tucked into a ball and rolled as she hit the ground. Ivan’s sword on her back caught in the turf, tumbling her awkwardly and shooting pain through one of her shoulders.

The sunlight had returned, and the form of one of the Avelin wheeled above the camp, gathering itself for a dive. Orienne struggled to her knees, then her feet. Some of the Cytharocians paused their rampage to scream in defiance at the dragon above them, buying her time to at least attempt to hide.

She broke into a sprint towards the centre of camp—searching for Allegar, searching for a place to hide, she didn’t know anymore. The soldiers resumed their charge through the camp, and one of them targeted her. Sheer terror gave Orienne a burst of additional speed. A surgery pavilion stood a short distance away, a pile of discarded armour and weapons sitting outside it. She saw a sword hilt, grabbed it, and spun as the soldier dove towards her, howling.

His own momentum plunged the sword into his chest. Orienne fell backward with the force of it, and the soldier fell forward, pinning the sword beneath him. Orienne scrambled backwards and tossed through the pile of armour until she found another sword, grabbed it, and ran.

The Avelin dove again. His sweep through the camp was concealed from Orienne’s view by a row of pavilions, but she heard a rapid series of sickening impacts, and some of the Cytharocians’ screams were silenced.

“Here! Lady! Here!” someone shouted.

Orienne stopped and saw a man waving his arm. She recognised him—the healer who’d been with Ivan at the last—and ran towards him. There were others with him, healers and aides both. They had armed themselves with discarded weapons and surrounded several of the wounded.

She ran to join them and looked hastily over the wounded in the centre of their circle, but Allegar wasn’t among them. Where was he?

The Avelin dived again over another area of the camp—and again, and again, as they stood guard and waited. But even with the dragon’s efforts, a group of Cytharocians emerged from the chaos and charged at the circle protecting the wounded.

The Farin tightened their ranks and braced themselves. The oncoming madmen screamed as they ran. The healer at Orienne’s side screamed in return, and Orienne and the others joined in, shouting their defiance as the distance between them closed.

The Cytharocians didn’t slow, or even attempt to avoid the weapons the healers levelled at them. The sword was jerked from Orienne’s hands, caught in a soldier’s armour as he threw himself at her. The steel pauldron on his shoulder slammed into the side of her face, and her vision went black.

Now, though, the camp roared to life as supply wagons were loaded, horses were saddled, and soldiers prepared to ride. A contingent of troops would remain here in case Cytharoc sent more soldiers through the mountains this way. The rest would follow Ivan and Gabriel to Traden…though what they could hope to do there now that the city had fallen remained to be seen.

Ivan’s heart sped with fear every time he thought of Traden. How were the Cytharocians getting through the mountains? Would they appear somewhere else next, leading the Farin army on a goose chase around the kingdom until they were stretched beyond sustainability, always a step behind? Farindel’s greatest defense had become its worst liability. Piece by piece, everything they depended on for their safety was crumbling and being snatched away.

“That is not your source of safety.”

Ivan left his horse and walked away from the others. Hearing the Shield’s voice—a privilege of being the First-Born—had become laden with difficult and conflicting emotion since Lynessa’s death. Ivan certainly didn’t want to argue with a deity, but how was he supposed to just accept that unprotestingly? He reached the eastern edge of the camp, crossed his arms, and stared at the faint colours of dawn silhouetting the mountain peaks.

“Your safety does not come from the mountains, Ivan. It never did.”

The mountains had certainly helped, Ivan thought—and then regretted it, knowing the Shield would have heard the thought. “I’m sorry,” he said aloud. “I’m not—I’m not trying to challenge you, I just—I don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“Your task is not to understand. Your task is to trust me.”

Ivan hung his head and let out a breath.

“Will you still trust me?”

Ivan stared down at the grass, mashed and trampled from the last few days’ activity. He wanted to say yes, that he would still trust the Shield. He wanted to know for himself that he still did. But did he? Could he, when this was where that trust had led, when, if he was honest with himself, he was so enraged by what the Shield had allowed to happen?

“First-Born Romarck!”

Ivan suppressed a groan and turned toward the voice. “Yes?”

A page ran to him with a letter in his hand. “A courier just brought this from the capital.”

Ivan opened it. It was a letter from Albrius.

Ivan shook his head. In the chaos of everything else, he had actually forgotten about Cyrus. He dismissed the page and turned back to face the mountains. He hated to ask now, after what he’d been thinking, but didn’t know what else to do.

What do you want me to do about Cyrus? he asked the Shield.

“Send word for him to be brought here.”

Here? But we’re leaving.

“Send the troops ahead, and you wait here.”

Ivan glanced back at the troops and wagons, and was actually glad for the chance to stay. He hated the thought of leaving while there was still no word from Allegar. The question of whether Allegar was even alive to send word anymore was a burden all its own.

He stared back towards the centre of camp to write a message and send a swift back to Farindel. Whatever the Shield’s reasons for telling him to stay here, he hoped it involved getting some answers.

***

After escaping the castle, they had travelled hard all night. There was no sign of pursuit, but Orienne still jumped at ever unidentified sound. They travelled without torches or lamps, and the moon was weak. Orienne held Allegar’s hand to keep from losing him in the darkness.

Dawn was breaking as they reached the bridge. The valley was eerily empty, haunted only by shifting spectres of mist from the gorge. They hurried across the bridge, all of them breathing sighs of relief to be back on Farin soil, even if there were still thousands of enemy soldiers camped between them and safety.

Strangely, they saw no Cytharocians as they travelled. They did stay on the slopes above the pass as much as possible in order to remain concealed, but never once did they see or hear signs of anyone travelling through in either direction.

As they walked, Orienne tried to ignore the nagging question that ate at the back of her mind. She would find out when she reached Farindel anyway, there was no need to torture herself with it sooner than that. And yet it wouldn’t leave her alone. She had to know.

“Allegar, what’s happened in Farindel since I was captured?”

He looked away and raked his fingers through his hair—something he always did when he was agitated or uncomfortable. He didn’t want to tell her, she could see it.

“I know Sorek had more purpose in coming to Farindel than just to kidnap me,” she said. “What has happened? He was trying to capture Ivan. Did he succeed?”

Allegar sighed. “He did at first. Ivan and Gabriel escaped, though, and made it back to our lines.”

“And…Miletus? Do the Cytharocians still have him?”

Again, Allegar let out a long breath, staring at the ground. “He died saving Ivan’s life.”

Orienne’s jaw went slack and tears burned her eyes. “Miletus is dead?”

Allegar nodded.

For a few seconds they walked in silence. Orienne sniffled and wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and Allegar reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“What…” she said when she could speak again. “What happened to him?”

Allegar stared at her silently for a long time. “To Sorek?”

“Yes. He said the Shield had turned His back on him, that He took everything from him and didn’t want him anymore, and that’s why he joined Cytharoc. But he wouldn’t explain any further than that. What was he talking about?”

“What makes you think any of that was true? That he didn’t just make all that up to get you to take pity on him?” Allegar asked.

“Oh…” Orienne hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose I just assumed it was the truth—”

“Because you trusted him,” Allegar finished for her, “and you still want to believe there could be some reasonable explanation for everything.”

Orienne looked down, watching her steps over the rough terrain. “I just don’t understand.”

“There’s only one thing to understand,” Allegar said, “and that is that Sorek is not the person we knew in Harrowby anymore. I don’t know what happened to him, and I don’t care. All I know is that he used our trust to get at Ivan, and I will never forgive myself for letting him do that to you.”

“Don’t,” Orienne said. “Sorek is the one to blame, not you. Don’t take any of his guilt on yourself.”

A voice called back from ahead of them. Delvan and Lelan had gone ahead to scout the area, and now were returning.

“There must have been a battle,” Lelan said. “The Cytharocian camp is completely destroyed and their army is gone.”

They hurried as much as their exhaustion allowed, out of the pass and into the Basin. Orienne let out a breath of relief. The sun was setting past the distant, towering silhouette of Farindel, and after days spent in the chill shade of the mountains she could feel its golden light all the way to her bones.

A bustling healers’ camp stood at the edge of the battlefield. At first, guards confronted the travellers as they emerged from the mountains, but upon realising who it was, they ushered them into camp and staff provided them with food.

They were still eating ravenously when two men on horses galloped through the camp to where they sat. Everyone stood upon recognising Ivan and Gabriel.

“Thank the Shield you’re all back safely!” Ivan said, jumping down from the saddle. “Sit back down, all of you, you must be exhausted and starving.”

“What happened here?” Allegar asked, gesturing around at the battlefield. “Where is the army? We have to move them south—when Sorek took Orienne through the mountains she saw Cytharocians heading south along the valley—”

“I know,” Ivan said. “I know.”

Allegar stared. “How do you know?”

Ivan glanced at the ground and took a breath. “Because they took Traden.”

Everyone gasped.

“Took it…” Allegar said. “The entire city?”

Ivan nodded. “They’re massing their forces there by the thousands.”

Allegar sank back to the bench he’d been sitting on next to Orienne and Velkenar, his head in his hands.

Orienne rested her hand on his shoulder, though she was reeling as much as he was. If Cytharoc had taken Traden, they had a foothold inside Farindel that would be next to impossible to wrest away from them.

“If you went all the way through the mountains,” Ivan said, “did you find out how the Cytharocians are getting through?”

Allegar slumped even further forward. “Yes.”

“And?”

Allegar raised his face. “They’ve built a bridge across the gorge.”

Ivan blinked. “A bridge? Where? How? That gorge is sheer rock—”

“I don’t know how,” Allegar said. “They must have used sorcery in the process.”

Ivan thought a moment. “So…we just go and destroy it?”

Allegar shook his head. “I don’t think that’s possible. You don’t understand, Ivan, that bridge is enormous. I’ve seen it with my own eyes and I can barely believe it. They used entire trees as the beams, and they’re set into the solid rock of the gorge. We can’t burn it, everything in the gorge is too wet. And we can’t cut it down—it’s monstrous. It would take too long, we’d be caught and killed. We can’t hack it out of the rock for the same reason. It has to be destroyed, but I can’t imagine how we’re going to do that.”

Silence fell around the group and lasted a long time.

Finally, Ivan spoke again. “Albrius sent me a message letting me know you arrested Cyrus. He said he’s been investigating and he thinks Cyrus’ story is true. I’ve sent for Cyrus—he should be here in a few hours—but I was hoping you could fill me in on his story beforehand.”

Orienne only half-listened to Allegar’s explanation of Cyrus’ disappearance. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. She knew who the real traitor was. She could see his face, his Cytharocian uniform, his sword ending the life of a Cytahrocian soldier at Sutton—one of his own men! The images hovered in front of her, keeping her anger constantly aflame.

But even the heat of her anger couldn’t dispel the cold sickness that had settled into her being. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the fading evening sun. Her skin and muscles warmed in its light, but the warmth went no deeper than that. The aching cold in her heart held on.

As she ate and her gnawing hunger eased, her exhaustion took over. One of the camp staff offered to show all of them to tents where they could sleep, and Orienne gratefully accepted.

Allegar put an arm around her shoulders and walked with her, pulled her a little aside as they walked. “As soon as we’ve dealt with Cyrus, I’ll be riding for Traden with Ivan and Gabriel. I want you to go back to the capital first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I’m coming with you to Traden,” Orienne said, shaking her head.

“Absolutely not.”

“I can be of help in the healers’ camp, taking care of the wounded.”

“I don’t want you anywhere near there,” Allegar said. “Things are about to get very ugly and I don’t want you involved.”

“It’s too late for that!” Orienne stepped out from under his arm and faced him. “Things are already ugly, and I am already involved!”

“Orienne I just came very, very close to losing you, through my own fault—”

“You’re not the only one with something to make right, Allegar! Sorek used me the same as he used you. If you bear any blame in this, then I bear just as much! He made me a part of this!”

Allegar stared down at her with the wavering expression he always made when he was unsure and close to relenting.

“I’m not asking for permission,” Orienne said. “I’m telling you what I am going to do.”

Allegar’s shoulders sank, and he ran his fingers back and forth through his hair. “Get some rest then,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

***

Cyrus could barely control his nervousness as he was escorted into the camp by the six-man guard that had brought him from Farindel. Ivan, Gabriel, and Allegar were seated on benches by a campfire, waiting for him. Cyrus moved to the bench that faced them across the fire and sat down. The glow of the firelight in contrast with the growing darkness made their faces look even more hard and grim than they actually were.

“Allegar has told me the account of your history that you shared with him,” Ivan said without preamble or pleasantries, “and Albrius assures me that the evidence corroborates your story, so I understand the situation you’ve found yourself in.” He sat forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “I’m not going to try to soften it, Cyrus: you’ve made some serious mistakes. Serious enough that under the circumstances I can declare your vows to the Ransom void and have you exiled.”

Cyrus had managed to maintain eye contact with Ivan until now, but at that statement he lost his nerve and stared at the ground. He had told himself to expect this. They had every right to demand his resignation and send him back to the Athragani. At least the elders would be happy that they’d gotten their way.

“However,” Ivan continued, “despite my absolute readiness to do just that, the Shield is insistent that you be given a choice. You can return to Athragan, or you can stay here as one of the Ransom, but you must choose. You cannot continue to live with divided loyalties as you have been.”

Cyrus felt his eyes widen as his mind whirled out of control. “Stay here…as one of the Ransom?” he asked.

Ivan nodded.

Cyrus sat back against the bench, stunned. The liberty to choose was something he hadn’t expected…and now he wished they hadn’t given it to him. How was he supposed to choose between loyalties, between homes, between halves of his life? Both Farindel and the Athragani had rightful claims to his loyalty. How was he supposed to choose between them?

He considered returning to Athragani territory. He couldn’t deny how homesick he had been all of these years, how much he missed dancing under the open sky to the intoxicating rhythms of his people’s music, how restless he felt living in the same place year ‘round rather than migrating with the seasons. He had never felt truly like himself, concealing his identity by dressing in Farin-style clothing, wearing no jewelry beyond his wedding ring, keeping his hair cut short, and constantly concealing the tattoos that emblazoned his arms, shoulders, back, and chest with the symbolised names and histories of his tribe and clan. He missed the closeness of the community, the smaller, simpler scale of everything. He missed his sisters; at least some of them likely had families of their own by now, that he’d never met.

He and Viette could start over if they went back—build a brand-new life together, and start the family they’d been talking about for a while now. Viette had never seen his homeland. He tried to imagine her face the first time she saw the “summer snow” when the sega trees were seeding, or what she would think of the tribal festivals every autumn and spring. What new influences would it bring to her art? The thought of seeing the motifs of his people and their culture translated through Viette’s beautiful imagination onto her canvases delighted him.

But then…what would become of her art if they were to uproot their lives her and move permanently into Athragani territory? She would have to give up her gallery in Farindel. Would she still be able to utilise the same outlets and connections she’d spent years building, that had made her so successful up to now? She had assured him over and over that she was willing to leave Farindel with him, if that was what he wanted, but…did he really want to ask that of her?

He wouldn’t just be going back to the way things were before, he realised—he would be going back as chieftain of his tribe. He tried to envision himself in the role. It was the unexpected fulfillment of his desire to protect them…but that desire was what had brought him to this.

That thought sparked a realisation: His desire had been to protect the Athragani when their customs and traditions left them exposed to danger. He’d been exiled for his efforts. The Athragani were a stubborn people, militant in their devotion to tradition, and one chieftain of one tribe wasn’t going to change that. He would still have the council of elders to answer to, who could—and would, he had no doubt—thwart any efforts he made at change, at every step of the way. If he accepted his father’s role, he would spend the rest of his life fighting his own people’s stubbornness, accomplishing nothing.

He wasn’t ready to resign himself to that kind of futility.

He raised his eyes from the dancing flames of the campfire to look at the others, patiently awaiting his answer. “If the Shield has left the choice to me,” he said, “then I’m staying here. I was exiled for violating a custom that I still do not believe in. Going back now would accomplish nothing but cause friction and frustration for everyone.”

Ivan’s chin lifted slightly. Cyrus stared levelly at him, waiting.

“Very well,” Ivan said finally. He stood, stepped forward around the fire’s circle, and extended his hand. “In that case, welcome back.”

Cyrus stood up and gripped Ivan’s arm. “Thank you,” he said, and the combined flood of happiness and relief made his voice shake.

“I won’t pretend not to be angry, that I don’t wish you would have just told me, but I’m still glad you chose to stay.”

Cyrus looked down and shook his head. “I pray my stupidity hasn’t cost us the war.”

“Well, if your stupidity hasn’t, mine probably has.” Ivan was quiet a moment, staring back towards the capital. A few faint lights from the city were just visible, twinkling in the darkness. “The Shield was there in that city before any of us,” he said softly. “This is His kingdom, first and always. He’s the one who invited us to live here. Whatever He sees fit to do with it, I think the least any of us can do is choose to trust Him.”

***

Sorek walked across the courtyard to the tack room at one end of the stables in search of an empty set of saddle bags. He and General Shalen were leaving Catzlan in the morning to join the troops in the recently captured Farin city of Traden. He was still furious about that.

He’d tried to make King Saras see that his mission to capture Ivan Romarck had only failed because Jaquenon had sabotaged him every step of the way.

“Do you have proof that your failure was actually due to the efforts of General Shalen, rather than your own misfortune or incompetence?” Saras had asked.

“Well I certainly didn’t order the attack on Sutton Fort, or tell Ambassador Corynn and his men to kill their escorts, or countermand my own order to keep Ivan Romarck alive, or order that whaling village burned to the ground with everyone still inside!” Sorek argued.

But nothing would persuade Saras. They had made a bargain, and the king was adamant that since Sorek’s plan had failed, they would use Jaquenon’s instead.

Ironically, the turn of events made it a relief to discover that Orienne and the other Farin prisoner were gone. Saras’ apathy toward Jaquenon’s subterfuge would only embolden the sorcerer and make it even harder to ensure Orienne’s safety.

The kitchen women had been discovered first, locked in a cellar, which had led to the discovery of the fuard bound and gagged in the dungeon. Sorek had questioned all of them personally, and their descriptions of the Farin man who’d appeared to rescue the prisoners—tall, muscular, brown hair and eyes, speaking flawless Cytharocian—had made him strongly suspect that it was Allegar who’d led the party.

In which case, Sorek considered himself fortunate. He wasn’t eager to encounter Allegar any time soon, considering what he’d done…especially where Orienne was concerned. Still, Sorek felt a frustrating ache knowing he’d lost any chance of her coming to see his perspective. In the short time she had been here, he’d driven himself half mad tossing back and forth between wanting to let her remain as she was—devoted and loyal to a fault—and desperately wanting to convince her that she didn’t have to be that way.

At least now that she was gone, the decision had been made for him.

He located a set of saddlebags and a bedroll cover and left the tack room to return to his rooms to pack, when a voice came from inside the stables.

“Sorek!”

Sorek turned and managed to smile at the stable boy coming down the aisle between the rows of stalls. “Hello, Perrin.”

“I’m so glad I got to see you before you leave!” Perrin came forward, grinning ear to ear, and offered his hand.

Sorek took his hand and used it to pull him into an embrace, giving Perrin a hearty slap on the back.

The two had met shortly after Perrin’s parents had indentured him to the military at age fourteen; in the two years since, Sorek had made it a point to look after the boy, and Perrin had latched onto him like a father.

“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you before now, and that I have to leave again so soon,” Sorek said.

“Oh—” Perrin waved a dismissive hand and casually crossed his arms. “—don’t mention it. I mean, you’re a general after all. Who’s busier in wartime than a general, right?”

Sorek cleared his throat to conceal a chuckle at Perrin’s affected nonchalance. “I should be here all winter, though.”

Perrin brightened. “Do you think we’ll have time for sparring this winter? I’ve been practicing everything you’ve taught me, and I think I’m ready to learn more.”

“We should have plenty of time for that. You still practice every day?”

Perrin nodded. “Twice, some days.”

“Well then, you’ll be more than ready to learn more come winter.”

“There’s just one thing…” Perrin hesitated, averting his eyes. “Only one of the wooden swords is left.”

“What happened to the other one?”

Perrin cringed. “I lost my grip, and it flew into a wall and cracked.”

Sorek gently thumped the back of the boy’s head. “How many times have we gone over that? Death grip, Perrin! If your enemy gets your sword away from you, you’re dead!”

“I know,” Perrin said, still grimacing.

Sorek chuckled. “Well, we’ll dig up another one somewhere, it shouldn’t be too hard. There are going to be a lot of very bored soldiers here this winter, I should probably arrange to have some delivered to give them something to do.”

Perrin smiled, but dropped his gaze to the ground.

“Was there something else?”

Perring scuffed at a bit of straw with the toe of his boot. “Well, I don’t know if you’re allowed to talk about it, but…” He looked up. “I’d love to hear about your mission—about everything you did in Farindel.”

The look on his face was so eager, so expectant. No doubt he anticipated a grand and thrilling adventure story. He was sixteen—still young enough to see war as something glorious and heroic, naive enough to imagine Sorek’s mission one of wit and daring rather than deceit and merciless betrayal.

Time and the realities of war would shatter those illusions soon enough; Sorek was loath to shatter them sooner than necessary. And, there was the fact of Perrin being the only person in the world who saw Sorek as heroic and admirable. If Sorek was honest with himself, he didn’t want to give that up.

He clapped a hand on Perrin’s shoulder and forced a smile. “We’ll see.”

A year ago, my husband Austin, our children, and I moved from the USA to Ireland under a Critical Skills visa through Austin’s profession (cyber security). The terms of his visa require that he remain in his current industry until we become legal permanent residents, at which point he will be free to change careers if he wishes to. He is currently giving serious consideration to becoming a priest in the Church of Ireland.

We have three children under the age of six, so for now I fit my writing career in around being a full-time mom.

A few days ago, Austin and I were chatting over lunch while our children took their afternoon quiet time. He had been talking about his plans for becoming a priest, but then he looked at me and said “Wait a minute—what are you going to do with all your free time once all three kids are in school in a few years?”

At the time, I just shrugged and said “I don’t know, get a job, I guess.” I hadn’t really given it any serious thought—most days I’m just trying to survive with a grain of sanity intact. But after we’d finished our lunch, Austin had gone back into his home office to work, and I had gone back to doing the laundry, I had a realisation.

This was a Moment.

For one dazzling, transcendent second, I actually saw it—the future, with two very different paths, laid out in front of me. Not what would happen in the future, but that I had a choice to make here, now, in this moment. I could go back to the way I approached much of my early writing career (and honestly, most of my life in general), just kind of floating along waiting for lightning to strike and something magical to happen…or I could use this window, this intermediate period here where my kids are all tiny, to make my preparations and be ready to happen to things when the time comes.

“Okay then,” I thought. “I have four years before all of my kids are in school, and I have to either get a mundane job doing something I don’t care about for extra income we don’t really need, or I have to be ready to actually go somewhere and do something real with my passion for writing.”

It wasn’t really a choice—of course I knew what path I was going to take. But I didn’t really have a specific plan for navigating that path. In the few days since Austin’s and my conversation over lunch, I’ve thought a lot about the concept that You can just do stuff, but I haven’t been sure what I actually wanted to do.

Every writer, whether they’ll admit it or not, has fantasies of their books being made into accurately adapted movies. Me too. But I’ve always been well aware that it was just a fantasy, and never had any serious thought that it would actually happen.

This morning, I opened Substack to check my notifications, did a bit of scrolling to see if there was anything that looked particularly interesting that I might want to read while I had my morning cup of tea, and happened to scroll past an article whose header had photos of a bunch of different random Hollywood stars in it. I didn’t read the article—didn’t even click on it. I just noticed one of the actors in the image and thought “Huh—he’d be perfect to play Sorek if Son of the Shield was a movie.”

Apparently my brain was a giant bale of dry tinder, and that fleeting thought was all the spark it took to bring together all the loose, floating concepts and ideas of the last several days and set them on fire.

I can just do stuff.

So today, between rounds of laundry and dishes and breaking up toddler fights and saying “Please stop screaming” ten thousand times, I watched YouTube videos and ordered manuals on how to write screenplays. I found out about the London Screenwriters Festival, and told my husband that I’m going to attend it in 2028, to pitch the screenplay(s) I’m going to write to producers. I read countless articles and subscribed to Substacks about how to get your screenplay picked up by producers or directors. And is anything at all going to come of it? I have no idea. Will I ever actually see that actor playing Sorek on the screen when Son of the Shield hits theatres? No idea. Will screenwriting end up being the jet fuel to my career that novels have not yet been? No idea.

But I can just do stuff. So as of today, I’m a novelist and screenwriter.

And you can just do stuff too. What are you going to do?

Riders bearing Cytharocian flags came into view around a bend in the road. They appeared the be the entourage of a dignitary or some other high-ranking official.

A guard shouted from the castle wall, and the gates groaned open.

“Why would a dignitary come here?” Lelan whispered to Allegar.

Allegar shook his head. “My guess is they’re holding a strategy summit or secret meeting of some kind. This would be the perfect place for it.”

“We may have waited too long, then.”

“We’re still going in,” Allegar replied. “If my sister is in there I’m getting her out, one way or another.”

“Of course, sir. I only mean that we might need a different plan. We’ll get your sister out, even if the Cytharocian king himself is in there trying to stop us.”

Allegar raked his fingers through his hair, reevaluating his plan in light of this new development. “Let’s go ahead and move now. That dignitary’s arrival has them distracted, and that might work in our favour.”

***

Sorek returned General Shalen’s salute as they met in the corridor, hoping the gesture would mark both the beginning and the end of their interaction for the day. He wasn’t that fortunate.

“It’s good to have you with us again, General Ronarres,” Jaquenon said. “General Hyn and I are tired of struggling to hold things to the high standards of excellence you command.”

“Not so tired that you were unwilling to assume the task permanently, it seems,” Sorek replied, shouldering past Jaquenon and continuing down the corridor.

“What are you implying?” Jaquenon asked, feigning innocence.

Sorek stopped and turned. “You know exactly what I mean. The attack on Sutton Fort, for a start. Burning down that village. The attempt to kill Ivan Romarck that resulted in his escaping again! Unless I grossly misjudge the situation, both those incidents lacked royal sanction, did they not?”

“King Saras’ appointing me general is his sanction of the actions I take in that capacity.” Jaquenon walked through the nearest door—the castle’s library room.

Sorek followed and swung the door shut behind himself. “If you want to be rid of me, do it when your kingdom isn’t depending on me. If you think for one moment that you have the military sense to handle what I do, I’d like to see you try.”

Jaquenon raised an eyebrow, staring at him with the look of a predator sizing up prey. “Do you really want that, Sorek?”

Sorek felt a sudden constriction building in his chest and moving into his throat. He glanced down and saw Jaquenon’s hand, fingers spread and curving. Don’t panic. Block your mind, keep him out. The pressure on his heart and lungs eased, and he drew his secondary sword from the back of his belt.

“Fine,” he said. “If you want to have this out now, we’ll have it out now.” He slid the sword hilt-first across the floor to Jaquenon and drew his primary one. “But put your magic away and make it a fair fight.”

“A fair fight.” Jaquenon smirked and held his open hand above the sword. It rose to hover an inch below his outstretched palm, and he slowly wrapped his fingers around the hilt. “Call it that if you wish.”

***

Allegar, Delvan, Kars, and Lelan hurried single-file over the rocks. Through the fading twilight they saw two guards still posted on the walls, but the sentries’ attention was focused on the party arriving in the courtyard and the Farin were able to reach the paddock gate unseen.

A barred opening ran the width of the gate’s top. Kars made a stirrup of his hands and boosted Lelan up to peer through.

“This will let us into the stables,” Lelan whispered.

“Then we have to hurry,” Delvan said. “It won’t be long before they bring in the horses from whoever just arrived.”

“We could wait until they stable them and secure the place for the night,” Kars suggested as Lelan jumped down.

“We’re not waiting that long,” Allegar said.

“Give me one minute then, sir.” Kars drew a long knife from his belt and slid it between the gate and its frame.

Allegar held his breath as the sergeant squinted and twisted his mouth around as he manipulated the knife in the latch.

“There it is,” Kars said finally, biting his lip as he levered the knife in the gap.

Allegar eased the gate open and slipped through, the others following.

As they moved through the shadowy stables and crouched in one of the side aisles, they heard Cytharocian voices and Allegar paused to listen.

“I thought General Ronarres was going to the capital to report to him,” one voice said.

Allegar’s eyes widened. General Ronarres? Sorek was a general?

But at least he knew with certainty now that Sorek was here. If Sorek was here, that meant Orienne had to be as well.

The voice continued: “Well why did King Saras bother coming here, then?”

King Saras? Allegar sat back against the wall, mouth open in disbelief.

“Will, sir?” Kars asked.

Allegar slowly turned his head. “Corporal Lelan, would you care to guess who is arriving at the gates?”

Lelan frowned in confusion at being singled out. “Who, sir?”

“‘The Cytharocian kind himself,’” Allegar said, imitating Lelan’s tone and inflection.

Lelan’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”

“No hard feelings, corporal, but I wish you’d kept your mouth shut.”

Lelan cringed. “I wish that too, sir.”

The voices moved out of earshot and the Farin moved to the edge of the stables, where they could peer out into the courtyard. The king and his entourage were dismounting and turning their horses over to grooms. The front of the castle’s keep was well-lit and well-guarded, but the side and back were shadowed and vacant.

“It looks like they’re putting on a good show of security for his highness,” Delvan whispered, “but it’s only show.”

“That means they’re not likely guarding places like kitchens or scullery doors,” Lelan said.

Allegar gave him a look. “After what you said earlier about his highness, I’m not sure I’m willing to count on that.”

“Very funny, sir.”

***

Sorek and Jaquenon circled each other, weapons poised.

“I’m curious,” Sorek said, “aside from sabotaging my work and trying to get me killed, what else have you been doing without Saras’ knowledge?”

Jaquenon came at him with an attack. Sorek parried and shoved him away.

“How do you know it was without Saras’ knowledge?” Jaquenon asked. “Perhaps he just chooses to confide things in me that you aren’t privy to.”

“Well, in that case, why don’t I just ask him about the attack on Sutton Fort when I get to Cytharoc?”

Jaquenon raised an eyebrow. “You act like I’m the only using Saras’ authority to pursue personal interests.”

Sorek advanced and drove Jaquenon back towards a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Jaquenon blocked him as his back hit the shelves, laughing. “It’s not that I blame you, Sorek. She is beautiful. Those eyes…”

He pushed Sorek back and went into a series of cuts and thrusts, but Sorek stopped him short and shoved him into the bookshelves again, much harder this time.

“If you touch Orienne, I will kill you,” he said, inches from the sorcerer’s face.

Jaquenon chuckled again. “I thought that’s what you were trying to do now? But tell me, how would you explain my death to King Saras?”

“I’ll tell him the truth.”

“Which is?”

“That as soon as you’re strong enough to sustain your powers without Shekiah, you’re going to kill her and make your move on Saras’ throne. I simply killed you to eliminate a threat to my sovereign.”

Startled anger flashed across Jaquenon’s face and he spun into a cut aimed to take off Sorek’s head. Sorek blocked it moved sideways, and caught Jaquenon’s crossguard in his own, locking the swords together. It was his turn to smile and the sorcerer’s reaction.

“Oh yes,” he said. “I know about that.”

***

A strange sound arrested Shekiah in the corridor on her way to her quarters. It sounded like sword clattering together—but here? SHe followed the sound, trying to imagine what else it could be, but the closer and louder it got the more convinced she was that someone was actually sword fighting in one of the rooms off the corridor.

She paused and put her ear to the door of the library. The sounds came from inside, but why would anyone spar in the library?

She pushed open the door and froze. Sorek and Jaquenon weren’t sparring, they were trying to kill each other.

For a moment, Shekiah was delighted. This was exactly the opportunity she needed! She raised a hand to gather and focus her power, about to ensure that Sorek emerged the victor, until she remembered that King Saras was downstairs.

Delight turned to panic. She needed Jaquenon dead, yes, but it had to be done discreetly. Saras needed Sorek; if he knew Sorek had killed Jaquenon, he was sure to execute him, to his own—and the kingdom’s—detriment. This was not the time or place. She had to stop them—she couldn’t risk letting Jaquenon kill Sorek, either—but she was not about to step between them and get herself killed. There was only one person who could stop them.

Shekiah backed out of the library and sprinted to the main hall. King Saras had just entered when she burst in from a side passage. He gave her a strange look as she rushed to stand in front of him and hastily performed the customary greeting that combined a salute with a deep curtsey.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” she said as gracefully as she could while out of breath and trembling with anxiety.

“Thank you, General Hyn,” Saras said, his deep voice echoing in the spacious hall.

Shekiah couldn’t waste any more time with formality, but just as she opened her mouth Saras spoke again.

“Where’s Ronarres?”

“Sire, he and General Shalen are—”

“Oh yes, Shalen too. They both deserve a beating. Between the two of them we’ll be fortunate not to lose this war. Where are they? Why aren’t they here?”

Shekiah licked her lips, twisted her hands around each other, and decided that there simply was no way to put it delicately. “They’re in the library killing each other, Sire.”

“Killing—” Saras did a double-take. “Killing each other?”

“Yes, Sire.”

Saras swept past her and up the stairs without another word. Shekiah followed him, fervently hoping he wasn’t too late.

They could still hear the clashes of swords as they neared the library, so at least Jaquenon and Sorek were both still alive. Saras threw the door opened and marched straight into the fray, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“HALT!”

Sorek and Jaquenon were both startled into a pause, but looked at Saras for only a moment before turning furious stares back at each other, squinting through the sweat streaking their faces and breathing hard. Aside from a few minor cuts and bruises, neither appeared injured.

“I order you to stop this until further notice,” Saras declared. “Once the war with Farindel is won, you may kill each other and I won’t stand in your way—in fact I’ll officiate the event and be glad to rid myself of at least one of you—but for now I order you to desist and report to the main council chamber at once.” He paused to collect himself. “That is all.”

***

Allegar, Delvan, and Lelan left Sergeant Kars in the stables to keep watch while they made their way across the shadowed courtyard to the back of the keep, looking for a way in.

An open doorway spilled light and appetising smells and offered an easy way in, but Allegar could hear women’s voices inside. That would be a problem. Pressing himself against the wall to stay out of sight, Allegar turned to the others.

“We’re going to have to move in quickly and keep those women quiet,” he said. “I’ve only heard three voices, but there could be more.”

They moved along the wall and burst in through the doorway.

THere were four women inside the sweltering warmth of the kitchen. Only one of them saw the men at first, but her scream was automatically echoed by the others before they even saw what was wrong.

“Silence!” Allegar commanded in Cytharocian. He caught the woman nearest him and held his knife against her throat. “Silence, or I take her head off!”

In reality he had no intention of hurting her, but they didn’t need to know that. They froze where they stood, two of them crying and the other looking ready to faint.

“Please, please don’t hurt me,” the woman Allegar held hostage whimpered. She clutched at the arm he had around her with shaking hands.

“Where is the prisoner—the Farin woman—being kept?” he asked.

“Somewhere in the chambers under the castle but I don’t know where because I’ve never been down there, I swear it!”

“How do we get there?”

She started crying as Delvan and Lelan moved past them to herd the other women together into a corner.

“How do we get to the lower level?” Allegar demanded.

“The guard will be coming soon!” one of the other women said. She shrank back a little when Allegar turned to look at her, and continued more timidly. “He—he’ll be coming to get the prisoners’ food.”

“How soon?”

She gestured helplessly at a tray sitting on a nearby work table. “Any minute.”

“There’s a cellar hatch over here,” Delvan said from the far corner of the kitchen. “We can lock them in there.”

After making sure the cellar offered no escape routes, they ordered the four women down into it.

“If I hear once sound from any of you,” Allegar said, pointing at each of them with his knife, “I will be back.”

They nodded mutely, and he dropped the hatch. While Delvan and Lelan weighed it down with bags of flour and potatoes, Allegar positioned himself to one side of the door to await the guard.

The minutes dragged by. With the king arriving, it was unlikely that feeding a prisoner was high on anyone’s priority list, so there was no knowing how long the guard might be delayed. But finally, after an agonising wait, the kitchen door opened.

Allegar, Delvan, and Lelan jumped the guard from both sides of the door, wrestling him to the ground and silencing him with knives pressed against his face and throat.

“Do you know where the Farin woman is being kept?” Allegar asked.

The guard nodded.

Allegar removed his knee from the man’s chest and pulled him to his feet. “Show me.”

The guard started shakily for the door, but Allegar stopped him. “I know your king and at lest one of your generals is here, but if you do anything to alert any of them, or lead us into a trap, you will be the first one to die. Is that clear?”

Again, the guard nodded.

Allegar nodded to Lelan, who opened the kitchen door. “Let’s go.”

***

Orienne and Velkenar sat with their backs against the stone wall, side by side with the barred wall that separated their cells between them. They had talked some throughout the day, but as hours passed they had fallen into silence. Orienne’s stomach growled, leading her to think it was probably evening, but after the events of the last few days she wasn’t sure of her own internal clock anymore.

Eventually the door at the top of the stairs opened, but it sounded like several people, not just the usual lone guard, descending the stone steps. Orienne instinctively got to her feet, and Velkenar did the same as a group of men appeared in the doorway.

Orienne gasped. “Allegar?”

“Orienne!” He turned to the guard his companions held hostage. “Do you have the keys?”

The guard dug in the leather purse on his belt and handed the key to Allegar. He ran to the door of Orienne’s cell, unlocked it, and threw it open.

“Allegar!” Orienne threw herself into his arms, and he lifted her off the floor in a hug. “You found me!” She wrapped her arms so tightly around his neck it was a wonder he could still breathe; she certainly couldn’t breathe in his crushing embrace.

He set her down and took her by the shoulders, his eyes searching her face and looking over the rest of her for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not hurt.”

“Did anyone touch you? Did Sorek?”

Sorek. The mention of his name brought everything rushing back—everything she had managed to push out of her thoughts with monotonous exercises like multiplying the number of bars in the cells and counting stones in the walls. Tears filled her eyes as everything burst back to the surface.

Allegar’s eyes widened and his hands tightened on her shoulders. “Orienne, did Sorek lay a hand on you?”

Again, she shook her head. “No, he—he didn’t touch me.”

“Tell me the truth!”

“He didn’t. I promise.”

Allegar let out a breath and pulled her to him again. “Thank the Shield.”

“Allegar,” Orienne said into his shoulder, “Sorek was the traitor. It was him from the very beginning.”

His arms tightened around her. “I know.”

“What…what’s happened in Farindel? How much damage has he done?”

“You don’t need to worry about that right now,” he said, raising her face and kissing her forehead. “We’re going home.”

Home… Orienne gasped, suddenly remembering. “Allegar, we have to warn them—there are troops heading south down Theona Valley, they aren’t just all going west to the Basin. The Basin is a trap—they have another route through the mountains and they’re going to attack somewhere else, somewhere south of there!”

Allegar’s eyes widened. “That’s why there was no one at the bridge…” He turned to the other soldiers. “We have to get home as fast as we can. We have to warn them.”

“This is Velkenar,” Orienne said, pointing. “He was brought here with me; he’s one of us.”

Allegar’s companions were already unlocking Velkenar’s cell and ordering the Cytharocian guard inside.

Velkenar nodded in greeting, holding his injured arm against his chest with his other hand. “I am honoured to meet you, and extremely glad to see you, Sixth-Born,” he said.

They bound and gagged the guard securely, locked him inside the cell, and dropped the key through the air slit in the outer wall. Then Allegar grabbed Orienne hand and they hurried up the stairs and through a labyrinth of corridors until they reached the kitchens again. From there they slipped back out into the castle courtyard.

It was well and truly dark now. They darted across the courtyard and into the stables, where another Farin soldier waited.

“Thank the Shield,” the man said in a breath of relief when they arrived. “You took so long I thought surely you must have been captured.”

“Should we take horses?” one of the other men asked.

“No,” Allegar said. “They make too much noise and they’re too hard to hide.” He turned to Orienne. “I’m sorry, I know you’ve been through so much already, but we have to go on foot.”

“I don’t care,” Orienne said. “To get out of here and back home, I’d crawl if I had to.”

They let themselves out through a side gate into a paddock, climbed the steep, rocky face that hemmed it in, and hurried through the darkness back towards Farindel.

Ivan was silent, moving mechanically as a squire helped him into his armour. Outside his tent the camp bristled with subdued tension. There was no talking except for occasional mumbled instructions from one person to another. Ivan hoped everyone in the camp was praying as depsperately as he was. At the moment, they outnumbered the Cytharocian forces west of the mountains by a margin of almost three to one, and overpowering them could be relatively easy—if there was such a thing as an easy battle.

It wasn’t the battle he was about to lead that had Ivan most worried, though. What worried him most was the fact that there was still no word from Allegar. Ivan had no idea where he might be, or whether he had succeeded in rescuing Orienne. The Shield had told him unequivocally to lead the army against the Cytharocian forces at dawn, assuring him that Allegar and the others were “in My keeping.” But that could mean anything—anything at all.

Ivan clenched a fist at the thought of Orienne’s capture—a non-combatant who should have been strictly off-limits according to the codes of war.

So was Lynessa, and that didn’t stop them killing her, he thought as his squire buckled the last piece of his armour and stepped back.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the boy asked.

Ivan shook his head. “Thank you.”

The boy ran out of the tent and Ivan followed, still thinking about Orienne, praying that Allegar would be able to find her and bring her back safely. And if, Shield forbid, something did happen to her, Ivan prayed Allegar would at least be granted the satisfaction of bringing those responsible to justice—the satisfaction he still had not attained for Lynessa’s death.

At first, the Cytharocian troops rallied against the charge Ivan and Gabriel led against them. They were cornered, but obviously determined to put up a fight. Their desperation—that of men who knew they stood at the brink of death—took a heavy toll in Farin lives, but by the time the sun began descending into the west, the battle was over and thousands of Cytharocian soldiers lay dead on the Drelick Plain.

Mule-drawn carts lumbered across the area as healers divided the wounded from the dead, carrying the wounded into the shade of canopies for treatment, and loading the dead into carts.

The Farin who had come away without serious injury returned to the camp, shed their armour, and dragged themselves into tents or rolled into blankets outside under the stars. Ivan dropped into his own cot, closed his eyes, and concentrated on counting seconds as he breathing in, then out, in and out. He’d learned from experience that keeping his breathing precisely regular was the only thing that would allow him to gradually calm his heart rate, his shaking, and, always last of all, his racing mind.

He didn’t know how long it had been when he heard voices and commotion outside.

“First-Born Romarck!” someone shouted.

Ivan hurried outside. It was completely dark now, and around the fire at the centre of camp several men were gathered, surrounding a courier who stood, hands braced on his knees, heaving for breath.

“What happened?” Ivan asked.

“He says he’s come from Traden,” one of the men explained. “His horse went lame a way back so he ran the rest of the way here.”

“Get him some water,” Ivan ordered.

Once the courier had drunk, Ivan asked him again for his message.

“Cytharoc,” the courier panted, “their soldiers came out of the mountains by the thousands. We had no warning—they’ve taken the city!”

Ivan’s jaw went slack. “Taken it—they’ve taken Traden?”

The courier nodded, still breathing hard.

Ivan took a step backward for balance as a numbing shock fell over him. They’d been tricked—the forces here on the Drelick had been a distraction to keep their forces occupied and out of the way so they could capture Traden without resistance. Today had solved nothing—Cytharoc still had a straight shot at the capital, and now they could take it from the advantageous position of a walled city.

However they had managed to cross the gorge in the mountains, it had given them access to Traden too. Where else could they reach?

Ivan turned to look towards Farindel, barely visible as a cluster of tiny, flickering lights in the distance. How was he supposed to protect it now, now that Cytharoc held a fortified position inside their borders?

He glanced at the men around him, awaiting his orders, looking to him for a response. Their morale depended on him. He steeled himself and spoke loudly enough for all of them to hear:

“All of you get as much rest as you can. We’re in no position to travel tonight, not after today’s battle, but we’ll ride out first thing in the morning.”

The men dispersed, and Ivan returned to his own tent, where no one could see him—where no one could see the horror it took every shred of his strength to conceal.

I think we just lost the war.

***

Sorek stared at the report in his hand, comprehending nothing. Thoughts and memories and emotions tangled with the words scrawled on the page, reducing everything to nonsense. He rose from his chair and walked to the other end of the table, where a large map was spread with tiny clay figures arranged on its surface. Maybe seeing a tangible layout of their strategies and positions would help him focus.

It didn’t. If anything it only fueled the chaos churning in his thoughts, and his inability to concentrate. He touched the figure marking the rendezvous point where he’d coordinated the ambush of First-Born Romarck—the place where Orienne had discovered the truth about him.

Doing so brought everything tearing back through the thin curtain he had managed to push it behind—her eyes, her tears, her fury, her heartbreak that he felt in his own soul as though he were the one betrayed. He had known suppressing the memories couldn’t last, so their resurgence was no surprise. If anything, it was a relief letting them have free reign in his mind after struggling so hard to keep them at bay.

He wished Orienne would understand, or at the very least, give him a chance to explain himself before passing judgement on him. He wished she would see that things didn’t have to be as black-and-white as she made them. The war between Cytharoc and Farindel was a conflict over resources. Why did so much moral weight have to hang on choosing sides in a fight over some stupid berries? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to fight for his homeland first; he’d offered Farindel his life, loyalty, and service, and they hadn’t wanted it, consigning him instead to a meaningless, menial life of the smith work he hated. So when opportunity arose to pursue the military career he’d always wanted in service to Cytharoc, he had taken it. It was as simple as that. And it was still over berries!

Changing sides in a ludicrous berry war didn’t make him a monster. It wouldn’t make her one either, and he wished she would understand that.

Or did he?

It had been so easy to fall in love with her, because she was everything he had lost in himself: hope, optimism, love, compassion, devotion, trust, faith, loyalty. Being with her made him feel like he had a soul again, like he could be something more than he’d become.

Did he really want her to concede to his jaded way of thinking? Did he really want to make her like himself, when he was one of the people he most despised?

Living with the burden of guilt for what he’d done to her didn’t matter much in the greater scheme of things, just one more self-inflicted scar on his disfigured soul. But, he realised now, he didn’t actually want to drag her with him down the path he’d taken. He loved her too much. He had already broken her heart and destroyed the life she’d thought he was offering; he couldn’t let himself destroy who she was.

***

Shekiah Hyn didn’t usually bother wearing her uniform, especially in an out-of-the-way place like Catzlan. Everyone here knew who she was, and if someone happened along who didn’t, the snow-white streak through her dark red hair would make it perfectly clear. She simply saw no need to confine herself to the monotony of a uniform every single day.

But, she’d been informed by the serving woman who brought her hot water this morning, Sorek Ronarres had finally returned late last night from his mission to Farindel. Presumably, he would be at breakfast this morning.

Of course, so would Jaquenon, so she would have no opportunity to talk to Sorek about anything important, but she could at least be intentional about how she presented herself—which, in this case, meant precise and exacting professionalism.

King Saras planned to send Jaquenon to the front in Farindel soon, while Sorek stayed behind to coordinate the next phase of the campaign. Shekiah would happily bide her time until then.

She turned in front of the mirror in her quarters, making certain the deep blue dress with its clean silhouette and unadorned design was completely free of wrinkles. Then she put on the leather vest that went over it, taking a moment to buff the full-ring rising sun insignia that marked her rank with a handkerchief. She had already confined her hair to a braid, making certain Thallan’s mark remained advantageously visible, and removed all of her earrings, leaving nothing that might detract from an image of dedication and excellence.

She opened her chamber door and stepped out into the corridor to see Jaquenon only a few steps away, presumably just coming from his own quarters. They both paused, and Jaquenon took in her appearance from head to toe.

“Good morning, General Hyn.” He saluted slowly, his emphasis on her rank a pointed reference to her out-of-character attire.

Shekiah was about to return the salute, intending to ignore the rest, when Jaquenon closed the distance between them, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. It was an aggressive, invasive kiss, and a surge of his consciousness invaded her mind as he did, nudging, probing, searching.

She didn’t resist the kiss, but she did harden her mind against his foray. She couldn’t even remember the last time he had kissed her, or when they had last gone deeper in their mind link than a simple conversation. Why now? What are you after?

Jaquenon heard her thought and pulled back just enough feign an affectionate stare into her eyes. “Does a man need an ulterior motive to kiss a beautiful woman?”

She narrowed her eyes. The only constant that existed where Jaquenon was concerned was that there was always an ulterior motive. I said, What are you after?

He brushed the side of her face with the backs of his fingers. “I might well ask you the same thing, darling.”

She hated it when he called her that, but said nothing.

He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently, tracing the general’s insignia on her vest with one thumb. “I should let you know, if this is a bid for General Ronarres’ attentions, I’m afraid you’ve been beaten to the prize. It seems he met a woman in Farindel—”

Oh please, Shekiah said. I am fairly certain Sorek would rather sleep with a corpse than with me.

Jaquenon shrugged. “His loss.”

Shekiah glared at him. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to breakfast now.

But Sorek wasn’t at breakfast.

Or at the noon meal.

By mid-afternoon, when Shekiah still hadn’t seen even a glimpse of him, she quietly asked a few of the staff and was told that he had asked for both meals to be delivered to his quarters.

“Is he unwell?” Shekiah asked.

“He didn’t appear so,” one of the cooks told her.

And yet Shekiah never remembered Sorek taking meals in his quarters before, unless he was ill.

“He might have seemed a bit…angry,” the cook added.

“Angry about what?”

The cook shook her head. “I don’t know, my lady. It’s just that he’s usually more polite than some of the other officers—I always appreciate that about him—but it seemed like something was troubling him badly.”

Strange. This was Sorek—restrained, committed to a fierce degree of excellent. It was completely unlike him to reveal so much emotion that even the kitchen staff knew about it. What was bothering him?

Jaquenon had mentioned Sorek meeting a woman in Farindel. Shekiah didn’t know where he had obtained that information, or how accurate it was, but…could Sorek be pining for someone? It was actually quite amusing to imagine him, of all people, moping over a woman.

Or was Jaquenon himself the culprit behind Sorek’s moody self-isolation? If he was, then most of Shekiah work may have already been done for her.

Jaquenon’s relentless sabotage of Sorek’s mission in Farindel was alarming. Capturing the First-Born of Farindel and bringing him back alive would have been an incredible advantage to Cytharoc, sealing the rest of their imminent victory quickly and favourably. Losing the chance to use the First-Born as a hostage for negotiations would not cost Cytharoc the war, but had certainly reduced the amount of bargaining power they had.

Something had changed in Jaquenon while Sorek was gone; he had always been obsessed with his own power and abilities as a sorcerer, but the fact that he was now willing to put his own quest for power ahead of Cytharoc’s success and well being…

And his power had begun to grow at an extraordinary rate. For most of the fourteen years of their alliance, their mind link and the power sharing that came with it had kept them comparable to one another in strength and skill, but in the last few months Jaquenon seemed to have broken through some kind of barrier to reach levels of ability they had only dreamed of before.

Long ago, a few Thallanic Order masters had postulated that a sorcerer could, in theory, reach a point at which he was no longer dependent on an ally for sustaining his powers. Were they right?

Shekiah knew they had not reached that point yet, even if the order masters were right. She still felt Jaquenon’s power drawing on her own any time he used it, so for now she was safe; Jaquenon’s mad lust for ever-more power, and his simplistic fixation on the moment, never on the long term, would make him unwilling to sacrifice even a portion of his strength, even for a short while, by killing her before he was completely independent of her. But if he did reach the point of no longer needing her to sustain his abilities…

Shekiah knew it galled him to be dependent on her. He would love nothing more than being Cytharoc’s lone sorcerer, self-reliant and untouchable, and he was growing impatient. Once he had reached that place, he would waste no time killing her.

If she wanted to stay alive, and to actually be free to use her abilities for the practical purposes she’d intended when she became a sorceress, she had to rid herself of Jaquenon before he rid himself of her. But as much as his powers had grown, Shekiah knew she wasn’t strong enough to kill him herself. She needed someone to side with her, someone who could kill Jaquenon for her.

Sorek Ronarres was the perfect candidate. He and Jaquenon had hated each other since the day they met; Sorek was a remarkably skilled fighter; unlike Jaquenon, Sorek was actually intelligent and willing to play the long game; and Sorek’s difficult, dangerous mission to Farindel had just been completely undermined and rendered pointless by Jaquenon’s doing.

If anyone was capable of killing Jaquenon, it was Sorek. If anyone was likely to want to kill Jaquenon, Sorek was. And if he wasn’t, well…Shekiah could fix that.

***

Aside from brief glances to mark the sun’s progress, Allegar had kept his eyes on the castle. In the last hour of watching he had seen only three people, two of them guards. The third was a stable hand letting horses out through a gate in the wall into a small paddock wedged into a grassy cleft of the mountain. That paddock would be the ideal plcae to try to get inside.

The guards who meandered occasionally along the castle walls appeared to be nothing more than token watchmen. Their patrols were slow and aimless, likely as much for the purpose of enjoying what remained of the evening sun as for maintaining vigilance. In a place as remote as this, they weren’t likely to expect any trouble, and Allegar didn’t anticipate any great difficulty getting in.

The difficulty would come with finding Orienne, freeing her, and getting out. And of course there was no knowing what or who they might encounter once they got inside.

Allegar rubbed his face, trying to hold out against his exhaustion. He wanted to prepare himself for whatever he might have to face once inside—if Orienne was indeed here, she had been here for at least a full day, possibly longer, and there were far too many things that could have happened in that time—but there was no way to prepare for what he feared he would find.

He looked back at the sky. It wasn’t completely dark yet, but it was shadowy enough to cover their movement across the ravine and into the castle.

He turned to the others. “Let’s go.”

They rode all day, stopping only once to rest. This time, though, they didn’t stop to camp when dusk fell. They didn’t even slow down. The guards took torches from supply bags and lit them, but their swaying light and subsequent shadows were scarcely better for travelling than darkness was. Hours after dark, they were still moving. Orienne was beginning to fear she might simply fall off her horse from sheer exhaustion, when she noticed a light, tiny in the distance, on the mountainside ahead of them. As they continued on, two more lights appeared, forming a straight line with the first one.

The road curved, bringing the travellers around the shoulder of a mountain, and the silhouette of a towering fortress came into view against the starry sky.

Sorek identified himself to the guards at the gate, who then ushered them into a wide stone courtyard shaped like an L, wrapping around the north and west sides of the towering central keep. On the east side, the keep and the outer wall merged into the stone face of the mountain. The west wall of the courtyard was crowded with buildings too shadowy in the torchlight for Orienne to make out what they were, and there were only a few people about at this hour.

A Cytharocian officer emerged from the keep and approached Sorek. After a brief conversation Sorek passed his reins to a waiting stable hand and followed the officer back into the keep without a backward glance.

Orienne suddenly wished he would stay. Liar and traitor though he was, Sorek had been protecting her. She shuddered to think what might have happened to her already were it not for him. But now he was leaving her. She shouldn’t be surprised, she supposed. She had told him she didn’t want his protection, and he had warned her what would happen if she refused it. Now he was making good on his threat.

The guards took turns watching the prisoners and removing their saddle bags. Then they turned their horses over to the other stable hands and directed the prisoners towards the keep. Orienne felt a flicker of relief. Maybe Sorek had only gone ahead of them and wasn’t leaving her alone after all.

The main door opened into a massive central hall illuminated by an enormous iron chandelier. The fixture’s chain-suspended frame was crafted in the shape of a sun, candles set into each of its curving rays. By its light, Orienne could see multiple levels of rooms and open-sided passages stacked up the sides of the hall, but the place was eerily quiet, and Sorek was nowhere to be seen.

Four new guards appeared, and the ones who had just made the journey through the mountains dispersed and disappeared through various doors and passages.

One of the new guards motioned the prisoners towards a door at the side of the hall. “This way.”

Orienne moved slowly, keeping her eyes on the other Farin prisoner. Whatever happened, she did not want to be separated from him.

As they neared the door, a hand slid across the small of her back and curved around the side of her hip, and a guard pulled her snugly against his side.

A split second of terror exploded into panic. Orienne thrust her elbow back into the guards stomach and, as he bent forward, turned, grabbed a handful of his hair from the back of his head and used it to jerk his face down into her raised knee.

“Do not touch me!” she shouted in Reyemen as she backed away, hoping that wherever Sorek was he might hear it and investigate. The other Farin prisoner was trying to intervene, but was being restrained by two of the other guards.

Orienne heard a sword slide from its scabbard and turned as the fourth guard approached her slowly. Though his weapon was drawn he held up his left hand, fingers spread, and spoke softly in Cytharocian. “Please, calm down. No one is going to hurt you.”

The first guard picked himself up from the floor. Blood poured from his nose and dripped from his chin to the stone floor. His comrade watched him with annoyance, while Orienne stared in shock at what she’d done. Allegar had made her practice that attack on him dozens of times, but she had never actually used it in earnest before.

“I’ll take care of her, go and get yourself cleaned up,” the guard with his sword drawn said.

Rather than accept the offer, the bleeding guard grabbed Orienne’s arm and pulled her towards the door, fingers digging into her skin. He pushed the door open and shoved her through, hard.

She fell forward and collided full-force with a man’s chest. He stumbled back for balance at first, but an instant later his hand was around her throat and he shoved her against the wall on the other side of the corridor.

She grabbed at his hand, trying to pull it away from her neck, but his grip was too strong. Hard brown eyes glared at her from a long, high-boned face. Dark brown hair was combed back from a high forehead, and running through the left side of it was a streak of white—Thallan’s mark. This man was a sorcerer.

Orienne felt the blood drain from her face. His hand wasn’t pressing her throat hard enough to cut off her air, but she still couldn’t breathe.

The sorcerer’s brow twitched, and he peered more closely into her eyes, saying nothing. She told herself not to panic, that her eyes had probably changed colours and caught his attention. But catching the attention of a sorcerer was the last thing she wanted to do. The stories she had heard…

A guard came through the door—the one who had tried to calm Orienne down back in the hall, the one with the gentle voice. “General Shalen, I apologise,” he said, “there was some…confusion…in the corridor. I can take her off your hands now.”

If the sorcerer heard the guard, he didn’t react. Instead he continued staring at Orienne’s eyes. “Zaer,” he said, finally acknowledging the guard’s presence, “who is this woman?”

Zaer cleared his throat. “I apologise, sir, but I don’t know her name. She was…” He appeared to search for words. “…General Ronarres brought her back with him.”

The sorcerer smiled, still staring at Orienne. “Did he now?”

“Yes, sir,” Zaer muttered.

“Well, find out more about her and report it to me,” General Shalen said.

Zaer shifted uncomfortably. “Um—forgive me, sir, but General Ronarres has left orders that she is not to be questioned.”

The sorcerer smirked and turned his head to look at the young guard. “Are you afraid of General Ronarres, Zaer?”

Zaer hesitated. “I—I beg your pardon, sir?”

The general straightened, but kept his hand on Orienne’s throat. “Are you afraid of General Ronarres?”

“Well, sir, I—I mean, sir, that—”

The sorcerer laughed. “Good. You should be.” He moved as though to turn back to Orienne, but then whirled on the guard with inhuman speed, his right hand outstretched, fingers curved like talons.

Zaer stumbled backward and collapsed on the floor, writhing and clawing at his throat even though the sorcerer’s hand was several feet away.

“But not as afraid as you should be of me.” General Shalen pronounced each word distinctly through clenched teeth, his fingers slowly drawing tighter, closer to a fist. Zaer’s face purpled, his mouth open in a silent, gagging scream, and his struggling grew sluggish.

The sorcerer had released his grip on her neck when he turned on Zaer, but Orienne couldn’t move or take her eyes off the soldier thrashing on the floor. The wall at her back was all that kept her from collapsing.

General Shalen jerked his hand back as though pulling it out of the way of a falling hammer. Zaer went limp on hte floor, retching and sobbing for air.

Despite the rush of relief she felt at his release, Orienne still stood paralysed with horror as the sorcerer turned to look at her again, silently appraising her for a few moments before stepping over the collapsed soldier and through the door, back out into the castle’s central hall. The other guards and the other Farin prisoner were nowhere to be seen.

“Your prisoner is waiting for you,” he reminded Zaer—as off-handedly as if announcing that dinner was served.

Zaer rolled, coughing, onto his side, struggling to get up.

“Oh and Zaer,” the sorcerer added, just before closing the door, “do not question me again, is that understood?”

Zaer opened his mouth, but only a rasping cough came out.

“Pardon?” General Shalen cupped his hand around his ear.

Zaer sucked in a wheezing breath. “Yes…sir.”

“Excellent.” The sorcerer shut the door, leaving them alone in the corridor.

As soon as he was out of sight, Zaer curled double in a coughing fit.

Orienne dropped to her knees beside him as he struggled to get up. “Give yourself a moment. I’m not going anywhere,” she said in Cytharocian. She Shield only knew what kind of damage might be done to the poor man’s throat. He needed to see a healer, but that was unlikely to happen.

He ignored her and fought to stand, bracing his hands against the stone wall for support.

“Here, at least let me help you,” Orienne said, hooking her arms under his and lending what assistance she could.

He fell back against the wall once he was upright, staring at her with wide eyes. “You…you speak…?”

She nodded. “I’m an interpreter. My name is Orienne Verasi. You can tell him that, so that he gets the information he wants but you don’t have to disobey Sor—General Ronarres’ orders.” She tried to push aside the sick feeling in her stomach at the mention of Sorek, the reminder of what he actually was.

Zaer looked confused. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Because they’ve put you in an impossible position that isn’t your fault,” Orienne said. “I’m just trying to help.”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Don’t tell me anything else,” he said, slowly pushing himself off the wall. “You shouldn’t talk to me. Don’t talk to anyone. You don’t understand what he’s capable of.” He coughed again, then gestured down the corridor. “That way.”

Orienne walked quietly in front of him as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. That sorcerer had nearly murdered this soldier with nothing more than a motion of his hand, and yet Zaer was still afraid of Sorek—and the sorcerer had agreed that he should be. And suddenly, Orienne realised that she knew more about what the sorcerer was capable of than what Sorek was capable of.

***

Allegar stopped in disbelief at the sight that met his eyes. The sun had set, and a fog was gathering in the gorge, but the fading light was enough to reveal the frame of the massive bridge arching across the gap.

Kars, Delvan, and Lelan stopped beside him and joined in with their own wide-eyed stares. The bridge was a miracle. Workers must have spent months transporting materials and supplies in, and cutting the settings for the beams into the solid stone would have taken weeks.

“How did they do this?” Corporal Lelan asked no one in particular.

“Sorcery? Brilliant engineering? Both? I don’t know,” Allegar said.

“Amazing,” Kars muttered.

Allegar craned his neck to look upward. In the zigzagged section of darkening sky visible between the mountain peaks, blue stars were beginning to appear. The valley was as deserted as the pass through the mountains had been, but why? Farin scouts had estimated the number of Cytharocian soldiers on the Drelick Basin, and it hardly seemed enough for an earnest attempt at invasion. Perhaps there had simply been a break or delay in their troop movements, for some reason. And at this hour, of course, any troops would be stopping to camp for the night.

“We have to at least get across the bridge tonight,” Allegar told the others. “By morning there will probably be hundreds more soldiers moving through here.”

Descending the slopes into the valley in the growing dusk was difficult and time consuming—a fact made more stressful by the necessity of getting across before complete darkness fell, rendering them unable to see the bridge, or the gorge edge. He was no good to Orienne if he fell to his death in the dark.

He just prayed he reached her in time to be any good at all.

***

Zaer led Orienne down a flight of stone steps into a circular chamber, half of which was taken up with two barred cells, both unoccupied. The room was furnished only with a saltwater lamp mounted on one wall, and a small table. Between the lamp and table was a closed door, and in the opposite wall was a long open slit to let in air.

Zaer opened the door of one of the cells, motioned Orienne inside, and locked her in. “I know you’re hungry,” he said, his voice still a raw broken whisper. “I’ll try to get you something to eat.”

She watched him go, confused and terrified. How long would she be here? Why was she here in the first place? It couldn’t be simply because of what she knew about Sorek—he hadn’t needed to bring her out to the Basin, when he had orchestrated the ambush against Ivan. He could have left her behind in the capital and she would never have known any of what she knew now. And she possessed no special value as an exchange prisoner. It made no sense for her to be here…unless Sorek had brought her here for his own reasons.

A cold, sick feeling clutched her at the thought. Sorek’s orders had protected her thus far…but how long would she be safe from him? What if he planned to use her as a bargaining piece to manipulate her brother? Tears burned Orienne’s eyes and she covered her face with her hands at the thought. Allegar had raised her since she was a child; he was nearly as much father as brother to her; as utterly dedicated as he was to Farindel, he was just as dedicated to her. If Sorek forced him to choose between her and Farindel, it would destroy him.

She rubbed her arms and paced her cell as she started shaking again. The clang of a door bolt startled her from her thoughts, and a shaft of light shot across the door of the stairwell on the other side of the room, followed by sounds of voices and scuffling.

Orienne walked to the barred front wall of her cell as the sounds grew louder, then jumped back when a human form tumbled down the stairs, landing in a heap at the bottom. The man cried out and rolled awkwardly, clutching his shoulder. Orienne gasped when she recognised the other Farin prisoner.

In her panic at meeting the sorcerer, she had forgotten all about him. She grabbed the bars and pulled herself up on tiptoe, watching as a pair of Cytharocian guards descended the stairs and hauled him to his feet, disregarding his injured shoulder. He tried to shelter the injury with his other arm, but his efforts only served to irritate the guards and one of them shoved him to the floor again.

Orienne clenched her teeth to keep from yelling at them in outrage, knowing it would only goad them further.

The prisoner moaned and curled into a ball, gathering his right arm against his chest and wrapping his left arm around himself. The guards came forward and pulled him up by his arms. His face went white and twisted into a mask of pain, and he cried out again.

One of the guards scoffed. “Whimpering like a child. Very brave, very brave indeed.”

“And I suppose you think you’re impressing someone with your own bravery, tormenting an injured man?” Orienne shot at him without stopping to think.

Both guards appeared startled to hear her speaking their language. The one who had been taunting the prisoner turned his attention to her.

“Bold words,” he said. “If you think you know so much about bravery, why don’t you come out and teach us?”

“Give me a weapon and I will,” she fired back.

Both guards laughed.

“Really now,” the taunter said with raised eyebrows. He turned to his companion. “Argol, put that one in the cell and then lend me your sword.”

Argol’s expression changed. “Jaeor…you’re not serious, are you?”

Jaeor shrugged. “Why not?”

“Because General Ronarres will have us both flogged!”

“General Ronarres isn’t here. There’s no reason for him to know…unless you want to tell him.”

“I’m not going to tell him,” Argol said, “but I’m also not going to lend you my sword.”

Jaeor rolled his eyes. “Fine. Coward, afraid of a man who isn’t here to see you.”

“Coward who enjoys having my skin in one unbroken piece,” Argol corrected, directing the other prisoner into the cell next to Orienne’s. But as he turned to lock the door, Jaeor slipped behind him and pulled his sword from its sheath.

Argol jumped in surprise and tried to grab the sword back, but Jaeor shoved him against the cell door and backed out of reach.

“What are you doing?” Argol shouted.

Orienne backed away, cold sweat breaking out across her skin as Jaeor unlocked her cell. He was actually going to do it? What had she been thinking? She has Allegar’s teaching, but these were trained soldiers!

Argol backed away, hands on his head, muttering names at Jaeor as he opened Orienne’s cell door and backed away, sliding Argol’s commandeered sword across the floor to her, hilt-first.

Just then Zaer came down the stairs and entered the room with a tray of food. His eyes darted, taking in the scene, and he quickly set the tray down on the table near the wall. “What’s going on?”

The soldier at Orienne’s cell door grinned. “The general’s woman wants to teach us about bravery.”

“What? Jaeor, no!” Zaer came forward and tried to push the cell door closed again. “Did you not hear yourself? This is General Ronarres’ woman!”

Jaeor smirked and gestured around at the dungeon, the cell. “They don’t exactly seem to be on the friendliest of terms, do they?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Zaer insisted. “He gave orders to leave her alone!”

Jaeor rolled his eyes again. “Go find your mothers, both of you—”

In a moment of sudden, rash desperation Orienne dove for the sword Jaeor had slid towards her. All three men jumped backwards with shouts of alarm as she charged for the cell door. Jaeor stopped his retreat and tried to reach the door to slam it closed again, but he was too late and had to scramble backwards to avoid her blade.

He drew his own sword just in time to parry her attack, forcing her to halt her advance. Argol and Zaer backed to the walls, swearing and shouting at Jaeor. He ignored them, and his grin returned.

“Bold move,” he said to Orienne. “When you’re ready…”

Orienne took a deep breath and adjusted her grip on the sword as a frigid calm engulfed her. Maybe it was better this way. Sorek couldn’t use her as leverage against Allegar if she was dead.

She moved forward again with an attack Allegar had taught her: a false thrust turned into a parry for the countermove an opponent would naturally make, followed with a cut at the opening he created, which he barely blocked in time.

His taunting arrogance vanished and Orienne felt a flicker of hope, but it died quickly. He hadn’t anticipated her skill, but now he knew and would be ready for it.

This time he made the first move and came at her with a rapid series of attacks. She forced herself to shut everything out and focus only on his movements. Time stretched, becoming sluggish. She didn’t know how long she could hold out against his superior strength. Her arms already burned from exertion. Breathe, she heard Allegar’s voice saying. You can’t fight if you’re not breathing. She drew a long breath that, in slow time, seemed enough to fill her lungs three times over.

Jaeor swung his sword at her in a horizontal cut, but his frustration gave the maneouver too much momentum and offset his balance. The second it took him to recover created an opening in his defences, and Orienne instinctively thrust for it.

Instead of the bump of a wooden practice blade against Allegar’s leather sparring armour, she felt the sick punch of steel slicing, sinking into flesh. Jaeor screamed, his right hand withdrawing convulsively to the blade sliding between his ribs. He swung his sword clumsily at her with his left hand. She jerked her blade back and struck the weapon from his hand. It clanged against the wall and fell to the floor.

Orienne backed away, bile rising in her throat as Jaeor fell to his knees. Argol and Zaer stood frozen, staring at her with horrified expressions. Argol was now armed with only his dagger, his bloodied sword levelled at him from Orienne’s grasp. Zaer was fully armed, but didn’t move other than to turn and pace in half circles, tearing at his hair and cursing at Jaeor.

“Zaer, your sword!” Argol shouted, sidestepping along the wall, away from Orienne.

Zaer ignored him and continued his tirade of profane I-told-you-sos.

Orienne glanced at Zaer, unsure of how far she could trust him not to harm her, but willing to gamble on it. She advanced on Argol.

“Zaer!” he shouted again, and this time the panic in his voice was audible.

“Stay where you are!” Orienne ordered. “Lay down your weapons!”

Argol lunged for Jaeor’s sword, dropped on the floor next to him as he now lay gasping and sobbing.

“No!” Zaer shouted.

Orienne didn’t know if she had the strength for another fight so soon. Her arms burned and she was panting for breath. She fought the desperate urge to back away as Argol advanced and prepared to make his first attack. Suddenly Zaer’s shouting stopped as another form darkened the stairway entrance and shoved him aside. Orienne backed away as Sorek stormed across the room, drew his sword, and slammed the pommel of it into the side of Argol’s head.

“I told you to leave her alone!” he roared, watching Argol crumple to the floor. Then he turned on Zaer, levelling the blade at his chest. “You! What are you doing? I gave orders to you personally that she was to be left alone!”

“General Ronarres, forgive me, I tried to tell them—”

“You didn’t try hard enough!”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“When I give you an order I expect you to carry it out or die trying, do you understand?”

“Don’t you touch him!” Orienne shouted.

Sorek turned to face her.

“He had nothing to do with this! He’s done nothing but try to obey your orders!”

The anger on Sorek’s face dissolved, and he drew a breath and spoke softly in Reyemen. “Very well.” He waved a hand as if to dismiss the entire matter. “Just give me the sword, and it’s all over.”

She almost complied, repulsed by the thought of using it against him. This was Sorek. She couldn’t fight Sorek. She took another step back, shaking her head.

Sorek adjusted his tone. “Orienne, give me the sword!”

This time it was not a request, but the command of a general used to being obeyed. A Cytharocian general. No, this was not Sorek, after all. This was merely another enemy, no different than Jaeor or Argol. She raised the sword and positioned herself in a fighting stance again.

Sorek’s eyes widened. “Orienne, drop the sword, now!”

Traitor.

She rushed at him.

He parried her attack but made no countermove. She made a series of thrusts and cuts with the same result: Sorek defended himself, but didn’t even attempt any offensive moves. He was trying not to hurt her, and the thought infuriated her all the more. Lies and treason hadn’t been enough—now he was toying with her, mocking her!" Her frustration built. No matter how hard or fast she struck, Sorek parried or blocked and waited calmly for her next move.

She realised too late that frustration had overridden her focus. As she thrust for Sorek’s chest he stepped aside, locked the crossguard of his sword with hers, and twisted. Her wrist bent backwards and she lost her grip. Almost before her sword hit the floor, Sorek had turned her around and pulled her back against him with an arm around her throat.

She jerked her elbow into him, catching him below his ribs. He dropped his sword and grabbed for her arms, but before he could get a good hold she went limp and wilted to the floor.

While Sorek staggered and fumbled to hang onto her, she grabbed the dagger from his belt and stabbed upwards at him. He saw the blade coming and twisted out of the way, losing his balance and dropping into a roll on the stone floor. Orienne lunged at him with the dagger upraised, but he caught her by both arms, jerked her down, and continued his roll, ending with her pinned to the floor on her back and him on top of her. He leaned his weight on her wrist that held the dagger, and released her other arm to pry the weapon from her grip.

She clawed at his face with her now-free hand, but as soon as he had tossed the dagger aside he had her by both wrists again and was struggling to his feet, hauling her up with him. Once they were both upright he spun her around so that her back was to him and her arms were crossed over her chest, held back by his grip on her wrists.

She screamed and thrashed as he dragged her back to the door of her cell, where he released her wrists and shoved her forward. She stumbled, regained her balance, and lunged back at the door, but Sorek slammed it just before she reached it.

“Listen to me!” he hissed through clenched teeth, catching her wrist through the bars and pulling her to within inches of him.

“I don’t listen to traitors!” she spat back.

“Well maybe you should. Believe me or not, I am still trying to keep you safe!”

“I thought I made it clear that I don’t want your protection! I would rather die in Farindel than be safe here with you!”

“Really? What happened to being so tired of war, to just wanting a life away from it? That’s what I’m trying to give you!”

“I don’t want it if it comes at the cost of betraying my home and my people!”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. Orienne, if you would just give me the chance, I could explain everything I’ve done.”

“Oh and naturally I would feel so much better if I only let you explain why you turned traitor and turned your back on the Shield.”

Sorek slammed his fist against the bars between them. “The Shield turned his back on me first! He took everything from me and left me with nothing. Nothing! And when I offered him my services anyway, he threw me aside and didn’t want me. I didn’t have any other choice!”

Orienne went silent, stunned as though she had just been slapped. Sorek released her arm as she numbly backed away. “Sorek…”

He glanced over his shoulder as a healer and his assistants, led by Zaer, hurried into the room and began gathering Jaeor and Argol from the floor.

“Sorek, you’re wrong.” Orienne’s voice shook as she said it.

He looked at the floor and shook his head. “Again, Orienne, I am sorry for involving you in this. Truly, I am. I thought I could make you understand. I was wrong.” His tone was detached, diplomatic. He was pulling away, shutting her out.

She ran back to him, reached through the bars, and caught his arm. “Sorek, no, listen to me! You’re wrong about the Shield. I don’t know what happened to you, but He didn’t turn His back on you. He never turns His back—”

He pulled his arm away and stepped out of her reach. “Don’t lecture me, Orienne. It’s just possible you don’t know your Shield as well as you think you do.”

Tears spilled down her face as Sorek watched the healer’s assistants carry Jaeor up the stairs on a stretcher. When he turned back and spoke again, his voice was low.

“Orienne…did you mean it? Would you really choose to die back in Farindel than accept the life I can offer you here? Truly?”

“Yes!” Orienne said, gripping the bars between them until her knuckles turned white.

For a long while they stared at each other silently.

When Sorek finally spoke, his voice was flat and dead. “I can’t let you go right now. You know things, you’ve seen things, that I can’t let you carry back to Ivan or Allegar. The war isn’t going to last much longer, but once it’s over, if you still feel this way—and if there’s anything left to go back to—I’ll make sure you get back to Farindel. You have my word…for whatever that’s worth to you.” He turned and walked away, ignoring those he passed in the chamber, and disappeared up the stairway.

Orienne stared after him for a long time after he’d gone, tears trailing her cheeks, her entire body shaking from anger, exhaustion, and the terror of fighting for her life. When the healers had finally cleared out with their aides and patients, she pulled herself back into the present adn remembered the other prisoner.

He sat near the barred wall between their cells, eyes closed and lips pressed together, cradling his injured arm against his body.

Orienne knelt at his side. “Here, let me help.”

He opened his eyes. “Are you all right?”

Orienne considered how to answer. “I’m not injured, anyway. May I look at your arm?”

“It isn’t—agh!” He grimaced as Orienne helped him straighten the limb. “It’s not—” A breath hissed through his teeth. “—not my arm, it’s my shoulder.”

“We have to get this off, then,” Orienne said, untying the side lacing of the leather jerkin he wore over his shirt. Getting it off was an excruciating process, and Orienne winced every time he flinched or cried out.

Once the jerkin was out of the way, it didn’t take long to identify the problem. Near the point of his shoulder, where bone should have been, there was only a hole of soft tissue under the skin, and a hard knot bulged under his arm where no bone should be.

“It’s dislocated,” Orienne said.

“Can you relocate it?”

She bit her lip. “I’ve seen healers do it, but I’ve never done it myself.”

“Well, since there are no healers here, I suppose you’ll have to try.”

Orienne took a deep breath as her hands started shaking again. She showed the soldier how to position himself, sitting up straight with his upper arm at his side and his lower arm horizontal in front of him.

“I won’t lie,” she said, “this will hurt. Are you ready?”

He turned his sweat-beaded face to her. “Can you keep a secret?”

“What secret?”

“I don’t handle pain very well.”

That was less than reassuring. “Do the best you can, then.” Orienne steeled herself, then slowly rotated his lower arm away from his body. His breaths grew shorter and faster the farther she went, then stopped altogether as her pressure met with resistance. Orienne clenched her teeth and kept pushing.

She felt and heard a loud pop. The man’s cry rang against the bars of the cells and echoed around the stone room as he dropped back against the wall, pale as a cloud and shaking like a hare. Orienne felt all over his shoulder and was immensely relieved to find the bone back in place.

“Thank you, Shield.” She sat down and pulled her knees up, then leaned her forehead against them and closed her eyes. Even in the quiet of the dungeon her thoughts roared with sounds, voices, images, and memories she wished she could forget. The man’s laboured breathing slowed and quieted as moments went by, but the chaos in her mind continued unabated until a voice drew her back.

“Thank you, Orienne.”

She opened her eyes and raised her head. He was looking at her with those strange, ancient eyes of his.

“That is what the general called you, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Only then did Orienne realise she didn’t even know his name. They’d barely spoken at all on the journey here. “I’m Orienne Verasi. You’re not a soldier—why were you travelling with the First-Born?”

“I’m an historian chronicling the war. I thought—” He paused, laughing and shaking his head. “—I thought accompanying First-Born Romarck from the capital to join the troops would give a more personal flavour to my account.”

Orienne even managed to chuckle at that. “What is your name?”

He reached across himself with his uninjured arm to offer his left hand. “My name is Velkenar.”

Their horses’ hoof beats changed suddenly from grass-muffled thumps to pronounced clops as they crossed into a circle of bare earth, cracked, scorched, and littered with charred debris. The smoke smell on the breeze made the horses skittish. Allegar dismounted and led his horse out of the burned circle to a nearby tree, where he tied it. The others followed suit, and they all walked slowly back to the edge of the fire’s destruction. The line was distinct—blackened earth and healthy, untouched grass side by side.

They moved carefully across the circle, eyes on the ground. Allegar passed by piles of ashes, black in the faint early light. The melted remains of buckles, weapons, and armour indicated that the ashes had once been bodies. Allegar’s heart sank with each one he saw. If Orienne was here, how would he ever know?

Her necklace—the shield pendant he had given her, that she always wore. He re-combed the area he had already searched, looking for any sign of a melted necklace. The light was still faint, but he found nothing that seemed a likely match.

Near the centre of the circle, he stopped. In front of him lay a body, motionless but unburned.

Miletus.

Allegar didn’t need to feel for a pulse to know he was dead.

He fell to his knees, sobs shaking his shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” he said with a broken voice, laying a hand on Miletus’ shoulder. “This is my doing. I am so, so sorry!”

“Is he alive?” Corporal Lelan asked, running to Allegar’s side.

There was no need to answer; the sunstar points protruding from the bloody gash across Miletus’ throat were answer enough.

Kars and Delvan approached a few moments later. “Sir, there’s no sign of anyone else around,” Kars said. “At least, no one who hasn’t been reduced to ashes. Their weapons are even melted.”

Allegar forced himself to breathe deeply, forcing back his tears. He was the one in command here. He had to think, to focus. The Shield’s fire had spared Miletus—his clothes weren’t even burned—so surely Orienne would have been spared too, had she been here at the time. But she wasn’t here, which meant she must still be with Sorek.

Or was she? What if Sorek had been killed with the Shield destroyed the camp? What would happen to Orienne then?

“We have to go,” Allegar said, rising to his feet. “Mount up. We’re riding for the Cytharocian war camp.”

“Yes, sir,” Delvan and Lelan said together, turning to go back to their horses.

Nearby, Kars stood holding the scabbard of Ivan’s sword. It was also untouched by the fire.

“Leave it here,” Allegar said. “Ivan said he would send someone to retrieve Miletus’ body as soon as it was light.”

Kars nodded and backed away. “Yes, sir.”

Allegar walked back to his horse, found a scrap of paper in his saddlebag, wrote a brief note, and fastened it to a tree branch. The men Ivan sent for Miletus would find it.

Ivan may or may not approve of what he was about to do, but for Allegar there was no other choice. The first step in his mission to rescue Orienne had been less than encouraging. He prayed the next one would yield a better result, before it was too late for her.

***

By sunrise, word had circulated through the Cytharocian war camp that the general was to be given a wide berth, and that the female prisoner he’d brought with him was to be avoided entirely. Sorek noticed the wary glances the men gave him in passing. They seemed to think he was actively looking for a reason to kill someone.

Let them believe it. The way he felt now, he wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t enjoy killing a smart-mouthed soldier or hungry-eyed pervert. He lay in his tent, head and shoulders hanging over the end of his cot, stretching his back in an effort to relieve the muscle aches from the sleepless night and forestall the headache he could feel coming on.

Minutes ago, word had reached him that Ivan Romarck had escaped. Again. Just like that, his entire purpose in coming to Farindel and all the time he had spent here were for nought. No wonder Cytharoc felt the need to bring in outside help with their wars—they were outrageously incompetent. Sorek had successfully arranged Ivan’s capture twice, despite the obvious sabotage of his colleagues, and both times they had managed to let him escape. To make matters even more embarrassing, a Cytharocian officer was at this very minute on his way to the Farin war camp to offer an ultimatum for the safe return of their leader—a leader who was probably back in his own camp by now, waiting to welcome said officer.

Sorek pulled himself upright to sit on the edge of his cot, and stared at the drawstring leather bag resting on the crate that served as his table and desk. Inside was the blue-green pendant he’d been forced to wear since his arrival in Farindel. As much as he hated it, hated the vulnerability and exposure it required, its properties had been vital to his plan, allowing him to signal Ivan’s location to waiting Sunfighters. He could use it now, to stop the messenger about to make a fool of himself by bargaining with the life of a prisoner they no longer possessed…

But why bother? They were the ones who’d let Ivan escape. It was no fault of Sorek’s, and he had other things demanding his attention. Cytharoc’s king, Saras, expected him in the capital a few days from now to report on his mission—for all the good it had accomplished—and discuss strategies for the immediate future. After that Sorek would return to the Farindel front, this time as the general he was, to command and oversee the invasion.

After a quick breakfast Sorek ordered his horse saddled, and prepared for the journey back to Cytharoc.

Most of the Farin prisoners would be marched on foot back through the mountains to Cytharoc, to spend the rest of the war labouring on Cytharocian farms, roads, and mines. But Orienne, of course, Sorek would keep with him. At the last moment, he decided to order an extra horse for the Farin prisoner with the strange eyes, as well. Sorek didn’t know who the man was, or why he seemed to be so protective of Orienne, but that wasn’t important. If Orienne was going to insist on being treated like a prisoner, then Sorek could not possibly be with her to protect her every moment. The thought of her at least having one of her countrymen with her somehow made him feel better.

The guards opened the palisade gate and ushered the prisoners out to assemble for the journey. Sorek stopped his horse nearby, watching. Orienne looked awful. Her hair only clung to the remnants of a braid, her clothes were wrinkled and dirty from sleeping on the ground, and her face was pale and drawn. She kept her head turned, refusing to look at him and denying him any glimpse of her eyes, but her black, furious stare from yesterday still haunted him. He didn’t know if he would ever be able to get away from the look in her eyes when she’d realised what he really was.

He still had hope that, with time, she would settle down enough to see reason—to see that there didn’t have to be a “good” side or an “evil” side in a stupid war over some stupid brillam berries. And yet, her eyes—those coal-black eyes blazing with rage—were the one thing that made him wonder whether he could really persuade her to his view or not.

***

The Cytharocian war camp had spread out in a wide fan from the narrow mountain pass where it originated. Allegar and his men left their horses concealed in the hills north of the camp and made their way higher up the slopes for a better vantage point. The trek took most of the day.

Once they reached a location where they could observe the camp from above without being seen, they spotted a small area enclosed by a palisade. It was the most natural place in the camp to keep prisoners, which gave Allegar hope that they were on the right track to finding Orienne. The problem would be liberating the palisade; it was in the centre of the camp, surrounded by hundreds of soldiers. With only three men, what could he do?

The thought of tricking his way into camp crossed his mind—Allegar spoke the language, but there was far more to an operation like that than merely speaking the language, and he simply didn’t have the resources he needed right now.

Guards opened the gate of the palisade, and the prisoners filed out. Allegar strained his eyes trying to see. Only nineteen emerged, and they were all men. They lined up along the outside of the palisade, guards watching them closely, and an officer began pacing in front of them, no doubt mining for information.

“She’s not there,” Allegar muttered.

Delvan moved closer to Allegar, staying in a crouch the whole time, and whispered: “Sir, I’ve been watching the pass. There are people coming and going in and out of it all the time. Maybe that’s where they took her.”

Maybe. Sorek would know it wasn’t safe for him in Farindel anymore; he would likely want to get out of the kingdom as quickly as he could. And, with Cytharocian forces moving in and out of the pass, they could finally discover where and how the enemy had managed to cross the gorge. Though how they would get across unseen, find Orienne, and get her back, Allegar had no idea.

***

Ivan sat down at the table in the pavilion, staring at the note that had been brought back by the men he’d sent to retrieve Miletus’ body.

“I should have gone with him,” Gabriel said, pacing behind Ivan. “What if he needs help? He won’t be able to let us know!”

“We’ll have to—” Ivan broke off as a page burst into the pavilion.

“First-Born Romarck,” the young man said, “a Cytharocian commander just arrived. He’s requesting permission to enter our camp peaceably.”

Ivan frowned. “For what purpose?”

“‘To negotiate’ was all he said, sir.”

Ivan snorted. That was all they said at Sutton, too. He was about to instruct the page to tell the commander exactly what he could do with his negotiations, until another thought occurred to him: They don’t know I’m still alive…do they?

This commander requesting permission to negotiate thought he was coming to bargain with a leaderless army—or to tell that army their leader was a hostage.

Ivan looked at Gabriel, whose expression said he understood what was happening, and he gave Ivan a slow nod.

“Inform the commander that we were unprepared to receive a diplomatic party,” Ivan told the page, “but if he will give us a few minutes, someone will be able to speak with him. We’ll send someone to escort him in when we’re ready.”

“Yes, sir,” the page said.

“And whatever you do, don’t mention my name or say anything about me specifically.”

The page gave him a puzzled look, but acknowledged the order and left the pavilion.

As soon as he was gone Ivan jumped up from his chair. “Quick,” he told Gabriel, “get an honour guard in place outside the entrance here, make yourself presentable, and act like absolutely nothing happened last night.”

Gabriel grinned. “Yes, sir.”

Ivan returned his grin and ran out of the pavilion towards his own tent.

A few minutes later, Ivan and Gabriel stood side by side in full dress uniform, watching as a Cytharocian commander and his two adjuncts were escorted to the pavilion between double ranks of honour guards. The commander’s expression and body language seethed arrogance.

The arrogance of a man who believes he’s in control, thought Ivan.

The commander and his adjuncts came to attention in front of Ivan. Ivan glanced at the leader of the Farin escort and nodded for him to proceed with introductions.

“Commander Kashai,” the man said, “I present you to First-Born Ivan Romarck.”

Both Kashai and his companions jumped and stared.

“Commander Kashai,” Ivan said, acknowledging the paling commander with a nod.

The commander shot desperate looks at both his companions, but they responded with expression of confusion and panic equalling his own. None of them spoke.

Ivan crossed his arms, feigning impatience while relishing every second of the Cytharocians’ dismay. “Commander, I was told you wish to negotiate with us?”

Kashai looked ready to bolt. “I—yes, sir,” he said, his Reyemen thickly accented.

“Really.” Ivan concentrated on keeping his voice and expression under control as the commander squirmed. “I must admit I find that rather odd, considering your position.”

“Position, sir?” Kashai stammered. “I am sorry, I don’t know exactly—”

“Then please, allow me to explain,” Ivan said, uncrossing his arms and walking casually around the side of the table towards the commander. “In the last few months alone your country has committed a host of war crimes against Farindel, including the murder of non-combatant citizens and of a captured, unarmed officer, just last night. You currently hold twenty of our soldiers and two other non-combatants hostage, and you sit with a few thousand troops inside our borders, facing ten thousand of our soldiers who wait only for my order to attack. You are in no position to bargain.”

It was warm inside the tent, but not warm enough to cause the commander’s face to flush as deeply as it did. His voice shook as he spoke. “Sir, I was sent by my superiors to negotiate with you—”

“There will be no negotiations, Commander,” Ivan said. “Not while you hold our people hostage and your troops are camped within our borders.”

A bulging vein crawled along Kashai’s temple. “I—” He paused and closed his eyes, appearing to collect himself. “Sir, I will be happy to relay your requests to my superiors—”

“Those are not requests, Commander Kashai,” Ivan said. “Those are our conditions. Release our people and withdraw your troops immediately, or face annihilation. And I repeat—” He lowered his voice and spoke each word deliberately.

“We will not negotiate.”

***

The sky had barely begun to lighten the next morning when the guards roused the prisoners. Orienne awoke, feeling as though she’d barely slept at all, and found herself covered with a cloak.

Sorek’s cloak.

She flung it off and left it lying on the ground, refusing even to look at Sorek as she and the other prisoner let the guards direct them back to their horses, and the continued their trek down the mountain pass.

Unlike the previous day, when the pass had been crowded with Cytharocian soldiers going west, the prisoners and their guards were alone. The travel was easier without having to constantly make way for troops moving through, but Orienne was puzzled. Why were no more coming? There were too few of them west of the mountains to even dream of holding back the Farin army. She started to whisper to her fellow prisoner about it, but the guards immediately silenced them.

A few hours after dawn, Orienne heard a faint sound like rushing wind. It grew louder as they continued east, and a cold, damp breeze flew in their faces. Ahead, a fine mist lay along the floor of the ravine, and suddenly the mountains pressing in on both sides of them ended.

They had reached Theona Valley.

Wide and fertile at its norther end, the valley narrowed and rose in elevation the further south it went, until it could barely be considered a valley anymore. Here, the Cytharocian Mountains and Farindel’s Eastern Mountains came together, the end of one and the beginning of the other discernible only by the violent crack dividing them—the gorge.

Orienne could hear the Segora River roaring through the rocks far below. Mist plumed out of the chasm and swirled away on gusts of cold wind. The stony sides of the mountains, the floor of the valley and ravine, and the tumbled rocks littering the area, were covered in thick moss that dripped and glistened with droplets of water.

Spanning the snarling, broken mouth of the chasm was a bridge. Massive logs were set deep into the stone sides of the gorge, bound together with wide iron bands. The heavy framework was covered in thick planks, creating and arched path over the flume. The wood showed some fading and discolouration from the elements here and there, but most of it was still the pale golden-red of new lumber, and the edges of the post holes cut into the stone were still crisp and sharp, not yet worn smooth. This bridge had probably been built only last summer—though how they had managed it in these conditions, Orienne could not even begin to guess.

She looked at her fellow prisoner, wondering if he realised the same thing she did: that they were now the only ones who knew how Cytharoc was getting all of their troops and supplies into Farindel, and that there was nothing they could do about it.

His grim expression said that he understood too.

There were people crossing the bridge in an almost constant stream, coming from the Cytharocian side into Farindel—men and horses laden with supplies, and scores of soldiers. But on reaching the Farin side of the gorge, they weren’t marching down the pass Orienne and the others had just come through. Instead they turned south to move further down the valley, out of sight through the mist and the jutting shoulders of the mountains.

Orienne’s blood went cold as she suddenly understood why they had sent such a small force to the Drelick Basin: their presence there was a trap.

The Cytharocian army on the Drelick was a decoy, a trick to draw Farindel’s army to meet them. Cytharoc had only sent enough men there to make a show of invading, and now were sending the main body of their army somewhere else, further south. Farindel’s army was in the wrong place.

Sorek rode to the foot of the bridge and shouted something to the soldiers crossing it, but the roar of the river kept Orienne from hearing what he said. The guards surrounding Orienne and the other prisoner dismounted from their horses and ordered the prisoners to do the same, and in a few minutes there was a break in the traffic across the bridge. Sorek waved his arm to motion them forward, and the guards began leading their horses in single file up and across the arch of the bridge.

Orienne and the other prisoner were ordered to follow them. Orienne felt the urge to resist stepping onto the bridge, but she clenched her teeth and forced herself forward.

Ridges of metal had been set into the thick planks of the bridge’s floor, providing traction on the mist-slickened wood. Wind whistled through the heavy beams, causing it to occasionally emit a tight groan or squeak. Orienne’s stomach dropped with every tiny sound, but the bridge didn’t move. At the front of the procession, guards walked beside their horses, leading the animals in single file. The bridge was wide enough for at least four abreast, Orienne estimated, but apparently the Cytharocians were no more comfortable with the structure than she was.

The sides of the bridge were chest-high, with rails spaced closely enough that there was no chance of anyone falling through…or being pushed. Only once did Orienne venture close enough to the side to peek over. The gorge plummeted away beneath her, the Segora a plunging torrent in its depths, and the sheer height made her dizzy. On one side of the gorge, roughly halfway down, a yellow shred fluttered in the guttering wind of the chasm. Orienne squinted into the blowing mist, trying to make out what it was…then wished she hadn’t.

A pale, contorted body hung on the jagged rocks, its torn, flapping shirt clinging by only the collar and one sleeve, ribs and vertebrae visible along its back. The poor man must have fallen during the bridge’s construction, and it would have been impossible for anyone to retrieve him. Orienne shuddered in sick horror and stepped away. A guard growled at her to hurry, but avoided prodding or shoving her as he frequently did her companion.

When she reached the east side, Orienne hurried away from the bridge as though it might suddenly collapse and pull her down with it, relieved to be back on solid ground, even if it was Cytharocian ground.

She looked back over her shoulder at the bridge as the last few Cytharocian soldiers brought their horses back onto solid ground. At the very back of the procession was Sorek. As she watched him lead his horse carefully down the bridge’s incline, Orienne’s fury at him rekindled and she wished the bridge would collapse and pull him down with it.

The westward traffic across the bridge resumed as Sorek, the prisoners, and the guards remounted their horses and wove their way through the soldiers awaiting their turns to cross, and moved south along the narrow valley, parallel with the gorge. Orienne twisted in the saddle, watching as the bridge faded into the blowing mist and eventually disappeared around the stony sides of the mountains. She was fully in enemy territory now, with an army between her and anyone who might rescue her if they had any idea where she was.

Perhaps even worse was the feeling of knowing that her people were walking into a trap…and being completely unable to warn them.

“You think he’s telling the truth, then?” Albrius asked.

“It makes too much sense—I’m afraid not to.”

Albrius thought a moment before answering. “We have to be sure, first. We’ll start in the Hall of Records. Immigrations and enlistments are easy to verify. Then we’ll see where that leaves us.”

Farindel’s Hall of Records was a large, square building with a shallowly angled roof and pillared front. The interior was divided into three smaller halls designated respectively to military, civic, and non-military foreign affairs. Windows abutting the ceilings diffused enough light to read and work, but allowed shadows to linger in corners and along the stone floors. Tables ran the lengths of the halls, set here and there with lamps and flanked with chairs of mismatched and irregular numbers, placements, and styles.

The walls of each wing were towering bookshelves loaded with giant-sized volumes. Movable sections of scaffolding offered access to the highest shelves. Signs provided each block of shelves with a number, and reference books placed throughout the building provided assistance with navigating the cataloguing system.

Allegar and Albrius wasted no time conscripting a worker to help them. Within a few minutes that worker had solicited the aid of a colleague, and both were kept busy climbing up and down scaffolding, fetching volume after heavy volume, and running to retrieve records from other wings of the Hall. Allegar and Albrius divided the investigation, scouring different records and sharing their findings.

Albrius found the records of Cyrus’—or rather, Ravyer’s-immigration from the Southlands, complete with the customary sketch made of new immigrants. There was no denying it was him. The records of his enlistment also matched his story.

Allegar followed the trail of his enlistment to the fort where he was trained, then on to his first station as a soldier. On and on, following transfer records from fort to battlefield, while Albrius tracked his rise through the ranks, ending with his nomination for Ransom selection following a dramatic victory he had led a few years prior.

“He has to be telling the truth, Allegar,” Albrius said finally, closing the tome in front of him. “There is no gap in these records, nowhere to slip anything in or out, and no way he could have falsified all of this. It merits further investigation, but I think we have to assume someone else betrayed Ivan.”

“But who? Allegar said. “Where to we start looking?”

“Sutton Fort, I think, since that’s where it happened. We need to make sure everyone there is who he says he is.”

Allegar twisted in his seat to look up at the stacked rows of books lining the hall. “We just start choosing names at random and hope to spot something suspicious?”

“That’s a rather cavalier way of putting it, but essentially, yes.” Albrius called the nearest of their tiring conscripts to him. “I need the most recent personnel records from Sutton Fort, and the rest of the national personnel logs.”

The young man gave a weary-sounding sigh, but called to his colleague and set about the task nonetheless.

Allegar and Albrius divided the list of names alphabetically, then did the same with the stacks of books the record keepers had provided.

It was a gruelling process, tracking each name from its point of enlistment, through training, and on to active service, searching for something so vague he wasn’t sure he would even recognise if it were right in front of him. It became impossible to keep track of the record books piled on the table. Allegar pitied the workers having to return them all to their proper places when this wretched search was finished.

“Allegar.”

Allegar looked down the table at Albrius. “Have you found something?”

“I—yes, I have.” Albrius’ voice was low and hesitant.

Allegar pushed his chair back and moved closer to look over Albrius’ shoulder at the entry where the older man’s finger rested: Ronarres, Sorek.

Allegar frowned. “What are you doing? I don’t understand—”

“Read it.”

Allegar skimmed through the entry, chronicling Sorek’s enlistment in the town of Vendeer eleven years earlier, and his almost immediate transfer to Brendankale, in the Borderlands.

At the bottom were two dates with short entries beside them. The first, nine years ago, read:

Missing in action. (See Brendankale combat and casualty log, same date.)

The second, a year later, said simply:

Presumed dead.

“That’s—that’s not possible,” Allegar said, his closing throat choking his voice down to a whisper. He tried to explain it away to himself, searched his memories for evidence of Sorek’s innocence, but everything he thought of only made Sorek appear more guilty—his arrival in Sutton the same day as the Cytharocian ambassador, the access to the Ransom’s company that Allegar had so easily, so unthinkingly provided, his seemingly offhanded decision to travel to Farindel with them… “What have I done?”

“Allegar,” Albrius said, closing the book and staring at him intently, “where is Sorek now?”

Allegar stared back in horror. “I—I don’t know!”

Albrius stood and started for the door. “Then we need to find him, and pray we’re not already too late.”

“Get some of the city guard I can take to the place he works,” Allegar said. “I’m going to Orienne’s house first.”

There was no answer to his frantic pounding on Orienne’s door. Allegar forced his way in and searched the place, but she wasn’t there. No, of course she wasn’t, she would be working in the healer’s ward. He ran there next. No one had seen her.

Running from the ward toward the Great Hall, Allegar met Albrius and three city guards. The five of them went to the smithy where Sorek had been working, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“He asked to work the afternoon and evening instead today,” the smith there said. “Said he wanted to take his lady friend riding in the basin this morning so he could propose to her. I’m a romantic old softy, so I told him to take the entire day and not both coming to work.”

Sorek had already proposed, last night. Riding in the basin…the same time Ivan and the others were riding out for the war camp. And he had taken Orienne with him.

A coldness fell over Allegar, stilling the terror he had been fighting to control. “Get me soldiers on horses,” he told Albrius. “I’m going after them.”

***

The sun had gone down, and the flicker of scattered torches provided only a faint, dull glow through the tent canvas. Ivan could barely see the silhouettes of Miletus and Gabriel, both seated to his left.

Two guards stood outside the tent’s entrance and one stood inside, staring silently at the three prisoners who sat side by side on a bench, the only furnishing in the tent besides a lantern, with their hands tied behind their backs.

Voices sounded outside, and Ivan poured all of his concentration into hearing and understanding them.

One man claimed to have orders from a general, to do something the other man didn’t want him to. The second man claimed to have conflicting orders from a different general. They shot back and forth, coming closer to the tent where Ivan and the others waited as they argued.

“Tell me!” one of them said, but the other refused. Ivan heard a sword slide from its sheath, and a decisive “Fine. Then I’ll find out for myself.”

The tent flaps parted and three men entered. The man in the centre wore a commander’s uniform. The one to his left held a lantern, and the third one, standing with arms crossed, wore the uniform of a Sunfighter, the Cytharocian king’s most elite soldiers.

The commander stepped forward and held up a sword in the lantern’s light.

Ivan’s sword.

Ivan watched, tense, as the commander unhurriedly examined the gleaming white blade, the inlaid crossguard, and the intricately wrapped grip.

Ivan felt the bench shift underneath him as one of the others moved.

The commander smiled, still gazing at the sword. “At last I have seen it,” he said in Reyemen, “the legendary sword of the Farin First-Born. Remarkable workmanship!”

Gabriel had been gradually scooting closer on the bench and was now almost on top of Ivan, leaning into him. He had pretended not to notice until he felt the pressure of a tiny blade sawing at the rope wrapped and tied around his wrists. Then it was all he could do to keep from smiling. Despite the armoury’s worth of weapons they had taken from Gabriel, their captors had missed at least one.

The Cytharocian commander lowered the sword and looked at Ivan and the others. “Unfortunately, due to some debate about whose orders are to be obeyed, the men who brought you here refuse to tell me which of you was carrying this exquisite weapon at the time of your capture. So I must ask you…”

He stared coldly at each of the Farin in turn.

The Sunfighter’s arm moved slightly, and Ivan saw light reflecting from the edge of a sunstar in his hand. He pulled against the ropes around his wrists, tightening the fibres to make them easier to cut as Gabriel sawed with tiny, frantic strokes. On Gabriel’s other side, Miletus’ breathing quickened.

“Which of you is First-Born Romarck?” the commander asked.

The ropes snapped loose, but before Ivan could move or speak Miletus drew a sharp breath and jumped to his feet with his hands still bound. “I am.”

“No!” Ivan dove past Gabriel, tackling Miletus as the Sunfighter’s arm lashed out.

Gabriel jumped over them as they hit the ground, drawing the Cytharocians’ attention away.

Ivan scrambled to his knees, shouting Miletus’ name. Miletus lay on his back, one point of a sunstar still protruding from his throat. The rest of the disk had buried itself. A choking, gurgling breath left Miletus’ body. Ivan felt it in his own throat—the burning taste of blood, the feeling of drowning—and suddenly it was not Miletus but Lynessa that he gathered into his arms, Lynessa’s blood pouring onto the ground.

“Hang on! Please, please hang on!” he sobbed, rocking back and forth on his knees.

The body slowly went limp, sinking in his arms.

“No, no, Shield, please don’t take her from me! Please!”

A hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him.

“Leave me!” he shouted, shoving the hand away. “Take care of her first!”

“Ivan, we have to get out of here! Come on!”

“I’m not leaving her!”

Someone knelt in front of him, shook him by the shoulders. “Ivan, look at me! Look at me!”

Slap!

Ivan jolted and found himself staring Gabriel in the face. His entire body shook, blood roaring in his ears, his heart thundering in rapid, irregular beats, his breaths choked with sobs.

“Ivan, this is not Lynessa,” Gabriel said, each word loud and deliberate.

Not Lynessa? Ivan looked at the body he clutched in his arms. No…not Lynessa.

“This is Miletus,” Gabriel said, “and he’s gone. We have to leave him and get out of here!”

Here…Ivan looked around. The tent…dead Cytharocians sprawled on the ground…

“How…how did this happen?”

Gabriel stood. “It doesn’t matter. They’re coming for us, we have to go!”

Ivan carefully let Miletus’ body down and rose to follow Gabriel, retrieving his sword from the dead commander’s hand as he passed. The guards outside the tent were also dead. Ivan and Gabriel bolted past them and sprinted for the woods.

Soldiers ran shouting at them from all directions. Ivan and Gabriel, who was now using a Cytharocian sword, fought a few off, but it wouldn’t take long for the rest to chase them down and overwhelm them. Ivan expected the slice of a sunstar at any moment.

At a gap in the onslaught, he and Gabriel resumed their dash for the cover of the trees, until the voice of the Shield brought Ivan skidding to a stop.

“Pick up a handful of sand.”

What?

“Do it.”

Sunfighters on horses were coming after them now.

“Come on!” Gabriel shouted.

Ivan passed his sword to his right hand and bent to scrape a fistful of dust.

“Ivan, what are you doing?!”

“Throw it into the camp.”

Ivan hauled back and flung the dust towards the centre of the camp. Light flared as it shot in a horizontal arc, each grain and particle transforming into a spark as it left his hand. Tents blazed into mounds of fire and the flames leapt from one to another, forming a solid wall of fire—a ring that burned across grass and dirt alike. Then the wall closed in, rising into a spinning column of flame.

Ivan was so awe-struck that Gabriel had to remind him to run.

Battle preparations didn’t stop for darkness, and the noise quickly banished any fantasies Sorek had entertained of getting a full night’s sleep.

Now back in his Cytharocian uniform, he sat on the edge of the cot in his tent, elbows on his knees, hands rubbing, wringing, cracking knuckles. He could hear weapons being sharpened and armour being prepared. Horses were led past his tent in an almost incessant stream as farriers rushed to ensure all were fit and properly shod, a task that brought clanging of hammers on anvils. Voices threaded through the rest of the din, giving and acknowledging orders.

Sorek almost laughed at himself. He’d slept through more noise than this before. Why couldn’t he admit that it was guilt keeping him awake now? Going through with his plan had been thousands of times harder than he anticipated—so hard he had almost bailed out on multiple occasions—and now the guilt was eating him alive.

Which was ridiculous. He had known all along things would end this way. From the moment he had conceived this plan, he had known.

He just…hadn’t realised it would be this way.

He tried to remind himself of the rationale he had used in the beginning, which planning all of this: that in the end, Allegar and Ivan and the others were simply elements of a strategy. That it wasn’t personal.

With Orienne, though, it was different. In the first place, she had played no part in any of his planning beforehand. He’d had no idea she would be at Sutton Fort with Allegar. He only involved her to guarantee his access to the Ransom after sabotage had made his plan take so much longer than it should have, but then he’d made the stupid mistake of actually falling in love with her.

Seeing her eyes as she realised what he really was, what he had done, had been devastating. Her haunting stare hovered before him, as her eyes faded from silver to purple and then sank into a deeper black than he had ever seen. Knowing he was the object of the anger they reflected had almost destroyed what little resolve he had left.

She would come around, he told himself. That assurance had become his mantra over the last few days, since he had made the decision to bring her back to Cytharoc with him. He had already made the internal journey of realising that the war was not as starkly moral as most people seemed to believe; armed with that experience, he could help her make the same pilgrimage, help her see that it wasn’t wrong to want to be happy, or to seek that happiness somewhere other than Farindel. They could build a life—a beautiful, wonderful life—together in Cytharoc, she just had to be willing to open her eyes. He was certain he could persuade her to do that eventually.

Though she clearly wasn’t going to make the situation easier on him or herself in the meantime. Her self-righteous refusal of his protection infuriated him. He understood her outrage and hurt, and didn’t fault her for it…to a degree. But she needed to throw off the naivete. The war may not have been the moral cause she believed it to be, but that didn’t mean there were no risks in her position. The men under his command were soldiers, not saints, and she would learn that first-hand if she wasn’t careful.

And yet, despite his threats and show of disregard, he couldn’t let any harm come to her. Surreptitiously protecting her from the consequences of her decision to stay with the other prisoners would only enable her stubbornness, but he could not, would not, let anything happen to her.

He stood up and walked outside, where the smell of horse hooves scorched by red-hot shoes permeated the damp night air. Drifting tendrils of smoke blurred the already dim, flickering figures around the camp. Sorek ordered his aide to stay put at the entrance of the tent, while he made his way across camp to where the prisoners were being kept.

No matter how she fought him, he had to keep Orienne safe.

Ivan and Gabriel ran until exhaustion forced them to stop. Most of the distance had been across open ground, heading for their own camp, but now they had entered another patch of forest.

Ivan dropped with his back against a tree and closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath, but as soon as he stopped moving the memories caught up. Without a threat to escape or an urgent action to carry out, there was nothing to hold back the images, the sounds, the horror. He felt them at the edges of his mind like fingers catching at the edge of a cloth.

He got to his feet and paced, still panting from the run, but the nightmares kept calling, fingering closer. Moving wasn’t enough—he needed something to think about, something to pull his mind from their reach, but what was there to think about that didn’t lead back to images of Lynessa, and now Miletus, dying in his arms?

Miletus…

Ivan turned to Gabriel, sitting in the leafy carpet with his forearms resting on his knees and his head bowed against them. The Sunfighter’s sword he had taken from the enemy camp lay on the ground between his feet.

“Gabriel, did you…did you check Miletus?”

Gabriel nodded, and his face was dark and hard in the dappled moonlight. “He was gone.”

“You’re certain? There’s no chance we left him there—”

“No chance, Ivan.”

Ivan broke down weeping. “He died for me. He died in my arms, in my place…and I didn’t even know who he was.”

“Because you thought it was Lynessa again.”

Ivan didn’t know how it had happened, but it had been so real. He looked down and, in the moonlight, saw dark stains on his hands. Miletus…Lynessa…whose blood was this? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

But this blood was black in the moonlight. Not Lynessa’s. Hers had been red and shiny in the sunlight—so, so red. He remembered now…

Sudden, fiery pain, an arrow out of nowhere plunging into his side, lodging between his ribs. Hearing Lynessa scream, seeing the blood on her clothes, realising that the arrow had passed completely through her body before reaching him. He caught her as she fell, then stumbled to his knees himself as his right lung collapsed. Chaos erupted as soldiers swarmed to protect them and apprehend the assassin. Healers had arrived and surrounded them both. Ivan let them take Lynessa from his arms and lay her on the ground to assess her wound.

When others tried to see to him he shoved them away and stayed by her, clutching her hand, wanting to scream as a blank white stare stole over her face, but choking on his own blood and barely able to draw breath to rasp her name. Begging the Shield for her life, even at the cost of his own if need be, but watching helplessly as she slipped away moments later.

The memory faded with her, and Ivan came to himself on his knees in the loam, bent double and vomiting. Gabriel knelt beside him, gripping his shoulders.

“It’s not real, Ivan. You’re with me. It isn’t real.”

Ivan reached up to grip Gabriel’s hand and fought to focus on his voice as he repeated it over and over. “It isn’t real. It isn’t real.”

The very same words Ivan had repeated to Gabriel so many times. For the first time, he truly understood the things that haunted Gabriel—the pursuers that kept him always restless, the threatening shadows that made him wary and distant—and, for the first time, he realised how wrong he had been. It was real. It wasn’t the present, the moment, but it was still absolutely real—time and distance didn’t take away the realness of it.

“I wish I could tell you I’ve learned some way to make them stop,” Gabriel said. “The memories, I mean.”

Ivan shook his head, panting, and wiped his mouth. “I’m sorry I never understood.”

“Could you have understood?”

Ivan closed his eyes. “No.”

“I wish you still didn’t.”

For a few moments the only sounds were night insects and the breeze.

“We should get moving again,” Gabriel said finally. “They probably have the entire army out searching for us.”

“Cytharoc or Farindel?”

“Both, I expect. Let’s just hope the right one finds us first.”

Allegar and the soldiers with him had pushed their horses almost to the breaking point. It was a long ride from the capital to the battle camp, but they couldn’t afford the slightest delay.

He had been in a state of near-panic for the duration of the ride. What would they do if Sorek had already made his move? How would they find him and get Orienne away from him? It was after sunset when they neared the camp, and Allegar knew the darkness would only make things worse.

As they neared the camp, a group of six riders with torches met them. “First-Born Romarck?” the leader called.

“Sixth-Born Seritan,” Allegar replied.

The lead rider brought a torch close enough to see his face. “First-Born Romarck isn’t with you?”

A sick dread sank in Allegar’s stomach. “He left Farindel this morning. He should have been here hours ago.”

“Yes, sir. But he hasn’t arrived and we’ve heard nothing.”

Allegar forced a swallow through his tightening throat. the worst possible outcome had come true. Sorek had slipped from their grasp, taking Ivan, Gabriel, Miletus, twenty Farin soldiers, and Orienne with him. Now he could be anywhere—the Cytharocian war camp, surrounded by thousands of soldiers, or somewhere in the mountains, fleeing back to the pit he’d come from.

And Allegar was the only one of the Ransom left to do anything about it.

A small palisade had been erected in the Cytharocian camp for Farin prisoners. It wasn’t a particularly secure holding cell, but it was only intended to function for short periods.

The guards snapped to attention as Sorek approached the palisade gate and looked in. Torches set on poles at the entrance illuminated a scattered collection of prisoners, most of them sitting around the perimeter with their backs leaned against the wall, dozing or staring at him with disinterested weariness. Orienne was easy to spot, being the only woman. Sorek saw her on the far side of the enclosure, curled on her side with her back to him.

A young man sat next to her—he’d been captured with the others, but wasn’t in a uniform—his arms resting on his knees, not moving, not touching her, but somehow…guarding her. Awake and alert, he stared at Sorek with an expression that could only be described as ageless. His face had the look of someone in his early twenties, probably no more than twenty-five or -six, but his eyes held the steady, understanding weight of some kind of ancient sage, and his stare was pointed and uncomfortable knowing.

Sorek stepped back and beckoned one of the guards to him. “The prisoner sitting by the far wall,” he said, pointing. “Do you know anything about him?”

The guard shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, I only know that he was brought here with the others and I was told to guard them all.”

“Understood. About the woman—”

The guard on the other side of the gate snorted. “You’ve noticed her too, then? You and the entire camp…sir.”

Sorek stared at the soldier while he considered for a moment how to respond. The man’s remark had hit on Sorek’s main purpose in coming here, so why not take advantage of it?

He took a step towards the soldier, feigning nonchalance. “Indeed?”

The soldier, appearing to sense that he had crossed a line, straightened his expression and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“I see.” In a single motion Sorek jerked the dagger from the guard’s belt and shoved the man against the palisade, pressing the edge of the blade against his throat. The logs creaked and leaned in their shallow settings, and the prisoners near that section of the wall scrambled away.

“In that case,” Sorek said calmly, “I recommend passing word along to ‘the entire camp’ that anyone who touches her will spend a very, very long time begging for death before I actually let them die. Is that clear?”

The guard swallowed against the blade and started a drop of blood oozing its way down his neck. “I understand, sir,” he croaked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know she was your woman. I meant no harm, I—”

“Do not speak to me again.” Sorek jammed the dagger into the post beside the soldier’s head and backed away, trying not to dwell on how good it had felt to stab something.

He started to leave, but took time to glance once more inside the palisade. Orienne had turned at the commotion to stare at him, her eyes still haunting wells of black. Beside her, the strange man with the ancient eyes still watched.

A large, well-lit pavilion stood at the centre of the Farin camp, and Allegar made his way to it as quickly as possible. The camp commander met him inside, where a map of the region east of the capital lay partially rolled up on the table. Allegar jerked it fully open and stared down at it.

“Show me everything you know.”

The commander took him through the layout of the Cytharocian camp, the places where Cytharocian scouts had been spotted, and so on. Allegar forced himself to listen to all of it, though he found himself wanting to scream at the commander to just cut to the point—whatever the point would be. Something that would provide a clear plan of action, an answer, a solution?

“We could mobilise against their camp,” he said, thinking aloud as he stared at the map, “but that would just make them more likely to kill Ivan or the others if they haven’t already. We could kill Ivan or the others in the confusion, if we didn’t know for certain where they were.”

Sorek would know a new First-Born could not be chosen while the current one was still alive, so his plan was probably to keep Ivan alive in Cytharoc, leaving Farindel leaderless. But Allegar wasn’t willing to gamble Ivan’s life—or Orienne’s—on that theory. Sorek could just as easily be planning to leverage their lives to force Farindel to surrender, or Shield-only-knew what else.

Shouts from outside distracted him. Allegar glanced at the commander, whose concerned expression mirrored his own. They left the map and hurried outside, where a group of horsemen approached the pavilion, surrounded by soldiers on foot.

Allegar stopped and stared as a man swung down from behind the lead rider and walked toward them.

“Ivan!”

Gabriel appeared in similar fashion from behind another of the riders.

“We found them a few miles from here,” the leader said.

“Ivan!” Allegar repeated, hurrying toward him. “Where are Miletus and the others?”

Ivan’s expression was a bucket of water on the flames of Allegar’s hope. “Miletus is dead. I assume the other soldiers are either dead as well, or being held captive somewhere else.”

Allegar felt like he’d been hit in the gut. “What… Did you see Orienne or Sorek?”

Ivan frowned. “Orienne and Sorek? Why would I have seen them?”

Allegar hesitated, his eyes suddenly burning. “Ivan, I—I don’t know how to tell you… Sorek Ronarres is the traitor.”

An expression of numb shock took over Ivan’s face. “Sorek…your long-lost childhood friend, Sorek?”

Allegar said nothing, bowing his head under the crushing guilt.

“He was the traitor?!”

Allegar closed his eyes, and the tears soaked his eyelashes. “I am so sorry, Ivan.”

“Where is he?” Gabriel demanded.

“I don’t know where he is,” Allegar said, forcing himself to raise his head. “He’s disappeared, and he’s taken Orienne with him.”

Ivan’s eyes widened. He glanced at Gabriel, who stared back with an expression that sent a chill knifing through Allegar’s chest.

“When we were captured,” Ivan said, “they took us to some kind of outpost camp and separated us from the other men. We never saw Orienne, but if Sorek took her she could have been there.”

“We can start looking there, then!” Allegar said. “Where is it?”

“It’s gone.”

Allegar stared. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the Shield destroyed it. It’s gone. It went up in a giant tower of fire.”

“But—but if Orienne was there…” Allegar couldn’t bring himself to say it, to even think about it.

Ivan shook his head. “Allegar, I don’t know how anyone could survive what the Shield did to that camp.”

“But she serves the Shield! If He destroyed the camp, surely He would have spared her!” Allegar cried. “Tell me where the outpost is. I have to look for her.”

“I’ll need a map,” Ivan said.

“In here.” Allegar led the way back to the pavilion.

Ivan studied the map on the table and waved a finger over an area. “My best reckoning would put it somwhere in here. Gabriel, does that look right to you?”

Gabriel leaned in to see. “I think so. I can’t be sure.”

“What happened to the men with you?” Allegar asked.

“They weren’t killed on the spot, Ivan said, “so I assume the Cytharocians wanted to keep them alive for bargaining purposes, but I have no idea where they were taken. Sorek is probably keeping Orienne wherever he is.”

Allegar shut his eyes at the thought of what might happen to her. If Sorek was capable of this much, he was capable of anything.

“Allegar,” Ivan said, putting both hands on Allegar’s shoulders, “we’re going to do everything we can to get her back. Everything.”

Allegar opened his eyes and nodded. “I’ll take the men who came with me from Farindel and head for the outpost. My next step will depend on what I find there.”

“I’ll go with you,” Gabriel said, but Allegar shook his head.

“You’re needed here. If I get into trouble I may need you to provide troop support.”

“We’ll do everything we can to help you from here,” Ivan assured him.

Allegar started to walk away.

“Allegar.” Ivan’s voice arrested him, and he turned around slowly.

The First-Born rested a hand on his shoulder and stared hard at him. “Sorek may be a traitor, but he was also your friend. If you find him, will you be able to do what needs done?”

Allegar clenched his teeth. The answer to that was the only thing he knew with absolute certainty. “He just kidnapped my sister. When I find him I’m going to cut him to pieces and hand-feed him to the crows.”

So here is our rambly discussion, exploring some of our own and each other’s thoughts on the philosophy of dress. This topic won’t be riveting for everyone, and that’s perfectly alright, but if you’re interested in exploring different approaches to something most of us take for granted or engage with unconsciously, you’re welcome to listen in on our chat and we’d love to hear any thoughts you’d like to add in the comments. Bear with us—we both forgot we had planned this until like an hour before and were both busy with our children and household matters, my tech skills are sub-par at best, and I am woefully out of practice speaking publicly and being on camera; hopefully I get the chance to do this more and improve my skills in the future.

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She shook herself as Sorek squeezed her hand. “What?”

They were spending the evening strolling Farindel’s arts district, where colonnaded buildings and planters spilling gushes of flowers were the backdrop for an ever-changing variety of street performers of various guilds—mostly musicians, this evening.

“You just trailed off in the middle of what you were saying,” Sorek said. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh…” Orienne had forgotten she’d even been talking. She pointed to a building up the street, with unlit windows and a blue awning rolled up above the door. “That’s Viette Tehrlan’s gallery.” She couldn’t help glancing around as she said it, knowing the gallery was under constant watch as well as the Tehrlans’ home.

“Ah,” Sorek said. “I see.”

“I’m sorry,” Orienne said, “I don’t mean to spoil the evening—”

“Orienne, no. No. Do not apologise. You’re not spoiling anything.” He moved in front of her, took both of her hands, and held them to his chest. “I don’t expect you not to worry. How could you possibly keep from it with all that’s going on?”

“Ugh…” Orienne pulled her hands free and pressed them to her forehead in frustration. “That’s just it: I am so tired of worrying about everything. I’m tired of there being so much to worry about. But now Ivan is leaving with the troops tomorrow to join the troops, and the gorge has been breached, and Allegar is searching the city for Cyrus and Viette, and…” Her voice cracked. “I just wish it was all over, that this didn’t have to be my life anymore.”

Sorek took her hands again and squeezed them. “How can I help you?”

She stared into his earnest eyes. Could she tell him the answer that came to her mind when he asked things like that? This wasn’t the first time it had happened. Why did he keep asking? Was he waiting for her to admit it? Was he uncertain, and searching for assurance of her feelings? How could he possibly doubt how she felt about him by now?

Before she could find an answer, Sorek looked down at their clasped hands and spoke. “Orienne, would you…would you ever consider…” He raised his eyes back to hers. “What if you didn’t wait for the war to end? What if you just walked away from it instead—started a different life, whether it was over or not? Would you consider doing that…with me?”

Orienne was nearly too stunned to speak. She wanted to smile, but her eyes filled with tears at the same time. “Are—are you asking…?”

“If you want me to be, yes.” He released her hands and put his on her shoulders. “I would love nothing more than to start a new life together, with you.”

“Sorek, I…” How many times had Orienne considered starting a different life whether the war was over or not? But hadn’t she always decided that it was right to stay. And yet the Shield knew how desperately she longed for the life that had just been offered her. If this was His answer to the countless pleas she had poured out on the steps of the Aijalon, surely she wasn’t wrong to accept it. It was no different than Sorek leaving the military—he had served ten years and was now free. She had assured him herself that there was no shame in that. Now it was her turn. She had served Farindel for years; now she had a chance to be free, an invitation to a new life with the man she loved.

“Yes,” she said finally. Saying it brough a rush of relief, like turning onto her back in a stream and letting the current carry her, after fighting to swim against it for far too long.

Sorek’s brief look of surprise immediately gave way to a growing smile. “Really? You want…to marry me?”

“Yes. Yes!” Saying it felt so good she didn’t want to stop. “Yes—I want to marry you and leave all this behind—the war, the worry, all of it. I want to build a life with you where we can be who we want, do what we want, have a life that the war can’t control anymore. Yes!”

She threw her arms around his neck and his arms closed behind her back—warm and firm, wrapping her in peace, in hope, in the feeling of finally being safe, of being free.

“I love you, Orienne,” he whispered against her ear.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her face close to his, and smiled, hoping that was a clear enough invitation. “I love you too.”

His face flushed pink and he hesitated, smiling bashfully. Then he kissed her.

She had wanted him to—had invited him to—but somehow it was still a surprise when he actually did it. She gasped and stepped backward for balance, just for a moment. But then the shock passed and she leaned into him as she felt his shyness melt away.

A chord of music suddenly strummed right next to them, startling them out of their kiss. A trio of musicians they’d passed on the street a short way back had apparently seen them and rushed closer, and the leader began seeing an old, melodramatic love song while the other two accompanied him on a lute and a viol.

Sorek turned strawberry red from collar to hairline and looked away, awkwardly clearing his throat. Orienne burst out laughing. It was so delightfully absurd—and so perfect. Finally, after so long…everything was perfect.

***

After walking Orienne home the previous evening, Sorek had suggested they go riding out in the basin the next morning—somewhere they could talk without a bunch of over-eager musicians pouncing on them. Orienne still laughed every time she thought about it. She knew Sorek had been mortified, and sympathised with his embarrassment, but she couldn’t help herself.

So now they rode through the low hills beyond the edge of the marsh, enjoying the sunlight and spring warmth. They hadn’t talked much, but just being able to hold his hand, or kiss him, or walk arm-in-arm with him, leading their horses, without being seen by anyone…

Naturally Allegar was known around the city—not only as a popular tournament competitor from the last few years, but now as the newly-appointed Sixth-Born—but Orienne had been surprised when people started recognising her as his sister. It hadn’t mattered much at first, but if she was going to be building a new life now, she wanted it to be out of the public view.

Around midday, they stopped on a hill overlooking the northeastern side of the city, tied their horses, and unpacked the picnic they had brought with them.

“Can you feel it when your eyes change colours?” Sorek asked after a while, eating a slice of apple off his knife.

Orienne smiled at the realisation that talking about her eyes didn’t feel awkward with him. She shook her head. “It’s like when yours adjust to light and dark—you don’t feel that happening, it just does.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, of all the colours they turn, that one is my favourite.

“What…what colour are they?” There were so many emotions all at once…

“I don’t know what to call it. A sort of…amber gold-ish, I suppose?”

Orienne frowned. Amber gold-ish? “Do you mean brown?” But she wasn’t annoyed about anything, so they wouldn’t be brown…

“No, I’ve seen them turn brown, that’s different.”

“Then I have no idea,” Orienne said. “I didn’t even know they could turn that colour.”

“But they’ve always done that. How do you now know about it?”

“What?”

“I remember them turning that colour when we were just kids back in Harrowby.”

They had? But no one had ever said anything—

“Oh…” She understood now.

“What?”

She bit her lip and felt her cheeks warm a little. “Well, there’s something from when we were growing up that I don’t think you knew about. That I hope you didn’t know about.”

He frowned. “What is it?”

She laughed at herself for how nervous she felt. She’d agreed to marry him—there was no reason to be this shy about it. “I had no idea until just now that my eyes could turn ‘amber gold-ish’…because you’re the only person who’s ever seen it.”

She saw in his eyes the moment he understood. “Wait—you mean…?”

She laughed again, covering her face with her hands. “I’ve loved you since I was a little girl.”

He laughed too, though more in disbelief than amusement. “You did? I didn’t know…”

“Good!” Orienne said. “That means I didn’t make too much a fool of myself!”

He reached over to take her hand. “I don’t know what to say, except…I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long.”

“Don’t be.”

He held her gaze for a moment, looking as though he was about to say something, but then he looked away, shaking his head and smiling.

They sat in silence for a while, staring out over the landscape and the city. Orienne was watching a tiny boat navigate the marsh, stopping every few minutes to pull up crayfish traps, when out of the corner of her eye she saw Sorek sit farther forward.

“Who is that?”

She followed his gaze and saw a group of riders leaving Farindel through the city’s east gate. She couldn’t see their faces from so far away, but she knew who it had to be.

“It’s Ivan and the others, riding out to join the army.”

“Ah, I see,” Sorek said. “Well, shall we pack up and move on?”

They gathered up the picnic things, and Sorek suggested they ride up to a ridge they could see above them and to the south.

A short time later they emerged from the woods, left their horses, and walked out onto the ridge.

Orienne grinned at Sorek. “Good idea.”

He gave her a confused look, almost as though she had startled him. “What?”

She gestured at the landscape below. “Choosing to come here,” she said. “This view is beautiful.”

“Oh—I’m glad you like it.” He gave her a quick smile, then went back to staring back over the basin.

Orienne frowned at his odd answer and distracted body language. “Is there something wrong?”

“There they are,” he said.

She looked where he was staring, and saw the group of riders from Farindel again—this time close enough to be certain it was Ivan, Gabriel, and Miletus, riding with a small group of soldiers and officers. “Yes…did you want us to come up here just so we could see whether it was them or not?”

He didn’t answer.

A chill of unease slipped down Orienne’s back. Why was he acting like this? “Sorek, is something wrong?” she said, louder this time.

Still he watched the riders, as though he hadn’t heard her.

“Sorek!”

“They’re almost in position. Hold steady,” he said in a strange, commanding tone Orienne had never heard him use before.

It took her a moment to realise he had said it in Cytharocian.

Her body went cold and for one instant she stared at him in paralysed shock. She’d never heard him speak Cytharocian before—she hadn’t even known that he could. “What did you say?” she whispered.

He shifted on his feet, almost bouncing, as though about to break into a sprint. “Go,” he said, still in Cytharocian. “Go now! Go!”

A distant shout came from the road, and Orienne turned to look towards Ivan and the others just as a second group of riders emerged from the treeline below.

Before she had a chance to scream or run, Sorek had locked one arm around her waist, and covered her mouth with his other hand.

She kicked and fought and screamed in vain against his hand, watching as the First-Born and those with him were surrounded by a party more than twice their number and dragged from their horses and away from the road.

“Calm down, Orienne,” Sorek said close to her ear, speaking Reyemen now. “No one is going to hurt you.”

The sounds of horses came from behind them and Sorek turned, still holding Orienne pinned against him with his hand over her mouth. Half a dozen men rode out of the woods, leading Sorek’s and Orienne’s horses with them.

“Hello, Captain Teyan,” Sorek said, once again in Cytharocian.

“Well done, General,” replied the man riding at the head of the group. “Welcome back.”

***

Dressed in plain clothes, Allegar made his way down street after street, searching for Viette Tehrlan. He knew his chances of finding her a second time were poor, but he had to try. It was their only chance at finding Cyrus.

The sun had crossed over the peak of the city and was beginning to cast slanted shadows of spires and pinnacles across the streets. Allegar was walking through yet another narrow street in the lower part of the city—an area much easier to hide in—scanning the faces that passed by while trying to look nonchalant. He was probably wasting time looking for her at this time of day, but he couldn’t risk missing anything.

He was far from where he had seen Viette the first time, when he spotted a woman emerging from a shop in a long row of businesses. He couldn’t be certain it was her, but the hair colour was the same, and she moved in the same way, so he followed her.

She made her way back toward the area where he had lost track of her the first time. Once, she stopped to look behind her, and Allegar got a clear look at her face in profile. It was Viette, without a doubt.

He kept a distance until she turned into an alley that was otherwise deserted. Then he sprinted to her, grabbed her arm, and pushed her toward the nearest building.

She screamed at his touch and reached into her sleeve. Allegar caught her hand, spun her to face him, and pinned her against the wall.

“One more scream like that and I’ll break your arm.”

She gasped when she recognised him. “Allegar!”

He pulled her hand away from the knife he could feel under her sleeve, removed it, and slid it into his belt. “Where is Cyrus?”

“The Rose Arbor boardinghouse,” she said. “It’s not far from here.”

He stared at her. “Just like that?”

“It’s the truth.”

He stepped back, letting her move away from the wall. “Take me to him, then. Now.”

“This way,” she said, pointing.

Allegar let her lead him, keeping a firm grip on her arm.

“I know why you want him,” she said as they walked. “I know what things look like, but I promise he can explain everything completely.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Allegar said.

“Cyrus is not a traitor.”

“We’ll see.”

When they reached the boardinghouse, Allegar stopped her outside the door. “You’re going to take me to your room, open the door, and walk in as though nothing is amiss, understood?”

Viette nodded.

“And if you do anything to try to warn him—”

“I won’t. I told you, this is not what it looks like, and believe me, I want it over as much as you do. I am tired of this secret.”

“Tired enough to betray your husband?”

She glared at him, her brown eyes burning. “I would die before I betrayed Cyrus. But I’ve told you, he is no deserter and no traitor.”

“And I’ve told you: We’ll see.”

Viette led him inside and up a flight of stairs to a passage with three closed doors. Allegar heard muffled voices, but it was impossible to tell which room they came from. Viette walked to the middle one and knocked softly. “It’s me, Cyrus,” she said, easing the door open.

Allegar moved up behind her, shoved her inside, and threw the door back. It banged against the wall as he drew his sword, scanning the room.

Cyrus jumped up from a seat at a table and caught Viette as she stumbled into him. In the same motion he moved her aside and started to reach for his own sword, but froze when he recognised Allegar. Another man, seated on the other side of the table, also rose to his feet. No one moved, no one spoke.

Now that the moment had come, Allegar struggled to believe it was real. Cyrus—someone he had trusted and considered a friend—was staring him in the face as a traitor. If just the idea of it had seemed wrong, the reality was even more so.

But it was real, and now he had to deal with it. He let out a long, defeated sigh.

“You have some explaining to do, Cyrus.”

***

A few hours’ ride east was a small outpost camp, cradled between hills and concealed between patches of forest. Sorek had left Orienne under guard along with the group of Farin soldiers who had been with Ivan, Gabriel, and Miletus, and gone off to some other part of the camp. She had no idea where she was now.

“Is First-Born Romarck alive?” she whispered to the nearest Farin soldier.

“He was when we got here,” the soldier answered, “but they separated the Ransom from us at the edge of camp and took them inside some kind of meeting tent before they brought us over here.”

Just then Sorek returned, now astride a horse in Cytharocian trappings, riding next to the captain who’d met them in the woods.

“I want them kept here, out of the way of combat,” Sorek was saying, “but I’ll take the others to the main camp tonight and start back to Catzlan first thing in the morning.”

As Orienne watched him, the shock that had held her emotions at bay began to fade, and rage rose in its place.

Sorek turned his horse and rode closer to where the prisoners were being held, gesturing to one of the guards, who took Orienne by the arm and led her away from the other prisoners, toward Sorek’s horse. As she reached him, Sorek leaned down to offer his hand and gestured to the saddle behind him. “Come on.”

She stared at him, confused. Did he honestly think she would come with him so easily, after what he’d just done? She looked at the hand he offered, then back at his face. “No.”

“Orienne, don’t start. Just come with me, it’s the best thing for you right now.”

She shook her head and took a step backwards.

He stared at her and adjusted his tone. “Orienne. Come. With. Me.”

She clenched her teeth. He had the nerve, the gall, to give her orders?

“No!” She whirled and stormed back towards the other Farin prisoners. The Cytharocian guards reacted in surprise as she pushed past them. She couldn’t escape, she knew, but she would never go with Sorek. Never.

A hand caught her arm and spun her around.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sorek demanded.

“With my own people!” she snapped, trying to twist out of his grasp.

“You don’t want to do that.”

“I’ll decide that!”

“Trust me, Orienne—”

She slapped him as hard as she could with her free hand. “I did!”

Several of the nearby Cytharocian soldiers snickered.

Sorek’s jaw clenched and he drew a slow breath, his face livid. “Be as angry with me as you want,” he said, his voice low and shaking, “but don’t let that make you do something stupid. If you go with these other prisoners, it’s going to be much harder for me to guarantee your safety.”

“I don’t want your safety, traitor!”

“You might not feel that way a day or two from now.”

“I said, I’ll decide that!”

“Orienne, you don’t know these people like I do.”

“So I see,” she sneered.

Sorek growled with rage and gripped her wrist so hard her hand went numb. “Damn your self-righteousness!” he shouted. “Maybe it makes you feel better about yourself, but it won’t protect you here!”

“And I suppose you will? How did I get here, Sorek?”

He appeared to hold back a retort, and for a moment they glared at each other in silence. Finally he released her arm. Her hand had started turning blue, and now erupted with needling sensation.

“Fine,” Sorek said. “Stay with your people if it means that much to you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. And when you’ve had enough, you let me know.”

He turned his back to her and walked to his horse. “Don’t say anything around that one,” he warned the guards as he climbed into the saddle. “She’s an interpreter—she’ll understand everything you say.”

Orienne turned back to the other prisoners, but her legs felt suddenly weak and unsteady. She curled double as sobs strained in her chest, but her throat had constricted too tightly even to breathe, let alone cry. Her vision, already distorted by tears, began to darken at the edges, and she fell to her knees in the grass, just as one of the guards ordered the prisoners to line up and start marching.

Someone knelt beside her, wrapped their arms around her, and pulled her to her feet. She looked at his face and recognised him as one of the Farin prisoners, but he wasn’t wearing a military uniform.

“Come on,” he whispered. “You can walk with me.”

As they lined up, following the guard’s orders, the sobs building in her throat and chest finally broke loose, and once begun they came uncontrollably. Orienne clung to her protector as they marched out of the camp and eastward towards the mountains. Without him, she couldn’t have stood up, much less walked. Instead she shut her eyes and buried her face against him, letting him guide her as they marched.

***

“I know that you think, Allegar,” Cyrus said, “but I swear I can explain all of it.”

“I suggest you do so, quickly. But first slide your sword to me.”

Cyrus moved with deliberate slowness, removing his sword from his belt and sliding it hilt-first across the wooden floor.

Allegar kicked it behind him. “Now you,” he said to the man across the table from Cyrus.

The man looked confused and said something Allegar didn’t understand. Cyrus replied in the same tongue and gestured at Allegar. The stranger shook his head, looking offended.

“He is unarmed,” Cyrus said.

Allegar looked the man over and could see no sign of a weapon. “Then all of you sit down where I can see you.”

Cyrus returned to his seat and motioned for the other man to do the same. Viette pulled a third chair over next to Cyrus and took his hand as she sat down.

“Start explaining,” Allegar said.

Cyrus shut his eyes for a moment, massaging his forehead with his fingertips. “My name isn’t Cyrus Tehrlan. Or at least, that’s not the name I was given at birth. My birth name is Ravyer Menrodar Lendoliknas.”

Allegar frowned. “Who are you?”

“I’m Athragani. My clan lives in the territory between the western shore of Lekura and Farindel’s southern border.”

Allegar knew of the Athragani—semi-nomadic tribes generally held in low esteem by Farin and Cytharocians alike for their habit of living in what was technically no-man’s land, but staying close enough to the borders of stable, established kingdoms to benefit from the security and protection; happy to engage in commerce and trade, but abstaining from declaring loyalty or offering assistance in exchange. The economic nuisance they created was a knot in the beard of many a bar-stool politician.

“My father was a tradesman,” Cyrus explained, “and his business brought him often into Farindel. My mother was Farin, but they lived in our clan’s territory. I was born and grew up there.”

Allegar glanced at the letter lying open on the table. It wasn’t written in Reyemen—just like the courier at Sutton had said—but it wasn’t in Cytharocian either, as everyone had assumed. It was written in Athragani.

Cyrus continued: “When I was twelve, our clan’s chief died suddenly without naming a successor, and the elders elected my father to his place. I was seventeen when the Cytharocians started this war. I tried to convince my father that we should rally the tribe’s warriors and join Farindel in holding off the invasion. I tried to make him see that it was in our best interest to support Farindel, but he insisted that our people’s independence was what made us who we were, and he would not be persuaded otherwise.”

He propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. Viette laid a comforting hand on his leg, but said nothing. When he continued once again, his voice was quiet and thick.

“After I went to the chieftains of the neighbouring clans with the same argument, with the same result, I lost patience. I told my father that I was leaving to defend my family and our tribe as part of the Farin army. He had already found out and was furious that I had gone to the other chieftains without his knowledge or consent, so I suppose my breach of tradition in declaring allegiance to Farindel was too far.

“He responded by exiling me. I argued with him, begged him not to, but it did no good. So I came to Farindel and when to Franklor, where my mother was from, and took her Farin name, because I knew no one would question it when I enlisted.”

And that, Allegar realised, was the beginning of Cyrus’ life story as he knew it.

“I kept my personal history and my real identity a secret,” Cyrus went on. “Athragani aren’t exactly well-loved in Farindel; I was afraid it would have a negative effect on any potential advances once I enlisted. And…” He lowered his eyes and swallowed. “…and I was ashamed. Ashamed of my father’s decisions, and horribly bitter against him for exiling me. I didn’t want to be associated with him in any way, not even in name.”

“All of this makes sense,” Allegar said, “except for what it has to do with what’s happened now. What about Ivan’s capture and your disappearance from Sutton?” He gestured at the silent man across from Cyrus. “And who is he?”

Cyrus glanced at the older man and sighed. “Being young and foolish, and devastated at being exiled, I made my father and all the elders of my clan a vow before I left: if my father ever asked me to come back for any reason, I would. I waited for years, hoping to hear from him, but there was nothing. He didn’t even reply when I wrote to tell him I was getting married. So, when I was nominated and then chosen as one of the Ransom, I believed I was free to accept, that I would never need to be concerned with my father again. I gave up on him.

“Then a few months ago I received a letter from Elder Bodenveras—” He gestured at the man across the table. “—saying that my father was in ill health and that I should come back. But Lynessa Romarck had just been killed, Ivan was still recovering, and we were in the middle of a campaign, so there was no possible way I could go. Besides, my father hadn’t actually sent for my himself, so I ignored the letter. But then…”

He looked down at the messages scattered on the table.

“Your father sent for you,” Allegar finished for him.

Cyrus closed his eyes. “It was while we were at Sutton, right after Ivan was captured. He said he was dying, that he regretted his past actions, and that he wanted to see me again—to name me his successor.”

“And you went,” Allegar said.

“As soon as I knew Ivan was safe, I did. I thought if I disappeared quietly…” He shook his head and spread his hands. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’d made a promise, but now I can’t go through with it. I sent word to the elders, and Elder Bodenveras agreed to come half way, to discuss it with me.”

“And your father?”

Cyrus pressed his lips together, and Viette’s hand flexed on his leg. “He died a few days ago.”

The room was silent for several seconds.

“I’m sorry,” Allegar said. “What did you intend to do?”

Cyrus dropped his head into his hands again. “I don’t know. I can’t ignore a promise I made simply because I’ve moved on with my life, but I can’t back out of the vow I made to Farindel and the Shield when I became on of the Ransom. But then, when I made that vow I declared that there were no commitments to prevent my serving in that capacity, because I’d completely given up on my father. So was my vow to the Ransom even legitimate or valid?”

Allegar raked his fingers back and forth through his hair. “I have no idea, Cyrus. This is something the Ransom all need to decide together, before the Shield. But right now I’m far more concerned about who was responsible for Ivan’s capture, if it wasn’t you.”

“As am I,” Cyrus said. “My father is already gone—his problems can wait.”

“I’m afraid I still have to arrest you,” Allegar said. “All three of you. At the very least until we can establish your innocence regarding Ivan’s capture, and because technically you’re still a deserter for disappearing the way you did.”

“I understand that,” Cyrus said, squeezing Viette’s hand. “Do whatever you have to.”

Allegar backed to the door. “Come on, then. All of you.”

Elder Bodenveras looked around in confusion when Cyrus and Viette rose, and said something in Athragani. Cyrus replied, and the elder drew himself up, scowling and indignant, before launching into a tirade. Cyrus answered him coolly, then turned and followed Allegar.

“What is he so upset about?” Allegar asked.

“He says you can’t arrest him because he is a foreign dignitary,” Cyrus explained. “I told him his rank doesn’t matter since he’s not here openly and in an official capacity, and that yes, you can.”

Elder Bodenveras, even more displeased now that no one was paying attention, continued his rant, and Cyrus rolled his eyes.

“Allegar, I know I have brought all of this on myself, but I beg of you one favour.”

“And what is that?”

“Put me in a cell where I can’t hear him.”

Miletus seemed friendly and approachable enough, as far as Orienne could see. Gabriel, she wasn’t so certain about. The stern expression he wore, combined with the outrageous number of weapons he carried on a daily basis made her reluctant to attempt a conversation with him, and he made no effort to approach her.

After spending a night in Lonlor, the now-complete procession began the second leg of the journey.

Almost overnight, spring had broken free of winter’s shell and transformed the countryside, starting at the ground and moving upwards, breathing life and colour back into the world. The tents and pavilions erected next to the road every evening lost their glaring contrast with the drab land around them as new grass sprang up and early moss flowers opened their jewel-toned petals. The warm sun caused the tough winter hulls of wild brillam berries to split open and fall off, presenting spicy red-brown fruits for harvest.

Orienne tried to convince herself she was merely poet-struck by the spring air, that the smell of growing plants and damp earth and the glow of warm sunshine on her face were the reason for the unfamiliar lightness she felt. She tried to make herself believe Sorek had nothing to do with it.

She was foolish to hope, she told herself. In his eyes she was still just Allegar’s sister, the “little girl” he had known back in Harrowby, wasn’t she?

Still, it was so easy to laugh with him—easier than it had been in years. He made a point of engaging her in conversations about the future that was now his to plan and build for himself, and not only when Allegar was otherwise occupied and he had no one else to talk to.

Maybe hoping was foolish, but she couldn’t help doing it anyway.

***

The procession was camped two days’ ride from the capital when Allegar and Sorek decided, after a long round of bickering and teasing, that honour demanded a sparring match. Within minutes it had become an official event and everyone in camp was involved. Some kind of rods or sticks were provided in place of swords, boundaries were set for the sparring ring, rules were established, and arguments broke out over which combatant was likely to win. Allegar was unanimously favoured—and with good reason.

A pair of crates were placed side by side on the ground at one end of the ring. Ivan sat on one as Master of Ceremonies, and Orienne suddenly found herself being led by the arm towards the other one.

“Wait!” she protested. “This has nothing to do with me!”

“Nonsense.” It was Miletus who had linked his arm with hers. “A proper tournament needs a lady presiding, and you’re the only lady here.” He stopped in front of the vacant crate, put his hands on her shoulders, and gently pushed her down to sit on it.

Someone else brought a mug of brillam. “The winner’s cup, my lady.”

Outnumbered, she laughed and played along.

The contestants took to the ring, grinning at each other in anticipation.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into, soldier!” someone called to Sorek from the sidelines, and laughter rippled through the onlookers.

Ivan stood with his hands raised for quiet, reiterated the rules of engagement, and commanded the combat to begin. Allegar moved immediately into an attack. Sorek appeared to have expected the usual few moments of circling and feinting, but he met Allegar’s assault, held him off, and pushed back with an attack of his own.

Analyses of technique and speculations of outcome murmured through the onlookers.

The mock battle took off again, this time with Sorek making the first move. The dull, dark color of their fake weapons was difficult to see in the dying evening light, making it appear that they fought with invisible or imaginary weapons. Only the clack the weapons made reminded onlookers they were there.

Allegar blocked a cut and used his weight and momentum to shove Sorek. Rather than stumbling backwards, Sorek pulled the momentum into a spin and thrust for Allegar’s side. Allegar diverted it and used the motion to bring Sorek back in front of him. Sorek dropped low to make a cut at Allegar’s legs; Allegar jumped clear, and moved to strike downwards, but Sorek rolled and came up on his feet behind him.

A collective “Oooooh” went through the spectators as Allegar spun to face Sorek and waited, both of them on their guard and grinning like little boys.

“He’s good,” Ivan remarked to Orienne.

Men called advice and threw taunts at the contestants, urging them to finish each other off. The battle intensified as they stopped toying with one another and began competing in earnest.

Ivan chuckled, watching Sorek. “He’s very good.”

He certainly was. Allegar was a well-known competitor in the annual tournament held in the capital every autumn. In the last four years he had never placed lower than eighth in the entire kingdom, and most recently had placed second. Yet not only was Sorek holding his own, Orienne was beginning to think he might stand a chance of winning.

His agility was remarkable considering his years working in a forge. Most blacksmiths Orienne had known were so muscle-bound from their heavy work that they lost their capacity for quick manoeuvring, but Sorek had remained surprisingly athletic.

One of the false swords flew out of the ring, barely missing several spectators, and Allegar stood disarmed with Sorek’s sword at his chest. Cheers erupted from the onlookers. Sorek tossed the sword aside and offered Allegar his hand. They shook hands and slapped each other’s backs, both of them laughing.

“Why have you never competed in the tournament?” Allegar demanded.

Sorek shook his head and shrugged, muttering something Orienne couldn’t hear.

“You are competing this autumn,” Allegar said, levelling a finger at him. “Like it or not, you are competing.”

Sorek looked away, smiling sheepishly.

“Well done!” Ivan called.

“Thank you, sir.” Sorek acknowledged Ivan with a nod and started to walk away., but Allegar caught him by the back of his shirt.

“Just a minute, you may be a civilian now but you still have to respect the customs. Go and receive your prize from the lady.”

The brillam in the mug was probably stone cold by now, but for the sake of the production Orienne affected an air of aristocratic benevolence anyway, and waited for Sorek to come forward.

He awkwardly retrieved his discarded weapon and stuck its end in the ground as he knelt in front of her.

“You have proven yourself well, good sir,” she said. “Enjoy your reward.”

“I thank you, my lady,” Sorek said, taking the mug she offered and raising it to his lips. His strained expression as he swallowed indicated that the contents had most definitely gone cold, and Orienne held her breath to keep from laughing.

“What warrior would not envy the congratulations of so fair a lady?” Allegar asked the audience in a dramatic voice. They all concurred heartily, and Orienne made a mental note to murder Allegar in his sleep later.

“How about a kiss for the winner too, then?” someone called.

The place roared with laughter. Sorek stood and took a step back and Orienne stared at the ground, her face flaming, as shouts of agreement came from all around and some of the men even took up a chant.

Ivan came to her rescue. “That’s enough, that’s enough,” he called, standing and raising his hands to silence them. “We’ve got another long day of travelling tomorrow, so we should all turn in now.”

As the men dispersed Orienne hurried toward her tent, her cheeks still burning.

“Orienne.” Sorek stood behind her, looking as awkward as she felt. “I hope that—that didn’t upset you.”

Orienne tried to look him in the eyes, but couldn’t. “No, of course not, it was just…” She forced a smile and tried to shrug the matter off. “It was just a bit of fun.”

“I don’t want you to think that I didn’t—I—I mean that I don’t—I mean…” He shuffled on his feet. “But…as long as you’re not, then…then all’s well?”

“Of course,” Orienne said, having no idea what he’d just said but nodding all the same. “Certainly, all is well.”

“Good,” he said, his shoulders visibly relaxing.

Laughter made them both turn, and Allegar came close enough to put a hand on each of their backs. “You two are ridiculous,” he said, grinning. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” they both echoed as he walked away. Orienne was certain the “pat” he gave her on her back was meant to push her closer to Sorek.

By the time they looked back at each other the silence was already awkward.

“Well…goodnight,” Sorek said finally.

“Goodnight.”

As an afterthought, it seemed, he offered his hand, palm down. Orienne rested hers on top of it, warming through her lingering shyness. Sorek relaxed his hand, and hers curved over it, conforming to its shape.

She looked at his face to find him already staring at her.

“It’s…” He licked his lips and swallowed. “It’s not that I would mind kissing you, I just…I hadn’t intended it to come up so soon. And…and not like that.”

Orienne nearly had to step backward for balance.

Sorek struggled for words, and didn’t appear to find any. “Goodnight, Orienne,” he said yet again.

He hurried away, looking embarrassed, and Orienne turned to continue towards her tent, walking in a daze even as a stunned smile grew on her face. She settled into her cot and pulled the blankets tightly around herself, but didn’t fall asleep for a long, long time.

***

It was late the next afternoon when the call went through the procession: “Farindel is in sight from the next ridge!”

Riding near the middle of the procession, Orienne perked up and looked at Sorek, who was riding beside her.

“Do you want to ride ahead and see it?”

They moved their horses off of the road and spurred their horses to pass the procession and race ahead. A lone tree stood by the road at the top of the hill like a watchman, or a guide waiting to show them the view as they reined to a stop beneath its branches.

The hill dropped sharply and the road turned hard to the left to descend at an angle down its face as the land fell away into the vast Drelick Basin. The evening sun slanted across the spring grass, infusing everything it touched with warm, rich colours. Channels of water curved through islands of dense marsh vegetation, like veins of lead between the pieces of a stained glass window. Storks, cranes, and grebes called to each other across the distances, and fishermen piloted boats slowly along the waterways.

A lone mountain rose from the middle of the basin. Near its base, the islands and channels in the marsh had been shaped and diverted into precise geometric courses, forming a swirling medallion around the mountain. At the four points, north, south, east, and west, a causeway of solid ground cut through the medallion, each one leading to a gate. And beyond the gates, covering the mountain itself, was the city of Farindel.

The pale tarekstone walls of the city’s structures reflected the sunlight, gleaming in yellow, pink, and ivory. Battlements ringed the base of the city; towers and spires rose from all across it, many of them connected by elevated walkways. Libraries, amphitheatres, athenaeums, forums, and official buildings were visible even from a distance by the breaks they created among the other, smaller buildings. Though homes, shops, and gardens appeared at first glance to be jammed together in total disorder, there was still a peculiar beauty of artistic assymetry permeating even the most tightly packed street and labyrinthine marketplace.

Where the mountain’s steepness increased near its peak, flying buttresses rose from the lower streets to support the uppermost terraces of the city, dwarfing everything around them. Aqueducts ran along the tops of the buttresses, carrying away rain runoff and excess water from the springs that that gushed out of the mountain’s peak. The water cascaded from the ends of the aqueducts into irrigation conduits below, casting rainbows in the evening light.

Taking in the sight from their vantage point at the edge of the high country, Orienne smiled wistfully. No matter how many times she saw it, no matter how long she lived there, its beauty never faded.

Sorek stared toward the city, his brow creased in thought. “Do you ever…do you ever wonder why? Or when, or who? Who built this place? What happened to them? Why was this city just standing here, like it was waiting for us?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who doesn’t wonder that,” Orienne replied.

Centuries before, as the world collapsed in the wake of the Great War, survivors had sought escape from the chaos and anarchy, banding together and fleeing into the wild, unexplored north. Or at least, they had believed it to be unexplored. But when they reached this far edge of the northern continent, they had found this city—Farindel, in its breathtaking splendor—already built and completely abandoned. There had been no bodies, no signs at all of war, disease, or disaster, just an empty city…and the Aijalon.

The massive structure at the city’s peak was, they had discovered, a temple—the residence of a strange and powerful deity they would come to know as the Shield, who would speak out of the mist and the light and offer protection to a band of ragged refugees in exchange for their loyalty and devotion. It was the Shield who had guided them to an ancient sword made of a white metal none had ever seen before, and appoint one of their number “First-Born,” beginning the succession they continued to this day.

Naturally Orienne wondered, like everyone else, who had built the city and where they had gone. They still knew so very little about the Shield.

And yet the mystery was…right, somehow.

“I like the mystery of it,” she said to Sorek. “Whatever happened here before our people came, it must have been the Shield’s doing, and I don’t think we’re meant to understand Him. Not fully, anyway. I think he’s beyond that.”

Sorek considered. “So you don’t wonder?”

“Oh of course I do, but I’m at peace with the not-knowing, too. The Shield has shown us many times that He is benevolent and good, and that He knows what He’s about, so I don’t mind Him having His secrets.”

“Hmm.” Sorek went back to staring at the city, and said nothing more.

A breeze swept up from the basin, the distinctive breath of spring that was simultaneously warm, yet with a damp chill at the back of it. Orienne closed her eyes and inhaled as it fluttered through her hair. “I love the smell of the water and the new grass.”

The procession was catching up to them now, and Sorek nudged his horse to resume walking. “And I love when your eyes turn that colour.”

Orienne stared after him as he started down the steep descent into the basin, stunned. This was the first time he had ever said anything about her eyes—ever. He loved their colour…what colour were they? She tried to remember what she was feeling when he said it, but then what did that matter? He said he loved them—what did that mean? Why would he say it now, when he’d seen her eyes every day for weeks now?

“My lady?”

Orienne started and looked back to see one of the supply wagons slowing behind her—because here she sat motionless like a fool, blocking the middle of the road. She called back an apology and urged her horse down the road, but didn’t try to catch up with Sorek right away, to give her face some time to stop flaming red. But as she rode just fast enough to keep ahead of the convoy, Sorek slowed and fell back to ride beside her.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Orienne shook her head. “I just…wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“Then…you wouldn’t mind if I were to say it again sometime?”

Usually she did mind—so often it felt as though, once people noticed her eyes, they never saw anything else. Perhaps this was different because, by not mentioning them for so long, Sorek had made it clear that he did see the rest of her.

“No. I don’t think I would mind.”

He eased his horse closer to hers, leaned out, and took her hand. Warmth raced up her arm. The entire convoy was behind them—everyone would see, and there would be talk, so much talk.

But she didn’t care.

***

Once inside the city, the soldiers and supply wagons were dismissed, and the others continued up the sloping streets toward the city’s peak.

The Great Hall, the centre of the kingdom’s official business, perched high on the northwestern side of the mountain. The few houses located nearby included the homes of most of the Ransom, and housing for diplomats and visiting dignitaries.

Ivan felt a wave of grief break against him when they passed his house. He had spent almost no time there since Lynessa’s death, and the place was still filled to overflowing with her—her necklace still lying on the dressing table, the book she had been reading still lying on the floor by her side of the bed, the trunk full of clothes that still smelled like her…

“You can stay with me.”

Ivan turned from staring at the house, surprised by the voice.

Gabriel rode beside him. “You don’t have to go back there if it’s too much.”

The tightness in Ivan’s chest eased at the offer. “Thank you.”

Second-Born Albrius Caltehr greeted them outside the Great Hall when they arrived. He was the oldest of the Ransom, in age as well as years of service. His personality and appearance had both mellowed with time—his hair had gone grey and there was a growing bald spot on the back of his head, years of protecting a battle injury to his back had made his movement habitually slow and careful, and experience had gentled his temperament—but his hazel eyes still carried their intensity, his sinewy build was still evident, and his sarcastic wit had only grown sharper.

“Any news of Cyrus"?” he and Ivan asked each other at the same time.

Albrius shook his head. “We’ve searched his house and kept it under watch, but there’s been no sign of him or Viette.”

Ivan sighed. “We heard nothing of him in any of the town we passed through, either. He’s probably well beyond our reach by now.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Albrius ushered them into the Hall. Until now, Ivan had harboured the faint hope that Cyrus would turn up and give some perfectly reasonable justification for his disappearance. He’d even considered the possibility of finding Cyrus waiting here in Farindel for them when they arrived. Now, though, he was losing hope of Cyrus’ innocence. It was getting harder to believe there could be an explanation for all of this.

Now he had to explain to the army as well as the citizenry that one of their highest-ranking and most respected leaders, a man who had sworn to protect them, had betrayed them to the enemy. He dreaded it. After a decade of war, the Farin people were already weary and discouraged. News like this would only demoralise them further.

Beyond all that, Ivan didn’t want to face the possibility that someone he’d shared meals and fellowship with, a man he’d fought beside and considered a friend, could be responsible for Lynessa’s death.

***

After the weeks of travelling, staying in drafty barracks, and travelling again, taking a hot bath and wearing something besides a rugged riding outfit felt like exquisite luxury. It took Orienne several days of retiring early and sleeping late to feel she had fully caught up on rest. There was little need for her diplomacy now, so she busied herself working in the healers’ wards.

Sorek spent the first few days in the city finding work and securing a place to stay. A comfortable boardinghouse was easy to find, and within a few days he announced to Orienne that he had found work in a forge that would at least keep him in room and board until he decided what to do long-term.

Patrols along the lowland stretch of the Segora had been doubled, but the eastern outposts sent word that more Cytharocian scouts were continually being spotted in and around Theona Valley. They were still crossing the gorge somewhere in the mountains, but Farin expeditions had yet to find where. It was assumed the scouts in the valley were there to monitor the passes through the mountains and notify the Cytharocian generals once they were clear of snow, and that the capital would be their first target once through. As many Farin forces as could safely be spared in the north were being moved south and concentrated near the capital, ready to meet an attack from the mountains whenever it should occur.

The relief Orienne felt upon returning to the city soon became overshadowed by a faint, sick dread that hung in the back of her mind, flaring any time a new division of troops arrived or moved across the basin to camp preemptively between the city and the mountains.

Then news arrived that Cytharocian forces were emerging in huge numbers from the mountains directly east of the city.

Sorek tried to distract Orienne from her worry, from anticipating yet another season of bloodshed, of watching Allegar leave with the troops and wondering whether he would return alive. She tried to distract herself with work and pointless busyness. Even then, the crushing dread drove her frequently to the Aijalon.

If the capital city was the crown of Farindel’s glory, the Aijalon was the glittering central jewel in that crown. Enclosed within a walled garden at the city’s peak, it dwarfed the other buildings in the city with its vaulted roof, its tall, slender corner towers, its forward row of columns the size of trees, and the wide shallow steps leading up between the columns, through the massive arched doors, and into the hushed expanse of the central room.

The interior was as magnificent as the exterior: a vast room with floors of translucent grey tarekstone, and high, narrow windows lining the north and south walls to fill the space with light. A dais took up the western end of the room, and cut into the wall above it were three enormous arched windows, portals kept open for the Avelin, the giant winged creatures who served as the Shield’s personal messengers, though it had been years since they were last seen in Farindel.

The height of the vaulted ceiling was concealed by great expanses of cloth, hung by their corners from the north and south walls to form a screen between those on the ground and the space above, for it was in that space that the Shield resided—a presence at once invisible and too bright, too piercing, to be looked at.

There were benches along the walls of the central room, but Orienne usually remained on the wide porch atop the front steps when visiting the Aijalon. She loved the closeness to the Shield, but even veiled the intensity of His presence was often too much to bear comfortably.

So she sat before the towering doorway and pleaded, hour upon hour, day after day, for the war to end—for some way to escape this cycle of existence poisoned by fear and dread and hopes being crushed year after year.

She’d pleaded for the same thing for years now, without answer…but there was nothing more she could do.

***

It was too early for any reasonable person to be awake, and certainly too early to be out and about, but Ivan’s plan would fill the entire day, so this would be the only chance Allegar had to do his shopping. He was in a marketplace in the lower part of the city; there were plenty of markets closer to his house, but this was where the stall was that sold the best marbled cheese Allegar had ever tasted, so the extra walk was worth it.

As he turned to leave with his purchase, Allegar noticed a woman at the edge of the street, just paying for a bag of potatoes at another stall.

Was that…?

He casually walked closer, watching her from the corner of his eye without looking at her directly. She moved away, and he shortened the distance between them to keep from losing her, but she kept increasing her pace. She knew she was being followed. A few moments later, she ducked into an alley out of sight.

Allegar broke into a run, but when he reached the alley she had disappeared. He ran down the alley to the next street and scanned the handful of passersby. Several of them stared, eyeing the flame insignia on his sleeve, but the woman was not among them. He turned and raced back towards the upper part of the city.

Ivan and the others would be deeply interested to know that Viette Tehrlan was in Farindel.

None of them would have gone to the Great Hall yet, so he ran to Gabriel’s house, where he knew Ivan was staying, and pounded on the door.

Gabriel opened the door. Behind him, Ivan rose from his seat at the kitchen workbench that doubled as Gabriel’s table, where several documents were strewn. “What is it?”

“I’ve just seen Viette Tehrlan,” Allegar said.

They both stared at him with expressions of shock.

“Where?” Ivan asked.

“In one of the market squares in the lower part of the city.”

“You’re certain it was her?”

“Absolutely.”

“How did she get into the city?” Gabriel demanded, unconsciously moving both hands to weapons on his belt as he always did when something upset him.

“Did she see you?” Ivan asked.

“At the end, she did. She knew I was following her, but I don’t know if she knew who I was.”

“And I assume she ran?”

Allegar nodded. “She went down an alley and I lost her.”

“That means Cyrus is holed up somewhere in the city and sending her out for information and supplies,” Gabriel said.

Ivan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Which means he knows about the troops we’ve been moving across the basin.”

Gabriel spun away to circle the room, slamming his hand against the table as he passed. “We have to find him fast, before he has a chance to do more damage than he’s already done.”

“I can go back and try to find Viette again,” Allegar offered.

“Tomorrow,” Ivan said. “If she knew you were following her she won’t venture out again today, maybe not for a few days. Send word to every gate steward in the city in case Cyrus tries to leave. You’re in charge of finding them. Use whatever resources you need.”

“Yes, sir,” Allegar said.

“And get one of Viette’s artist friends to make sketches of both of them, and post copies all over the city. No everyone will know them by sight.”

“Right away.”

“Gabriel and I will still ride out to join the troops like we’d already planned,” Ivan finished.

Gabriel halted his circuit around the room. “We’re not changing the plan now that Cyrus might know about it?”

“The Cytharocian threat in the basin isn’t going to wait,” Ivan said. “If we delay to thwart any information Cyrus may have, we could just be exposing ourselves to a different threat. He’s left us no good options.”

“Traitor filth,” Gabriel growled. “Let’s just pray he hasn’t already destroyed us from inside our own capital.”

***

“Captain Verone, you are far too quick to forget that you were very seriously injured,” Ashnin, the healer, declared, “and you’ll be severely injured again if you refuse to rest and do as your told!”

Ryker rolled his eyes as she fussed with the bandage over his shoulder. “If I did what I was told I would be doing absolutely nothing.”

“Which is what you should be doing in your condition.”

“It’s been almost a month! Surely a little activity won’t kill me!”

“Sword practice with one of your men is more than ‘a little activity.’”

He rolled his eyes again. “I have to regain my strength as quickly as possible for the trip to Farindel. First-Born Romarck left orders for me to come as soon as I’m able.”

“You will never be able if you re-injure yourself. Tearing open a wound that’s still healing is not a suitable way to regain strength.”

“I didn’t tear it open!” Ryker insisted.

“But if either of you had made a wrong move—just one…”

Ryker struggled to think of a response until Ashnin added: “And even if you weren’t injured in the actual sparring, tying your arm to your chest that way before it is fully healed could have done nearly as much damage.”

“I had to keep it out of the way. My arm isn’t what’s injured anyway.”

“But it is attached to the part of you that is.”

Ryker gave up. Healers were impossible to please.

Ashnin gathered her supplies from the table into a basket and Ryker expected her to leave at once, but instead she sat down opposite him, eyes lowered and hands flexing on the basket’s rim.

“Captain Verone, I am trying to help you. Believe it or not, I do want what’s best for you, and I don’t enjoy keeping you confined anymore than you enjoy being confined.” She raised her eyes slowly. “Can you please try to understand that?”

Ryker stared at her pleading expression and suddenly felt guilty for arguing with her—and aggravated with himself for feeling guilty.

“I’ll try to be more careful,” he said, hoping the non-committal answer would placate her.

Ashnin watched him for a few seconds, probably waiting for something more satisfactory. When she didn’t get it, she stood to leave. She looked back over her shoulder one last time before disappearing through the door.

“There is only so much I can do to take care of you, Captain. Please take care of yourself, for…for my sake.” Then she was gone.

Ryker sighed and leaned back against the pillows piled on his bed. He was tired and sore, there could be no arguing on that point. It was discouraging to think that such a small amount of exertion had nearly exhausted him, but now that Ashnin had gone he could rest. Tomorrow he would exercise more, and more the next day, regaining his strength and mobility bit by bit. The mobility would be the hardest part. The dead weight of his left arm threw off his balance, but he would overcome it in time, as long as he kept out of Ashnin’s sight.

Someone knocked on the door, and he groaned. What could she possibly have forgotten?

“Come in,” he grumbled, pushing himself back up into a sitting position.

But it wasn’t Ashnin who entered; it was Rozahna, her mother. Her hands were empty, and rather than examining or asking about his shoulder she instead sat down in the chair Ashnin had just vacated.

“I understand you were out sword practicing with one of your men this morning,” she said.

Could they not just let it go? “I’ve already heard all about it. Ashnin just left here.”

Rozahna arched an eyebrow. “You are angry with her?”

“I’m not angry, I just wish she understood that I have to regain my strength so I can get to the capital.”

“She understands.”

“Does she? Does she understand I can’t do that if I have to stay confined to this room?”

“Captain Verone, perhaps you would allow me to tell you something about my daughter, something she does not have the courage to tell you herself.”

Ryker fought the reflex to roll his eyes again. Ashnin had no qualms about bossing around. He doubted there was anything she wasn’t bold enough to tell him. “Certainly,” he said. “Go ahead.”

Rozahna folded her hands on her lap and fixed him with a cool but not unkind stare. “Ashnin was crying as I passed her in the hall just now.”

Ryker started. Crying? He hadn’t spoken that sharply—at least he didn’t think he had. “But why…I don’t understand—”

“When they carried you into the ward the day of the attack, your shoulder was hanging in pieces,” Rozahna said. “You were in shock, and we nearly lost you.”

How many times was he going to have to listen to healers graphically describe his own injuries to him? And what did this have to do with Ashnin, anyway?

“In fact,” Rozahna continued, “you were in such poor condition that the surgeons at first gave you up for lost and decided to treat others with higher chances of survival, instead.”

Ryker went still. No one had told him that…

“Ashnin was the one who fought for you, who begged the surgeons to try to save you.”

Her stare suddenly left him feeling naked.

“My daughter is the only reason you are alive, Captain Verone.”

Ryker shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t know. He hadn’t known any of this…

“By nightfall you had not regained consciousness. Ashnin had cared for the wounded all day and was as exhausted as the rest of us, but she feared that if you awoke and moved you might start bleeding again. So she sat up with you. For two days and nights." The morning of the third day, I found her asleep on the bare floor beside your bed, from sheer exhaustion.”

Ryker swallowed. Ashnin’s face was the first he had seen upon waking up, late on the third day, but he hadn’t known…he hadn’t realised she cared so much. If he’d felt guilty before, he felt like a criminal now.

“I didn’t…” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know.”

Rozahna smiled a little. “That is why I told you. You might consider this conversation the next time you complain about her attentiveness or disobey her orders.”

But as Rozahna left the room, Ryker decided that there wasn’t going to be a next time.

***

“Good morning, Captain Verone,” Ashnin said, carrying her basket of supplies into his quarters the next morning. “Your bandaged needs to be changed, but I have to clean the wound first and you’re wasting your breath arguing about it because I’m not going to listen.”

Ryker blushed at the reminder of what an ingrate he’d been. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to argue with you.”

Ashnin raised an eyebrow, an expression that made her look exactly like her mother. “It would be the first time.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat. “Ashnin, I—I want to thank you for everything you’ve done—everything you’re doing—for me. You’re doing an excellent job. And…and I want to apologise. I’ve been very ungrateful and difficult, but it won’t happen anymore.”

Her eyebrow dropped back into place and she stared at him.

“I mean it,” he said.

She smiled—a warm smile that spread over her face slowly, like sunrise spreading across the sky. “Thank you for that, Captain Verone.”

Why had he never noticed what a beautiful smile she had? Probably because he’d never given her cause to smile before.

Tell her she can call you Ryker, something inside him said. Tell her. Tell her!

He drew a breath and swallowed. He couldn’t tell her that, not now—he would sound like an idiot.

Tell her!

She would laugh.

Tell her!

“You…you’re welcome.”

Idiot.

“Yes, sir!” the men shouted back in unison.

“Once we overtake them, I want you below deck where it’s safer,” Allegar told Orienne, who stood on the forecastle next to him.

Orienne nodded, twisting her hands together out of sight inside her cloak. “Do you think they’ll harm him after going to such trouble to take him alive?”

“Unquestionably. He’s more valuable captured than dead, but if it’s a choice between killing him or losing him entirely, they’ll kill him.”

He left her on the forecastle to join the men preparing grappling hooks and ladders on the deck, and Orienne turned to watch the fleeing ship in front of them. Movement caught her eye and she squinted against the wind. What were they doing? It was complete chaos on board, though from this distance she couldn’t make out the cause.

“Orienne!”

She glanced back at Allegar, but he was still preoccupied.

“Orienne, down here!”

Orienne looked down at the water, and screamed before she could stop herself.

“Allegar!” she screamed, running down the steps and along the ship’s side. “Allegar!”

He dropped the rope in his hands and started toward her. “What is it?”

She grabbed his arm and pulled him to the rail, pointing. “It’s Ivan!”

***

Cyrus paced Sutton’s wall, scanning the sky for messenger swifts. There was nothing else he could do, and it was driving him mad. He hated being stuck here, waiting, helpless to do more. So many things could go wrong. So much had already gone wrong.

His thoughts were interrupted by distant hoof beats. There sounded light and swift—a courier’s horse. Cyrus hurried down from the wall as the gates open and the courier galloped into the fort. Cyrus met him as he stopped.

“Where is your message from?”

“Doesn’t say, sir,” the young man said, swinging down from the saddle and saluting, “but it’s marked for you personally.”

Cyrus pulled off the protective outer layer of parchment and scanned the paper inside. His heart stopped after only the first two lines. This couldn’t be…

“Sir? Are you all right?”

Cyrus jumped, relaxed his brow, and lied without thinking. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, it’s just…just news from family.” That much was true, at least. “Thank you for bringing it.”

The courier narrowed his eyes at him, but Cyrus ignored it and finished reading the letter on the way to his quarters. By the time he reached the room in the officers’ barracks he was almost numb. He shut the door, dropped the letter on the small table, and sat down with his head in his hands.

Viette rose from her chair on the other side of the room and laid aside her sketchbook. “What’s wrong? Have they found Ivan?”

Cyrus didn’t look up. “Read the letter.”

Viette picked it up. “Cyrus, I can’t read this, it isn’t Reyemen. What does it say?”

Cyrus sat back and stared blankly at the table. He couldn’t say it.

A few moments went by, and Viette’s hand came to rest on his back. “He’s sent for you, hasn’t he? They’ve called you back?”

Cyrus stood up and circled the room, wishing he could hit something. “Why would he do this to me? How can he? Why now, after all these years? He knows I have a life here—a life I’ve spent years building! Does he think I can just give that up, crumble everything I’ve worked for to dust?”

“Then tell him no.”

“But I made a vow! And no matter how long ago I made it, or how stupid I was to make it, or how different things were then, a promise is still a promise. And the man I made it to is still my father.”

“You made a vow to the Farin too, when you became one of the Ransom.”

“But was that vow even valid? I was already under a pledge to my father; I had no right to promise anything to anyone else. It was a mistake. I should have declined the nomination.”

Viette was silent for a moment, staring at the floor in thought. Then she followed him across the room and wrapped her hands around his. “I cannot make this choice for you, my love, but you know I will stand by you no matter what you choose.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “That’s more than I deserve.”

“Don’t say that.” She leaned into him and kissed him, then laid her head on his shoulder.

He put his arms around her and leaned his cheek against the top of her head as indecision gnawed at him. He was a fool, just as his father told him when he’d left. He thought he’d proved him wrong, but only a fool would have gotten himself into this predicament—caught between two choices and neither of them the right thing to do.

***

The relief of seeing Ivan alive quickly dissipated.

Allegar dived over the side to get a rope around the First-Born, but as soon as Ivan was hauled onto the deck of the Lady Horizon he collapsed, shivering, bleeding, coughing, too exhausted to stand. Allegar and Sorek helped carry him into the captain’s cabin, where it was warmest. The ship’s healer closed himself in with Ivan and fiercely denied entrance to anyone else as the sailors turned the ship back toward Farin waters. After changing into dry clothes Allegar had made several attempts to see Ivan, but was repelled each time.

When the healer finally emerged from the cabin, he announced that Ivan was asleep and not to be disturbed by anyone, for any reason. Since it was already well into the evening, everyone had retired for the night.

Orienne awoke early the next morning, slipped out of her hammock in the hold, and walked up to the quarter deck for a view of the sunrise. She was surprised to find Sorek already there, arms folded on the railing at the back of the ship, staring eastward.

“You’re up early,” Orienne said.

“You too.”

“I’m not used to being on a ship. The motion makes it hard to sleep.”

Sorek chuckled. “I’ve felt queasy since yesterday.” He faced the sunrise again. “It’s a beautiful morning, though.”

Orienne breathed in the smell. The sea air was exhilarating despite the cold, and a filigree of blush and gold lay over the dark waves.

“We should make port at Myrour soon,” Sorek said, “and then we can get some solid ground under us again.”

Footsteps sounded behind them, and Ivan stepped up from the companionway. “Good morning.” His voice and smile were still weary. His hair had been combed away from the scabbed cut and purple bruise marring his left temple, and he wore a sea captain’s uniform instead of his own. The borrowed shirt had been made for Captain Giles’ massive frame and made Ivan look like a child wearing his father’s shirt. A chain still dangled from each of his wrists.

“Ivan, it is so good to see you,” Orienne said. “Thank the Shield you’re safe.”

Ivan held out his hand. “I have, believe me.”

Orienne placed her hand on top of his and glanced back at Sorek. “Oh—Ivan, I don’t know if you’ve met Sorek Ronarres.”

“Allegar mentioned you, but we haven’t met.”

Sorek took Ivan’s extended hand nervously. “It’s—it’s an honour to meet you, sir.”

“The honour is mine.”

“Ivan, you’re awake!”

Allegar and Captain Giles joined them on the quarter deck. Allegar, still in his morning haze, took Ivan’s hand and paused, staring at the chain locked around Ivan’s wrist. “Why do you still have that on?”

Ivan gave him a faint smile and held up the other arm with its matching chain. “Because I couldn’t get them off.”

Captain Giles looked mortified. “First-Born, I am so sorry, I didn’t realise—the healer wouldn’t let us see you. I’ll have one of my men bring tools and we’ll get those off right away!” He hurried away, shouting for the ship’s carpenter.

“No need to rush,” Ivan called after him. “They’ve been there for two days.”

Quiet laughter circulate through the group, but Ivan’s smile faded quickly. “I’m afraid I have some very bad news,” he said. “It’s something I overheard after I was captured.”

***

A messenger swift reached Sutton with the news that Ivan had been rescued, having suffered only a minor injury and a case of cold shock.

Cyrus read the message numbly, but by its end he had reached a decision. Or rather, the decision seemed to make itself as circumstances came into place around it.

The next morning, he and Viette rose before dawn, loaded their bags onto their horses, and slipped out of Sutton Fort unnoticed. Everything inside Cyrus screamed that it was wrong, that there had to be some other way. But there wasn’t. He had lain awake all night trying to think of one, but had only succeeded in convincing himself it did not exist. The decision had made itself because it was the only possible solution.

As the sun rose, he stopped his horse long enough to look back at the watchtowers of the fort, barely visible above the tops of the trees. Guilt stabbed through his chest. He hadn’t even left a note explaining himself. Nothing he could have written would have made them understand. Nothing he could say would make leaving the right thing to do.

“It’s not too late,” Viette said softly.

Cyrus’ pulse quickened. They could turn back, slip into their quarters as though nothing had happened. If he just ignored the summons, no one here need ever learn of his true identity. If they hadn’t found him out by now, they likely never would.

But staying here and pretending nothing had happened wasn’t the right thing to do either. Viette’s presence was all that kept him from swearing when he considered the corner he had built himself into. How many years had he spent longing and praying for this? How long had he struggled to keep alive his hope of being called home?

“I should never have let it go this far,” he said through clenched teeth.

As they started down the road again, he thought of Ivan and the others, and wondered if he would ever see any of them again—if they would ever have any idea how much he hated leaving them.

***

Orienne had not consciously thought about what sort of welcome they would receive upon returning to Sutton Fort, but the tense, unnatural silence would not have been part of it if she had. Inside the gates they were met by an anxious-looking sergeant who stopped in front of Ivan’s horse and saluted.

“Sergeant Marick, acting commander of the fort, at your service, sir!”

“Acting commander?” Ivan returned the sergeant’s salute.

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid I have bad news. Third-Born Tehrlan and his wife have disappeared.”

Orienne gasped, and her shock was evident in the others, as well.

Ivan dismounted and stood beside his horse, his face dark. “When?”

“We’re not sure exactly,” Sergeant Marick said. “They were here night before last, but no one has seen them yesterday or today, and no one spotted them leaving, so they must have left during one of the changes of the watchmen.”

Ivan tossed his reins to a stable boy. “You’ve searched for them?”

“Everywhere, sir. The roads, the villages, the woods—we searched their quarters and found none of their belongings, and both their horses are gone.”

Orienne tried to piece it all together. If their belongings were gone they had left on their own…but why? She watched Ivan as he and Allegar exchanged a look. The knowing in both their eyes made her cold, reminding her what he had told them on board the Lady Horizon:

“Someone with access to Sutton Fort either told the Cytharocians were I was, or someone in Sutton is a Cytharocian agent who’s been waiting for the right moment to act.

Orienne had been prepared to accept that a spy had infiltrated the fort. But Cyrus, one of the Ransom itself…

Ivan turned to Sergeant Marick. “Did you or any of your men note anything unusual or suspicious before they disappeared?”

Sergeant Marick shook his head. “The only clue we have is a courier who arrived that evening. He told me the next day that he had delivered a message to him. It was addressed in Reyemen, but he saw the Third-Born open it, and said that the inside was written in another language. He didn’t know what language it was, though.”

Orienne realised she was the only one still on her horse and quickly dismounted, looking to Sorek, Allegar, anyone, in hopes that one of them could explain this away. There had to be a harmless explanation. It wasn’t possible for a traitor or spy to have infiltrated the Ransom, was it?

“Ivan there must be a mistake,” Allegar said. “I haven’t known Cyrus long, but you’ve known him for years. Have you ever seen anything to suggest he’s a Cytharocian agent?”

Ivan shook his head slowly, staring at the ground. “No…but he did know exactly where I was in the woods.” His was so low, so calm…terrifyingly calm.

A thought came to Orienne. “Ivan, Cyrus disappeared the day the Cytharocians attacked Sutton, too. He left without telling anyone just before the Cytharocians arrived, and was gone until well after the attack was over.”

Even as she spoke, Orienne hated herself. Cyrus had to have a reason—a good one—for what he was doing. Who was she to immediately take up the case against him?

“That is true,” Sorek said. “I was with the party that found him in the woods after the attack.”

“I don’t want to believe it,” Ivan said, still staring at the ground, “but at the moment I don’t think we have a choice.” He raised his face to look at the sergeant. “Come into the council hall. We have to try to decide what to do.”

Orienne stood half-dazed as Ivan, Allegar, and the soldiers walked away. Like the others, she didn’t want to believe Cyrus was a traitor. She felt like a traitor for even thinking such thoughts. But in light of the evidence, what else was she supposed to believe?

She started when someone touched her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Sorek asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I just…I don’t understand how the Third-Born of the Ransom could be a spy all this time without anyone catching on.”

“There’s still a chance he isn’t,” Sorek said. “There could still be some other explanation.”

“I can’t imagine what it would be.”

“Neither can I, but remember what Allegar said: Ivan has known Cyrus for years and never saw anything to suggest he might not be what he seemed.” He squeezed Orienne’s shoulder. “Don’t give up hope just yet.”

His hand on her shoulder was comforting—Orienne didn’t move, lest he think he’d made her uncomfortable and remove it—and his hopefulness was encouraging.

“I’ll try,” she said.

***

Ryker stood up and shuffled towards the window. His dead left arm, hanging in a sling, made him feel awkward and off-balance, and his ribs and shoulder throbbed with every movement, but he could not stay still any longer. Propping himself against the side of the dormer with his right shoulder, he unlatched the heavy shutters and pushed them open. A cold, raw breeze sent chills across his back and made the contrasting numbness of his arm even more noticeable.

Outside, a red and purple blaze lit a small half circle on the eastern horizon. The common area below was a swarm of soldiers’ cloaks as they prepared for the Ransom’s departure.

Heaviness sank through Ryker’s chest as he watched the activity. Seven months ago he’d been given command of the fort—something he’d dreamed of for years, even if tiny, remote Sutton wouldn’t have been his first choice. Then he’d been granted the honour of hosting the Ransom during the negotiations with Cytharoc.

Now the Ransom were leaving, and with them everything Ryker had dreamed of and worked for all these years. The Third-Born had disappeared, suspected of treason. With the coming spring, conflict with Cytharoc would resume. There could be more attempts to capture or kill the First-Born. Farindel needed every man that could be had, and Ryker was stuck here, barely able to move.

The healers urged him not to think about his command or duties yet, to let himself heal first and worry about other things later. But he was beginning to have serious doubts about regaining the use of his arm. Wouldn’t the feeling have started to come back, if it was going to? Wouldn’t he be able to wiggle a finger or feel a healer’s touch by now? As much as the thought grieved him, he was afraid the time had come to give up his hope of returning to command.

He began to shiver, so he pulled the shutters closed, walked back to his bed, and sat down. Just crossing the room had tired him.

What would he do if he couldn’t return to his command? He’d never considered anything outside the military; even as a boy he’d been interested in nothing else. Of course, interest was a luxury he could no longer afford. What other occupation could he undertake with only one functional arm?

Someone knocked on the door, and he rolled his eyes. Couldn’t the healers wait until the sun was all the way up to start haranguing him?

“Come in,” he muttered.

The door swung open, and First-Born Romarck stepped into the room. The exquisite white sword of the First-Born hung sheathed at his side, and the flame insignia of the Ransom blazed on his sleeve.

“First-Born Romarck!” Ryker jumped to his feet—a mistake. His shoulder and side screamed at the sudden movement and the dead weight of his arm threw him off balance. He managed to right himself and keep from crying out at the pain, but he couldn’t hide a grimace.

“Captain Verone, please, there’s no need for that,” the First-Born said, coming closer. He extended a hand to offer assistance, but hesitated as if uncertain what to do. “Have you injured yourself?”

Ryker shook his head, clenching his teeth against the pain. “Sorry, sir…just…not used to moving slowly.”

“There’s no need for an apology, Captain, unless I’m the one who does it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have surprised you like that.”

“You don’t have to apologise, sir.”

“I’m doing it anyway. Please, if you need to, sit back down.”

It disgusted him to be so weak, but Ryker accepted the offer and eased himself onto the side of his bed. To his relief, the First-Born pulled a chair over and sat down as well.

“How are you faring?”

“Better” Ryker said, “especially the last day or two. I’m glad to be out of the infirmary and back in my own rooms.”

“And your arm?”

Ryker hesitated. He hadn’t wanted to bring it up. He didn’t want to sound self-pitying.

“Is it improving?” the First-Born pressed.

Ryker forced a swallow. “Sir, I…I don’t think I’m going to regain the use of it.” He felt sick with the finality of saying it aloud. “I should be able to feel something or move it by now if I was.”

The First-Born’s face fell. “I am so sorry.” He leaned his elbows on his knees and waited a few moments before continuing. “I met a woman shortly after the attack who told me you received your injury saving her young son’s life.”

Ryker dropped his gaze. “I was doing what every Farin soldier is trained to do, sir.”

“She didn’t seem to think so. She has formally submitted your name for future consideration as one of the Ransom for your ‘exceptional conduct.’”

Ryker stared. “…she what?”

The First-Born nodded. “She said she knew she could never repay your sacrifice, but she hoped she could honour it.”

The blood rushed into Ryker’s face as he tried to contain himself and be practical. “But sir, that—that couldn’t work. We have to think of what’s best for Farindel. Suppose one of the sons died and I was chosen as his replacement. I have only one arm now. I couldn’t do everything that would be required of me.”

The First-Born shrugged. “When I was a boy one of the sons lost a leg and continued serving for years afterward. Even now, Second-Born Caltehr is confined to the capital city because his back injury prevents him riding a horse. It can be done with or without the use of your arm. Of course, you’re under no obligation to accept the nomination, but—”

“No.” Ryker pressed his lips together and shut his eyes at the realisation that he had just interrupted the First-Born of the Ransom mid-sentence. “No, sir,” he continued when he had collected himself, “I’ll accept her nomination—gladly—with your blessing. Believe me, there is nothing I would rather do than continue serving the Protected.”

First-Born Romarck smiled. “Good. It will take time for you to relearn everything with only one arm, but there are healers in the capital who specialise in that sort of thing. I’ve arranged for you to be transferred there for that purpose. Sutton will pass to Sergeant Marick, and you will report to Farindel as soon as the healers have cleared you for the journey.”

Despite the certainty that it would be years before these obsessive healers released him for a trip like that, Ryker couldn’t keep from smiling. “First-Born, I—this means everything to me.”

First-Born Romarck stood. “It was my honour to come.” He shook Ryker’s hand and smiled. “I’ll see you in Farindel.”

He strained against a wave of dizziness that swept over him as he was hauled to his feet, and as the dizziness passed he realised that the voices weren’t garbled at all.

They were speaking Cytharocian.

For one stupid moment Ivan panicked and threw himself forward, trying to run, to break away. An instant later he slammed into the ground again, whether from falling on his own or being shoved he couldn’t tell. The pain in his head exploded again, followed by another wave of nausea that made it impossible to struggle any more.

As multiple sets of hands grabbed him and hauled him to his feet once again, Ivan shoved aside his idiotic panic and tried to focus. His knowledge of the Cytharocian language was rusty and the pounding in his head didn’t help, but he managed to grasp some idea what his captors were saying.

One was worried something had gone wrong, because “they” weren’t here yet.

A second voice told the first to be patient, that there was still time.

The first one swore. “I don’t like this. He’s one of them. What if he backs out and turns us in? If we get caught—”

“This entire plan is his idea. He won’t back out.”

The sound of horses approached.

“See?” the first voice said. “Just like he said.”

Ivan tried to keep his breathing steady and quiet as shock and anger flooded through him. He’d been betrayed by a fellow Farin. Someone inside Sutton Fort was a traitor.

***

“Fall in behind me! We ride in two minutes!” Allegar shouted across the fort’s common area, as every soldier who could possibly be spared (and a few who shouldn’t have been) prepared to ride out in pursuit of Ivan and his captors.

Around the fort that had only minutes before been settling into evening quiet, torches now blazed, stable hands and soldiers scrambled side by side to saddle horses, and various personnel hastily stuffed packs with provisions to send with them.

Allegar was lashing one such pack to his saddle when Sorek came to him, fully armed and dressed for travel, leading his own horse.

“Let me come with you. You need every man you can get.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Allegar said, cinching a strap down and tying it, “but I’m afraid I can’t let you. This is an official military issue.”

“Allegar I’ve only been out for two months! Besides, you’re Ransom—you have the authority to temporarily enlist someone in a crisis. This is a crisis and you can’t afford to turn down help.”

Allegar couldn’t argue with that. “Fine. You’re temporarily re-enlisted.”

“I’m coming too.” This time it was Orienne’s voice. She stood next to another saddled horse.

“Oh, no you’re not,” Allegar said.

“You need me,” Orienne insisted. “According to the laws of war, if Cytharoc demands ransom or parley, you need a non-combatant official to negotiate with them.”

Allegar scoffed and cinched down the last strap on his bag. “I think it safe to assume Cytharoc is not particularly concerned with the laws of war.”

“That doesn’t give us license to violate them. And you know Cytharoc will demand adherence to the rules if it gives them leverage. Ivan’s life could depend on me being with you.”

Allegar started to tell her no and walk away, but stopped. She had a point, and she was the only diplomatic official around. He rolled his eyes. “Fine, you can come. Would anyone else like to join our merry little expedition?”

“Isn’t Third-Born Tehrlan coming?” Sorek asked, mounting his horse.

“No. We’ve already sent messenger swifts out in every direction and someone has to stay here to manage communication.”

Allegar and Orienne mounted their horses, and Allegar shouted the order to ride out. The darkness would make things difficult and the going would be painfully slow. Allegar prayed they could rescue Ivan in time. The Shield only knew what the Cytharocians would do to him if they made it across the border.

By dawn the would-be rescuers had only travelled a few miles from Sutton. They had found a trail, where Ivan’s captors had dragged him through the woods for a short distance before meeting up with others on horses, but the trail had been difficult to follow over still partially-frozen ground.

Sunrise made the trail easier to follow, but that was little encouragement.

“I’ve never seen anything like this, sir,” the tracker riding in the front of the group told Allegar. “I can’t imagine what kind of horses they’re riding, or what they’ve done to them, to be able to travel this fast.”

As the day progressed, the Farin were forced to rest their horses periodically. The tracks left by Ivan’s captors, though, gave no indication that they had slowed down to rest even a single time.

Though no one spoke it, it was apparent they all shared the same growing fear: that Ivan was quickly slipping beyond their reach.

***

Ivan had figured out about halfway through the journey where he was being taken—there weren’t that many potential destinations in this corner of the country. Why his captors would take him to Moorden, he’d been unable to surmise until they topped the last hill above the village and he saw a trade vessel moored at the docks, an Arcameran flag flying from its mast. A clever plan, even if it did violate at least two wartime laws.

Farindel’s western neighbour, Arcamere, had remained adamantly neutral throughout the Farin-Cytharocian war. That neutrality allowed trade vessels like this one to pass through both Farin and Cytharocian waters without suspicion…though he suspected this was actually a Cytharocian vessel simply flying Arcameran flags.

It could explain Moorden’s destruction too. If this was the work of a Farin traitor, they must have planned all along to capture and bring him here. It seemed needlessly elaborate, but made as much sense as anything else…though it meant that the deaths of the innocent people of Moorden were because of him.

Just like Lynessa’s death.

He and his captors rode down the hill and through the burned village to what remained of the docks. The Cytharocians dismounted and retrieved saddlebags, hurrying as though pursuers could descend on them at any moment. Ivan thought that improbable, considering the speed at which they had travelled.

Their horse stood with legs spread for balance, hooves broken and bloodied, noses almost touching the ground, bodies shuddering with each breath. Blood dripped from their nostrils. One of the Cytharocians made his way from hose to horse, untying a blue and green speckled stone from each one’s breast strap. Ivan hadn’t noticed the stones while they were travelling, but they were identical to the ones found on the dead ambassador and his men, the ones Gabriel said could kill. Apparently they could also grant speed and stamina—though at high cost, judging by the condition of the horses.

Another of the Cytharocians reached up with a knife and cut the rope that tied Ivan’s hands to the saddle. The thought of grabbing the knife crossed Ivan’s mind, but he thought better of it. On a good day he could handle maybe two of them with only a knife. Taking on all six, not including the additional men waiting on the docks, was a bit much, especially since the concussion and nonstop gallop from Sutton had left him feeling like he’d been dragged behind a wagon. He slid from the saddle and stood and the points of three Cytharocian swords while they retied his hands behind his back.

Just before he was taken on board the ship, Ivan scanned the hills above Moorden.

Nothing.

He couldn’t realistically expect to see anything, he knew, but it was still disappointing to look out over such a broad space and see no Farin soldiers, no sign of rescue or aid. Nothing but a speckled black messenger swift flying south against the wind.

***

The Farin rescuers stopped their horses on the crest of the hill above the village, praying for a hopeful sign, though what would have qualified as a hopeful sign was uncertain. Black ash piles lay where homes, boathouses, warehouses, and shops had stood. A Farin warship was just sailing into the bay from the outer waters, but the village itself was completely vacant.

The tracker made his way down the hill and through the village, and the rest of them followed. As they neared the beach, Orienne noticed several strange, dark shapes scattered there. It was impossible to tell what they were from a distance, but the horses began acting skittish, tossing their heads and protesting when their riders urged them forward.

As they drew closer Orienne suddenly understood why, and her stomach knotted.

Dead horses lay scattered where they had fallen, sprawled on their sides with eyes locked open, the ground around them scraped bare by their convulsions. Closer to the docks, one wretched animal was still on its feet. Blood dripping from its nose and mouth had created a dark pool in the sand.

Allegar stared at it for a few seconds before turning to the others. “Does anyone have a hunting knife?”

Orienne’s eyes burned with tears as Allegar took the knife one of them offered, dismounted, and approached the horse. If it saw him, it didn’t care. Its body quivered with spasms after every breath. Allegar gently laid a hand on the horse’s shoulder for a moment—one last, kind touch. Then, without a word, he cut its throat, and its legs collapsed under it. Allegar stepped aside as it fell, and for a moment stood staring at it.

“That’s how they got away so quickly,” he said finally. “They used sorcery to keep the horses running.”

Orienne clenched her teeth to keep her chin from trembling as a tear tumbled down her face. What kind of monster ran a horse to death? If they were capable of treating an innocent animal this way, what kind of horrors could they commit against a captured enemy?

“Sixth-Born,” the tracker said, “their prints go to the dock and don’t come back. They took First-Born Romarck onto a ship.”

Orienne’s heart sank. As it approached Cytharoc’s territorial waters, the coastline became a dense labyrinth of headlands, islands, coves, and rocks. If they couldn’t catch Ivan’s captors before then, it could be impossible to find them.

“Then we have to move fast.” Allegar walked back to his own horse. “One of you go up there and signal that warship to put in,” he said, pointing to the ridge above the village. “They’re only here on their usual patrol—they won’t know what’s happened yet.”

“Yes, sir!” One of the soldiers broke away at a gallop towards the top of the hill.

As the ship turned into the bay and a longboat made its way to shore, the party untied their packs from their saddles and turned their horses over to one of the soldiers, who would return them to the fort.

Waiting on the dock with the others, Orienne tried to reassure herself that at least they knew they were on the right path. But somehow there was little consolation in knowing this was the right path, when it inevitably led to more bloodshed.

***

Ivan stood in the otherwise empty hold of the ship, feet braced wide apart for balance. The rocking of the ship, the exhaustion brought on by the night of missed sleep—or was it two nights now?—and the ordeal of being kidnapped, and the throbbing pain in his swollen left temple made standing upright difficult, but the manacles around his wrists gave him no choice. The short chains were bolted into a bean in the hold’s ceiling, keeping his hands just above his eye level.

He rocked back and forth on the chains, pulling against the bolts in hopes of working them loose. So far they had only begun to wiggle slightly. Ivan fought to stay alert as exhaustion tugged at his mind, imploring him to fall asleep.

He remembered the Cytharocian’s words: “He’s one of them. What if he backs out and turns us in?”

Who was “he”? Ivan’s gut twisted in rage at the thought of a traitor. It was most likely a stable hand, or a low-ranking guard, someone who wasn’t at the center of things, whose presence and activities didn’t attract as much attention. It could be anyone, though.

Was the traitor responsible for his capture also responsible for Lynessa’s death?

He grabbed the chains in his fists and jerked, teeth clenched.

Why hadn’t he listened to Cyrus? The Shield only knew what kind of ultimatum Cytharoc would try to force Farindel into now, using him as leverage. He had just put Farindel in a deadly position with his obstinate stupidity. The entire kingdom was in danger because of him—just like Lynessa. Just like the innocent people of Moorden.

And for what?

Ivan was nothing—a farmer and the son of a farmer, who’d enlisted as a common soldier out of love for the kingdom he called home. Training and practice had made him a respectable fighter, but he was no hero, no legendary warrior, no brilliant strategist. He couldn’t make an inspiring speech to save his life; the title “First-Born” was the only reason anyone would follow him anywhere.

Ivan had been as shocked as anyone when the Shield had bestowed the title on him following First-Born Kelda’s death. He had insisted that he was completely unqualified for the task, but the Shield’s messengers, the Avelin, had insisted that his obedience and devotion were all that were required, that he had been chosen not for his own qualities, but for qualities the Shield could reveal to the Farin through him.

Which made a certain degree of sense; the Farin still knew so little of the mysterious deity inhabiting their capital—the deity who had already been there, dwelling in a city already built, when the refugees who would become the Farin had straggled up from the Southlands fleeing the aftermath of the Great War. If the Shield wanted to make Himself known, it followed that His decisions would be calculated for that purpose…but what was choosing a nobody like Ivan as the kingdom’s leader supposed to reveal? What did letting innocent people die in Ivan’s place say about the nature of this enigmatic being?

Ivan threw his weight against the chains again, and this time he hear the faint tick of wood fibres breaking. The bolt above his left hand began to wiggle more freely. He focused his attention there and renewed his efforts. Metal squeaked against metal and bolt creaked against wood, rocking back and forth with him now. He reached up, wrapped his thumb and forefinger around it, and worked it from its hole in the beam.

He immediately turned to the task of freeing his right hand, but it was only a few seconds before footsteps on the deck above his head caught his attention. They moved quickly, and others joined them, swarming in all directions back and forth across the deck. What was causing such a disturbance?

The hatchway on the other end of the hold opened, spilling in light.

There was no time to finish freeing himself, but at least his dominant hand was already free. Ivan fished the bolt up from the end of the chain on his left wrist and slid it back into its hole in the beam. As long as he took most of the chain’s weight with his arm, the fit was tight enough for it the bolt to stay in place.

Four Cytharocian soldiers came down the companionway into the hold, and Ivan concentrated to understand what they said.

“But I thought we were supposed to wait!”

“We have no choice. They know we have him, and we can’t outrun them in this washtub.”

Ivan caught his breath. The Farin had found him!

“Our only chance is to take him on deck where they can see him, and try to negotiate with him as a hostage.”

“And if they won’t negotiate?”

“We kill him.”

Not without a fight, Ivan vowed to himself. He wondered how many he could take on single-handedly…literally. He almost relished the idea of dying here, in a brutal struggle. He wouldn’t have to live without Lynessa anymore.

Two of the Cytharocians stood watching from a few feet away while the other two came forward, one with a set of manacles and the other with the key to the chains already on Ivan’s wrists.

The one carrying the manacles moved behind him, waiting, but Ivan kept his eyes on the one with the key, waited until he was focused on fitting it into the lock, then jerked downward with his left arm. The bolt came free and the guard started in shock, just as Ivan slammed a fist into his face.

He fell backwards without even trying to catch himself.

Ivan spun and, using the chain around his right wrist for leverage, jumped and kicked the guard with the manacles in the centre of the chest.

The two guards standing watch swore and rushed at him out of panicked instinct. Ivan had little trouble breaking the first one’s nose with his elbow and getting the other into a strangle hold.

The soldier with the broken nose stumbled back to the companionway and called up for help. Within moments three more Cytharocians arrived. Everyone on the ship would be down here before long.

The man Ivan was choking went limp. Ivan let him slump to the floor, grabbing his sword as he fell. He swung the blade at the closest of the reinforcements charging at him, leaving a long gash across the first one’s chest. He struck again at the other two, but the chain around his right wrist held him back and they managed to jump out of reach. They separated then, one standing his ground and the other skirting the room to approach Ivan from behind.

Ivan tried to watch both of them at once. The one in front drew a sword and rushed, and Ivan turned to block the attack. When he did, the other ran in from behind and got an arm around his throat.

His ears rang and spots darkened his vision as his air was cut off, but just before he blacked out he rotated the sword into a reverse hold and plunged it backwards into the Cytharocian’s side. The arm around his throat relaxed, but as the soldier fell Ivan lost his grip on the sword. He turned and reached, trying to retrieve it from where it stuck out of the soldier’s body, but the chain on his right wrist prevented it.

The lone remaining guard started toward him, sword in hand. Ivan grabbed the chain on his right wrist with both hands, jumped, and aimed a kick at the soldier’s jaw with both feet. The heels of his boots connected with the Cytharocian’s skull, but the bolt fastening the chain to the ceiling let go at the same moment.

Ivan crashed to the floor on his back. His vision went red as the impact knocked the breath from him and searing pain attacked the lung he had punctured four months earlier. He tolled onto his side and struggled to his hands and knees, fighting for air. As his lungs gradually relaxed, he grabbed the first sword he found among the bodies and forced himself to stand.

Why was no one else coming into the hold?

Ivan stumbled to the companionway and up onto the deck, where he saw the reason no one else had come down: they were all distracted by the Farin war vessel bearing down on them. He glanced to the side. The water would be frigid—frigid enough to kill a man quickly—but the ship was close.

One of the Cytharocians saw him and ran for him. Ivan swung his right arm, lashing the chain and bolt dangling from his wrist across the man’s face. Then he dropped the sword in his hand and dove over the ships rail into the ocean.