

### Kydona

### By Thomas K. Krug III

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright 2013 Thomas K. Krug III

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Connect with me Online

Prologue

The night was peaceful as the king's army slept. No cricket chirps, no rustling wind. Just the sound of his tent mate's gentle breathing, and then, just above that... the sound of distant shouts. A horse had gotten loose, probably. The full moon always made beasts behave oddly, after all.

But there were more shouts joining in. Even at this distance, Marcus could hear the alarmed tones.

A trumpet sounded—a long, dolorous howl drifting over the camp. Again. By the third report, Marcus and Vernon were sitting bolt upright. More trumpets quickly joined the first, all blowing that same drawn out note. Even if the Watch hadn't drilled it into his head already, Marcus would have known what the trumpets were saying.

"Arms!" he shouted, as everyone else was too. He wrenched off his blanket and launched himself out of the tent, grabbing his cuirass as he went. All around him, his brothers were doing the same. They scrambled from their canvas shelters, half-dressed and tousle-haired, each with that same wild look in his eyes.

"Arms! Arms! Arms!" the entire camp was screaming at the tops of their lungs, as if no one knew, and just like that, the men were throwing on their armor as fast as they could, cutting their fingers and scraping their faces on the bands of steel, cursing at the pain. Marcus cinched his sword belt on so tight he nearly pissed himself.

"Come on, Vernon!" he bellowed in the din. He wound his arm through his shield straps and hefted a spear. He glanced back. "Vernon!"

"I'm doing my bloody best!" Vernon yelled, his cuirass on backwards. Swearing, he took up his weapons and clambered after Marcus barefoot.

A deluge of men hurried along the avenues, the clanking of their hurriedly-donned armor merely adding to the cacophony. Some tripped over their scabbards or the butts of their spears, but the ones beside them grabbed them under the armpits and hauled them upright again. Marcus saw Sergeant Carpenter standing atop a wagon waving his sword toward the perimeter. "The walls! Find your spots! This is it! Ivan is here!"

The fright in the air was palpable as the soldiers made for the walls. Every expression was strained. Their breathing was agitated. No panic though. The Watch had drilled that out of them. Most were too frightened for their minds to operate on any higher level, but their legs knew where to carry them. So they moved—a flow of steel-encased humanity that were trained like dogs and herded like cattle for one excruciatingly simple reason: to kill their opposite number.

Above the bouncing helmets, Marcus saw the ramparts rising up ahead. There were men lining the top already, their spears angled forward, waiting for a charge that hadn't yet materialized. A courier wheeled his horse back and forth in search of whoever was in charge. Overhead, flights of burning arrows went arcing into the sky, streaks of orange cutting into the black of night.

Marcus spied his company standard and moved toward it. His boots dug furrows into the earthen walls as he clambered up to his assigned position, shouldering his way through the second line. Steel rustled, men parted, and he got his first look beyond the wall.

Despite the full moon, there was little to be seen. The steppe was a sheet of dull purple. A couple hundred yards distant were small patches of burning grass that the arrows had lit, illuminating a broad band of ground. Beyond that, nothing.

"Maybe it's a false alarm," Hamo postured over the blaring trumpets, his youthful face full of desperate hope.

A lone horseman emerged from the darkness.

He was a strange and fearsome sight. He rode a gigantic black stallion with a shaggy mane and long, muscular legs, its body draped with sheets of studded leather. The rider himself wore full a suit of fine-linked mail. His greaves and vest were formed of interlinked square plates, all lusterless black. His helmet was dome-shaped, wrought of bronze and peaking sharply at the top. On his back was a shield shaped like an inverted tear drop, and the blade in his hand tapped impatiently at one stirrup as he wheeled his stallion around, considering his massed enemy.

The bogatyr raised his sword high, and he bellowed, " _Za rodinu! Za Nadiya!_ "

" _ZA RODINU!"_ came the roar of innumerable voices. And all at once, the bogatyr came hurtling into the light.

What a sight they made. The elite of Kydona were a wall of armor and horseflesh a quarter of a mile wide—a thousand yards of thrashing hooves and snarling faces. Weapons of all kinds were belted to their saddles and sheathed at their waists. There were bows in their hands, arrows already nocked.

At some unseen cue, their line split in half and broke apart, curling on itself. Marcus watched, mesmerized, as the bogatyr's charge transformed into two giant, galloping circles.

"Arrows!" Carpenter bellowed over the pounding of hooves. "Turtle up!"

The men quickly obeyed. Marcus sank to one knee, slamming the tip of his shield into the earth. Simultaneously, he felt the men behind shuffle close. The sky disappeared as they angled their own shields upward. The battle line became a barrier of interlocked steel—wall and ceiling both.

The sergeant's order came just in time. Marcus felt his shield jar against his shoulder as if someone had given it a solid kick. Curiosity got the better of him; he peeked over the rim. He caught only a glimpse of the scene—twin roiling masses of black-armored cavalrymen riding in great arcs beyond the trench, steering with only their knees, unleashing arrow after arrow into the night sky. His shield gave another thud, and he dropped his head.

Back in the shelter, the anxiety was a palpable thing. Eyes were wide beneath helmets, teeth gritted. He could hear excited pants behind him.

"Vernon? That you?"

"Aye! That you?" his friend squeaked.

Marcus was about to reply, but then he felt Vernon flinch. "Fuuuuck! Mate there's a fucking arrow sticking in the ground half an inch from your ass—"

"Move your shield closer to it then you selfish cock!"

"No way in hell!" bawled Vernon. "I need it more!"

But arrows were finding gaps elsewhere too. Just over the thunderous hoof beats and the metallic thuds, the first screams could be heard. Glancing back, Marcus saw two archers struggling to hold down a third one, who thrashed on the ground with a shaft protruding from his throat. Blood flowed freely, squirting with each pulse. Having seen all he cared to, Marcus looked away. With the arrows pattering against shields like rain, he wondered how long anyone could survive outside the shield wall.

But a lone, metal-tinged voice was shouting above the din, "His coming shall be a whisper, but yea, with his coming shall sound peals of thunder!" Chaplain Stallings strode along the rampart, his black armor gleaming in the moonlight, his mace clenched in one hand and cat-o'-nine in the other, paying no heed to the arrows sinking into the earth about his ankles.

"They shall hearken to his call, those righteous men! From the four horizons shall they come, and prostrate themselves before him—Ancel, the lord come again, wrath incarnate!"

Men gaped at him between the cracks in their shields. "He's bloody mad!" Rich cried. None of them doubted the truth of it. Yet the chaplain's armor didn't have a scratch on it.

The bronze skull helm turned Marcus's way. "Rejoice his coming, you righteous!" No sooner had the words left his mouth than the chaplain stumbled. The men groaned in dismay. But Stallings steadied himself. His gauntlet closed around the arrow lodged in his breastplate, then plucked it free. Growling, the chaplain snapped the head off the shaft and tossed the thing away with contempt.

"And you wicked," he roared at the stampeding Kydonians, "tremble!"

They all cheered him at that—a poor display coming from a group hunched behind their shields, but still.

"Come on and fight, you bastards!" Jorel shouted. Soon the whole line was hooting and whistling in derision, egging the bogatyr on. And yet the enemy kept on circling, and the Watch stayed firmly behind their cover.

For what seemed like an hour, the two sides exchanged salvoes of arrows. Here and there an Elessian cried out and fell, pierced through. Out in the field, the archers found occasional victims. Horses tumbled earthward, throwing their riders or crushing them. But always, the bogatyr closed ranks, and their flow continued unabated.

Then, just as Marcus became convinced that it would never end, a deep war horn blew. The Kydonian horsemen reined their horses around, threw their bows around their shoulders, drew their swords—and all once came charging straight at them.

"Spears!" Captain Rowley was behind the line somewhere. His trumpeter blew the corresponding set of notes, and the company obeyed. The whole line rippled as the chevaliers stood, lifting their spears out of the dirt. Legs braced. Row upon row of spearheads dropped horizontal, points glittering with menace.

Chaplain Stallings reared his head back and rejoiced to the heavens, "Lord Ancel! Watch your sons!"

The hooves were pounding closer, thunderous—or was that Marcus's heart?

"Hasten to us the foe, o' lord!"

The wave rolled over the pathetic fires the archers had set, stamping them into nothingness.

"That we may meet him, with steel in our fists!"

All around Marcus, soldiers panted with agitated excitement and barely-suppressed fear.

"With praise on our lips!"

The stampede was thirty yards away now. Marcus could see the horses' rolling eyes, the riders' snarls.

"With fire in our hearts!"

"For Ancel!" they all cried—spear tips pointed, aligned, and quivering.

In the handful of seconds he had left, Marcus tried to remember. These were the moments were epiphanies were supposed to strike, where his life was to flash before his eyes... his blissful childhood that memory couldn't reach... the few tender moments he had shared with his father... the many he had known with his mother, only never recognized... his first ride with Breggo, getting drunk with Vernon... Kaelyn, Jacquelyn. And they did pass through his mind, albeit so fleetingly he had no time to grasp them. Just like that, they were gone.

He could only watch, paralyzed, as the bogatyr did away with the final yards between them. This close, he could see the gleaming chestnut coat of the horse charging him. The rider atop it wasn't much older than him. His features were plain, unremarkable except for the eyes—clear blue.

The pike he held was aimed straight for Marcus's heart.

### Chapter 1

For the briefest of instants the sun caught the blade, turning it to a length of white fire. It was mesmerizing, almost. Then in the same instant, Marcus realized that the blade was hurtling toward his head. He ducked on instinct, forced so low that he nearly lost his balance. He staggered back, cursing, free arm waving frantically, then was right again.

"Easy!" But the only reply was another wicked slash. He deflected it and charged, boots scuffing on marble tile, a growl pulling at his lip. To hell with easy. He'd told her too many times and suffered too many bruises for it. His practice blade clashed against hers, jarring his grip so badly that his hand went numb. Luckily some disadvantages work both ways, and Kaelyn finally gave Marcus some breathing room.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he said between his teeth.

Kaelyn glared at him, and it was quite a sight. She was at just that age when a man could want her without feeling badly about it—in a word, eighteen. Not that any man wouldn't want her at any age. She was the product of generations of meticulous breeding, and that breeding made her exceedingly attractive. It had given her hair the unlikely color crimson, a figure worth killing for and blue-green eyes that made her look twice as furious at Marcus for spoiling her fun.

God help him if he put a mark on any of it—crown prince or not. "Why am I doing this?" he muttered.

"What did you say?"

"I said you ought to take up archery instead like a proper heroine, since your bladework is rubbish and all—"

She came in again with a very unfeminine snarl. The first swipe wasn't even close. The second was. Marcus leaped back to avoid it, parried her next, decided he'd had quite enough and launched an attack of his own. Suddenly, Kaelyn was on the defensive. It was not her strong suit. Her balance was off, her footing imprecise, her blocks clumsy. She wasted energy by trying to stop his blows rather than deflect them, and she fell for more than one feint.

Barely even a passable swordsman—swordswoman?—but then, Marcus _was_ very good. None better. And Kaelyn was a courtesan. Her realm was one of politics, intrigue, and for a not-so-modest fee...

Well, she was going to lose, and that was that.

She was tiring, and Marcus had only just begun. He was dancing to the rhythm of clashing steel, and Kaelyn could only follow his lead. He steadily pushed her back to the edge of the chamber, whittling away at her, slashing, chopping, thrusting. At least once, he ignored an opening in her guard. Later he would tell her he was being polite, but really he was just playing with her, and the flush of her cheeks said she knew it. There was little she could do now. A few more steps and her back would be to a wall.

Marcus allowed himself a smirk, just to piss her off.

She smiled right back as she swiped his next cut aside. _Not good_ , he thought, raising his sword to block her reverse cut. Only she didn't reverse—just kicked him right below the knee, hard. He stumbled. Still smiling, she raised her sword for a killing blow. The dulled blade wouldn't kill him, of course, only shatter his collarbone or skull, whichever.

No choice, then. Marcus stood with a growl and caught her sword against his. Most other opponents would have pulled back and defended, at that point. But Kaelyn was the most dangerous kind of swordsman: an amateur. She did precisely the opposite. She pushed, and Marcus was forced to push back. There they stood locked together by their hilts, legs braced, arms straining, faces just inches apart.

She really was gorgeous. Marcus would have taken some time to appreciate that, if not for that look in her eyes which he knew to be utter fury, and for the unspeakable hurt that awaited him should he weaken his grip.

She was starting to tremble with the effort. This wasn't a fight she could win. Marcus saw her realize it, saw her make a decision, rearing her head back—and slamming it into his face.

"Agh!" he squawked, staggering back.

"Shit!" she gasped, clutching her forehead.

A problem quickly solved, and with a distinct lack of grace to boot. Marcus's face was numb but he could feel the blood dripping down his upper lip. He licked at it, tasted copper. He felt at it, saw the red smeared on his fingers.

"Oh come on!" His voice was a bit nasally.

"You asked for it," Kaelyn snapped, still pressing her forehead.

"Your highness, are you alright?" called one of the guards. Marcus didn't much appreciate the amusement in his tone. He waved the man off grudgingly.

He glared at Kaelyn. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

She returned the look from under her hand, still clasped to her forehead. "Well that's what arrogance gets you, isn't it?"

"A bloody nose? By God, Kaelyn, I'm trying to teach you swordplay, not boxing!"

"Excuse me, your highness, but are you trying to impress fair play on a _courtesan_?"

He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it, fuming to himself. There would be no winning this one. "You're amazing. Simply amazing."

Bickering considered, one could have thought the two were brother and sister.

Marcus—the crown prince—was the heir to the throne. His blood was the purest in the realm, the result of an alliance between Elessia's two eldest families: one dying, one flourishing. So it was only natural that he be raised as the king-to-be by his mother, the queen. Aside, he was tutored by the foremost scholars that could be found—philosophy, history, warfare, and of course, politics. Court.

But he was not nearly as proficient in the latter as Kaelyn. Her mother was the King's consort—concubine, as she would be called in other nations—which made her salon the finest and richest in the whole kingdom. She'd instructed her daughter quite thoroughly in her art. It showed in the sensuous way Kaelyn dressed; the way she wagged her hips sinuously as she walked; the ease with which she lied. Or in this case, cheated.

Well, there was no use telling her, then. She was already leaving, sword held carelessly under her armpit, inspecting her nails. Marcus followed. They passed between a pair of columns and into the outer chamber, confronted now by the white marble wall encircling the entire affair.

Kaelyn made for the exit—an open arch, doors flung open to reveal the wide halls of the palace within—but Marcus broke away and approached a semicircular fountain built into the wall beside it. He wanted to get the taste of blood out of his mouth as best he could.

He examined his pale reflection in the clear water, feeling gingerly at his nose. It hurt, but it was straight as ever. The lower half of his face was pink with fresh blood, and his dark hair was tousled. More than likely, the brown eyes his mother had given him would be ringed with light bruises tomorrow morning. He would have to get by without his good looks for a week or so.

"Still beautiful, Marcus?"

"Not so much as you," he muttered as he scrubbed at his chin.

"So charming," she sighed. "Hurry up, I'm starving."

Marcus was in no mood to rush. He dunked his head into the water. It was pleasantly cool. He savored it for a moment before pulling his head back out. Through his water-blurred vision, he spied Kaelyn shaking her head at him from the doorway. She looked ready to chastise him for the second time today—but he was saved by a patter of feet from the hallway behind her.

Shortly thereafter, a young woman flew into the chamber, knocking shoulders with Kaelyn in her haste. The girl seemed entirely unaware that she had just pushed the daughter of the king's consort aside, and Marcus, momentarily forgetting their argument, opened his mouth to rebuke her.

"Your highness!" she cried, distraught. Her hair was all askew, her eyes wild, and she appeared to have lost a slipper. She skidded to a halt in front of him, panting so heavily that she was having trouble speaking. "Your... mother..." she managed to get out between gulps of air.

He had recognized her by now—one of his mother's chambermaids whose name escaped him. "Catch your breath. It can wait." But the fright in the woman's eyes said quite the opposite. Marcus felt his gut sinking with the first vestiges of horror. "The babe is here?" He prayed that was all—that the maid was just overexcited.

"There's no time, your highness! She..." Her voice faltered. "You must come."

He didn't hesitate. By the time he'd reached the hall, he was at a dead run with his hapless female companions hurrying to catch up.

The palace had been Marcus's home his entire life. He'd walked its halls so many times that he could have navigated it in his sleep. He knew its every aspect—the Atrium, the royal suites, the gardens, even the kitchens.

Right now, the white palace was too damned big. Every hall seemed longer by a bowshot. The air seemed thin and dry; every breath scorched Marcus's throat. His leg—the one Kaelyn had kicked—throbbed painfully every time it hit the hard floor.

His mind was racing just as fast. A problem in childbirth? But what kind of problem? Could be anything—maybe the babe wouldn't come, or had come out feet first, or was stillborn, or...

Oh God, she was too old, he had known it all along. The chirurgeons had known it, they had warned her again and again. They had tried to give her the Lover's Succor. She would have been bed-ridden for a few days, feverish and bleeding between her thighs, and she would have lost the babe, but she would have her life at least. Marcus damned her in his head for her foolishness, then just as quickly took it back and hoped desperately that she was alright.

He wasn't desperate enough for prayer, not yet.

He sprinted through nearly half a mile of marble corridors, bursting through groups of surprised servants and nobles. Behind him, he heard the jingling of mail; his trio of guards was keeping pace with him, stoic and uncomplaining. Kaelyn and the maid were surely not far behind but their footsteps were drowned out by the clatter of armored footsteps.

It didn't matter. He rounded a corner, nearly ran headlong into someone—servant or noble, he didn't notice or care which—then shoved him aside and kept on going.

They were nearing the royal suites. Here, the hall was wider, the decoration more ornate. The walls were of the same pale marble as the rest of the palace. Scores of niches were carved into the walls at intervals, each housing a life-size statue of a long-dead Elessian ruler. They all leered at Marcus with blank, pupil-less eyes and expressionless faces. It was difficult, he remembered being told, to capture the niceties of a smile or frown in stone.

Finally, Marcus arrived in the hall that housed Geneva's bedchambers—and immediately froze mid-step, aghast. There was blood, and in quantity. Women were hastening in and out of the chamber. Those emerging were carrying crimson-stained cloths, some still dripping. His mother's dreadnaughts stood watch over the hall, stony faced in their helplessness.

A thin-haired old man stepped from the obscured room, his face grim and pale. His deep red robes marked him out as a chirurgeon. He was wiping his bloody hands on the cloth, and all of a sudden its color seemed pragmatic, indeed. Marcus's mouth was dry and his legs moved of their own volition, carrying him toward the man.

"How is she?" His voice was working on its own, as well, thick with despair. He knew the answer before the chirurgeon even gave it.

Slowly, sorrowfully, the man shook his head. His gaze was rooted to the tiles. "Alive." _Not for long_ , said the slump of his shoulders. "There's naught to be done."

"How long?" Marcus's voice asked, though his mind hadn't yet registered the facts. He felt detached, dazed, as if a rock had been hurled against the back of his head. Surely Kaelyn had knocked him out during the fight. Surely this was just an awful dream, the worst of his life.

But he wasn't dreaming. Just through that door, his mother was dying.

"Not long, my lord prince," the chirurgeon was saying. "I've done my best to slow the bleeding but... she won't be awake much longer." He rubbed at his eyes tiredly, looking thoroughly miserable. His fault or not, the queen would be dead under his watch. A long, illustrious career stamped out.

The pit in Marcus' belly had widened—a deep, yawning hole. He could feel himself dropping into it, just as he felt himself patting the man's shoulder. He paused with one hand on the door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

It was a large room, even by royal standards, with a lofty ceiling and tall glass windows. There were burgundy drapes embroidered with the crown-and-laurel of House Demo. The furniture was artisan-crafted mahogany, elaborate but functional. The wide bed against the far wall had been stripped of its hangings. The queen was lying under the covers, her head propped up by pillows, dressed in a white nightgown—almost as if she was just bedridden ill.

Geneva was awake, smiling weakly. Her eyes were strikingly dark, the same color as her hair. She was a handsome woman, but her skin was pallid with blood loss, and it stole away much of her beauty.

"Marcus," she whispered. The smile lingered for a moment longer before exhaustion hauled it from her face. Geneva stirred beneath the sheets, as if to rise to hold him.

He went to her. "Mother," he said. It amazed him to realize how steady his voice was. He sat beside the bed on a thoughtfully-placed chair. Her fingers twitched. He took her hand in both of his. He was shocked at how cold it already was.

She saw his face and smiled again, all too briefly. "My God, your nose," she said with a frail chuckle.

Marcus's smile lasted little longer. "We were sparring. Kaelyn and I. She has no sense of fair play."

"That girl," his mother whispered. "Such a waste, what her mother makes her do..."

There was silence for a moment. Then, in a choked voice, Marcus asked, "Does it hurt?"

"Not much, now." No smile was forthcoming this time.

"Don't go," he pleaded quietly. "Stay with me a little longer." He grasped her hand tighter.

"I will," murmured Geneva.

Marcus was forcing himself not to look at her blood as it soaked through the sheets and spread across her thighs. He couldn't cry, then—he wanted to, but something blocked it. A solid wall of disbelieving anguish. He managed to kiss his mother's hand, wanting so badly to say something to her—to tell her how much he loved her. How he wasn't ready for this.

"Do you..." Geneva stirred restlessly. "Do you remember that day at Demarre? At the docks?"

Marcus nodded. "When I slipped off the pier. And the sailor with one eye—he saved me from drowning."

"Yes. But I... I could only stand and watch. I wanted to jump in myself. But I couldn't, I was so terrified." Even now, years later, the pain and shame of that moment was clear in her eyes.

Marcus was quick to reply. His mother didn't need thoughts like this—not in her last moments. "It was years ago. I don't even remember what you did. I just remember you afterward, hugging me. You wouldn't stop crying."

"That was my shame," she whispered. "Imagine if you had drowned, if that sailor had not saved you... I am sure I would have taken my life. I couldn't have borne the grief." The woman gave a little sob. She smiled through fresh tears. "You made my life worth living. You did."

Marcus didn't know what to say. He smiled back as best he could and gently squeezed his mother's hand.

"I couldn't protect you that day, but—but I've protected you from other things. Things not so obvious to you, even now." Her voice was growing weaker, so that Marcus had to lean in to hear. "I cannot anymore."

A sense of urgency gripped him. There was not much time left. "What things?"

"Secrets. About the war... your grandfather... your father... everything. It is farce, Marcus, all of it." She took a shallow breath. "You will see yourself... soon."

Marcus grasped her hand harder. "What will I see?"

"You must see it for yourself. Watch everyone. The common. The nobles. Your father." Her voice was barely audible now. "A last lesson, my son. When the great sin, it is the small who pay. You will be great, Marcus." A tear trailed down his mother's cheek. "I only wish I could be here to see..." She paused, took a deep breath, let it go in a long sigh.

The moment stretched on. It took him a long time to realize she was gone. Her eyes were still on him, half-closed, as if pondering her next words. But they were dark and empty—her pupils wide, sightless. Her hand was heavy in both of his. The air was utterly still.

Marcus put her hand down and slumped back in his chair, hand on his mouth. Was this how it was supposed to feel, losing a parent? No wave of quiet tears, no quaking shoulders... nothing. Just emptiness, as if someone had blown out a candle and left him alone in a pitch dark room. All he could do was sit there, silent. He didn't know what to do.

For the longest time, he sat and waited. For anything.

The first thing he felt was unease. His mother was still staring at him. Gently, he reached out and closed the woman's eyes. A strange custom, he thought. It spoke volumes of man's nature—his primal fear of the unknown. Of death. The unwillingness to look into the vacant eyes of one who'd succumbed to its touch.

The next thing he felt was guilt. _Is this how selfish I am? My mother is dead and all I can feel is discomfort?_

He placed Geneva's hand across her belly. With her eyes closed, her repose was a tranquil one. Marcus had heard people say things like this many times—that the dead look like they're sleeping, and the like. He wished that was a comforting thought.

He rose, leaned and kissed his mother's head. Truthfully, he wasn't even sure why he did it. It had seemed an obligation. Pondering that, trying his best to feel something, he drifted from the room. He opened the door slowly and walked out into the hallway, carefully shutting the door behind him.

It was dead quiet in the corridor—an enormous achievement, considering the way these halls amplified the smallest of sounds. No one seemed to be breathing—not the blood-sodden midwife, the chambermaids, the dreadnaughts... not Kaelyn, the only one he looked at.

She asked the question no one else dared to. "Is she...?" Even Kaelyn Beauvais couldn't finish a question like that.

Marcus nodded. The guards seemed to shrink a little. One of the maids burst into tears.

To her credit, Kaelyn didn't hesitate a moment. She closed the distance between the two of them and wrapped her arms around him. Marcus felt the dull haze of unawareness beginning to thin with her nearby. He found himself returning the embrace. Her body was reassuringly warm. She'd buried her face in his neck.

He wasn't sure if she was crying. But she hadn't truly known his mother. She had no reason to weep. She was just being kind. He appreciated it more than words could express.

A thought occurred to him. He looked up at the midwife—a stout woman with firm look to her. There was a dent in that firmness now, made evident by the glaze of her eyes. "The child?" he asked simply. He knew the answer already. If he hadn't figured it out before, the way Kaelyn's arms tightened around him would have given the truth away.

The midwife shook her head.

Marcus nodded again. His eyes felt moist, but the tears resolutely refused to come. All he could think about was the futility of it all. His mother gone, and the babe with her. Brother, sister, did it really matter? It hadn't even had a name.

Kaelyn had remained still, and Marcus pulled away from her at last. "I... ah..." He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. They were still dry, but they wouldn't be for long. He didn't want anyone to see. "I'd like some time alone."

The girl nodded, took his hand, and led him away. Marcus followed like a lame horse on a lead. His chambers were close. He would have his solitude, but his mother's body would still be cooling just a stone's throw away.

They paused at the arched door. Kaelyn turned and regarded him; her face was solemn. "Marcus..." Her voice was low and heartfelt; it had none of its usual crispness.

"I'll be fine."

"I could stay with you for a while," she suggested, smiling fleetingly. "We could lie down and just... talk. Like we used to." When they were children, she would sometimes sneak from her room and make her way across the palace wing to Marcus's. She would climb into his bed, pull the covers over herself, and the two of them would talk quietly about meaningless things until sleep arrived. They hadn't done that in years.

Like as not, they never would again. "I need to be alone," he said as firmly as he could. He blinked and scrubbed at his eye again.

Kaelyn drew close and hugged him once more. She whispered into his ear, "It takes strength to grieve." She stepped backward. "Be strong, Marcus." Then she turned away, and Marcus fumbled at the door's handle.

He shut the door behind himself. Alone at last. Here he could grieve—sink to his knees and let his tears flow.

Only he didn't. The tears wouldn't come.

_My mother is dead_ _._ _My mother is dead_ _._ Over and over he thought it—just trying to feel what he already knew. Trying to cry.

Failing.

†††

The ceremony took place a week later. It was a practical arrangement; it gave the embalmers time to prepare the queen's corpse, and the nobles time to travel to Ancellon for her interment, and the heralds time to spread word to the masses.

For them, Geneva's death was as nearly as devastating as for Marcus. Elessia's nobility had always kept its distance from the common people; Geneva had tried to close that distance. She had been a beloved figure even before her ascension to the throne beside Marcus's father, Audric. With her own coin, she had bought bread and doled it out to Ancellon's poor. Often she wandered the streets with no goal but to speak to the people, and hear them in turn. Many a time she had taken their grievances to Parliament—though more often than not, they had paid her no ear. But the people loved her, because she loved them.

Now their only friend was gone, and their sorrow was unmistakable. Men and boys clambered atop the statues in Heroes' Square to fasten black blindfolds around their heads, so that their champions could not see their misery. Black drapes hung from every window, and ash was smeared across the houses' white walls. Children were spanked into silence, chased from the streets where they played. There was no music to be heard in the taverns and inns, no carousal or laughter.

The city was in mourning before the heralds' words died. Soon, Marcus knew, the rest of Elessia would follow.

None of it made that week any easier. He watched it all from his chamber window high above the streets, detached. Grief was a terrible feeling. It sucked away his willpower, so that all he could do was sit and stare at the outside world—a vague feeling of envy his only company. Those people out there shared his grief, but he felt utterly alone. Reading was no distraction. The trays of food the servants brought in sat untouched until they were taken away again.

Twice, Kaelyn came by. Her first visit, Marcus didn't even answer the door. The second, he sat and stared out the window while she talked, unhearing and uncaring, until she gave up and let herself out.

He was thinking about his mother. What an ungrateful son he had been. Grief alone had not moved him to tears, but guilt was a powerful thing. He remembered having dinner with her all those times, wolfing down his food and finding an excuse to leave. Back then, anything had seemed better than talking with his mother at length. There were other times—like one, when she had asked him if he wanted to picnic with her last summer, and he had agreed, only to cancel so he could go drink and chase girls with Vernon. "Go ahead," she had said cheerily. "I'll find something to do. Don't feel badly," though he hadn't felt badly, not really.

_What an ass I am_.

Was it possible that the only thoughtful thing he ever did for his mother was to be there at her deathbed? That thought was the profoundest of all—and when the tears finally came, they were born of bitterness rather than grief.

When the ceremony finally came, the entire city turned out for the ceremony, and much of the countryside as well. People clogged Ancel's Square and flooded the streets for a mile in every direction. A sea of black. Their collective murmur filled Marcus's ears as he stood at the head of the square atop the palace's steps.

Beside him, on an austere granite slab, lay his mother. She was the only figure wearing white in the whole place. Otherwise, she was unadorned. Her golden crown and her family crest lay beside her. The embalmers had been careful with her; they had dressed her hair into a long braid that lay neatly across her chest, and had added some color to her cheeks. One could have sworn she was merely sleeping, if not for her unnatural stillness.

People were moving by in a slow file, close enough to touch the bier. Some reached out to brush it with their fingers. Most just touched their hearts reverently and moved on. They were common people—common looks, common attire. Their dark clothes were ripped, carefully patched. Their skin was a raw pink from a recent and infrequent scrubbing. When they spoke, it was in an uncultured drawl. Marcus watched them all, just as his dying mother had told him, wondering what she had wanted him to see.

He picked out the smiths from their burned arms, the leatherworkers from their brown-stained hands, the chevaliers from the restrained dash that marked every soldier. He heard their quiet prayers, asking Ancel to guide his mother's soul to heaven, and Elessa to welcome her there. He saw their tears, and of those there were many. Among the mourners was a face he recognized—a stooped old beggar with milky eyes; a blind man, hobbling along, tapping the ground with his cane.

"Old bastard is still alive," Marcus muttered wonderingly.

"You recognize that man?" Kaelyn asked as the blind man went by, groping for the bier.

"He's the one all that fuss was over, a few years back. The one who touched her."

Kaelyn stared after him as a kindly stranger guided the beggar's hand to the bier. He was weeping. "It was a kind thing, what she did." Odd words, coming from her.

But she was right: it had been a kind thing—however much the nobility had despised it. Geneva had been riding through the city when she saw that beggar on the corner, calling out for spare coin. She knew how easily a merchant could cheat a blind man out of his money, so she had bought him a loaf of bread and given it to him herself. She didn't say who she was, but he knew a noble's accent when he heard one and asked her name. His amazement at her identity was only matched only by his gratitude. He had asked one more favor: to touch her face, so he could know it in the only way a blind man could. Geneva gave thought to neither the stir it would cause at court, nor the dirt caking the man's hands. It was a legendary image now—Queen Geneva de Pilars kneeling before a beggar as he ran his hands over her beautiful face.

For the common, it had made their queen a saint. The story was different among the nobility. Marcus remembered the uproar in court when the word got around. People hadn't stopped talking about it for weeks. They had justified their endless gossip by saying, "He may have had a knife on him! You know how dangerous the streets are!" Then there were those lofty moralists who argued that there must be a clear line between rulers and their subjects—that their own queen was overstepping her bounds.

As for Marcus, he had done his best to overlook the whole episode, slightly embarrassed by it all.

The other nobles were noticing the beggar by now. They were starting to mutter. Marcus glanced around, saw the women and girls whispering behind their hands at each other, the old men glowering and scowling, the younger men curling their lips. One or two even fingered their sword hilts, nursing a long-simmered fantasy.

An elderly noble muttered sullenly, "Damned peasant."

"Not even a peasant. A beggar," the man's wife added.

Thankfully, the blind man walked on heedless, wiping tears from his eyes as he went.

"They're wrong," Marcus said. The need to vent was too great to resist.

"What? Who?" asked Kaelyn, confused.

"The nobles. Looking down on these people the way that they do." It was probably a mistake, but he had spoken just loudly enough for a few nearby nobles to hear. Heads turned.

This was not lost on Kaelyn. She leaned in. "This may not be the time, Marcus."

He snorted. "Well that's my mother lying right there, and that's what she thought."

"Leave the anger alone, it'll be there for later. Right now you should honor your mother. That's why everyone came here." Her grip on his hand tightened in alarm; she had seen the flash in his eyes. She knew what was coming. "Marcus, don't do this. Please."

His snort became a loud laugh. Time to let it all out, and damn the consequences. "Please what? You think these people behind us _honor_ her?" He wheeled around and fixed the noble behind him with a dangerous glare. Bushy grey brows shot up in amazement; a mouth parted, revealing a set of yellowed old teeth. "You're here to honor my mother, Jimeq de Morent? That was a pretty speech that you gave earlier. A dumber man would think your sorrow true, but not me, my good lord, my memory is longer than that. Tell me the last time you said a kind word to your queen. What, nothing to say now? So what of _you_ , good lady?"

The old lord's astonishment turned to anger. "Now see here—" But he shut up straight away at the look Marcus gave him.

His wife had her eyes lowered; no fight to be found there. So Marcus turned to the rest of the nobles. Right now he despised everything about them—how they wore the black of mourning, yet still displayed their wealth with leather, velvet, jewels. How quickly their false remorse had faded and been replaced by dark frowns and upturned noses. The God-damned _whispering_.

"You think yourselves any different? I look at all of you and I see a few, just a few select faces, whom my mother counted as friends." His anger had built on itself and turned to fury. It was too late to turn back now, even if he had wanted to. Kaelyn knew the futility. She was not gripping his arm anymore. "These people," he gestured sweepingly at the now-silent crowd behind him, "were my mother's friends. They were the ones she loved. And while she gave to them, like Elessa herself would have, you just _gossiped_. How many of you in Parliament barred her efforts with your votes? I count many of you with but a glance! And you hindered her why? Just so you could fill your coffers an inch higher! Your queen despised your greed as much as you despised her lack of it. So." He jutted his chin. "You may leave. Those she loved, you know who you are. You may remain. The rest of you needn't trouble yourselves any further."

The murmuring was angry now. No one would dare to say anything against the crown prince—not to his face, anyway—even when his father was off on campaign. But no one was leaving either, whether out of defiance or plain confusion.

"Leave. Now." He didn't point, he didn't shout—but he indicated with his tone that very shortly he would, and no one wanted a scene. They began to leave, in ones and twos, shooting hot looks at their prince over their shoulders.

He ignored them and turned back to the bier. The commoners were openly gaping. Perhaps they hadn't heard everything, but they had seen enough to guess. A large man in the procession by the bier—a soldier, by his scars—cleared his throat loudly and turned to his son, whom he gently nudged forward. The crowd began to move again. The man gave Marcus a small, respectful nod that marked him as a soldier. Marcus smiled dryly back, though the soldier had already looked away. The other commoners still stared at him in awe.

"Idiot!" hissed Kaelyn. She and only a handful of nobles remained. Fortunately her mother had opted not to be here, or Kaelyn would be gone with her. "God above, Marcus, what were you thinking?"

"I felt like making some enemies," he shrugged.

"Well done, then. You likely cost your meal taster his life. And your father won't have to worry about the Glats killing him anymore, the stress will do just fine."

"What do I care? He isn't welcome here either."

She sighed mightily. "Welcome or not, he'll have a lot to say to you when he returns."

Marcus's smile had not faded. He felt good—as close as he had felt to it in a week, at least. What had he gained? The animosity of nearly every noble family—and grudges did not die easily in Elessia's court. Perhaps the people's respect. How to harness that, he would have to see. The mob was a fickle crowd and their fancies were everything but consistent.

"You never did look before leaping."

"Not really, no."

"It'll see you dead one day. With a dagger stuck in your spine, likely."

He didn't see fit to reply.

His vigil lasted until dusk. When the sun finally touched the horizon, the dreadnaughts barred the way to the palace steps, and the square at last began to empty. The few nobles said their final goodbyes to Geneva; they took their time. It was fine by Marcus, tired as he was from standing all day. He shook their hands as they left, thanked them for coming.

The last to leave was the Gauthier family. Ronold de Gauthier was the elder, and the only member of the High Council that his mother had trusted. He had once been one of the court's great heartbreakers, older people often said. Now his girth nearly matched his height and though he had grown a mustache to draw attention from his ugliness, his baldness killed any chance of success. "Well, my lord prince," he said, his smooth voice the only trace of youth left in him, "You're quite the volatile mix, I must say."

Marcus took the proffered grip, held it. "I've been told."

"Aye, you are. You have your mother's sense of justice and your father's quick temper." He smiled. "I hope you don't lose either with age. It's lethally entertaining."

Chuckling, Marcus released the man's hand and turned to Ronold's wife, whose silvered hair made her look all the more severe. She had certainly been a beauty once, though it was difficult to picture her without that perpetual frown of hers, as if everything around was a disappointment. "Lady Jessil. I thank you for being here today. I hope I didn't harm your sensibilities."

"I don't share my husband's enthusiasm," she with an indignant sniff. "You did a foolish thing today. Your mother would be aghast."

"Jessil..." Ronold cautioned.

Marcus held up a hand to him. "No, she's right. It was foolish, and yes, my mother would not approve. I'm not insulted."

"Hmm." The Lady Gauthier turned and strode off, nose in the air, having said all she deemed necessary.

Ronold apologized and followed after her.

That left only Vernon, their second son. He was a handsome young man with a constant smirk on his face that had earned him many a beating, and blond hair combed back and held in place with perfumed lard. He was a cocky bastard, and Marcus's best mate.

"Ass," Marcus said, smiling truly for the first time today.

"Cock," laughed Vernon. They clasped hands and exchanged a one-armed hug. Usually he would have followed with a crude joke, but tonight no words were forthcoming. Marcus could not have recalled an awkward moment between them if he tried.

This was one.

"Well. Thanks for coming."

His friend grinned, though there was something forced behind it. "It's alright, mate, no trouble." The grin fell. "You _are_ alright?"

Marcus thought. "No. But I'll get there." He tried to come up with something he would usually say. "You just get out of here, mate. I'll... I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" cried Vernon, thrusting a finger into the air. "There're countless ladies out there waiting to be taken! Just waiting, imagine it, mate! And they won't be waiting much longer! Aye! Tomorrow!" With a whoop and a theatrical spin, he ran off after his parents, leaving Marcus laughing behind him.

Kaelyn shook her head. "He's such an ass."

"Don't tell him that yourself, it'll break his heart."

"You're an ass too." The two of them watched Vernon hop into his family's carriage. The driver cracked his whip, wheels creaked and rattled on pavestone, and the carriage slowly retreated into the darkening city. Marcus was left alone with Kaelyn, their only company the silent dreadnaughts lining the base of the steps, and the priest of the Elessa's Way hovering discreetly to one side of the landing.

The courtesan offered her hand, which Marcus took, and guided him to his mother. She looked precisely as she had all through the day, unaware of what a fool her son had been. He knew it. Tomorrow there would be apologies to be made.

The two of them looked at Marcus's dead mother for a little while. "Jessil is a mother. I thought she would know better than to say what she did..."

"But it _is_ Jessil."

"Yes," she agreed. "I think she knew she was wrong. Your mother was always proud of you, Marcus." She was smiling. She let her kiss linger on his cheek before departing.

He listened to her light footsteps fade, thinking what a nice girl she was—when she allowed herself to be. How different her life could be if she was not a courtesan.

"It's a wasteful world you left, mother," he whispered. He knelt and took her hand. He thought about a saying a prayer but decided against it. Prayer had never held much appeal for him. It felt like asking for help, only no one ever answered.

Strange that he was talking to a corpse then.

All of a sudden, he felt terribly alone. He knew his mother couldn't hear him. He only spoke because it seemed wrong not to. "It was strange leaving my chambers today. I walked past your room. I almost stopped to wait for you. I was going to be your escort to your own funeral." A hopeless laugh died in his throat. "I don't know what sins you wanted me to see. Was it their arrogance? Is it something worse? I wish you'd just told me. I would have believed you." He wiped his eyes. "God, this is hard." No more words were coming to him. For the longest time he knelt there with his head bowed, searching for the words to say goodbye. Wondering what he could tell her now that he had failed to before, when he had the chance. But there was nothing.

Geneva's ring lay at her side. Marcus took it, studying it in the last of the sun's dying light. It was elaborate, unusually so for her tastes—a square-cut emerald, the size of a fingernail, overlaid by gold filigree that took the form of the Demo emblem. The crown and laurel. "Rule in peace," he murmured. "I'll try, mother." Pocketing the ring, he stood, then stooped to lay a last kiss on his mother's forehead. "I love you."

As he made for the palace's great doors, he passed the priest, who bowed low. A simple string necklace dangled from his hooded brown robes. Elessa's Wings glinted there.

Marcus touched his heart out of instinct more than reverence. "Pray for me too, father," he said without stopping.

Chapter 2

Marcus's roar echoed across the practice field as he swung his sword overhead, two-handed. It was a poorly executed move; his weight was too far forward, and the strength he put into the swing was too much. He knew even before the blow landed that he had overcommitted.

Fortunately, the practice dummy was hard-pressed to fight back properly. The clot didn't even try to dodge. The bastard sword sliced through the dummy's sandbag head with ease—cut it straight in half—then through its leather tunic, finally embedding itself in the crossbeam that passed for its shoulder.

Marcus stood there panting for a moment. This dummy had not been easily vanquished. The effort had left his face glistening and red. He felt sweat dripping down his back and legs. His sparring clothes, which had been white half an hour ago, were yellow with sweat and sand. It was the sixth set he had ruined this week. Tomorrow he would have none left.

Maybe he would practice in these tomorrow regardless. The field emptied whenever he came by these days. It was a rare noble who would suffer his presence. Fine, then.

"A mighty blow, my lord prince," said the fieldmaster, sounding weary. He threw Marcus a towel. "May I request a less mighty one next bout?" The old man looked sadly over the sand practice courts, half of which were strewn with ruined sandbags and splintered wood.

Marcus wiped his face and gestured for a waterskin, which the fieldmaster handed over. "I'll send for a carpenter when I'm done."

"And sandbags, my lord prince?"

"Aye, and sandbags, once you stop with the 'my lord prince' rubbish. I wreck your field and you're still being polite?" He braced his foot against the dummy and wrenched the sword free with some effort.

The man bowed. "Your kin do not take kindly when I do not address them by title, my... uh..."

Marcus was about to reply when Vernon's voice called, "Just shut up, mate, you'll get the poor fellow a drubbing." His friend jumped off the stands and strode over. Grinning, he clapped the fieldmaster on the back and shook Marcus's hand. "The rest of us aren't quite ready for your new take on life, eh, old man?"

Another bow. "I suppose not, my lord."

"I see your point," Vernon said, eying Marcus. "That _is_ annoying."

Marcus chuckled. "You may go, fieldmaster."

Looking relieved, the old man bowed a last time and took his leave with some haste.

Vernon looked at Marcus with mild reproach. "You said 'tomorrow.' It's been two weeks."

"Has it, now?" Marcus examined his blade. Its edges were scratched and nicked to hell. It seemed he would have to ask the smith for a replacement.

"Aye, you bloody git! And you know," he took Marcus's side as he walked off the field, " _You're_ the one who should be all upset. You know how crazy girls get after funerals?"

"I don't know but I'm betting you're going to tell me."

"Absolutely, filthily, unconscionably crazy!" he near-bellowed, gesticulating madly in the air. "My God, they want it more than _I_ do! I don't even have to try!"

Marcus snickered. "Vernon, you know the last time I saw you go without a girl for the night? You saw yourself in Aimee de Villiers' mirror and you spent all night flirting with your reflection."

"Really?" Vernon stopped in his tracks and mused with a finger on his chin. He suddenly cackled. "Well I don't remember but you know what that tells me, even I can't resist me."

"No, you just can't resist unwatered wine."

Vernon only stopped laughing and joking once they got to the edge of the field—and even then, it was only because Jaspar de Martine shut him up.

He was a big lad—only a few inches taller than Marcus, but broader of shoulder and chest. He had straight dark-blond hair cropped to his ears, a mouth that was always parted so that you could see his two front teeth—like a rodent, almost—and light blue eyes that many girls found irresistible. He had a swagger that spoke of much more than simple cockiness.

Marcus met his sneer with an even stare as they passed each other, contemptuous of the fact that this coward would not say anything even with his whole gang at his back. Poor characters they were—they stared straight ahead as if Marcus and Vernon weren't even there.

Nothing would have come of it, except one decided to show some false bravado to the pair's turned backs. "No fucking quality, those two," he practically muttered.

The two of them stopped and exchanged raised eyebrows. Mutual decision made, they turned. "Oy! You just say something?"

The lad who had spoken did not face back until the rest of his friends had. By then, Marcus had closed the distance. Marcus put his face nearly up against his. The coward swayed but held with obvious effort. And said nothing.

"You ought to say it again," spoke up Vernon.

Marcus smiled dangerously. "Come on. A scar or two might make you look like something worth respecting."

"Might," snarled Vernon.

Jaspar's arm forced itself between them and shoved his worthless minion back. He took his place and stared down his nose at Marcus. "Problem?"

It occurred to Marcus that he was standing toe to toe with someone four inches taller and broader, who would be stronger than him even on a good day. He would know; they had wrestled often enough, back when they were friends. Now he was tired from hours of bouting, and had only one man to match Jaspar's three. He pretended he was aware of none of this. "You should pick your friends better, de Martine. This one," he tossed his chin, "thinks he's got bones."

"You should find other things to be concerned with, de Pilars. Like your standing with your betters."

"I'll be concerned with the opinions of people who matter, I thank you."

The two stared at each other in hatred, neither wavering. Nothing would have come of that, either, but Vernon made a bad call: he spit at the gang's feet.

Jaspar was too clever to start a brawl. His friends were not.

They lunged for Vernon, who was already coming in with one fist back. Marcus dropped his sword and tackled him into the sand before the punch could connect. "No, Vernon!"

Luckily, Jaspar had followed the same line of thought. He thrust himself in front of the gang and threw them aside with remarkable ease. "You fucking idiots, what are you doing?!" He kept on yelling as Marcus hauled Vernon upright. He picked out "high lord's son" among the near-constant stream of obscenities.

"Can you think something through for once?" Marcus hissed, leading Vernon by his collar through the gate. They found themselves on the palace walks, the paved path running around the palace's grounds. The palace's golden domes were visible over the garden's orchards. Towering above them was the Keep, its near-ancient grey stone a testament to days where defense was preferable to comfort. The flitting of birds was just audible behind his friend's angry response.

"And here was me thinking we were on the same page!"

"Since when," Marcus released Vernon's collar with the practice field out of sight, "has fist-fighting Lord de Martine's son been on my page?"

"Oh, and what was that two weeks back? Was that any better?"

"Those were words, not fists."

"Aye, and those words turned half the court against you!"

"That's my problem, not yours."

At last, Vernon fell silent, if only to come up with a new argument.

Marcus spoke before he did—quietly but firmly. "He deserves it more than anyone. I know. It was wrong, what he did to Estelle. But breaking his nose won't fix that deed. It sure as hell won't make me hate him any less. Oh, and we would have got beaten to shit, did you ever think of that?"

"Alright. Alright, you win."

They walked on in silence. They crossed a small stone bridge over the artificial stream. The water gurgled pleasantly over the round blue rocks imported from who-knew-where. The stream meandered in a winding circle—over two miles of infinitesimally-gradual slope that ultimately ended in a reservoir, from which it was pumped into a thirty-foot waterfall. Some called it an architectural wonder. Marcus would have thought so too, but he knew that behind that charming waterfall was a crew of two dozen men, whose only job was to man the water pumps in shifts, day and night. To him, that was more brutish than wondrous.

Well then, so were many things about the supposed wonders of the world.

Somewhat ironically, Vernon chose to stop him right before it. "Just a moment, mate."

Marcus glanced at the falls that lay just a stone's throw away. Water cascaded down over a series of jutting rocks and into the lily-spotted water below. Orchids and ferns, foreign plants that could only survive now at the height of summer, lined the clear pool. Along the pathway were a series of carved stone benches, on one of which Vernon beckoned him to sit.

Brows raised, Marcus obliged. "I thought we were done talking about this. And I don't have to sit down to do it, either."

"This is about something else." His friend had an unusual tone, so he shut up and listened. "Look, mate," Vernon began edgily, "I'm not miffed about that day after... well, I'm not. I get it. I gave you some time. But no one's talked to you for two weeks since, except that fieldmaster maybe. I know, I asked. Even asked Kaelyn. She only said, 'Yes, you're right,' by the way. Not even a 'hello, Vernon', 'goodbye, Vernon', 'go fuck yourself, Vernon'. That one sentence, that's it." He stretched his legs out, his boots scraping ugly furrows into the gravel. "Between you and her, I've got to say, I'm bloody incensed."

"You should have dropped a silver half-piece in her lap, then she might have said that last rude one, at least."

"Oh, aye? Huh." He frowned. "Damned whores, eh?"

"Damned whores."

"Well. Anyway. I gave you two weeks to get your own head straight. I'm pretty sure you spent those two weeks lopping the heads off practice dummies instead. So, mate, I've taken matters into my own hands."

Marcus grimaced. "You didn't."

"But I did! Aye, not only have I bought enough wine to down a company of the Watch," he reached into his pocket and took out an empty-looking coin purse, "we've got two lovely young ladies to drink it with!"

"Were you _not_ just complaining about damned whores?" Marcus demanded, completely aghast but somewhat entertained all the same.

Vernon didn't answer. He was busy doing some kind of ludicrous jig around the bench, singing loudly, "We're going whoring, we're going whoring, we're—"

"You can, I'm not."

The singing cut off mid-syllable. "But you have to!"

Marcus chuckled. "Not exactly."

"No, I mean you literally have to." He looked up to find Vernon grinning like a maniac. "I talked to your men-at-arms too, and they completely agree. You've got no choice, mate. So..." The jig began again. "We're going whoring, we're going whoring..."

Marcus had his head in his hands, but he was smiling.

†††

The company that night was good, but then, they were paid to be. Marcus couldn't be sure how much Vernon had paid to get him out of his dreary mood; it certainly could not have been cheap, if these girls' looks were anything to go by. There were two of them: Emili, the slim blonde, and Janine, the curvy brunette. They had certainly dressed to please: slit skirts, daringly-low décolletages, translucent fabric that left shockingly little to the imagination.

Marcus knew better than to stare, but Emili was making it difficult for him. She kept crossing and uncrossing her legs as she sat across from him, sipping from her wine glass and eyeing him over the rim. Her blue eyes were sparkling.

Even with four present, there was plenty of room to spare in Marcus's chambers. They sat on overstuffed leather couches in the center of the main room. The coffee table between was covered with recently-emptied bottles. Its surface, sticky with spilled wine, glinted by the light of a dozen or so mirrored candle lanterns, one of which would have cost a peasant half a year's wages. But then, so would a night with either one of these girls. How Vernon had afforded them both, Marcus could only wonder.

"So the Novitiate, that was a chore," Vernon was saying. "Not that it was too tough, the training isn't so bad once you're used to it. Just 'march here', 'march there', 'attention', 'stab this or that', you know. The tough part—and Marcus will vouch for me here—is being without you ladies for a whole season."

Janine giggled and snuggled a bit closer to him.

Marcus rolled his eyes at the ceiling. It was as if Vernon had forgotten that every able-bodied man had to endure the Novitiate after his eighteenth winter. These girls had heard this before; they were only pretending to be entertained. They were doing an admirably convincing job of it, too.

Vernon took a long draught from the courtesan's glass and went on, "A whole season! Not a female in sight! You know what that does to a man? Nothing goes on down here," he made a circular motion around his groin, "the whole time! My God, when I realized I was waking up without a morning hard-on, I nearly cried."

"That's true?" Emili asked Marcus.

"Aye, a whole season. Not even a stirring."

"Hmm." She smirked mischievously. "You're certain it's all in working order, then?"

"I have a feeling you're not just going to ask."

She giggled. "Oh, bold! I like that." Taking his half-hearted flirting as an invitation, she stood and eased onto the couch next to him. She draped her legs over one of his and put one arm around his shoulders, staking her claim. "How do you feel, your highness?"

He sipped his wine. Emili's perfume was strong but pleasant. Her fingers were toying with his hair, her breath warm against his ear. "Not bad," he said absently. Being wine-drunk was a strange feeling; it made him feel warm and lazy, as if he had been swimming in a hot spring for hours. "Drunk, probably."

"Drink as much as you like. I'll take care of you tonight."

"I bet you will." Marcus yawned. If Emili was insulted, she didn't show it. It was for that very reason that he mistrusted courtesans: they would be anything you wanted, depending on the pay. For tonight, Emili would be his best friend—and a magnificent lover, for sure—but tomorrow she would be someone else's. The pleasure of a courtesan's company was, with few exceptions, intense but fleeting.

Not to mention, Emili was much cleverer than she let on. All her kind were. She was watching everything he did, committing to memory everything he said, knowing that if any of it was important, someone else would be willing to pay to hear it.

Fickle _and_ dangerous.

Marcus didn't trust her worth a damn. More than likely she was listening for his take on what he had said two weeks back. The nobility would be keen to hear any hint of remorse, or continued defiance. He wasn't going to give her a thing to tell them. So he tossed back his wine, having decided to water it for the rest of the night, lest his tongue grow too loose. He smiled at her.

"You've a pretty face," she remarked. "I'm not often in the company of men with looks. Not like yours, anyway."

"Well. You have one too."

The blonde glanced across the center table at Vernon and Janine, who were talking in low voices with their foreheads touching. "So, Marcus," she whispered, leaning in, "they're in an intimate mood. So am I." Her glossed lips brushed his cheek. "What of you?"

Trust her or not, she _was_ awfully pretty. And that voice had set his nethers stirring. _To hell with it_ _._ He pulled her in by the back of the neck and kissed her. She was rather good at it. Her tongue slithered between his lips while her hands worked around his neck, then slowly downward—

—just as a knock came on the door.

Marcus broke off the kiss, looked at the door. "Was there someone else, Vernon?"

"No, just these two," he said, his drunkenness amplifying his confusion. Janine twisted his head back around and they started kissing, their new visitor already forgotten.

Grunting, Marcus pushed Emili off him and made for the door.

"Hurry back," she called, reclining indolently. She toyed with her skirt.

He straightened his jacket before opening the door. "Yes?" It was dark in the hallway beyond—it was well past midnight—but he caught the flash of blue-green eyes.

"I heard you had a soiree going," said Kaelyn. "Do you have a spare bottle for a spare guest?" Marcus tried to think up a reason to say no, but she shoved her way in before one came to him.

"I'm sure I could find one," he said, amused, as she gazed around the room.

"Kaelyn!" Vernon cried. He brandished a wine bottle. A decent amount slopped onto his shoulder. "What a damned pres—pleasure! You want wine?"

She ignored him. "Hello Janine. Emili."

The three courtesans exchanged looks. Marcus saw the unspoken conversation in the flickering of their eyes, the subtle hand movements. Kaelyn and Emili's eyes darted in his direction.

He pretended not to notice. "A drink, to dull the tension?" He snatched the bottle away from Vernon to pour a full glass for Kaelyn. "There you are."

"Thank you. This being sober is killing me." She downed it in two gulps.

Vernon tried to snicker but it came out as a wheeze. "Did I ever tell you I'm in love with you?"

"You really shouldn't be, Vernon, it won't end well between us. It's tough enough not to murder you as it is." It was difficult to tell the difference between sarcasm and truth whenever she talked to Vernon.

"If it pleases you, m'love. What pleases you pleases me!"

She rubbed her temples. She made for the balcony, muttering something about fresh air.

Quizzically, Marcus followed her. As he passed the couches, Emili stood and sat down on Vernon's other side. He looked positively delighted. "God, just kill me now! I'm all ready!" he said to the ceiling.

Kaelyn stepped to one corner of the balcony once outside, out of view from the couches.

"Why the act?" Marcus leaned against the railing beside her.

She was hugging herself, though it wasn't cold. "I don't know why you agreed to this. The liaison."

"Well. Vernon thought it was for the best. And he went well out of his way—"

"Since when has anything in that boy's head been best? And what possesses you to think that bedding women is a step out of his way?"

"There's a point," he admitted with a toast. Seeing the glass was empty, he filled it again with the bottle he still held, then Kaelyn's. He added quietly as he poured, "But he's my best mate all the same."

"I know. I'm sorry." Sorry but agitated.

"He thinks it's time to start living again. I think he's right. So what about you?"

Kaelyn nodded but the frustrated look remained. "Yes, but not like this, Marcus, it doesn't become you. Courtesans? Elessa's tits!"

"Why not? It's not as if I haven't lain with one before." In fact, he had lost his virginity to one on his fifteenth birthday. Most every noble lad did. Better to pay a courtesan for her discretion than risk some girl blabbing to the court about her latest exploit.

"You _know_ this is different."

"I don't. Educate me."

"Fine. Your mother dies and now you're paying to sleep with a whore. And I mean that, Emili is a _whore_. It might be different if you bought someone with more experience but Emili? She's nothing but a plaything."

"Every courtesan is a plaything," scoffed Marcus.

"There is a difference between adult games," Kaelyn explained with strained patience, "and children's games. It isn't always about bedding. Often it's a man without a partner for the Falltide Ball or Winterfall. Or soiree in need of a proper hostess. Sometimes they'll hire you to sing."

"I'll bet you have a _wondrous_ voice," Marcus said sarcastically.

"I do, in fact," snapped Kaelyn. "And I play the mandolin passingly well. You just never cared to ask."

It was Marcus's turn to be exasperated. Kaelyn had a special talent for touching his nerves. He ran a hand through his hair. "So what of Emili?"

"When people hire her, they only want one thing. She doesn't sing or dance or do anything _but_ fuck. Do you know what will happen to her? She'll fuck the years away until the first wrinkles arrive, then her head mistress will move her out to Demarre or Beltonne or someplace, and she'll fuck there until her tits start to sag and her eyes have bags the makeup won't cover. Then she'll retire and live in a cheap apartment in some village no one cares about because you know what fucking gets you? Nothing!" Worn out, Kaelyn planted her rump on the railing beside Marcus's.

"So I suppose you don't want me fucking her, then." He had hoped to perk her up again because all of a sudden, she looked very sad. It was discomfiting, seeing Kaelyn without the fire that had always defined her. He wanted to apologize but couldn't. His father and his Novitiary Sergeants had beaten the word 'sorry' out of him—because why say sorry if it never fixed a thing?

"I don't. It's not you."

Marcus nodded. She was right. It seemed in bad taste, spending a night with some whore when he still couldn't even sleep properly. Not when he could still smell his mother's scent whenever he passed her room.

"It shouldn't be Emili."

Then he started to realize why she had come here tonight. "Kaelyn..." But at the same time, the notion wasn't unappealing either...

She was facing him now. "I was talking to a courtesan the other day. I won't tell you her name. But she had an assignation one night with an older man. They ate dinner together and she said it was very romantic—sweepingly romantic, I think she said. And when he brought her to bed he just took her in his arms and slept soundly all night. She said it was the anniversary of his wedding. He was lonely, that's all."

It felt so wrong with her this close to him—Kaelyn, whom he had known since his fifth winter, whose mother had been his father's lover, destroying what little love was left between King Audric and Queen Geneva. Marcus's relationship with her had always been a strange one. It seemed it would become even stranger tonight whether he wanted it or not.

"I think you're like that man." She was close now, perilously so. Their faces almost touched. Her hand was on his elbow; her other was hovering beside his cheek. "But Vernon's right." Her fingertips caressed his jaw. Her parted lips were so close that he could feel her breath on his mouth. He stared into her half-closed eyes, dreading and wanting it all at once.

What was it he had heard once? _It's impossible to be a woman's friend without somehow wanting her_ _._

All too true.

She whispered, "He's just right in the wrong way, that's all." And her lips met his. Soon as that happened, all his doubts were forgotten. This was something he had wanted all along, even if he hadn't realized it, even if it was wrong. Now she wasn't Kaelyn anymore. Not even a courtesan he was paying for the pleasure. Just a girl.

His hands were on her waist. He was kissing back. It was good, even better than Emili—maybe the best he had ever had. No girl had ever poured so much heart into it before. He gripped her waist and pushed her back against the wall, just hard enough to make her grunt. He pinned her wrists above her head—he'd never met a girl who didn't like that one—breathing hard against her face. She squirmed her hips against him, arousal taking hold.

This was getting very intense very fast. Marcus broke away. Still pinning her arms, "Want to...?" He tossed his head at the door.

"Yes," she breathed.

He let her go. He brushed the chalk dust off his ass, smoothed the wrinkles from his clothes—and Kaelyn threw her still-full glass of wine all over his front.

"Agh! What the—"

"Be drunk." She took his hand.

"What?"

"Be drunk!" She tugged him through the door. He took her cue just in time and adopted a morose look.

Vernon and his rented girls were still on the couches, all getting drunkenly intimate. "There you are!" roared Vernon. His face fell as Marcus tripped over his own feet and bumped into Kaelyn. "Whoa. You alright, mate?" He stood with a concerned look. Janine covered her mouth but didn't bother with her exposed breasts. Emili raised her pale brows.

"I don't know what you gave him," Kaelyn steadied Marcus by the shoulders, "but it was too much. Great work, you ass."

Vernon looked a bit ashamed of himself. He put down his wine glass, suddenly much soberer, and started toward them. "Here, let's get him to bed."

"You," Kaelyn fumed, slapping his hand away, "have done quite enough."

"S'alright," slurred Marcus, swaying. He felt vaguely bad for his friend but mostly embarrassed by the tent in his trousers.

Vernon cursed. "Sorry mate. All my fault. You sleep it all off, alright?"

Marcus nodded and allowed Kaelyn to steer him toward his room. Behind him he heard Vernon yell, "More for me! Let the foul games begin!" Women's giggling. The door shut, and he was alone in the room with Kaelyn. She was on him again so quickly, it was as if their act had never existed.

"You," he muttered against her face, "are _some_ kind of actress."

"Shut... up." She tried to haul off his coat but its sleeves snagged on his wrists, inside-out. She tripped him onto the bed, finally succeeding in yanking off the sleeves. A moment more and she had skillfully undone his shirt. She had, inexplicably, done the same to his trousers, and shortly began a trail of kisses down his chest.

Marcus had never been one for foreplay; Kaelyn forced him to reevaluate that opinion as she began her work. He groaned, grabbed a fistful of her crimson hair. A pillow got in his way and he hurled it across the room. Something shattered on his dresser.

"What broke?" She stopped and glanced around.

"I don't know, something expensive. To hell with it."

"Right." Kaelyn stood and for an instant, Marcus thought she was leaving. But then she shrugged off her straps and wriggled out of the dress. He eyed her with unconcealed hunger as it dropped to the floor. She really did have a form worth dying for—all wide hips and small waist, smooth pale skin, firm breasts and pale nipples puckered with excitement. He wanted to plunder it all.

Her movements were slow and unbearably sensuous as she crawled onto the bed. "You should get undressed now. After you stop drooling."

"I'll stop when I feel like it," he said, grinning as he threw off his shirt and trousers. He stretched out on his back and she straddled him, kissing his lips, her pubis brushing his thighs.

It hurt, he wanted her so badly.

She sat straight up, brushed her hair out of her eyes, one hand behind her backside as she positioned him for entry. She lowered onto him, sighing with him as he slid into her. With that, the moment of crisis was past.

Marcus could not recall losing himself in a woman before—neither his first time nor the many since. It had always been simple mechanical motion to him. Nothing to it, really. Just fucking. There was something more to being with Kaelyn. This was as close to making love as he had ever been. Was that love in her green eyes as she rocked on top of him? The way she pressed her face against his, eyelids trembling? Was there more to her quiet sighs and moans than mere pleasure?

But he was young, just past his twentieth year, and she, only eighteen. They didn't know what love was. The line between that and lust was thin and blurred.

Those were distant thoughts at the moment. Most presently, he was enthralled by the way his newest lover moved—in and out, giving his skin the briefest taste of her hot interior, gyrating her hips gently, drawing him back out again. Whoever had taught her had done spectacular work.

Then it was over. He squeezed her ass instinctively as he climaxed. In his loins there was a feeling of intense heat, then a rushing wave of pleasure as he spilled his seed inside her. It had been embarrassingly quick but there was no trace of disappointment in her kisses. They stayed there entangled for a long moment as Marcus gradually grew limp inside her.

The euphoria was suddenly gone—as if someone had cut a taught string. The snare that held him in the moment, intoxicated, was undone. A vague feeling of shame started to take hold. Just a moment ago this had felt so good, so right. Now he just felt repulsed. _I'm a fool_ , he thought, gazing up at Kaelyn.

She was still smiling. Nothing had changed for her—or it had changed for the better. She slid off him at last and settled alongside him, bare breasts pressing against his side. She draped one arm across his chest, humming contently. "It wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No," he lied. Tomorrow, he thought, she would take a dose of Succor with her breakfast. She would take on a fever and lie bed-ridden for a day and a night, bleeding between her legs. The seed of life in her womb would die, unmourned.

It made Marcus think of his mother. The child that had unknowingly killed her—the midwife had taken the small corpse and quietly cremated it. There could be no ceremony for a stillborn babe that had never lived, yet taken a life.

Now he was just wishing Kaelyn would go away. He didn't say it aloud. He stared up at the ceiling and let her hold him, now entertaining only her own fancies.

"I missed this," she whispered. "Lying here with you."

"It was an innocent thing, back then."

She kissed his ear. "I don't mind."

Marcus didn't want to tell her otherwise. There was no reason to hurt her. She had only wanted to help. So he just lay there, feeling her body relaxing as she drifted to sleep.

Trying not to resent her.

Chapter 3

They called it the Blind Chamber, because that is what justice is supposed to be: blind, benevolent. The palace's forgotten architect had taken to that theme with enthusiasm. The chamber was circular, representing the equality of all men before the law. The overlarge windows cast about the light of wisdom no matter the time of day. The imposing columns lining the walls were the bulwark of law that kept chaos and anarchy at bay. On the vast bronze doors shone Elessa's Wings, a reminder of her mercy and all-encompassing forgiveness—and on the marble-tiled floor, a mural of Ancel's fist, a reminder that mercy can go only so far.

Right now, Marcus wished God's Aspects would show enough mercy to bring the ceiling down on his head.

The plaintiffs had been at it for what seemed like hours with their damned bickering. Two men stood on the floor before the Hearing Council: one, a pale vintner, and the other, a hook-nosed trader.

"Defective bottles!" the vintner cried, pointing an accusing finger. "You knew they would break!"

"A completely baseless accusation!" shouted the trader.

"Says the man who referred me to the bottler!"

"Sir, did you in fact know," Grand Hearer Jerome de Isnell demanded, "that your associate's bottles were of inferior quality?" Isnell was a giant of a man—in the sideways sense of the word. Though the hearers' bench concealed most of his bulk, his spotted jowls quivered with each syllable he spoke, and his drooping cheeks gave him a permanent frown. For Marcus, he was an easy man to dislike. For anyone standing before the bench, an easy man to fear.

The trader feigned indignity. "I do not see what this has to do with me. My purview is the transport of goods, not the—"

"Sir, answer the question!" barked the grand hearer.

"I suspected." He muttered it, but the stone room amplified the reply. The murmurs of the nine other hearers—which, with Marcus and Isnell, made eleven votes in all—smacked of relief rather than concern.

Sensing the end was at last near, Isnell shifted his enormity forward in his seat. "And you failed to notify your client that his wine bottles were inadequate? Bottles from a man _you_ recommended?"

"I did not know for sure that the bottles would shatter, merely—"

Isnell's glare of spent patience shut the man up.

"I did not inform him."

"Then surely you took additional precautions to ensure the security of the defective bottles?"

The trader glowered. "I packed the crates with hay. I tied them down in the wagons. I do not know what else one would expect me to do."

The vintner snorted. "Run an honest business, perhaps?"

"Silence!" Isnell's great chest rose, fell for a moment. His narrow eyes flickered back and forth between the two men. "Very well. I am prepared to render judgment." His eyes flicked left, right at the other hearers, his gaze lingering distastefully on Marcus. "Does the assembly agree that evidence is sufficient to decide a verdict?"

"Aye," Marcus chorused with the rest, tiredly.

"The grand hearer's opinion is thus..." The scribe hunched in his little partition of the bench renewed his efforts; the sound of quill scratching parchment intensified. "Gerard Bucknell's demand for recompense from Horace Renigan is carried. It is deemed that Mr. Renigan violated the mutually-signed contract which promised safe delivery of Mr. Bucknell's goods. By encouraging Mr. Bucknell to purchase inferior bottles from his associate, Mr. Renigan willfully endangered Mr. Bucknell's merchandise, thus annulling the contract. It is this grand hearer's opinion that Mr. Renigan compensate Mr. Bucknell—in full—for the price of shipping, the price of the bottles, and the anticipated profit gained by sale of any wine lost in transit."

By now, the trader was quite paler than his erstwhile associate. He had aimed to win a few more coins with his dishonest venture—just like every other already-rich bastard who had tramped through this court today—but had come out quite a bit poorer than before.

"In addition..."

A moan of dismay rose in the trader's throat.

Isnell spoke over him, "In addition, this court holds Mr. Renigan in contempt for his failure to speak truthfully and submit proper evidence—a failure which cost the court an inordinate amount of valuable time. Mr. Renigan will therefore deduct ten percent from the gross sum owed Mr. Bucknell and pay it to the Royal Treasury."

The vintner's face fell at that; the trader paid his opponent a sneer of lingering defiance.

"Does this court agree with the grand hearer's opinion?"

Again, a chorus of ayes. As Marcus gave his, the trader met his eye, desperate—but Marcus gazed back evenly. After half an afternoon of watching this bastard pulling parchment after parchment out of his fine coat—just to cite some new regulation to hide behind—sympathy was hard in coming.

"Majority reached!" announced Isnell, banging his gavel. "Sirs, I bid you a good day."

The trader whirled and strode from the chamber—quickly enough that his shoulders brushed the gilded doors' edges as they ground open. The vintner bowed, then took his leave.

The doors shut with a loud thud. Suddenly, the eleven hearers were alive again—stretching, chatting, calling for wine.

"How many more, Weston?" Marcus asked the servant behind him. He had reflexively memorized the man's name at the start of the proceedings.

"Just the one, my lord prince," said Weston, offering a waterskin.

Marcus accepted it gratefully. One more hearing, and he was free. He found himself wondering if his mother had enjoyed this duty any less than he did. Almost definitely, he decided. It was a meritless task, this—an entire day spent listening to men trying to cheat each other out of their money. Had he paid any attention at all, Marcus may have been treated to an onerous lesson on tax law, contract terminology, technicalities of every conceivable kind.

As it was, it was all he could do not to draw his sword and leap onto it. That perseverance alone deserved a medal.

Apart from the sheer boredom, this whole thing chaffed at his dignity. Crown prince, heir to Elessia's throne—and his power to judge these bastards was diluted to just one vote out of eleven. Bad enough for a prince; for a queen, it must have been humiliating.

"One more," he muttered. _Until next week_. Already he itched for the practice courts. Swordplay was infinitely simpler than bureaucracy. When he was king, he would have a legion of quill-pushing administrators to worry over this for him.

And his noble peers would be forced to acknowledge his presence. His fellow hearers had been pretending not to notice him all day.

Three booming knocks sounded from the doors. "To order," Jerome de Isnell called. The chamber quickly settled down, the nobles eager to be finished with their day. Marcus handed the waterskin back to Weston with a weary smile and turned back to the floor.

"Enter!"

The doors cracked, then opened at the behest of two straining guards, pushing with all their might. Behind them walked a sneering, pointed-faced man whose blue tunic and silver gorget marked him out as a chief constable. From a poorer quarter, judging by his blade's worn grip.

That, and the shackled man stumbling along in his wake. He was gaunt, though his ill-fitting clothes suggested that he had shrunk dramatically. Obviously he had not seen the light of day for some time—pale, filthy, uncut hair and nails. Yet for all the misery of his appearance, his eyes made their way defiantly and methodically from the guards, to each hearer, to Isnell... to Marcus, who frowned, wondering what had brought a man of obvious character so low.

"My lords," greeted the constable with a tip of his plumed hat. He came to a halt before the grand hearer, bowed deeply.

"Your names and business." Isnell sounded even more bored than before.

"Roger Constable," the sneering man replied, "and my prisoner, Jebril Carpenter. We come on grounds of appeal."

"Appeal of...?"

"Execution, my lord. This one is due to hang on the morrow." The hearers may have murmured on learning that a vintner had been cheated out of his money, but no one seemed overly concerned that this shabby man with a common name would soon be dead. More than one was staring longingly at the door.

"On which grounds?"

"Theft of the king's property."

For the first time, the condemned man spoke. "Of bread," he hissed.

The constable immediately whirled and backhanded him across the cheek. "Be silent, convict!" he yelled as the smack echoed. "You speak when you're given permission!" He bowed again to the benches. "Apologies, my lords."

But Marcus was standing. "You will not strike that man again," he growled. "This is a court of law, not a dungeon."

"That," Isnell snapped, "is sufficient, my lord prince. I thank you for your concern." Though his thanks sounded more like a curse. "Mr. Constable, this man has no one to speak in his defense?"

Marcus felt his temper rising as he dropped into his chair. Isnell allowed a man to be struck in his supposedly-esteemed court, yet refused to give him the courtesy of addressing him directly?

"But for himself, no, my lord. He refuses to be represented. Wanted to refuse the appeal, too, but it's the law." True enough—all condemned men were entitled to a final appeal, voluntary or not.

"Very well." At last, Isnell turned his attention to the convict. "Mr. Carpenter. Do you have any evidence of your innocence?"

The constable cleared his throat. "With respect, my lord, there's no need to trouble with evidence. I have here," he produced a folded parchment, "a confession, signed by this man. His guilt is beyond refute."

Marcus looked incredulously between the constable and the grand hearer. He wanted to speak up, but he couldn't bring himself to believe that this was truly happening.

Isnell seemed to have no qualms. He thumbed his gavel impatiently. "It seems then that this proceeding is one of mere protocol. So, Mr. Carpenter, you are entitled to a last word. You may speak." He raised his brows, waiting, but the man just stood there and stared back with contempt smoldering in his eyes. After a while, Isnell sighed. "I am prepared to render judgment. Does the assembly agree—"

"No!" Marcus shot to his feet, drawing miffed looks from the rest of the hearers.

Lord Isnell was no exception. "The court," he pronounced with incredible disdain, "recognizes the _honorable_ Lord Prince Pilars." A few of the old men smirked, but Marcus couldn't have cared much less, given the events of the past three minutes.

"Mr. Carpenter, if you would, state your crime."

The convict clenched his jaw, as if to bite back futility. "I stole the king's bread."

Marcus snorted, though his humor could not have been more forced. "Hang a man for stealing bread! Well surely this is a special case. You _must_ deserve it somehow. So what, did you sneak into this palace and snatch the bread off the king's table?"

"No, m'lord."

"Where from, then?"

"The dole wagon. I lifted out the dole wagon."

An elderly hearer peered down the row at Marcus. "Theft from the dole is theft from the king. It's bought with royal gold, after all. This man's guilt is beyond questioning."

"Beyond—" Marcus scrubbed his jaw in aggravation. "Beyond question? Is this not a _dole_ we speak of? Bread gets _doled_ from the wagons, it isn't sold. Are we truly weighing the merit of hanging a man, for taking something freely given?"

A number of hearers exchanged looks. "My lord, are you unaware of the Grain Exchange Tax's extension?" one inquired. "A tax that we must levy on those who benefit from the dole, so as to prevent our government from bankrupting itself."

"Tax? Since when?"

"Approved but a fortnight past, in this very chamber."

Marcus stared incredulously. Barely more than a fortnight ago, his mother had been alive. She had bought bread with coin from her own pocket, given it to the people from her own hands. Then she died, and men like these had undone her deeds before her corpse had even cooled.

He must have stared for a while, because the grand hearer cleared his throat and asked, "Have you any more questions?"

"Yes." He turned back to the convict. "Carpenter, that is your profession?"

"It was my father's name, sir." He had seen salvation glimmering. Now that fragile promise was fading, and the desperation was clear in his cracking voice, even if his face was too filthy to show it. "I have no profession."

"But your scars, the ones there on your arms, and that one on your face—were you not in the war?"

"I was, yes, m'lord."

"You have a veteran's pension, then!" The hearing council's patience was thinning. They shifted and glared, but Marcus ignored them.

"A pittance, m'lord. Enough only to pay my rent."

"So you must choose between a roof over your head and a meal in your belly?"

"No, my family's!"

The grand hearer had been restless for some time, but at last he could bear it no longer. "My lord prince! This man is proven guilty! These questions are of no consequence! Our duty is not to question why the laws are broken, only to carry out the law when it is!"

"What about your duty as an Elessian, man?! If Elessa herself sat in this chamber beside you, would _she_ not have asked these same questions?"

"Blasphemy!" squeaked a hearer. "He dares compare himself to blessed Elessa!"

Marcus shouted down to the convict, "Mr. Carpenter, who depends on your pension for their food and shelter?"

"My wife!" he bellowed back, fighting to be heard over the rising clamor. "And two young daughters!"

Marcus bolted to his feet, straight as a lance, and rammed a fist down on the bench sill. The chamber was shocked into stillness. "Damn you, this man hangs tomorrow! At least hear him for a moment longer!" He inhaled, exhaled slowly. "Mr. Carpenter, at long last, why did you steal the king's bread from the dole wagon?"

The man looked him in the eye. That hollow gaze was back. This was the end, they both knew it. There wasn't a blessed thing either of them could do to change it. But Jebril Carpenter swallowed, clenched his jaw, and intoned in a voice barely audible, "My daughters, they always cried. Wasn't bad in the day when they had stuff to do, but then at night, they felt the hunger. I tried to find honest work. What work is there to be had in a city? Old man like me?" He shook his head sorrowfully. "I couldn't feed my daughters. Then one night... they didn't cry anymore. They knew it wouldn't do them any good." He stared at the floor and nearly whispered, "I did what any father must."

For the longest time, the Blind Chamber was silent. Still as Queen Geneva's tomb.

Marcus moved first. He stepped to the aisle, then down to the tiled floor, followed by ten pairs of noble eyes. He stood before the manacled prisoner. He nodded once—a soldier's nod. "Forgive me."

Carpenter blinked, nodded back. Then he looked past Marcus, past the men about to condemn him—ready to meet his fate, cruel though it was.

Marcus faced his peers. He had felt hatred before—for the Glats, for Jaspar, for himself even—but never as keenly as this. Death was too good for the lot of these men. "Blessed Elessa once said, 'From virtue is born law.' May those words live forever, my lords." He met each man's eyes in turn. Few could hold his gaze. "I name this man innocent of these charges. God damn any of you who say otherwise."

He spun on his heel, a picture of military precision and resolution, and strode for the chamber doors. Elessa's wings shone, then split in two as the doors blundered apart.

"Does the court acknowledge the aforementioned verdict of innocence?"

"Nay." "Nay." "Nay."

†††

Four days later, the harvest was in at last, and everyone was celebrating in earnest. The farmers and their families had abandoned the villages to flood into Ancellon. They packed the taverns and inns, pouring out into the streets along with their revelry. Most city folk were joining in, but as always, there were a few clever heads with an eye for profit. There were stands lining every street, selling bread, sweets, trinkets, and of course, drink.

"Oy Marcus, you want mead?" Vernon was bouncing along beside Marcus, grinning with utter delight as he took it all in. "No problem, right there! How about ale? Right over there, sir! Rum? Wine? Shit on it, vodka? All the way from golden Kydona, just for you and me!"

"The stuff makes for a nasty wakeup, if you ask me. Tell you what, drink up and I'll laugh at you tomorrow."

"Pfft, you laughing? That'd be a first!"

Marcus settled for a smile. He glanced back to make sure the guards were still with him; they were, all three of them, gently pushing their way through the throng, never more than a stone's throw from their charge. There was Gail, a veteran since age seventeen, whose score of campaigns had utterly erased his sense of humor. A few paces behind him was Kelly, instantly recognizable from the ugly cleft bisecting his orange-haired scalp—a remnant of an encounter with a barbarian carl. An encounter he had won, dazed and half-conscious though he was. Somewhere else in the crowd, Blaxley was prowling about. He was young, but despite two years together, Marcus had yet to find another word to describe him—save nondescript. Perfect for Blaxley's purposes, though; he was an artist with a bow, and in general, a sneaky son of a whore.

Marcus was more than happy to have men like these protecting his back, after the antics he had pulled three days ago.

The mob seemed to agree. Actually it was all they were talking about. As Marcus passed a knot of commoners, he heard one say, "Wish I'd been there, alright! I stopped going to hangings ages ago, they're such a damned bore. Executioner pulls the lever and— _crack_ —all done!"

"Well this hanging was something to see, let me tell you—"

A third interrupted, "It wasn't a hanging, you idiot."

"Well no, not after the prince had something to say about it. The hangman's face must have been some kind of sight, under that hood, that is! The nobles in the stands, they were red as plums, hah!"

"Plums are purple, dolt."

Marcus shuffled by, fighting back a smirk. It was a lucky thing that he had dressed down for tonight. Apart from the Pilars crest on his ring, he could be any merchant's son. Still, Vernon was doing little to help his cover.

He had dug up a cap with a single point jutting out over his forehead, and a white feather plume sticking out from the top. It was yesteryear's fashion at best—practically a relic. "You really ought to play this up," he said, meticulously smoothing the feather as he glanced back at the gossipers. "You wouldn't have to walk anywhere, they'd just carry you about."

Marcus smiled. "Aye, but where would that leave you?"

"Well true, but how about this: the girls! You'd be swamped with them!" He spun on the spot to eye a pretty common girl. She smiled back but kept walking. "Wow," he mouthed.

"I suppose you didn't notice the babe on her hip."

"The _what_?" Vernon looked back but she was gone. "You _must_ be joking."

Shrugging, Marcus replied, "They're all married, by our age. Even the ugly ones."

For a moment, his friend looked thoughtful—which was a rarity, for him. Then he said, "Mums are good. Easy to get. Keen on pleasing, too."

A weaker man would have thrown up, but not Marcus.

Fortunately, there was plenty to distract him from Vernon's forwardness. Everyone was in an eager rush. They trod on Marcus's toes, bumped him about, not bothering with apologies. Off to his right, a pair of acrobats somersaulted over each other's heads in turn before nimbly climbing a set of tall poles, using only their arms. There were tents selling cakes, pies, skewered vegetables and meats. Lads lined up at game tents, trying to win prizes for the girls they were with. A group of minstrels spun a lively tune from atop a stage, one strumming furiously at a lute, one pounding a great sheepskin drum, and one blowing red-faced into a pipe. In front of the stage, couples young and old danced along with no semblance of order.

"Mums or not, Court can suck mine!" Vernon bellowed into Marcus's ear. "Common people know a party!"

"Let's get a drink!" Marcus mimed back.

That turned out to be tougher than expected. Half the tents seemed to have a keg of ale inside but when they tried to buy a drink, the gypsy girl behind the counter gave them an impatient look. "Cups?" she half-asked, half-demanded.

"We had to bring our own?"

They then had to pay her an exorbitant price for two clay mugs, then pay again to have them filled.

"Damned gypsies!" muttered a soured Vernon. "They'll squeeze every coin out of you some way or another."

"Drink it off. A few coppers won't kill you."

"Aye, says the man who _didn't_ buy off two courtesans the other week!"

"Oh, what, and you're saying you didn't enjoy it? Come on." The next hour or so, they spent in search of cheaper thrills. But those turned out to be impossible to find. They settled into a crowd watching the acrobats, which kept them entertained for a good while. When the act ended, though, the acrobat family went around with baskets, demanding coin and harrying anyone without it until they paid up. Gail, ever suspicious, almost intervened, but Marcus waved him off and dropped some coins in the acrobat's cap.

The players' comedy ended the same way, even though the performance wasn't even amateur by noble standards. While Marcus was standing in line for more ale afterward, a gypsy lad bumped rudely into him and started off without an apology. Marcus was cleverer than the pickpocket gave him credit for, though, and he let go of the lad's collar only once his purse was firmly in hand again.

Further they wandered. A young couple kissed with near-indecent loudness in an obscenely narrow alley. A lad, not seven years old, tottered around drunkenly, spilling ale from a tankard that he could have bought just as easily as stolen. A wiry old man wandered past Marcus, grinning with confusion at everyone he saw, his wits eroded by age and drink.

Common people. Their accents grated on the crown prince's ears. Their musk—a medley of sweat, dirt, and shit—filled his nose. Everywhere he looked, he saw rotten teeth, filthy hands, greasy hair.

It would be so easy to despise them all, just like his peers did.

Only he refused to. He could see what his mother had, too. Fathers carrying toddlers on their shoulders, staring down anyone who jostled them. Mothers breaking up cakes for their children, saving the last and least of it for themselves—often none at all. Bodies, hardened, unaccustomed to leisure. Rough clothes, homespun. They took what little they were given and made the most of it, without complaint.

His mother had given them all she could, but they had never asked for it.

That was a trait the nobility had lost, jaded as they were. A trait Marcus could admire, even aspire to.

And they were still talking about the same thing. "Never seen a thing like it in all my days!" an old man croaked to his fellows as they lounged on a street corner. "There's that poor fellow on the stage, got this great big noose 'round his neck—"

"Took it like a man, he did," added another.

"Aye, aye. I look over on the stands where all the nobles are. There's a few dozen of 'em, looking bored out of their skulls—"

"Like to pretend the world's beneath 'em!"

"Aye, aye, but the prince was different. He might've been chewing on a lump of shit, from the look on his face. Anyways, I bows my head with everyone else to pray, when the priest says his last bit for the man's soul. But when I look up, prince is gone!"

"Lost his stomach, did he?"

"You know this story, Ben!"

"Why's you telling it then?"

"'Cause I am, that's why! So I think nothing of it, right? I look back at the stage. The chief constable does his little bit, asks the dead man if he's got any last words. Usually they start weeping or they beg for mercy or something but this one just clamps down, doesn't move a muscle. So the constable gives his nod, the executioner walks up to the lever with that sick swagger they've always got, but then he stops—'cause the prince is up on stage with him!"

The old men grinned and leaned in, not wanting to miss the climax. "Tell it, Herb! What's he do?" Even Marcus stopped to listen in, though a bit further down the road.

"Well, everyone's pointing and staring, making noise like you'd never believe! Noble folk look fit to burst, they're so red!" The old man cackled and wiped his mouth, grinning. "The prince pretends none of this is happening. He walks up to the convict, stands there for a moment—I'm thinking he said something to the man, not sure what—but then he draws his sword all of a sudden, and everyone gasps, 'cause it looks like he's about to run the man through!

"But then instead, he swings this sword and cuts right through the rope. He swung it so hard, it stuck straight in the pole. Everyone shuts up. Couldn't believe it! Even the convict stands there, his mouth's all hanging open. The prince leaves his sword quivering in the pole and walks up to the edge of the stage, and he says real loud, 'The Aspects never hanged a man for taking bread!'"

"No, no Herb, he said, 'Neither Ancel nor Elessa would suffer a man to hang for stealing bread, and neither will I.'"

Looking impatient, Herb continued, "Well it doesn't matter what he said, it's what he did, isn't it? He sat on the Hearing Council a few days ago, and word is, he said the man was innocent back then. Council votes to hang him anyway, so young Pilars decides to go his own way."

"Damned fool," muttered another, who until now had been silent.

His friends looked at him. "What're you talking about? He was right, wasn't he? Ancel himself would have set that man free."

"Ain't disagreeing on that count. But the nobles aren't happy, that's for sure. Young Pilars is a dead man."

"They wouldn't dare!"

"They would, though. Why you think they were gonna hang that man? You think they give a damn about some missing bread? No. They're just showing us who's the boss. Tightening our reins. They've got us right where they want us, and the prince is setting himself against them. Mark my words: he won't live out the month."

The other two exchanged dark looks, and Marcus, feeling troubled but not at all surprised, quietly moved on.

"S'alright, mate," Vernon said, as low as he could over the sounds of gaiety. "They even try it, they've got to go through me."

"Right."

"Always the doubter," he sighed. "Well, inevitable though your death may be, you're still having a better day than _them_."

Marcus followed his friend's finger to a trio of young women in expensive-looking dresses, all huddled on a street corner around a fourth. She hunched on the dirty curb, sobbing into her hands. Her friends were smoothing her hair and patting her back soothingly. A pair of hired guardsmen hovered uncertainly nearby with their thumbs tucked into their belt loops.

"They look in charge," Marcus said sarcastically.

"I'm guessing the girl just hit her period," Vernon remarked.

"I'm sure," said Marcus, squinting. He nudged a fellow observer. "What's happened?"

The man gave a noncommittal shrug, but another man behind him put in, "Someone lifted the lady's purse. Damned gypsies."

"What makes you think it was a gypsy?"

"Who else would it be?"

Marcus thought about pointing out that not all gypsies were thieves and not all thieves were gypsies, but he thought better of it. He nodded to Vernon and pushed his way out of the miniature ring of spectators. He held three fingers in the air, and half a moment later, Gail was at scowling at his side.

"Trouble?" the aging guard grunted.

"Gail, I need to catch a thief. How do I go about it?"

"Lost your purse, did you?"

"No."

Gail's mouth acquired a slight twist at that, but it vanished quickly. "What kind of thief? Cutpurse? Pickpocket? Mugger?" It had always been Marcus's favorite quality among bodyguards—once you had their loyalty, they never questioned, just obeyed.

"Whichever would go after that young lady back there." He jabbed a thumb behind his head.

Gail raised his chin to look over Marcus's shoulder. "Pickpocket then." He opened his purse and retrieved a dozen silver coins, which he shoved into Marcus's hand. "Once I'm gone, toss these."

Marcus had an eyebrow raised as he closed his fist. In a few seconds, Gail was nowhere to be seen.

"Toss _those_? They're silver halves!" Vernon said, astonished.

"The man knows what he's doing."

"Well alright..." His best mate bit down on his knuckles and watched him tentatively.

Marcus gave his guard a moment longer, then flung the coins onto the cobblestones. They hit home with that unmistakable, enticing ring of recently-lost money. The sound wasn't lost on the people around. Immediately, people were scrambling to the spot, falling over each other in their haste to get half a silver richer. Vernon made an agonized, high-pitched whine around his fist. Marcus looked on with some combination of amusement, disgust and pity. Others were gathering around in a tight ring, laughing and cheering at the new spectacle. They jostled each other for space and squeezed Marcus and Vernon together so tight they could barely breathe.

"Do you realize what you've done?" Vernon cried into his ear. "That might've bought me a minute or so with Kaelyn," he added, mournfully.

Marcus laughed guiltily. He shouted back, "Don't trouble yourself, you'd need a lot more than that." It was a lie, sort of. He'd been fucking her for weeks now, free of charge.

The rabble crawled about desperately for a few moments, like feral dogs around a carcass, until they realized there was nothing left. Gradually they dispersed, leaving a disappointed circle of spectators to leave in turn.

Marcus drew a grateful breath of somewhat-fresh air. He glanced around. "Right..." Gail was nowhere to be seen.

"Here we are," came Gail's gruff voice from behind him. He was holding up a small gypsy lad by the collar. "This the one?" The lad snarled, kicking his bare feet in the air.

Marcus stared, perplexed, while Vernon hunched, giggling uncontrollably.

"Oh my God, this is the greatest thing I've ever seen! Gail, can you just swing him around a bit for me? Shit, I can't breathe..."

Ignoring his friend, Marcus asked, "How'd you find him?"

Gail shrugged. "They look for distractions. Make a spectacle and they'll come creeping. This one," he raised the lad a mite higher, "I saw him bump three people before I got him. See?" He upended the lad and furiously shook him by the knees; purses and loose change dropped onto the street. The boy gibbered in panic.

By this point, Vernon was on his knees, alternating between laughing and choking. "Help..." he squeaked.

"Man, get yourself together. Gail, fine work." Marcus stooped and retrieved an embroidered leather purse with a golden clasp—just the kind of thing a noble girl would carry about. He left the rest where it lay.

Gail nodded curtly before vanishing once more.

The girls were in the same place as before. The situation was nearly the same, only the one with the missing purse had added some hysterics to her sobbing. No point lying about it: Marcus had earlier considered an approach, but now chivalry of the quiet sort seemed prudent. With a quick glance, he located an old-ish woman with a few toddlers in tow—and since grandmothers tended to be more honest than most, he approached her instead.

"Pardon, my lady..."

She looked surprised but gratified. "Can I help you, sir?"

"This is hers," he said, offering the purse and nodding toward the hapless girl on the curb.

The woman smiled. "Well aren't you a sweet young man. Put in a good word for you too, shall I?"

Marcus smiled politely. "That won't be necessary." Bidding her a good night, he made his retreat.

Vernon waited by a beer stand, as promised. "So?" he demanded.

"So what? Where's my pint?"

Vernon slid it over, and as Marcus drank deep, he persisted, "That's the opening? 'Oh, look, I got your purse back, I'm a hero and you're a dumbass for losing it in the first place, now love me'?"

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he replied, "It wasn't an opening. I was just... it seemed like something a better man would do. I don't know."

For a moment, his friend sat there frozen, except for his working jaw. Then he spun on his stool to face the bar, and stuffed his nose in his beer. Just as suddenly, he was in Marcus's face again. " _What-in-the-God-damned-fuck-is-wrong-with-you_?" He punctuated each syllable with a furious wave of his arms, spilling beer all over the place, and on Marcus. "Why, oh why, are you interested in being a better man?"

Marcus fought to keep his face straight. _Because I'm fucking the only girl you feel anything for. And because I keep on doing it just because I can, and she thinks she's in love_. "My mother had this saying." He watched Vernon's expression fall away. It made him feel well enough to go on, "Knowing the right thing to do is not enough. The test of virtue is acting on that knowledge." He drank again. "She did so much good in her life... now she's gone. It's my turn. Understand?"

Vernon frowned intensely. "You know, I had a perfectly good point there, and you had to pull that shit." He sighed, rubbed his nose. "Who ever said you can't follow up on a good deed with a dirty one? Not so bad, long as she's willing..."

"Ever heard of altruism?"

"Alright, what about the rest of it? The coin you left all over the street for anyone to pick up?"

"Nothing much I can do about that."

Vernon rolled his eyes. "Not very good at this altruism stuff, are you?"

Marcus had to agree on that count, but he wasn't about to say so. Instead, he drank some more. The suds rolled soothingly down his throat and fizzled gently in his gut. A belch started making its way up—

And a youthful female voice began tentatively from behind him, "I beg your pardon..."

He fought it back down and turned as coolly as he could, staring through watering eyes. A young woman—about twenty, he supposed—looked back at him. She was all shyness—hazel eyes flickering, throat working, hands clasped on her belly. All in all, she was lovely—not the sort of face a poet would write an epic ballad about, but still.

She was well aware of his scrutiny. "Um..." She nervously tucked a stray lock of light brown hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry, but that woman over there tells me you're the one who found my friend's purse."

Behind her, the grandmother winked at Marcus.

Marcus met the girl's eyes again. She blushed. "I had a part in it. What of it?"

"Well... she'd like to thank you." His reply wasn't instantly forthcoming; her blush deepened and she blurted, "You don't have to come over. I'm sorry... I'll go..."

He laughed. "Why do you keep saying you're sorry?"

"I'm sorry, it's a habit." She realized her mistake and giggled anxiously. "They just sent me over here alone, and I thought you would be older but you're not, and now there's two of you staring at me..."

Beside him, Vernon hastily pretended to order another pint.

Marcus glanced her over, this time a bit more surreptitiously. Nice dress; the colors didn't much matter to him, but the strong show of cleavage did, and she'd been careful to display an enticingly narrow waist. The prince decided he was charmed. "Alright then." He unhurriedly stood. "I'll come along. That is, if you don't mind that I bring my friend as well."

The girl looked entertained. "Oh, I'm sure no one will complain." She started off, with the two not far behind.

"You, sir, are a good man," whispered Vernon, patting Marcus's shoulder.

He wished it so, but wishing never accomplished much.

The girl had three friends waiting. It took only a moment for Marcus to decide he didn't like them. They were sitting impatiently in the same spot as before, fussing for no apparent reason, glaring knife-sharp at anyone who dared step near. All too typical of girls who thought they were pretty. "There you are!" It was the one who'd been crying before—he could tell by the tear streaks marring her powdered cheeks, and the tight-curled blonde hair that had gone astray from its bun. "My God, Jacquelyn, it's been forever!"

"Really," agreed another, a brunette, while the large third girl wrinkled her nose.

Jacquelyn stopped short, fiercely red again, and stammered an apology. Marcus couldn't understand why she bothered. He and Vernon hovered in the background and exchanged a look.

The blonde girl noticed them at last. She issued an ear-splitting squeal, which nearly made him wince. "Oh God oh God oh God," she breathed, hopping up and down and fanning herself. "You... you!"

"Me," agreed Marcus.

"Me too," added Vernon, quiet-like.

The other two caught on, or at least pretended to. They stared at Marcus with bulging eyes until the blonde remembered to curtsy, which they mimed. For her part, Jacquelyn glanced between them with obvious confusion. "I don't understand."

"Oh, when's the last time you understood anything? It's the prince!" The blonde dispensed with her snappishness to beam at him. "Lord Prince Marcus Audric de Pilars rescued _my_ purse! I can't thank you enough, your highness!"

He waved with a forced smile. "It was nothing."

"But you found my purse!"

"Little trouble on my part. Very least I could do. Really." He wished to God he had dispensed with chivalry and let the purse stay stolen. But then, wishing never accomplished much. "Well, ladies, it was a true pleasure, I ought to be on my way—"

"Please!" the blonde cried. "You only just got here! You _must_ stay!"

Jacquelyn said in a low voice, "He wants to go. We should let him."

Ignoring her, the blonde stepped up and wrapped an arm around Marcus's. "It's not every day that I meet a prince. I'm beside myself, you understand. I'm sure we all are." She shot a glare at her supposed friend, who managed to return it, albeit briefly. The other two fluttered their eyelashes at him.

He faked a smile. It wasn't hard to be charming when a gaggle of women were practically falling over themselves to get at him. Nothing he said could be wrong. He was the king-to-be. All he had to do was be reasonable, and he could have any one of these girls in his bed by night's end. He was no stranger to connivers; he'd been playing along with them for years.

Only now, he just wished they would shut up and let him talk to the girl he was actually interested in.

Just for that chance, he kept the smile on.

By midnight, he, Vernon, and their newest gaggle of young ladies were a few notches above tipsy. The noise of the festival was louder, if anything, but it no longer grated on Marcus's ears. He heard his heart pulsing, felt the alcohol pounding through his veins, warming his skin and brightening the lights around him. He had the blonde girl, Celyn, clutching his left elbow and Jacquelyn hanging onto his right. Vernon had the other pair of girls and couldn't have been happier about it. The six of them waddled along drunkenly, laughing at and chatting about nothing in particular.

"Oy look, a band!" cried Vernon. He skipped toward the stage with the two girls in tow, bellowing the entirely wrong lyrics.

Celyn let Marcus go to follow after, shrieking with drunken excitement. "Come on!"

"Go ahead, I'll rest a moment." Celyn went, but Marcus hung onto Jacquelyn.

Her smile had a naughty twist to it when she was drunk. "You don't _look_ that tired."

"Just between us, I needed a break from your friends."

"What, not me?"

"I meant to send you after them but somehow you got stuck on my arm."

She laughed. Charming girls was easy; charming drunk girls was like smashing a wingless fly with a sledgehammer. "No, _you_ held me back."

He grinned. "Might be I wanted to ask you something."

The smile stretched wider. "Alright."

"Well first off, I never learned your family name—"

"Duchesne. Jacquelyn Duchesne."

"Sounds Isennese."

"Yes! My father is from there. My mother... well she doesn't know where she's from. The courtesans took her in off the streets, when she was an orphan. But I grew up in Isenne. I only moved here last year."

She talked more when she was drunk. A lot more. It didn't bother him; it spared him a good amount of small talk. "So your father is noble born?"

"Well..." Jacquelyn said, hesitant, "we've a Writ. My grandfather bought it before I was born."

"New nobility, eh?" The royal coffers had been near empty toward the end of King Basil's reign—Marcus's grandfather—and in an attempt to fill them again, he had started granting noble status—more like selling it. Likely, the Duchesnes had once been the richest family in a hamlet called Chesny. An ample donation to the Royal Treasury had earned them what birth could not: a noble _de_. "Your grandfather was a rich man." Ten-thousand golden strikes rich, at the least.

Her hazel eyes were wide. "You're not going to stop talking to me, are you?"

"Why would I do that?"

"They make fun of me for it," she said quietly, glancing at the other girls. Vernon was somehow succeeding in dancing with all three at once, prancing from partner to partner as fast as the eyes could follow.

Marcus made a disbelieving noise. "And you still pretend they're your friends?"

"At least they bother talking to me. No one else does."

He could hardly stand the loneliness in her voice. It made him realize how lucky he was—to be able to pick his friends and enemies at will, rather than be forced to let them pick him. It was good to be the prince. Others were not as lucky. "Well the crown prince is talking to you. Aren't I?"

That perked her up slightly. "I'm so happy you are. Tonight stank before you came in."

"Couldn't agree more."

It was quiet between them for a few moments. Marcus watched the band playing. The lively tune had ended, replaced by a slower beat. Vernon and the others were starting to make their way back, looking miffed that the band had spoiled their fun.

"Great," Marcus sighed. "You don't care if I tell Celyn to go fuck herself when she sits on my lap, do you?"

Jacquelyn covered her smile with her hands and shook her head.

"Another thing. Do you have anything to do tomorrow morning?"

There was that astonished look again. A slow smile crept onto her face. "Nothing in particular..."

"I had riding in mind. Tomorrow morning is the review of the battlements. I'm presiding over it. I might let you come along—if you've got a horse, that is. Not the kind of thing I can just loan out."

That smile was enormous now. He didn't think he'd ever seen a woman so delighted. "Yes!" She squeaked, bouncing on her toes and kneading her hands. "Oooh, you've just made my night, you don't even know!"

He started laughing. "I think I do."

Vernon and the others got there just then. "What in the hell are the both of you laughing at?"

They shook their heads, grinning.

Celyn looked at her two friends, obviously annoyed. Turning to Marcus, she accused, "I thought you were resting."

He thought about it, looked her in the eye, and said, "Go fuck yourself, Celyn."

Chapter 4

Jacquelyn was late the next day—but to be fair, Marcus had never known a woman to be on time. There was a proverb his father loved to quote: "Life is not a series of problems to be solved, merely a list of conditions to be lived with." It was one of the few of his father's lessons that Marcus had taken to heart.

So he waited for her in the Atrium. Even if he hadn't been so acquainted with the palace, Marcus would have known the chamber by the noise alone. It was, in many ways, the heart of the palace. It was a common area, an ideal place for courtiers to gather. Some of their affairs were serious—political negotiation, trade agreements, betrothals and the like, all of which were masked by the ceaseless drone of voices. Most, though, preferred the Atrium's more lighthearted uses. Various courtiers lounged on the benches scattered about the broad chamber, or threw dice at the checkered gaming tables obscured by enormous planters, or surreptitiously flirted with courtesans between the vast marble columns lining the chamber.

Marcus opted to sit on the Atrium's open side, where a peek through the columns provided a pleasant view of the gardens. The aroma of lilacs drifted past his nose, and the sun beamed warm on his face. Fine day for a ride, he thought. He squinted at the heating sun and wondered which horse he ought to take. Breggo? Perhaps, but Jacquelyn would probably be riding a mare, and stallions were enough of a handful when they were calm. Gelding, then. Good. Morin hadn't stretched his legs in a long time.

"Why good morning, my lord prince."

_Shit_. "Hello, Kaelyn. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She looked lovely today, like always. She had dressed for warm weather—crimson hair in a tail, sleeveless dress, laced-up sandals. "To her," the courtesan said, flicking her eyes back at a retreating maid. She held out a sealed envelope. "She was about to give you this."

"My thanks." He dropped it on his lap.

"Not even going to see who it's from?"

He didn't smile. Hopefully if he kept that up, she would get the point and leave him alone. "I'm sure it can wait."

However, Kaelyn did not take the point. She sank into the seat beside him, almost too close for decency, and brushed his thigh with her fingers as she whisked the envelope up. "Hmm. Plain seal. Could be a desperate pauper, or..." she smirked, her hand poised above the seal, "someone with a taste for the mysterious. Shall I open it?"

"If you really want to, go right ahead."

The smirk became a slight frown. She sighed and tossed the envelope back. "Not really, no. I came to see you." She slowly and deliberately turned her gaze over her shoulder. A young courtier thought she was looking at him and smiled at her; she smiled back and waved, as if she had meant to greet him all along, and returned her attention to Marcus.

"You could have just asked me if anyone's watching us, you rotten bitch."

"Where's the fun in that?" She inspected her flawless nails. "Do you have any arrangements tonight? Any more drunken lollygags in the company of the common, and so on?"

Marcus pretended not to be grinding his teeth. There was no good way to go about this kind of business. "Not tonight, Kaelyn."

Her eyebrow shot up. It took very little to arouse a courtesan's interest—especially Lady Roslene's daughter. "That's so? I haven't been boring you, have I?" He said nothing, so she pressed, "If it was that assignation with Lord DeMiric, you'll understand if I tell you to grow some fruits."

It wasn't the case, but that made this whole thing much easier. "Well while we're on that subject, let me ask: how was that shriveled prick of his?"

She coughed in disbelief. "My God, you really do care about this, don't you?"

"Does he still trim? I imagine he has to pull the wrinkles taut before he starts—"

That worked. Kaelyn stood, head wagging furiously. "You're an ass. A royal ass, at that." Marcus had to reflect on the fact that a month ago, before he'd made the terrible mistake of sleeping with her, it would have taken much worse to work her up like this. "It's work, Marcus. What the hell else am I supposed to do?"

"Marry me and ride off into the flaming sunset. And the horse is on fire, too." It made his insides burn, flippantly lying like this. Worse still, he was good at it. "Bother me in a few weeks and maybe I'll have gotten over this."

She stared. "I can't believe you." She turned, started walking—

—into Jacquelyn. The two came within an inch of colliding, but the courtesan stopped just short.

"Oh. Pardon me, I'm sorry," said Jacquelyn, though she had been standing still. She smiled uneasily.

Kaelyn's mouth opened slightly. She glanced at Marcus, then a reddening Jacquelyn, then Marcus again. With that, her expression blanked. Her mouth shut. Her color even stayed neutral. If not for the near-invisible twitch of her fingers, Marcus would have thought her calm.

Without another word, she brushed past Jacquelyn and stalked away, her sandals scuffing the marble floor.

Jacquelyn watched her go. "Friend of yours?"

He made himself smile, though in truth he wanted to bludgeon himself against the column beside him until he went unconscious. "Everyone wants to be a prince's friend. I can't satisfy them all. You ready to go?"

As if he needed any more demonstration of his lying ability, the girl's discomfort instantly faded into excitement. She held up a riding crop, beaming at him. "Yes! I've a man outside holding my mare."

He lurched upright, let her take his elbow, and began leading them out toward the Atrium's entrance, outside which the palace's grand steps were just visible in the summer brightness. The fact that his mother had lain there, dead on her bier, only darkened his mood further. But on the outside, he was all cheer. "Mare, eh? How'd I guess? I was debating with myself earlier, and you tell me what you think, whether I should ride stallion or gelding..."

In past years, the review of the battlements had been a convention for Marcus, and little more—just another princely chore to get out of the way. So far, this time was no different.

Ancellon's outer walls were six miles in circumference. Each year, he inspected every foot of those six miles. There was much more to the walls than breadth; they towered overhead, the height of ten tall men. Their smooth white limestone amplified the sun's already-overpowering brightness—which of course made Marcus's task near impossible. It was a lucky thing that this duty was mere tradition; the Mason's Guild and the city watch were tasked with supervising the walls at all times.

Needless though this task was, Jacquelyn was clearly impressed. "They're _huge_!" she pronounced in awed tones. "They make Isenne look like a hamlet!"

"Large they are," agreed Marcus. He glanced up at the battlements, snarling in the sun's heat.

Heat which Jacquelyn hadn't noticed in her delight. "I'm sure they're even bigger from up there! Can we walk the battlements later on?"

"If that's what you want."

She bounced excitedly in her saddle, making her horse whinny. Abashed, she stroked its mane to hush it.

Marcus smiled to himself. He always managed to drag a girl along for this, and they invariably and endlessly whined about the heat, the length of the walls, whatever. It was good to have Jacquelyn along. Whether she was feigning enjoyment or not, she was pleasant company. He rarely ever stumbled across nice girls, and he was going to savor the opportunity.

The review was a minor event, but there were plenty along for the ride. A gaggle of journeymen from the Stonemasons' Guild scurried along the base of the walls with measuring tapes and leveling rulers, while the master masons looked on from their horses. The House of Architects and the Carpenters' Guild were represented as well. Besides them, there was a veritable horde of constables, city planners, scribes, mathematicians, and tradesmen among other professions.

They kept a respectful distance from their prince, but he could see their concerned expressions.

"Is there anything I should be worried about, Master Blanton?" he asked the senior Mason riding beside him.

The elderly man signaled one of his journeymen by the wall, who shook his head and made a scribbling motion on his palm. "As of yet, no, your highness. There are more computations to be made."

Marcus detected a trace of worry but said nothing. Better to await a solid answer than worry over speculation—for now, at least.

He turned to continue his conversation with Jacquelyn, but there was a clatter of hooves from behind him. Now, instead of the Master Mason, a pale blue-eyed man with a fuzzy orb of white hair was riding beside him. "Amusing!" he piped in a high-pitched voice.

"Lord Smelding," greeted Marcus, a bit warily. "I wasn't aware that you were here."

"Well here I am, my good young lord! Here I am! Yes," he piped on, flicking his wrist at the journeymen, "look at all these worry-warts with all their worrying ways! Foolish, is it not, to cry over problems which do not exist!"

Marcus looked quizzically at Jacquelyn, who was laughing behind one hand. "You may be right, my lord, but from the looks on their faces, the likelihood of a problem seems realer by the minute."

"Perhaps, your highness, _but_ —" he leaned in with a maniacal grin and whispered, "I believe I have stumbled across the secret hidden truth of existence, and if I am correct, the implications may be more enormous than any fault in these stones will ever be! The truth of existence, my lord Pilars!"

He heard Jacquelyn's faint coughs of laughter beside him, and he was doing his best not to laugh himself. "That's an important truth indeed, Lord Smelding. Let's be out with it." He was an interesting sort of fellow, Smelding—rich beyond belief, but with no interest in worldly affairs like land, money, women. He invested his time in philosophy, astronomy, mathematics, zoology, science of all kinds—and as a result seemed quite mad to most people.

"I've been at it for nearly a year now," Smelding pronounced excitedly. "I first noticed with birds. I always set out seeds in my gardens for them, in hopes of one day discovering the secret of flight. No luck on that yet, but I one day wondered how birds _find_ the seeds—after all, they are tiny little things. So the next day, I set out two dishes—one with normal seeds, the other with seeds painted green, like the grass around. As I suspected, the birds devoured the unpainted seeds, yet the painted seeds went untouched!"

Marcus smirked. "Perhaps birds dislike the taste of paint."

"Quite so, my lord, your young mind is ever keen! Yet homing pigeons may find their home roost, no matter the place from which they are set free!"

"I don't see the connection, my lord."

"My point is that birds do utilize sight, but they do not navigate by sight alone. They cannot possibly use smell, as they do not react to scented food any more than scentless food. I needn't even speculate that they navigate by touch, or taste for that matter! Therefore, I propose that birds possess a sense beyond our feeble five—a sixth sense!"

Marcus nodded. "So they do. But what do birds and sixth senses have to do with the secret of existence?"

The self-made scholar leaned in close, not seeming to care that he was near to tottering off his saddle. "My lord prince," he whispered emphatically, "I have proven that reality is relative! Do you not see? Everything we grasp, everything we comprehend, is reliant upon a mere five senses! Imagine the implications! There exists a range of information which nature has dictated lies beyond our grasp! We have our own lens through which we interpret the world, yet this cannot possibly be the only lens in existence. We base our lives on information which is limited by its very nature. Therefore, I propose to you, your highness, that _all... knowledge... is... relative_!"

Marcus frowned, pondering. "Are you arguing against objective truth?"

"My lord prince, how can objective truth possibly exist? Every living being reacts to a reality which he, alone, is privy to. I may assert that the sky above is blue, and you must agree, yet this does not mean that we see the same color. Our minds agree, but not necessarily our senses. It is just as the great philosopher Krateos of Lyria said: 'There is no such thing as truth. There are only facts and the way in which men interpret them.'"

"I cannot agree, Lord Smelding. A blinded soldier may not see the arrow that strikes him, yet it strikes and kills him all the same. That arrow exists."

"Does it? Does it truly? You have not examined the full implications of my theory! It may well be that, in the great scheme of existence, that existence itself is merely a figment of our imagination! Ha!" He rode along with that same grin, his eyes dancing with insanity.

Marcus stared at him for a few moments. "Well, my lord, it seems you've defeated me. So tell me, what end does this theory of yours accomplish?"

Smelding glanced past him; his grin faded, then stretched even wider than before. "Well for starters, my theory implies that that gargantuan hole in the outer wall may, in fact, not exist."

Marcus whirled so fast that his horse slewed sideways. His jaw went slack as the rest of the party cried out in dismay. "I certainly hope you're right," he murmured.

It wasn't quite a hole, but it was a fault, and it was immense. A thirty-yard stretch of wall had begun to break free of its foundation; it bulged outward, leaning ever-so-slightly over their heads. Great white stones, once part of a mirror-smooth surface, were now stacked haphazardly, some sticking out several inches from their original berths. Worse still, the whole mess had literally begun to sink into the earth. The ground around the site was visibly depressed; the hole was about the height of a toddler.

"What in the hell..." Marcus said to himself. Louder, he demanded, "I rode these walls just last year, and I return to find _this_? Master Blanton, what in God's name am I seeing?"

The old man mouthed at him with watering eyes. "I... I don't know, your highness."

"Get to finding out, then!" Bowing, the Master Mason rode off.

Everyone was in similar states of confusion. The journeymen were rushing around the site, taking all sorts of measurements, babbling to each other and shouting out notes for the scribes. Their masters barked out commands. All this while auxiliaries like Marcus watched, aghast and furious.

"They say these walls have stood for a thousand years," Jacquelyn recited, trying to make sense of it like the rest of them.

"The inner walls, yes. These, no. The outer walls are four hundred years younger but this is something new."

Jacquelyn looked up at the sagging battlements, wide-eyed. "Can they repair it?"

"I'm no craftsman," admitted Marcus, staring up with her. "But it looks like it'll take some doing."

"I'm so confused... how come no one's noticed a hole this big?"

"No one patrols the walls anymore, not since the border forts were built." The slum rats on the other side of this wall had probably seen the fault. Either they had ignored it, or their report was still working its way through bureaucracy. Neither possibility was comforting.

A few silent minutes later, the Master Mason reined his horse in beside them. He said between pants, "My lord, the stones themselves are sound. The mortar looks to be in order. It must be something beneath."

"You mean the foundation?"

He shook his head. "No, the ground is good, or the wall would have shown signs of wear long before today. That leaves one possibility, my lord prince."

"Sappers."

"Yes. A tunnel. A large one, by the looks of it."

Marcus called, "Guardmaster!" At that, an armored man rode up. He saluted. Marcus saluted back and ordered, "There is a tunnel undermining this wall. I want both entrances found. Search every house in this quarter of the city, every cellar. Send parties to scour the countryside. Arrest anyone you suspect has a hand in this. Get it done. Understood?"

"Aye, my lord!" And the man was off at the gallop, his lieutenants following in his wake.

"Master Blanton, what will it take to repair this wall?"

The old guildmaster shrunk lower in the saddle. "A fault of this size... we must knock it all down, everything within a hundred yards of this spot. Then we rebuild from the foundation. But we must first find the tunnel and fill it, and quickly, before the fault widens."

"How long will the repairs take?"

Blanton bit his lip and rolled his eyes, doing invisible calculations in his head. "Up to eight months," he said finally. "Weather permitting. I pray we see a drought next spring, my lord, for rain will delay us further. But that tunnel must be found before we attempt anything."

Marcus was cursing in his mind. He willed his expression into calmness. "Very good, Master Blanton. Start gathering any laborers and materials you need. At the same time, coordinate with the guardmaster. Soon as he finds the tunnel, begin the repairs. Disregard any thought toward the expense. I expect you to keep me completely up to date on your progress."

"As you will, your highness."

Gripping the reins, Marcus drew his horse off and began trotting back the way he came. It would be a long ride back to the South Gate, with the way this day was going.

Jacquelyn was close by his side. "I hope they find that tunnel," she said earnestly.

"Same here."

She noted his curt tone and fell silent. They rode along to the rhythm of hooves on grass for a few minutes. Then the girl said, "You're a very good leader."

He snorted. "What makes you say that?"

"Well... everyone looked so frightened and confused." She smiled uneasily. "I felt that way too. Then you took charge. You didn't even pause. That dumb guildmaster, he would have just stood there if you hadn't yelled at him. The same with the guardmaster and his men."

"My thanks for the compliment. But they all knew what to do already."

"Yes, but they wouldn't have done anything if not for you. They would have milled around like sheep. But you were there to get them moving. You didn't know any better than them, you just took charge, and they followed you. That's a leader."

Marcus smiled at her. "You know, you like to act clueless, but you're smarter than you let on."

There came that laugh again. He loved hearing it; it was so lively and genuine, unlike the laughter at court that he was so accustomed to. She teased, "Oh, and here was me thinking I had you fooled."

"Not for a moment." A thought occurred to him. "You wanted to walk the battlements, didn't you?"

"Yes!"

"Let's go, then."

They went, but they didn't quite get there. It was almost early evening by the time they reached the gate. At this time of day, and with the harvest in and next spring's crop planted, traffic in and out of the city was at a minimum. That left only a few farmers' cart-stands, a lot of filthy beggars, and a troop of gypsies which—unsurprisingly—the guards had refused to allow into the city overnight. Brown children fought over a leather ball while scarved women sulkily kneaded dough, and their men puffed on long clay pipes.

They all stopped to watch Marcus, Jacquelyn, and the guards saunter past, jealously eying their horses—and their purses, Marcus thought, though he tried his best not to.

"They're scary," Jacquelyn whispered.

"Don't worry about them," reassured Marcus. He looked ahead again—and startled so hard he nearly drew his sword. Instead, he jerked hard on the reins, and his horse skidded to a stop. In front of him, nearly touching the horse's snout, was a gypsy girl. She could have been anywhere from fifteen to mid-twenties, but it was tough to tell with her naturally smooth features. She stared unflinchingly up at him with her arms crossed, her garrulously-colored dress flapping in the breeze.

Gail and Kelly's horses skidded to a halt to either side of the girl. Growling, they pointed their spears, while Blaxley took up the rear with his bow drawn taut. Around them, the gypsies were all on their feet. Every one of them had a knife out—even the women and children. Marcus's hand was on his sword, and it was a hand's length out of its sheath before he realized how stupid this was.

"Stand down, let her be."

The two guards put up their spears and backed off, still looking nothing but pissed. The gypsies hadn't moved a muscle, not even caring that the crown prince and his six guards could have killed them all with little trouble.

Finally, the gypsy girl spoke up in her strange accent. "My lady Mirela, Teller of Secrets, bids you visit her tent. She has for you a message of great import."

Marcus's laughter echoed around the clearing as the gypsies and beggars stared. "You must be joking. Girl, do you have any idea how many times you almost just got killed?"

"Mirela, Teller of Secrets—"

"Yes, I heard you," he interrupted, "and I think I've had enough damned secrets for one day." Secret letters he cared nothing for, secret affairs with beautiful courtesans, secret tunnels under the God damned walls...

He started to move past, but the girl stepped into his way again. "Mirela knows who you are. Your need is dire, or my lady would not ask your presence, Elessian prince."

Marcus ground his teeth. "For the love of God..." He would have barged on past, if not for Jacquelyn.

"Why not see her? It's not so much trouble on our part."

"I try not to make a habit of playing along with gypsy schemes."

The gypsy snapped, "This is no scheme. You need not pay. Only hear."

Jacquelyn offered, "I'd like to hear my fortune, at least. Maybe she'll tell me if you'll have dinner with me tomorrow."

Well, she had played her hand. There was no fighting her now. Marcus's expression went sour. "Fine." He dismounted, offered Jacquelyn his hand, and helped her off her mare. "I'd better be fucking dazzled," he told the girl.

Her expression was placid as she led the way into the caravan camp. It wasn't an unusual gypsy camp—just a collection of haphazardly-parked wagons with arched roofs, and in the center, a paddock filled with hairy-maned ponies. They didn't have to go far before they arrived at what was apparently the lady Mirela's wagon—a bright purple thing hung with beads and baubles of every conceivable kind. A carpeted ramp led to a heavily-curtained door cut into the side of the wagon.

"In there, huh?"

The gypsy nodded once. "Only you. The girl stays." Jacquelyn made an unhappy sound while Marcus tapped his foot, hating this situation more by the second.

"Must I knock? Or say a secret magic phrase?"

Jacquelyn massaged her forehead. "If you weren't the prince, I'd kick you."

He was going to mention it was her fault he was here, but he decided that would be a bad move. He let out his frustration on his scalp before striding up to the wagon. The ramp creaked. He threw the curtains aside and stepped through the door.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness—then they started watering, the incense smoke was so thick. Through the haze, he could make out yet more baubles dangling from the ceiling: strings of finger bones, jewels, and miscellaneous trinkets. "Mirela?" he inquired into the haze.

"Your feet stir the waters," said a deep female voice laced with melodrama, and a rolling accent to match, "yet you give no pause to see what lies beneath." The gypsy Mirela's form resolved itself out of the swirling smoke as she stepped from the shadows. She was a thick woman with almond-shaped eyes gleaming with intelligence. Dark curls protruded from a bandanna wrapped tight around her ears. "It is a thing all young men do. But you... you are to rule a nation. And so the waters you stir are the most perilous of all." The fortune teller sat at a small round table and beckoned him to do the same.

It was a charade, Marcus knew, and his patience was strained. He sat, forcing himself calm. "If I'm to rule this nation, then the waters are mine to stir, are they not?" he asked snidely.

He saw white teeth gleaming. "This may be. But only if the cards say so." With that, she tapped the edge of a deck of cards on the table. "I have cast the tarot for you many times now, and each time, the same patterns have fallen. Your fate is a unique and tragic one—one which few as I have been fortunate enough to read. It is fascinating to me, and troubling, such that I am compelled to seek your presence. Would you hear the telling of your fate, Elessian?"

Marcus crossed his arms. He inhaled the incense deep, smothering a fresh bout of angst, and gave a single nod.

"So be it." The woman began to shuffle. Her hands were deft and quick, her skill honed by a lifetime of practice. The cards flashed as they changed hands, flapped gently as the fortune teller drove them into wedges and bridges—cutting, re-cutting, spreading and closing again. She began, "Fate is a fixed thing: it is already written. Every man, great and small, is but a tiny part of a plan vast beyond imagining. Each is a pawn of the All-Seeing Eye, who is at once almighty and fickle, whose plan is never complete. The cards you see before you," she flattened the deck between her palms, "provide the barest glimpse of your role in this grand scheme. Your role is the greatest I have yet seen, and the grimmest. Your fortune follows thus."

With infinite care, Mirela placed three cards face-down in a neat row. They were flat, unadorned black. For the first time, Marcus felt a trace of apprehension. Mirela reached for the first and turned it, revealing a crudely-drawn wheel with eight spokes. "The wheel. Change. You have entered into a time of great upheaval in your life. The world in which you dwell, once familiar and comforting, has become a place of dread. You find that you can no longer discern right from wrong, friend from foe. It is not the world that has altered; rather, it is yourself. You have become your own worst enemy as your reckless youth battles the noble man you are destined to become."

This was ridiculous. Of course this woman was playing him for a fool. How could she have not heard that his mother had died? Anyone could have guessed that his mind was not in the same place it was before.

Mirela flipped the next card. This time, a human hand was pictured—open-palmed and extended, as if for a handshake. "The palm inverted," the fortune teller said somberly. "Betrayal. It is troubling that this card falls in conjunction with the wheel. Your mind's upheaval has awakened you to the true nature of the world around you. You perceive, correctly, that this knowledge carries great danger—yet your natural arrogance blinds you to its full extent. Very soon, this unheeded threat will manifest itself. Beware."

The nape of his neck tingled. He remembered this morning when he was walking to the Atrium, when Gail had argued heatedly that he should take another half dozen guards along. It was eerie to hear Gail's worries vindicated, if only by a gypsy fraud.

"The betrayal is yours as well," she continued without warning. "I see grief—guilt on your part. I see many a broken heart—in your recent past, and in the future as well. Women willingly give you their hearts, for they are enchanted by the nobility they perceive in your soul. Yet you are a man flawed; you will forsake them all, though you know not why. You will wander this trail of broken hearts until, at long last, you arrive upon the woman you are truly destined to love. This will be a truly great romance: a joining of souls. You will define each other in ways you cannot yet fathom. But your love for her will be tainted by guilt, for you will not easily forget your many sins."

He frowned, making a mental note not to recite any of this for Jacquelyn. He still didn't believe it, not quite, but _she_ undoubtedly would.

This time, Mirela's hand trembled as it overturned the final card.

He furrowed his brow, confused. The card's face was identical to the reverse: pure black. He thought to ask if Mirela had stuck two opposing cards together by mistake, but then he saw her expression.

The fortune teller glanced him in the eyes, almost fearfully. She was disturbingly pale. "The void," she whispered.

If this was an act, it was a very good one.

Mirela swallowed hard, deliberately avoiding looking at the card. "This is a dire tarot. I have read fate for fifty years, and not once have I drawn this. Not before you."

"What is it?" Marcus asked, nervous despite himself.

"Doom. Doom of the worst kind. It swallows not just men, but nations. When I first read your tarot and saw this card, I needed to learn more. I drew many more, for many others. I will tell you, now, what I read: strife, war, chaos. Uncounted thousands will be put to the slaughter. Armies will clash unto their annihilation. It may take many years, but this nation will crumble, and with it, every nation in this circle of the world. The world will fall into darkness and the demons of the abyss will laugh with glee."

Marcus grinned wryly. "That's all? God, I thought this reading was going to be gloomy the whole way through."

Then, quick as a serpent, Mirela's hand darted across the table and fixed tight onto his wrist. He jumped, wincing as her long nails dug into his veins. "You must listen closely," the fortune teller hissed, her black eyes intense as they stared into his. "Were you to perish in this event, your final card would have been just as all the rest: the skull, untimely death. This can have but one meaning: _you_ will preside over the world's ending. You have been given an unspeakably rare gift: true free will. You may use this will to avert this doom, but only if you follow the truest path. You are two men dwelling in one body. Only one may triumph; be sure it is the right one, lest we all perish. I have told you of the great romance in your future. Find this woman, and embrace her when you do. She is the only one who will mend the flaw in your soul, and you hers. Only together can you prevent the world's ending. Do you understand?"

"Not in the slightest," Marcus said, fighting back his laughter. "So," he broke Mirela's grip on his arm and stood, straightening his tunic, "how much do I owe you for this pleasure?" He glanced down at the cards on the table. They seemed unusually bright—a trick of the light, he supposed. Gilded tarot cards seemed the sort of thing a gypsy fraud would possess.

The woman wore a mournful face. "The spirits warned me you would not believe. I tried, regardless." She sighed, stood as well. "You owe me nothing. You fate is read. You may leave." Still refusing to look at the cards, she swept them into a pile and dropped them onto the flawlessly-stacked deck beside.

"My thanks." With that, Marcus pushed back through the curtains. The darkness of the fortune teller's wagon gave to orange sunlight. He had been in there longer than he had thought. Jacquelyn and Gail were looking at him expectantly while the rest of his guards remained scattered around the encampment, keeping a wary eye on the watching gypsies.

"What did she say?" Jacquelyn blurted. She was kneading her hands.

He grinned. "She said she foresaw a girl who'd force me to get my fortune read. She said I must flee her at once, if I am able."

She laughed. "Shut up. Really though, what did she say?"

"If you keep on asking, I'm going to take your horse and leave you here with this lot," he joked, indicating the creepily-staring gypsies. "Come on. Let's get some dinner. I'm famished."

"Me too!"

It was silent between them as they rode through the city—Marcus's fault, mostly, as he tried his best to dismiss what the gypsy Mirela had told him. That should have been easy. Everything she had said could easily have been based on assumption. Of course he was still coping with his mother's death. Naturally the court was filled with treachery. Certainly he saw many women; they practically flocked to him. And this business of war—well, it had been nearly eight hundred years since Ancel had campaigned across the land, and barely a quarter of those years had seen a measure of peace. War was never just likely: it was inevitable.

But the world's ending—that was a tough thing to ignore.

He was so deep in thought that he forgot to conceal his unease. In the awkward silence, Jacquelyn couldn't fail to notice. "She didn't perturb you, did she?"

"Not nearly as much as you're perturbing me," Marcus said. He was flirting, and he could tell she enjoyed it.

"I just really want to know what she said! You've been so... in your element today. It's sort of nice to see a chink in your armor. I kept on forgetting I'm with a boy, not just a prince."

"True, that. I must be pretty intimidating," he said in jest.

She giggled. "Well you are." She thought for a moment. "I think I like it."

Jacquelyn may have forgotten that he was the prince, but no one else had. People on their way home from their daily business paused in their tracks to call out greetings. They smiled, bowed, and waved, and Marcus acknowledged them just as he had been taught: with a smile and raised hand, friendly but dignified.

"Bless you, prince!" many cried, among similar greetings. "Lead on, m'lord," one man shouted from his window. "I'll follow ye!" To that, there were cheers of assent, though quiet.

"They love you," Jacquelyn commented, suitably awed. "Do they always call out to you like this?"

Marcus kept smiling and waving as he replied, "Every time."

"What's it like?"

"Nice at first, but you get used to it."

In contrast, Marcus's reception at the palace was starkly cold. The Atrium was packed with bored courtiers and courtesans, lords and ladies of minor houses. They regarded him with straight mouths and narrowed eyes before turning away, nearly all of them. It was veiled hostility or cold indifference, little besides. Especially when they saw the young woman beside him—this anonymous girl with her intriguing jewelry and dress just mite too fashionable.

Who was she?

Whispers behind hands. She was outshining them somehow, and no woman tolerates such a slight—purposeful or not.

Marcus ignored them without much trouble, but he could feel Jacquelyn's anxiousness in her grip on his elbow. "What are you in the mood to eat?" he asked, just to distract her.

She forced a smile as her hazel eyes darted around, trying and failing to meet the rude stares. "I don't care. Whatever you feel like..."

Once they turned into the royal wing and left the Atrium behind, the air was noticeably lighter. Marcus stopped Jacquelyn, squeezed her hand. "Jacquelyn—"

"It's alright. Don't worry."

"We should have gone another way."

"Really, I'm fine. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"It's not your fault," she said reassuringly. "I'm still hungry, you know."

He thought it inappropriate to dine in his chambers, as he normally would have, so he took her to the kitchens instead. They encompassed the lowest floor of the palace—a network of stoves, sinks, and shelves, enough to amply feed a banquet of five hundred and more. The kitchens were a masterpiece, albeit rude on the eyes.

"This is charming," Jacquelyn laughed.

A large woman in an apron and headscarf met them as soon as they stepped through the doors. "Well my lord Pilars, this is a pleasant surprise! Oh, and who is this?"

Marcus pulled Jacquelyn forward. "Jacquelyn, this is Martha, the head cook."

"The kitchen queen, they call me," Martha said.

"Pleased to meet you," said Jacquelyn with a curtsy.

The woman beamed. "Well aren't you charming! I must say, your highness, you've astonished me this fine evening. Normally you've a knack for finding the most horrid of bitches... Well, come along now, we'll scrounge up something for the both of you... And you!" She pointed to the men-at-arms hovering discreetly in the background. "Find some corner and we'll accommodate you eventually. And stay away from my girls, or I'll take a cleaver to the lot of you!"

The men grinned at each other and made off toward the bakery, where they knew the prettiest servant girls worked.

Marcus and Jacquelyn were directed to a nook between three shelves stacked with dried meats and cheeses. Almost immediately, a quartet of servants placed two chairs and a table complete with settings. They even set a candle as Marcus seated Jacquelyn.

"This is amazing!" she said, looking around with delight.

"I thought you'd appreciate this sort of thing," he agreed. Not too fancy, not too hole-in-the-wall.

Martha heard their preferences for food, and within a couple of minutes, the two of them sat in front of a pair of heaped plates and glasses of vintage wine.

The next hour was perhaps the first pleasant part of Marcus's day. Jacquelyn was a natural conversationalist. She spoke her bit but was just as keen to hear what he had to say. She was quick to nod, and laughter came easily to her. It might have had something to do with the fact that her mother had once been a courtesan. She certainly had a courtesan's mannerisms—that meticulous way of eating, the straightness of her back, the way she dabbed at her mouth between bites, though the food barely touched her lips.

Unlike a courtesan, though, she was entirely honest. Perhaps to a fault. The wine bottle was halfway drained when she asked out of nowhere, "What's the worst thing that ever happened to you?"

He stopped in the act of wiping the gravy off his plate with a piece of bread. Slowly, he took a bite and said while he chewed, "What makes you ask?"

"Nothing," she said. "I just want to know. I won't tell anyone." When he didn't answer immediately, she blurted, "I'll tell you something about me. The worst thing that ever happened to me... a year ago, there was a boy I liked. In Isenne. He was handsome and funny, and he seemed like he was interested in me, too. He invited me to a soiree one night at his house. There were a lot of people there, boys and girls our age. We were in separate rooms with our friends, and I worked up the courage to go talk to him finally... then one of my friends came out of the room he was in, and she told me, 'Don't talk to Clive. He's betting all his friends that he can sleep with you by the end of the night.'"

Jacquelyn picked at her food sadly. "It was bad. I left. I cried for a long time. I wouldn't talk to any of my friends. They knew how much I liked him. They heard everything he said, and they didn't bother telling me. Only that one friend said anything. A month later, my father decided to move us to Ancellon, to help his business. They wanted to throw me a farewell soiree—him and my mother. I didn't want to. I was too embarrassed. So... so we just left. And here I am." She finally looked up at him, trying her best to smile. "That's it. That's the worst thing that ever happened to me."

Marcus kept her gaze, feeling sorry for her but at the same time thinking that it was nothing too serious. For a girl, it must have been terrible. For him, for a prince whom women chased without a care for the man he was on the inside, it was a fact of life—one he had never minded, because it got him bedded. It was stories like Jacquelyn's that made him feel lucky to have been born a man. "I'm sorry that happened to you," he finally said.

"I know." She started. "I'm not accusing you of doing what he did! Oh God. You must think I'm insane."

"No, just drunk," he smirked. "It's alright. I really don't mind."

"Oh, good." She sipped her wine, more tentatively this time. "So... what about you?"

He sat back in his chair, eyeing her as he mused. "That's a tough one. My mother dying, I suppose." But he didn't want to talk about that. Too painfully recent. He hadn't even figured it out enough to talk to anyone about it, much less a girl he was only just getting to know. That was what she was trying to do here, he knew. She wanted to know him, and him her.

He nodded. "Alright. See, you're lucky, Jacquelyn. The worst thing that ever happened to you wasn't your fault. Someone did it to you. There's some comfort in that. The worst thing for me is when the blame is yours alone." He focused on the shelf above the girl's head as the recollection came to him.

"Every able Elessian lad undergoes the Novitiate after his eighteenth winter, as you well know. I'm sure your father's told you about it. On the first day of spring, you leave your home and assemble outside the city gate with all the other lads who just came of age. You've got nothing, just the sackcloth pants and tunic that you got on your birthday. There were two-hundred and seventy of us outside the North Gate that morning. Everyone's trying to joke and laugh even though they're nearly soiling their pants. You know you're going to be at Fort Arlimont until summer, and the next ninety days are going to be absolute hell. So you make as many friends as you can. Friends you can suffer with.

"Some people just stink at making friends. There was this one lad—Owen was his name. I only learned it after two weeks, he was so damned quiet. He was all tall and gangly. Looked like a spring drizzle would drown him. A lad like that has to work hard for respect. Only he didn't. He barely said a word to anyone. When people tried to fight him, just to get him to show his bones, he just shut up and shrunk down. He _had_ no bones. No one liked him. You felt bad, but you didn't want to be associated with him.

"Anyway, they divided us into battle lines of about fifty lads. You train together—you suffer together like you've never suffered before. The sergeants leading you are the fellows who enlisted after their Novitiate—Royal Watch, the king's men—so you know they're rock hard bastards. They were veterans, every one of them. Most were missing a hand or a few fingers—just enough to stop them from going out on campaign. Just enough to make them bitter, angry sons of bitches.

"They acted like they hated us. In the morning, they drummed on the bunks with dull swords to wake us up, just to get us used to the sound of steel. If you didn't wake up, they beat you with the flat of the blade until you could barely breathe—then they made you run around the fort's outside. When you were finished, you still got to do the 'review of the walls' with everyone else, only you'd missed breakfast already. You run around the inside of the walls in formation. Then you run up the west tower, all forty feet of it, across the battlements, up and down every other tower and across every foot of Arlimont's battlements. Then you circle the inside of the fort twice again. It was hellish, but you were used to it after the first month. You could even get through the day's drills without puking.

"Not Owen. He fell out of formation every time, except one, maybe, but no one noticed that time except me. He wasn't made for it. Didn't gain any muscle—probably got skinnier, in fact. He puked during every battle drill, without fail. The sergeants were constantly looking for any excuse to punish us, and Owen was almost always the reason. No one liked him in the beginning. By the end, everyone despised him.

"Only a few lads recognized me, but everyone knew who I was within a day. They didn't give me any trouble. They respected me because I could beat any of them in a fair fight, and I always pulled my weight. Most noble lads don't do that. They whine and cry and act like they're better than honest work. The sergeants, they knew who I was—they took it easy on me. I know they did. Everyone else in my squad got a lashing for one infraction or another—lowering your shield during battle drills, getting in fights, talking back to sergeants and officers, especially. That was the worst.

"Towards the end, I knew they weren't going to give me any lashes. I couldn't stand it. Everyone got at least one. _Everyone_. I didn't want to be special. I wanted to prove I could take everything they could. So I started trying to win my lashes. I lowered my sword during drills. I didn't polish my armor. I played dice, and won. I did everything I could, short of shaming myself in front of the other Novitiates. Nothing worked. The sergeants pretended they didn't see me.

"On the last day, I still had no lashes. Everyone was in a good mood except me. They were going home as true Elessian men—as chevaliers. I was going home too, only in my mind, I hadn't earned it. I hadn't gotten my lashes.

"I was desperate. I did the only thing I hadn't tried yet.

"When we were getting into formation for the Captain of the Fortress's congratulatory speech, I called Owen out. I told him he was a yellow bitch—no balls, no bones, no nothing worth respecting. I said his mother was a whore. I said he didn't deserve to be a chevalier, he had no honor. Any man would have fought me. Anyone would at least _say_ something. He didn't. He just stared at his feet. Everyone was watching us.

"I didn't care. I was angry. If you saw me when I'm angry... it takes a lot to get me to that point, but once I boil over, I'm gone. I let loose. I shoved Owen, hard. He didn't do anything still, and it made me angrier, so I backhanded him—gauntlet and all. His cheek was dripping blood but he just stared at me, like he wanted me to beat him.

"I did. I hit him and hit him until he was on the ground in a ball, then I dared him to get up, and when he did, I put him back down. He got up twice more before the sergeants fought their way through the other lads watching us. By that time, I'd broken his nose and an eye socket. Blood everywhere. He never even threw a punch."

Marcus's fists were clenched in his lap, so Jacquelyn wouldn't see. He didn't know why he was telling her this. She must have thought him a madman. But he continued, hollowly, "I got my lashes. Three of them. That's it." A dispirited chuckle rose and died in his throat. "I beat him within an inch of his life in front of the garrison commander, in front of everyone, even though he'd never done a thing to harm me or anyone else... three lashes." He shook his head with a bitter smile. "It's the worst thing I've ever done. I've been sorry ever since. I sent the finest chirurgeon in the city, three golden strikes—that's three years' pay for a full-fledged chevalier—even wrote an apology. He sent all three back. I think he may be more ashamed of what happened than I ever could be."

He looked up. Jacquelyn's wide eyes stared back; she had covered her mouth with one hand. He smiled at her, sadly. "That's it. That's the worst thing that ever happened to me."

She lowered her hand. Her mouth was open. "I'm sorry. It wasn't..." She swallowed. "You're sorry. You did your best to amend. Whether he forgave you or not is his business."

"That's what eats at me most... I think he did forgive me." Marcus drank a solid gulp of wine. He was sorry he had ever brought this up. The memory of it was more disturbing for him than it ever could be for her.

She watched him, quiet. "I think you're a good person."

He remembered what Mirela had told him.

_Women willingly give you their hearts, for they are enchanted by the nobility they perceive in your soul_.

"I'm not."

"But you are," she persisted. "What you did was terrible, yes, but... but you know it was wrong. You did your best to make it right. That's more than most other people would do. Everyone does terrible things to other people. You're being sorry makes you a better man."

"I think it would be better if I didn't do terrible things to begin with."

"Well." She smiled. "No one's perfect."

"True, that." He returned the expression. "Well, my thanks for not getting up and leaving."

They sat there looking at each other, ruminating on what they had learned about each other. Marcus appreciated what Jacquelyn had shown him. He saw a young woman who had been stepped on—and stepped over—all her life. Yet miraculously, despite it all, she refused to judge anyone else. She had made light of the very worst of his deeds.

Chapter 5

Marcus woke with a start, his heart drumming against his ribs. He'd been having nightmares again. His mind came into focus, and the memory of the dream faded until all that remained was the very end: piercing, sky blue eyes, staring with implacable patience.

Last night. He remembered now. He had tried to persuade Jacquelyn into spending the night in his bed, and she had admitted she badly wanted to, but she couldn't.

"I'm not like that. I'm a good girl," she had said, bashfully.

He would have smiled at the thought, if not for the pins and needles filling his sleeping arm. He hauled the limb from beneath him and pulled it straight, massaging the blood flow back into it. "Good girl," he murmured. He'd never met one of those before. With a grunt, he rolled off the mattress and made for the washbasin by the window. The overcast skies obscured the sun, but the water in the bowl was lukewarm. It couldn't be past midmorning. Good, he'd promised to meet her around noon.

His clothes from yesterday were no longer piled on the floor where he'd thrown them off, but on the dressing table lay a parchment envelope, reeking faintly of dried sweat. The letter Kaelyn had given him. It had sat against his breast in his tunic all day, forgotten.

He picked it up. The seal was plain, just as Kaelyn had said. Curiosity came easier without her to distract him. He broke the seal and opened it. The letter inside was wrinkled and browned, and the inked text was smudged, but Marcus could still make out the text.

_Your highness, Forgive my unsubtle words. I write only because the need is great. You do not know me, but I was, and am, a dear friend of your mother. She has entrusted me with knowledge which she ultimately intended to impart upon you, but only once the time was right. Heartbreaking as her death is, that time has not yet come. Once it does, I_ _will_ _contact you, but until then, you_ _must_ _tread lightly. Your recent actions have made you powerful enemies. You threaten to undermine all they have sought to achieve, and I warn you now, they will not long tolerate your meddling. If they have not yet made this clear, they soon will. Tread lightly, or Elessia perishes with you. May God keep you, prince. I remain your loyal servant._

Bemused, Marcus checked the reverse side for a signature, which was of course absent. There was scant evidence of his identity. The wording and careful script pointed to a male author—obviously educated, but the letters lacked serifs, so he likely did not run in noble circles. But even those facts were unremarkable, and almost useless.

The message had him craving more, but he knew finding the sender was a hopeless cause. If this man's information was as vital as he claimed, he would have taken many precautions to protect himself. It would have passed through many hands before finding him.

He read it twice more, committing it to memory, and tossed it regretfully into the fireplace. The dull embers flared briefly before consuming the parchment, curling, blackening, disintegrating it.

Sighing, he made for the wardrobe. He picked out simple things—leather riding breeches, black Royal Watch-style tunic, boots. The only item he paid real mind to was his sword. He eyed the row of them lining the rack on the wall, wondering which side of the line to walk: decorativeness or practicality. It was a short debate. He picked out his favorite longsword—the one with the laminated blade that could hack down a tree if put to that end, and the wire-wound grip that fit so comfortably into his fist. It was a beautiful blade, to a soldier's eyes. A weapon. A tool for killing.

He slid it into its scabbard and belted it to his thigh. The letter could have been a fabrication, just like the gypsy Mirela's tarot reading—but it paid to be prepared.

The Atrium was even more crowded than usual this morning. The Falltide Ball was barely two weeks away, and the preparations were just beginning. Servants were hurrying around, carrying furniture and bundles of ribbon, shouting decorators close on their heels. In the middle of the flood, overseeing the whole thing, was the Lady Beauvais. Marcus's total lack of surprise didn't make him feel any better.

The king's mistress was a stunning woman. She had the same crimson hair as Kaelyn, but her eyes were emerald, her lips were fuller and her form slimmer. There were faint lines of age around her eyes, which did nothing to dampen her beauty.

She saw him looking—or more likely, she had spied him long before and only now pretended to notice. It was the sort of game courtesans played. She passed her stylus and pad to a servant and began making her way over, smiling.

"Dreary morning, is it not, my young lord?" she greeted. Her tone was friendly but her voice was quiet and sultry like silk whispering on marble. It was undeniably erotic, and purposefully so; everything about her was carefully honed to make her absolutely irresistible.

It had worked on King Audric, but not on his son. "That it is, Lady Roslene." He met her gaze neutrally. Roslene was a special kind of courtesan, one who operated without the benefit of payment. Drawn-out affairs were her specialty. He remembered the stories—how, in her youth, she'd drifted from lover to lover, abandoning them when they were no longer useful to her, working her way into ever-higher circles using her wiles and her looks. Even today, many considered her the most beautiful woman in Elessia. She knew it, always had known, and she used it to her advantage.

Her lovely smile broadened. "Here I am, boring you with the weather. I trust you've heard the theme of this year's Falltide?"

He glanced to either side. He saw sprigs of juniper, tall clay vessels with pointed bases, large plaques of mosaic tile... "I suppose Lyrian?"

"Very good! Yes, my intent is Lyrian port. A seaside getaway, if you will. Oh, and these baubles aren't the half of it, I assure you. My girls will be quite the spectacle this year..." She trailed off, eyes flickering in the air as she made an addendum to her mental notes.

It gave Marcus time to remember last year's ball. The theme had been "white north" or something, but it _had_ been quite the spectacle. Servants had perched in the rafters high above, tossing handfuls of white confetti while the courtesans pranced around the floor below. They had dressed as barefoot snow nymphs in white dresses, or as trappers or God-knew-what with furred brown cloaks and little or nothing beneath. It had been a feat to make it through a single dance without tripping over your partner.

"I'm not sure how you could top last year's spectacle, if I'm honest," he confessed.

"Hmm, yes, it was a tad raunchy now, wasn't it? But appropriate. There's no reason to cover up too much for the last warm celebration of the year." Roslene was disturbingly similar to her daughter. Just so—her deep green eyes had a hint of challenge in them. "I do hope you plan on attending."

He thought about the letter. "Of course."

"And may I ask, which young woman has the honor this time?" He couldn't quite tell if there was a veiled accusation in the question or not. There could have been, and he wouldn't have blamed her.

"You have enough surprises in store, my lady. Let me keep my own."

She laughed and clapped her hands. "Bravo, your highness. Well. I'll let you be on your way." Soon as she turned away, the servant had handed back the stylus, and she presently scribbled a new note on her pad.

Marcus stared after her for a moment. He tried his best not to picture Roslene at last year's ball, sitting at the head table at King Audric's left hand, the queen at his right—Roslene caressing his father's arm, Geneva feigning indifference. It was a difficult memory to keep out of his mind. His near-hatred for the king's mistress came roaring back.

Shrugging it away, he started for the entrance. There was a constable posed awkwardly at the top of the palace steps outside, plumed helmet tucked under his arm. "Your highness," he said with a bow, "the guardmaster sends word. We've found the tunnel."

Marcus almost glanced at the sun, but the skies were cloudy and grey from horizon to horizon. He supposed he still had time. "Very well, lieutenant. Show me."

It took nearly half an hour's ride through Ancellon's packed streets to get there. The place was not unusual in any way—just a thin two-story building on a curved block lined with identical buildings. A smoky-windowed tavern took up the lower floor, and the upper floor's windows were dark. The front door was ajar. More than a dozen armored constables kept watch outside, with more at either end of the block. A curious crowd had gathered beyond.

The guardmaster strode out of the front door. He scowled down at the street gutter and hopped it to reach Marcus. "We were at it all night, your highness. Searched half the houses in this quarter before we got to this one. The tunnel's in the cellar. It's no trifling thing either. Must've taken years."

Marcus's boots squeaked on the cobblestones as he dismounted. "Take me there."

The guardmaster led him into the building. The tavern stank of mildew. Its floors and walls were blackened by years of smoke. He looked at the shelves of glass mugs behind the bar. "Dusty," he remarked.

"Indeed, your highness," the man said with a tired smile, brown mustache drooping. "Folk around here say no one's been in or out for three years." He worked his way behind the bar, stooped, and grunted as he pulled open a squeaking trap door. "Hidden under a rug. It's a good thing one of my sharp-eared lads searched this place, or we wouldn't have been so lucky. Come on, then." With a deep breath, he climbed backwards into the hole.

Marcus peered down into the darkness and followed.

The smell of decay was much starker in the cellar. The rotten shelves sagged under the weight of still-sealed wine bottles. Wooden kegs with rusty taps lined the walls. Only one thing was out of place: a shelf, pulled out from the wall on a hinge to reveal a dark opening, about the width of three men's shoulders.

The guardmaster beckoned him on. He carefully stepped through the doorway and down an unseen flight of steps until his head disappeared beneath the floor. Again, Marcus followed, this time with some trepidation. He didn't mind the dark, except when sudden falls were likely.

He counted each step. There were twenty-two of them, each about a foot tall. Then his foot met dirt, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Damned torches... no air down here..." The guardmaster struck a flint, and with a shower of sparks, a torch came lit. Now the scale of the tunnel became clear.

"Look at that," Marcus breathed. The thing was wide enough to fit a cart, tall enough too. The passage stretched off into the darkness at a gradual downward slope. The only noise, apart from their breathing, was the steady drip of moisture from the wooden supports.

The guardmaster gestured down the length of the tunnel. "It goes for a good mile—more, probably, but we can't be sure, what with the cave-in and all. Aye, there's a big one about half a mile through, about where the wall ought to be. Completely blocked off."

"Any idea of the purpose?"

"Aye." He turned around and picked up something leaning against the wall. He held it up—a sword.

Marcus took it, feeling but not showing deep unease. The blade was long and broad—good workmanship, strong, sharp. "This is a Watch sword, guardmaster."

The man nodded with a troubled look. "We found a few pike heads too. They've been smuggling weapons, looks like. Armor, maybe. And look at this." He bent and ran his fingers along a deep rut in the ground. There was an identical one that ran parallel. "Cart tracks. You can see a hoof furrow here in the middle."

The uneasy sensation deepened. "This was an operation."

"A large one, your highness. Takes a lot of men a lot of time to dig a tunnel this big. Between the men, weapons..."

Someone with plenty money and patience had paid for this. And he had either paid his men for their silence, or he had it through loyalty. The second possibility was by far the worse. "Have you apprehended anyone? The tavern keeper? His family?" Even before the guardmaster replied, Marcus knew the answer was no.

The man shook his head. "No one's lived here for a long time. We're looking through the archives for sale records but I don't expect we'll find anything. This was well-planned, your highness." He thought. "Except the cave-in."

Marcus looked at the blade in his hands. The edges were rusted. "We're late. They've been done here for quite a while." Again, that letter was in his thoughts. _All they have sought to achieve_ ...

The sense of foreboding was leaving a bitter taste in his mouth—either that, or the mildew. "Guardmaster," he said sternly, "no one learns this tunnel's purpose. Clean up any evidence of it, then notify Master Blanton that you've found the tunnel. Follow any leads you can, but do it quietly. Did you ever find the other entrance?"

"Still searching, your highness."

"Search on, then. Keep me posted." He held up the sword. "No one hears of this, understand?"

The guardmaster nodded.

Marcus dropped the sword and started up the stairs, driven by the need for fresh air. He dearly hoped no more secrets would find their way into his day. But he had learned long ago that hope was the first step on an often-short road to disappointment.

Jacquelyn was waiting for him in Heroes' Square beneath the statue of King Basil Demo. Marcus gazed up at his grandfather's likeness as he led his horse forward on foot. The old king's destrier was symbolically up on one hoof—the mark of a heroic demise. True enough, his death had helped give the Battle of Slain Kings its name.

He looked back down at Jacquelyn and realized she wasn't alone. The girl standing beside her was shorter and broader, with sharp but chubby features and curly black hair. She glared at Marcus as he approached.

"Jacquelyn," the prince greeted. He bowed, but not too low so he wouldn't accidentally tug on his horse's lead.

"Marcus," she smiled. "This is my friend Molly."

More like chambermaid, he thought as he looked her over. "Hello Molly."

"Hello."

Sensing the reason she was here, Marcus told her, "I have plenty of protection, Molly, and there's at least one other lady who'll be along. You may leave."

The girl looked sourly at her mistress. "Is that alright?"

"Alright. Yes," replied Jacquelyn with an anxious look. She rolled her eyes at Marcus. The two of them tugged on their reins and moved along, while Molly walked off at a brisk pace.

Jacquelyn whispered, "I'm sorry. My mother made me bring her along. She said she didn't want me left alone when you went chasing a deer."

"There's a point," agreed Marcus, "but I'm doubting that's the real reason she came."

The girl blinked. "You think?"

Marcus grinned at her. "She was a courtesan. She knows how lads work."

She made a face and quipped, "I should have known what you're about, after last night."

"I took you home, didn't I? Or was that kiss on the cheek too much for you?"

The mock argument lost steam after a couple more minutes. By then, they were at the edge of the square, almost at the great triumphal arch marking the start of the Royal Way. The great structure towered above their heads, every inch of its black marble surface inscribed with the name of an Elessian victory. There was very little space left—just a few square yards at the very bottom corner, and a blank plaque at the top.

"What's that white space for, up there?" asked Jacquelyn.

She likely only wanted to break the silence but Marcus answered anyway. "That's to mark the year of Ancel's return."

She nodded, and they walked under the arch. It was clogged with people making their way in and out of the square. The Royal Way beyond was lined with stands—most of them farmers making a last bid to make some coin before winter.

Not far past the monument, Marcus saw a bald, wrinkled man in a sackcloth robe hunched against a tree, his head bowed so low that it was nearly between his knees. Behind him stood another man with all the stoicism of a block of granite. He wore a dark brown robe with the hood pulled low over his eyes. His arms were crossed; one sleeve was pulled back to reveal a silver bracer. Marcus knew he would have a dagger tucked into a sheath behind it, in addition to the austere bastard sword slung across his back. A Celaran monk, standing guard over a Mendicant priest.

"Can we walk on the other side?" Jacquelyn looked at the pair uneasily.

"Why? They're not going to hurt you."

She bit her lip. "What if I trip over the priest? The Celaran will murder me."

Marcus had to laugh at that, though she may have been serious. "He'd probably make an exception for you. Probably." He looked at the monk with vague pity, wondering at the fact that any parent still adhered to that ancient tradition—giving their son away at age seven to the Brotherhood, destined to spend a lifetime guarding over Elessa's temples and priests, just because he'd had the misfortune of being born second. And the Mendicant—what a life, begging for coin in order to demonstrate his utter servitude to God's will. To be one with the poor, whom the Blessed Lady had so loved.

He dug a trice out of his pocket and tossed it in the priest's dish as he passed. "Pray for me, father," he said, as the tradition went. He hadn't gone two steps before the priest made a terrible rasping noise. He spun, concerned—but the priest wasn't dying, just staring up at him through drooping eyelids. "Blessed Elessa said," he wheezed, "That which a man gives is a measure of his worth before the Lord. But woe unto him who measures that which he gives, for he is vain, and lost to the Lord's grace." He settled back against the tree, eyes closing.

Marcus waited a moment longer, but the priest was clearly finished. "Thank you, father." He walked on, mulling it over.

"They don't usually say anything," Jacquelyn said in a hushed voice, glancing back.

"You're right, they don't."

"What did he mean?"

"It was a fancy way of saying, 'Give others more than you give yourself.'"

"What about the second part?"

Marcus shrugged. "Don't ask anything in return."

She made a sound of comprehension, and they walked along thoughtfully. "Are we allowed to get on our horses now?"

In fact, they could have mounted as soon as they left the square, as the old law went. Marcus helped Jacquelyn into her saddle before smoothly vaulting onto his. People were much quicker to move aside when faced with a horse—especially one with a prince on top. They made a path as they cheered for him, a path obstructed only by the hands reaching out to touch his shins. He smiled and waved his way up the Royal Way until finally, they arrived at the North Gate.

The rest of the hunting party was waiting for them there. "My lord prince!" cried Ronold de Gauthier. "Joining us at last, I see!" Vernon waved from beside him, and at his side was a beaming Eliza de Laumaurne, one of the great beauties of their young generation. Her father, from whom she had gotten her straight raven hair, hovered sternly in the background.

"He looks upset," Jacquelyn murmured.

"That's because Vernon is next to his daughter. Can't really blame him, honestly." He smiled and raised his hand in greeting. "My thanks for waiting on me."

"I trust you have a good reason," Jiment de Laumaurne said dourly.

Ronold grinned at Jacquelyn. "Well, look at this! This lovely young lady's holding you up already, eh? One look," he waved a finger in her direction, "just one, and I know she's trouble!"

The girl simpered, blushing. That was a relief; she'd been nearly glaring at Eliza this whole time. Marcus had hunted all sorts of creatures—from deer to foxes to boar—but women were the most vicious and territorial by far.

Marcus shortly introduced Jacquelyn to everyone, and they were off for the royal game preserve. The ride through the countryside was slow and leisurely—filled with boisterous conversation and lewd jokes, which Lord Laumaurne could not have appreciated much less, especially with his daughter joining in. They were accompanied by the sight of the countryside, its flowing grass green despite the grey skies, its rolling hills and scattered copses of trees pleasing to the eye.

They arrived at the preserve at midafternoon. It was a small forest, just thirty or forty acres of carefully-cultivated trees. The lower branches were cut off so as not to snag riders, and most of the brush had been cleared away, leaving just enough so that there was still some sport involved.

The gamekeeper met them just outside the forest to pass the men their bows, arrows, and wrist guards. The ladies went unarmed, which had them a bit sour-faced.

"I want one!" Jacquelyn said, with Eliza in agreement.

"You wouldn't hit anything," Marcus said.

"Aye," Vernon piped in with a smirk that warned of a forthcoming bad-tasted joke. "Especially you, Eliza. Imagine you trying to draw a bowstring. Hell, with those tits of yours? They'd get in the way, is all they'd do."

Her father turned beet red. "Now see here—"

But Vernon's father slapped him on the shoulder. "Come on now, Jiment, it's just a bit of fun. You don't mind, now, do you, young lady?"

Eliza looked pouty herself, but Vernon cut in, "Sorry Eliza, bad joke. But seriously. Those tits are heavenly. I'd cry if you went and hurt either one of them."

She laughed as Marcus and Jacquelyn grimaced at each other. If Vernon kept up like this, he'd be dead within the hour.

The gamekeeper waited half an hour for the sky to grow a smidge darker. Then with his nod, the hunt began. Leaving their horses tied at the tree line, the party made their way into the forest. The thick leafy canopy high above blotted out much of the sun's brightness. Their rhythm-less footsteps on dry leaves was the only sound. All around them were bare tree trunks, evenly spaced. It all summed up to a mood that was tranquil and eerie at once.

"It's so pretty," said Jacquelyn, gazing around in awe.

He stole a glance at her. Bright pinpoints of sunlight shone through the trees to highlight her light brown hair; it made her look lovely. "It is," he agreed, though not about the forest.

They rode along at the back of the party. In front of them were Vernon and Eliza, walking scandalously close together, practically leaning on each other. Eliza's father kept looking around at them with undisguised suspicion, paying no attention whatsoever to the hunt. Ronold, on the other hand, was taking it altogether too seriously; he advanced at the head of the party, just in front of the gamekeeper, in a sort of walking crouch with an arrow already nocked. He scanned the forest ahead alertly, oblivious to the gamekeeper, who kept whispering in his ear and gesturing off to the right.

"I think it'll be a while before we find a deer," murmured Marcus.

Jacquelyn sighed with relief. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she said with a shrug, "They're just so cute."

"Tasty, too."

She wrinkled her nose at him. They walked on for a while, talking quietly of small, inconsequential things. Marcus was in the middle of telling a story about his father when he noticed Jacquelyn had fallen behind.

She was standing on her tip toes behind him, her mouth twisted with consternation as she tried to disentangle herself from a branch that had caught on her dress. "Damn it..." she kept whispering, fingers working.

Marcus went to help her. "Here." He snapped off the end of the branch so she wouldn't have to stand on her toes anymore, then started working it free. "Lace. Of all things, you had to wear lace." But he got the job done, remarkably without tearing any fabric. By that time, their companions were all but gone. Far ahead, he caught a flash of Vernon's blonde hair—then his friend vanished into the trees, and the two of them were alone.

All of a sudden, the darkening forest had lost its charm, at least for Jacquelyn. "Oh no," she whimpered.

Marcus knew they weren't quite alone. Even now, his men at arms were watching, hidden from view, vigilant as ever. Still—there was something to gain from pretending otherwise. He took the girl's hand. "You're acting like this is a bad thing, being alone with me."

"I don't want to get eaten by a bear."

Chuckling, he pulled her along after him. Truth be told, he was in no real hurry to rejoin the others. He moved at a strolling pace, stepping carefully over the many gnarled roots, avoiding snapping twigs. Jacquelyn followed his lead admirably, her footfalls noiseless, her breathing steadying as she warmed to the game. When he looked at her next, she was smiling again.

They walked quietly for a while. Along the way, Marcus saw a leafy bush gathered up around an old tree trunk. Despite the lateness in the season, its white flowers were in full bloom. Jacquelyn was eying them appreciatively, so he picked the largest of the bunch and handed it to her with a flourish.

She smiled her thanks and tucked it behind one ear. "What?" she asked, seeing him stare.

"You're beautiful," he grinned back.

It had always amazed him, the wonders a well-placed compliment could work. Flattery accomplished precisely nothing—but genuine praise, it made a woman melt. That's what Jacquelyn did just then. She had that odd bifurcated expression that women did so well—a smile of satisfied longing, so deep that she looked near to crying. It was the look that told Marcus she was his.

He gently pulled her in close by the hand, wrapped the other around her waist.

She wore that grin again, the one with the naughty twist. "What are you doing?"

He glanced back to make sure the others were still out of sight, then returned his gaze to her hazel eyes, barely an inch from his. "Nothing you'd mind," he said, and closed the statement with a sound kiss.

She was a courtesan's daughter, but she didn't kiss like a courtesan, which for Marcus was a nice change. It wasn't a dance of tongues or a prelude to anything more. Locked lips, that was all—but it was all they really needed.

When they broke apart, Jacquelyn was out of breath. She'd been holding it in the whole time. She giggled with embarrassment at Marcus's amused look. "Sorry..."

"Wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No!" she laughed, and gave him another peck to just make sure.

"Well." He paused, glanced back. "I suppose we should catch up to—" Suddenly, his eyes sprang into focus over the girl's shoulder, all notions of romance forgotten. "Stay still."

She went rigid, smile vanishing. Her eyes darted from side to side. "What is it?"

Marcus unslung his bow in one fluid but steady motion, so as not to startle the deer. In the same movement, he drew an arrow from his quiver. "Doe," he whispered, so low he barely heard himself. "Turn around, very slowly."

She did so, one hand clamped to her mouth.

A plump doe stood thirty yards away, half-concealed by a broad shrubbery. Her head was pointed directly at them, her large ears standing straight up, thick white tail fluttering sporadically. She was staring at them, chewing almost thoughtfully.

He stroked the arrow's fletches as he nocked it on the string, steadying the point against the shaft with one crooked forefinger. Jacquelyn had backed away, clearing his line of sight. The frozen deer encompassed his vision. Easy shot—impossible to miss.

The girl gasped behind her hand, "Don't!"

"What?" He was incredulous. The string was already drawn. The arrow point quivered in place.

"Don't kill it!" she squeaked. "What if it has babies?"

His whole arm was starting to tremble with effort. It was a strong bow, built to kill over distances of sixty, seventy, eighty yards. The taut string yearned for release, and his muscles ached in agreement. The deer stared on, as if daring him to loose the arrow.

Jacquelyn wasn't having it. "Please don't..." she said piteously.

Now his arm quaked. A quick internal debate ensued. It was just a damned animal to him, but satisfying as a clean kill was, it wouldn't win him any favor with Jacquelyn. Let it go, he decided. He began to ride the string forward—

—and the deer bolted. In a flash, its head whipped around, its body following, and its powerful hind legs propelled it away.

Marcus reaction was entirely honest, and completely the opposite of what he'd intended. As if of its own volition, the arrow point tracked the deer, his fingers went loose, the string twanged, and the arrow went hissing through the air with murder in mind.

An hour later, Jacquelyn was still sobbing. Eliza was doing her best to comfort her, but Marcus didn't envy her the task, not with the gamekeeper dragging the doe's gutted carcass out of the tree line just a stone's toss away.

"Fine shot, my young lord," Ronold cried for the third time. He thumped the prince's back. "You should've stayed to see the field dressing. You cut her heart straight in half!" He grinned, wolf-like. "Wish I still had the eyes for a kill like that."

"Maybe someday, my lord, if you try hard and believe in yourself..." The joke didn't have much heart in it. Marcus was too busy looking worriedly at Jacquelyn, who sat on a log under Eliza's arm, covering her face with her hands.

Vernon elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "Bloody fine work, mate," he said lowly.

"It was," sighed Marcus. "What a damned mess." He scratched his hair in exasperation. "At least Lord Laumaurne is happy."

Jiment looked as if he was about to break into a jig. He was alternating his triumphant glance between Vernon and his daughter, who were now separated by a comfortable twenty yards.

Vernon sniggered. "More fool him. Eliza's still going to Falltide with me."

"You asked?"

"Mate, just who in the hell do you think I am?" his best friend demanded, all indignation. " _She_ asked."

Marcus snorted, shook his head. "Ass."

"Cock. Call it what you want, mate, but my limp fish is halfway in the water, and yours is gasping for air. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I didn't mean to loose it."

"Right."

"Really, I didn't."

"You dolt," cackled Vernon, smacking him across the back. He looked over the deer as the gamekeeper unceremoniously threw it in the back of a waiting wagon. "Maybe she'll lighten up once she gets a heaping plate of venison. Put that Martha to work, eh? I'd eat the damned thing raw, long as she's cooking."

Marcus smiled wryly, but a look at Jacquelyn told him she wouldn't be eating for a week. He stood up, patting his friend's shoulder, and approached the two girls. Eliza saw him coming. With a last word to Jacquelyn, she rose and made her way past him. "She'll be alright, just let her work through it," she murmured as she went by.

"Jacquelyn?"

"I s-said don't kill it!" she said between heaving breaths.

He sat on the log beside her. Over the next few minutes, he did his very best to explain his mistake. He came uncharacteristically close to saying he was sorry, but he held back. "I didn't mean to upset you, but come on Jacquelyn—it's just a deer. You knew we were hunting today. I thought you wouldn't have a problem."

"I know it's stupid," she sniffled. "I'm sorry."

"Don't say that anymore. You don't ever have to apologize to me, for anything. Alright?"

"Alright," she said with a weak smile.

A few minutes later, they were mounted and ready to depart. Blaxley, on horseback, signaled all-clear from a hill a mile away. "Route's clear," Kelly observed. The setting sun deepened the ugly cleft on the man-at-arm's scalp. Eliza's nose twitched; Jacquelyn, so close to regaining her color, quickly went pale again.

"Off we go?" Gail asked.

Marcus didn't hear him. He was squinting at the trees. All of a sudden, the space between them was oppressively dark. The leaves didn't stir for want of a breeze. A vague feeling of menace hung unsettlingly in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down in the saddle.

Gail trotted his horse up beside him. He scanned the forest's edge, frowning—though in itself, that was not unusual. "Did you see anything?"

After a moment, "No... no. Let's go." The party heard him, and Ronold and Jiment started off in the lead, already beginning a new conversation, with Vernon and Eliza close behind. Jacquelyn waited on Marcus, who paid her a smile.

He gently kicked Morin's flanks. His favorite gelding whinnied, pleased to finally be off.

It was the last sound Morin ever made. From the forest there came a high-pitched _click_ —Marcus's brain instantly recognized it as a crossbow—followed by a sharp hiss of split air. That sound he knew as well, but even when the bolt was being shot downrange, it had been frightening enough. And then there was a sound that was new to him: a dull, wet thud as the crossbow bolt struck home.

All this passed through Marcus's mind without quite registering. Not until his horse fell away beneath him did he consciously realize he was under attack. On pure instinct, he launched himself out of the saddle as Morin fell, breaking his fall with a head-over-heels tumble. Head reeling, he staggered to his feet. Beside him, his faithful gelding was lying on his side, hooves spasming feebly as his dying nerves came to grips with the bolt buried in his eye, right up to the fletched end.

Shouting surrounded Marcus. Kelly had appeared beside him, sword drawn, using his body as a barrier between his prince and the unseen assailant in the forest. Gail was charging the tree line at a dead sprint. Jacquelyn was screaming.

"Mate! Mate, you alright?" Vernon skidded to a halt on his horse, ornate sword in hand.

"I'm... fine! Kelly, get off!" Angrily, he threw his guardsman's grip off his arm. "Bastard killed my horse," he snarled, and drew his blade. "After him, come on!"

The three of them plunged into the woods. Kelly automatically took up position twenty paces to his left, only just visible through the trees, while Vernon took the right. The golden filigree of his sword's guard would give away his position at a glance, but there was no point whining about it. Wordlessly, they began their advance. They moved briskly at a half-crouch, eyes searching, swords angled for a rapid first strike.

The gloom had deepened. It was tough to make out much of anything apart from tree trunks. Bushes and roots, once mere annoyances, were now snagging obstacles. Every so often, Marcus heard muffled cursing from Vernon's direction. Of Kelly, there was no sign. He had to assume he was alone.

He prowled farther into the dark forest with only his padded footfalls and quickened pulse for company. Alone, the darkness was oppressive. Shadows covered everything. Bushes were black smears, tree trunks were dark spires, the ground was a matte carpet. The assassin could simply lie down on the forest floor and Marcus would walk right over him without knowing it. Any moment now, a powerful hand would tug his head back and slice a grin in his throat.

Marcus rubbed his neck as an imaginary pain flared up.

Twigs rustled.

He very nearly froze then, but he fought through the indecision in an instant and sprang forward, sword already coming down, a wordless cry on his lips. The blade bit through the bush in front of him before burying itself in the earth, sending dirt and leaves flying. A hare darted out of its broken shelter and fled in panic.

Marcus almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the moment—but in that same moment, a dark figure rose up from behind the bush. It stumbled, caught on something, and began staggering off in the opposite direction.

"Here!" shouted Marcus. "Over here!" He cut around the bush and gave chase. The assassin wasn't more than ten yards ahead of him, and he was running with everything he had. He wove between tree trunks and hopped bushes, half-tripping in his haste to get away. There was a stubby sword in his hand; no sign of the crossbow. Each time he glanced over his shoulder, Marcus heard panicked gasps for breath.

Some assassin, he thought, but he wasn't having such a great time of it, himself. There was an uprooted bush clinging to one ankle; his cheeks were scored from low-hanging branches that the gamekeeper and his assistants had missed. He tripped over a jutting root, swore, but just managed to right himself and keep going.

"Here! Ahead of me! Head him off!" he yelled, bludgeoning a branch aside. He heard a faint affirmative from Kelly. Of Vernon, there was no sign. His wheezing oaths had faded some time ago. "Damnit, Gail," he panted. Just where had the man gotten off to?

Without warning, Marcus burst into a clearing. It was a small space, barely illuminated by the dying sunlight. There were clumps of matted grass scattered about where deer had made their beds. At the far side of the clearing stood his quarry.

He was in no way remarkable. He had dark, tousled hair; a round, almost boyish face pocked with old acne scars; and an average build clothed in peasant's brown.

"You dropped your crossbow," Marcus pointed out with a careless toss of his sword point.

The man's looked around frantically. There were bleeding cuts all over his face and hands, the result of his run-in with the wall of thorn bushes behind him. He brandished his shortsword at Marcus. "Stay back!" he cried in a common drawl.

Marcus took a step forward. "That blade won't do you any good. Drop it."

The man's sword trembled. He abruptly made a dash for the woods—from which Gail promptly emerged, looking more than a little miffed. "You aren't going anywhere, fucker."

The assassin swallowed as he backed away, his sweat mingling with his blood. He was visibly quivering. He looked back at the space to Marcus's side, the only escape remaining to him. Marcus hoped he opted for it; Kelly was almost certainly waiting for him there, ready to disarm and subdue him.

He and Gail tightened the snare with a step forward.

And the assassin tumbled to the earth—straight onto his upended blade.

"No!"

Gail quickly knelt and rolled the man over. His eyes bulged, his lips were pulled back in a horrible grimace as he clutched the sword embedded to the hilt in his innards.

Marcus had worked with blades all his life, but he'd never seen one put to its true practice. It was a terrible sight. The wound looked almost like sliced leather—except for the blood. It gushed out of the rent in the man's skin to coat his hands and soak his clothes, dripping onto the grass. His sweat-glossed skin was already acquiring a waxen pallor as he became less a man and more a corpse. There was yellow bile at the corners of his mouth. With every exhaled breath, blood foamed out of his mouth and nose.

Gail shook his head. "He's a goner."

Marcus considered the dying man with something approaching pity. "You don't have much time left. Do some good with it, man. Tell me who put you up to this."

His eyes flickered at him, filled with agony. His mouth moved silently, but no words came out—just blood and vomit, leaking in yellow rivulets down his cheeks. Then, with a final wretched gasp, his body slackened and went still.

Gail stood up, sheathing his sword. Even with the blood glistening on his hands and the half-gutted corpse cooling at his feet, he was as collected as ever—same scowl, same dead grey eyes. Once, he had found a fly in the dregs of his mug, and he had looked more upset than he did now. "You hurt, your highness?"

Marcus shook his head robotically. He felt hollow, just as he had when he'd watched his mother die. "Bastard killed my horse."

"Good horse, Morin," said Gail with a nod. He steered Marcus away, squeezing his shoulder. He knew what was going through his young charge's head, but he wasn't going to say it aloud.

Despite the nausea, Marcus appreciated it.

Bushes rustled ahead. The two of them had their swords half-drawn again before Vernon tumbled out of the woods. His face was bleeding, his hair was all askew, and his fine shirt was dirt-streaked and torn. "Fucking Ancel, man, is it fucking dark in there!"

Both Gail and Kelly rounded on him. "Fucking who, now?"

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Vernon was suddenly morose, having forgotten how very little chevaliers appreciated blasphemy against their Aspect. "Well, did you catch him or not?"

"Somewhat," said Marcus. He gestured behind him.

Vernon caught sight of the corpse and turned green. "Shit. Nas—" He turned away just in time to puke at his feet. "Nasty," he finished sheepishly. "You do that, mate?"

"No. He did." He was still trying to wrap his head around that fact: that a man could fall on his own blade rather than break his silence.

They dragged the body out of the forest. They wrapped it in a blanket and threw it in the wagon. The deer was left to rot. Marcus made Jacquelyn cover her eyes the entire time. She asked the same question as Vernon—which made him wonder why his own friends thought him capable of murder. That troubling thought lingered as he rode home. He shared Jacquelyn's saddle; her groin was planted comfortably against his rump, the scent of her hair filling his nose.

When the news spread the next morning, Ancellon would be in an uproar—an understandable reaction, given the head newly impaled above the North Gate. Maybe someone would recognize the assassin's face and come forward, but in all likelihood, the people would just snicker and take bets on which eye the crows would gouge out first, and the man would remain forever anonymous. Regardless, there would be questions tomorrow. The Council of Highest would call an emergency meeting in the Sanctum, and they would pepper Marcus with questions for half the day before releasing him to the horde of gossip-hungry nobles lurking outside.

He thought about what Elessia's lords would ask him, how he would reply, as he left Jacquelyn at her townhouse's gate. Later on, safe in his own bed, he stared at the fireplace where the cryptic and now-prophetic letter's ashes lay. He thought about secret tunnels filled with rusted swords. He thought about his mother—how she had warned him to watch everyone—and the gypsy woman who had told him to watch only himself.

He ruminated on all of it, and didn't sleep.

Chapter 6

"Good evening, Lord de Febvre, I'm pleased you've come." After the two hundredth refrain, Marcus's task had grown excruciatingly dull. He was varying the wording, of course, just enough to stroke the ego of the next person in line. The base of his spine ached from bowing to the ladies. The handshake was tougher, though. With each new one, the urge to start breaking men's fingers was getting stronger.

He had always been told that one could glean much of a man from his handshake. A limp grip was supposed to mean disdain. Were that true, he would have had to fight the added urge to kick Lord de Febvre back down the palace steps. But the man was old, feebler by the day. Rumor had it he shat himself every night.

Lucky for him that Marcus had never put much stock in stupid advice.

The old lord squinted up at him as he shook his grandson's hand. Then the abashed lad led him through the columns and into the bright-lit Atrium.

"Poor boy, it's quite a quandary he's in." Roslene had made herself marvelous for the tonight's ball—naturally, because it was mostly her doing. She wore a floor-length toga made of gleaming white satin, trimmed in gold with a ruby belt at her waist to match her hair.

"What quandary is that?" Marcus asked politely, caught somewhere between relish and intense dislike.

She smiled and curtsied for the next couple in line. "His grandfather," she replied once they had passed, "has promised him all his inheritance, yet in his senility he has made ludicrous demands of his peasants. He has driven away half already. So, once he dies, the young Lord de Febvre will have ten thousand acres of land and no one to work it, and in his youth he has no mind for administration. People will take advantage."

_So will you, whore queen. You'll have one of your girls chasing him all night whispering sweet romances in his ear, and once the old lord's dead and his grandson's coffers are empty, your girl will helpfully suggest he sell some acreage to a certain willing buyer. All prearranged. Lies and trickery and gold_ ...

"I see," he said. The courtesan had been feeding him similar tidbits of gossip this whole time. This lord was soon to wed his daughter to a higher family but had not, and could not produce a suitable dowry. That lady, his second cousin thrice removed, was barren and her husband would likely divorce her once he returned from campaign. Ah yes, and this lord—the reedy, liver-spotted one, had a special taste for exceedingly young gi—well, it wasn't appropriate to speak of such things.

Word of his noble peers' vices and misdeeds flowed freely from Roslene's lips. Useful information, true, but there was sure to be a price. And the line of ball-goers running down the palace steps was shortening. Whatever she wanted, she was going to hint at it soon.

"So." Right on time. "Has your father been writing you?"

Marcus half-glanced back at the Atrium, where Jacquelyn was waiting for him. She would be with her parents, who would not have been on the list of invitees if not for his intervention. Inwardly, he sighed, knowing that to escape Roslene's trap would only condemn him to a long, awkward conversation with Jacquelyn's father.

"He has, yes. A letter per week."

"I'm pleased he has found the time to write his son. His campaign has been... rigorous. I do hope you have been sending letters of your own."

In fact, most of the letters were stuffed in his desk, unopened, and he had replied twice at most. "I have."

They paused their hushed conversation to greet the next couple. Then Roslene said, "Men at war, they tend to forget—with remarkable ease—that they have a home to return to. Your father told me that. War drains the soul. It encompasses one's existence. But a letter from home reminds a soldier that he has a life outside the madness of war. He remembers he has a home. A family. It renews his sense of cause. He takes heart from knowing that he is not forgotten." She fixed him with her emerald eyes. Her gaze told him that she knew he was lying.

"Do _you_ write him, then?" he asked, knowing himself caught.

"Every day," she replied unflinchingly.

"Generous of you."

She inclined her head. "He is the more generous. He and his men." They let a few more couples pass, smiling, Marcus shaking their hands and Roslene curtsying deeply—Marcus playing host in his father's place, Roslene playing hostess in his mother's. The courtesan was good at it; she knew everyone by name, asked after their families and their affairs, beamed as if each was her dearest friend in the world entire.

Then she said, in a very low voice, "You hide it well—the way you regard me."

He did not react for a moment, to mask his surprise. "I suppose I do. You're the one who trained me."

"True enough. Even so, I know you very well, Marcus, though I know you would not have it so." She seemed to be pondering, but then, it could have been for effect. "Those of my... profession... tend to view everything as commodity. People, information. It's quite safe to say we always have a motive. We do nothing for free. You know this already."

"Yes."

The line of people was finally at its end. The last couple passed by and walked eagerly into the Atrium, more than ready for the festivities to begin. All that remained was for Marcus to parade in afterward, Roslene at his elbow, with a horde of servants and guards to precede them.

She faced him. "I know you will not believe me when I say this. But I will tell you anyway, I have never treated you as a commodity. I have never profited from divulging information that concerns you, or your affairs."

He sneered, suspecting a half-truth. Just because she had never profited from him did not mean she had kept her silence. "You just admitted you never act without motive, my lady. Let's get to the point. Why are you telling me this?"

"Have you ever considered," she said, missing a tiny fraction of her composure, "that I do feel something for your father? That I am acting on his behalf?"

"That would be very, very unlike you, as a courtesan."

"Then think of me less as a courtesan and more as a woman."

"That's not much of an improvement."

Her laugh was a beautiful sound, and the smile that came with it was likewise flawless. The fact that both were cultured made her even less trustworthy. "Well put. You're perfectly in your rights to assume I am lying. But I am not. Consider that I care for your father, and for you by extension. My motive in speaking to you is this: I want you to be safe." She drew uncomfortably close to murmur in his ear. "Take my word when I say you are in dangerous company. When you give your welcome speech, when you make the toast, please tread lightly."

His mouth went dry at her last words. He looked at Roslene, near to gaping, but she had already taken his elbow and faced forward. The letter—could she truly be its author? Roslene Beauvais, his mother's secret confidante, privy to secrets that could be the undoing of Elessia? It couldn't be true. It made no sense, even if the warnings were almost identical.

She was eying him sideways, the corner of her mouth lifted. "Do you plan on perhaps dancing with my daughter tonight?" It was as if their prior conversation had never taken place.

Finding his voice, he replied, "We'll have to see."

Kaelyn's mother's laugh contained an unmistakable hint of mischief. "As you say. Once you see her, I'm sure the choice will make itself."

The procession was in place by now. The servants were in position, dressed in suits just decorative enough to please the eye, but just drab enough that the same eye wouldn't be held long. Guards lined each flank of the procession, armed with tall halberds. Their breastplates and helmets were made all the more resplendent by the mirrored lanterns the servants carried, white candlelight streaking across polished steel.

A score of heads away at the front of the procession, a captain's voice rang out. "Make way for Lord Prince Marcus Audric de Pilars! All hail the crown prince!" The vast chamber beyond went quiet. A handful of seconds later, at the captain's hand motion, the column started forward in perfectly-synchronized steps.

"Let it begin," Roslene whispered with mirth, and the pair of them followed.

They passed between the first layer of columns, then a second and third before emerging into the Atrium itself. Roslene had not been idle in her preparations. Her workers had cleared away the planters and gambling tables, leaving a great empty floor untroubled by clutter. Over a hundred meters away on the far side of the chamber, the head table had been set up just before the formidable keep doors. The adjacent tables were crowded with platters, heaped with delicacies of the Broken Isles—lamb, eel, fish, artichokes, bread, and more. Brass chains and gnarled sea ropes were strung across the ceiling. Most impressive of all was the chamber's open side. Somehow, Roslene had diverted water from the gardens' artificial river into the Atrium itself. A new stream meandered between the garden side columns, held to its course by barricades cleverly disguised as sea cliffs, complete with scrawny trees and shrubs clinging to its crags. Arching bridges provided passage across the stream to the gardens outside—where Marcus imagined Roslene had even more surprises in store.

"Impressed?" she asked quietly.

"Not bad," he admitted, though he privately thought the audience lessened the effect.

There were hundreds of noble peers in attendance, each vying to outdo the next in sheer opulence. The women wore shimmering dresses with blown-out skirts, their hair dyed into vibrant hues, strung with ribbons, and dressed into towering piles over their heads. There wasn't a wrist without a bracelet, or four, and not an earlobe without a jewel. Their perfume singed his nostrils. As for the men, they had donned their finest tunics—most dyed purple, blue, or burgundy to mark wealth—only to cover them up with thick doublets and arm capes. Every man wore two belts: one for his leggings, and one for his sword.

The blades were pure tradition, but the looks their owners were giving Marcus were just short of foul. He met their eyes smiling, refusing to be cowed.

He and Roslene paraded up the middle of the Atrium. Every few yards, the pair of guards at the front of the column peeled off to stand at the edges of the aisle, at rigid attention with their halberds planted upright. The last pair to do so was Gail and Kelly, who, in perfect sync, halted their step and about-faced in front of the head table to face the crowd. Somewhere above them, an unseen Blaxley was panning his bow across the crowd. The servants veered off and lined the table's breadth at intervals, their lanterns dicing the keep's massive doors with crisscrossing light beams.

Marcus led the king's consort around the table and helped her into her seat, a picture of chivalry. He faced the crowd with a broad grin that he did not feel in the slightest. A shining sea of noble bloods stood before him. There were precious few smiles cast back in his direction.

A servant, dressed opulently for the role, strode over and filled his goblet with wine. The man's footsteps faded, leaving Marcus with ringing silence.

He lifted the goblet, if only to have something to do with one hand. The other, he clenched behind his back where no one could see. "My fine lords and ladies." He could speak almost normally; the Atrium could make a shattering glass sound like a thunderstorm. "On behalf of the king, and on behalf of our late queen, I and the Lady Beauvais welcome you all to the Falltide."

There was some polite applause at that.

He let it die, considering his obligatory first toast. It was still there, every syllable lodged firmly in his mind from the countless times he had mentally rehearsed it. There were many swords in his audience tonight, and nearly as many dour expressions. Perhaps a cliché would do just fine—a toast to the King's health, the Queen's memory, and Elessia everlasting.

For better or worse—with the second much likelier—he had never had much patience for politics. "I believe it is a mark of our human nature, that we may know a thing in our hearts without allowing our minds to recall it." He let the smile return. "If you will forgive me, this will be a lengthy toast."

Laughter rumbled through the chamber.

Once the echoes faded, he raised his voice and started to speak.

Nine hundred years ago, our great Lord Aspect began his great undertaking. His task was daunting: he sought to unify the many kingdoms of this land, which had warred with each other since the dawn of our memory. A daunting task, but a noble one, come straight from the mouth of God.

It was apparent to all who saw him that he was beyond mortal. When he spoke, crowds held their breath in awe. Kings fell prostrate before him. Before he had need to raise his sword in anger, the whole of four kingdoms had burned their banners and raised up his. Men flocked to him from every corner of these kingdoms to offer him their service. He raised an army. The world had never seen a force of such size, such zeal. Had he bade them, his men would have marched off the edge of a sea cliff to dash themselves on the rocks below.

They gave him a name: Ancel, which in the old tongue means "God-like".

With his army in readiness, Ancel began his Holy War. His men were willing to die, and many did—many on both sides, for there were nations that resisted the coming light. These were nations rank with corruption—festering sores, abominations in the eyes of God. Upon these, Ancel unleashed his wrath. Cities burned to cinders, fortresses crumbled into gravel, and the blood of legions salted the ground upon which they fought, so that the fields refused to yield crops for years to come.

He was wrath incarnate, and he left naught but destruction in his wake. But God's wisdom is infinite. He had sent Ancel to cull mankind's evil, yet knew that man was not beyond redemption.

To this end, he sent his second Aspect. She walked the ruins of the places Ancel's rage had set alight. There was not a pain that she could not quell. She mended wounds with but a touch. She fed the starving from a basket which was never empty of bread. The Scripture tells tales of those who walked the breadth of the land—people unknowingly drawn to her healing power like moths to a flame. She freed them of all despair, having shared with them but a portion of her endless love.

They named her Elessa—a play on the ancient name for heaven.

Where Ancel destroyed, Elessa built. He dealt punishment to the wicked; she offered redemption to those who would accept it. His way was wrath; hers was mercy. They were the twin Aspects of God—incarnations of his divine will, perhaps his most favored angels, as some say.

The mere fact that such beings could coexist is evidence of their divine nature. As it was, they shared a mutual love and respect for one another. They knew themselves to be two halves of a whole, and they were exceedingly careful that their followers did not become divided against each other. Such a rift would undo their holy work.

This legacy can still be seen today. Ancel's general Celarus so admired Elessa that he pledged himself to her service for as long as he lived, a tradition his brotherhood honors to this day. Elessa's scions are many; her healers, armed with her sacred craft, still accompany our armies on each campaign. And once the armies return, our Lady's priests and priestesses await to unburden their souls.

Together, God's twin Aspects forged our nation. The story of their latter years is one you know, but suffice to say, the Holy War ended. Ancel, perceiving that his purpose was at last fulfilled, chose to depart this world. Not long afterward, Elessa did the same—but not before she made a last solemn promise.

One day, when the world's need was great, she and Ancel would return.

It was a warning.

†††

The packed Atrium was absolutely silent. Grim faces looked at Marcus, still standing at the head table with his goblet half-raised. The red wine rippled as his hand shook.

He had never told anyone how much speaking for an audience frayed at his nerves. No one had ever guessed; he was good at it. There was a reason these people, Elessians who knew the tale by heart, were listening so raptly.

"We named our country Elessia—not with our Blessed Lady in mind, but with the hopes that these angels walking among us had helped us create a heaven on earth. But our saviors, in their wisdom, foresaw a time when we would forget the virtues they taught us—when man would once again become decrepit, given into sin and debauchery."

He considered his audience. Jacquelyn was somewhere among them, likely thinking him a huge ass. Vernon would be rubbing his forehead with exasperation as he wondered how to salvage the night from his best mate's preaching.

"There are those who declare the Aspects' return is imminent—that we live in the end times.

"I say they are wrong. It is when we have depraved past redemption that our Honored Lord and Blessed Lady will return to us. Ancel gave quarter to those who asked it, and Elessa forgave those sins confessed her. They are both merciful, in their own ways. Once we sin without begging forgiveness, we will have reached the point of hubris, the ultimate crime against God—and that is when their feet will again grace our soil.

"I refuse to believe we are so decayed."

He raised his quivering arm high. His jewel-studded goblet shone gold by the light of a score of diamond chandeliers—and before him, Elessia's splendorous nobles held up their own cups. Opulence enveloped Marcus and named his declaration false before its echoes had even faded.

Swallowing, he pressed on regardless. "And so my toast:

"To the King." The crowd began to repeat the toast but he cut their murmurs short. "To his soldiers, the sons of Ancel, who yet suffer and die for our sake. To the poor folk in the countryside who dread the coming winter even as we here welcome it. To us, my fine lords and ladies—to us. May we remember that we are descendants of Ancel and Elessa, of the sons and daughters that they left behind. May we be reminded that our heritage is not a gift but a burden—to safeguard their chosen people, to tend the land for which so many before us have sacrificed. May we hold to this sacred task, always.

"I toast to our duty!"

They stared at him, many mouths gaping, having never quite considered that their young prince was capable of such eloquence. For a laden moment, there was frozen silence.

Then Lord de Gauthier shouted, "To duty!"

"To duty!" cried another, and another until the whole place was teeming with those echoing words, overlapping and reverberating like waves on the ocean.

Marcus drank and took his seat. His smile was real now. He had done it. He had managed a seemingly impossible task—to chastise and flatter both at once. For a precious moment, he allowed himself to believe his words were true.

"Stirring words, your highness," Roslene said into his ear. She kissed his cheek in congratulation. To Marcus, it was less a reward than a curse.

He thanked her all the same, then sat to quietly bask in his peers' acclamation.

Shortly, the Council of Highest paraded up to take their seats to either side of him. There were seven in all, one for each of the Elessia's provinces. He stood to welcome them all. He accepted Vernon's father with a warm smile, but he was the only one who deserved it. His tongue was sour as he traded bows with Lord de Martine, whose vast holdings in Ronery supplied a quarter of the King's annual tax revenue, and who had contaminated his son with every ounce of his seething self-righteousness. He shared Jaspar's steely blue eyes, which regarded him amusedly, as if the prince were a child tripping over his first steps.

The rest were little better—Lejeune, Guiscard, Morent, Isnell, Villiers, all names that the years had taught him to despise. They were old men who fed like ticks off their provinces, gobbling up ever more land for their estates, and taxing the remainder into destitution. Marcus suspected they collected much more gold than they reported, but his father had never seemed inclined to investigate.

Once they seated themselves, Roslene made a pretty little speech, and with the lady of the house's permission, the ball began.

At the far side of the Atrium, servants wheeled away a scaffold, revealing a fantastic musical assembly. There were pipes, lyres, drums, horns, bells of every size and shape, even a bronze-plated harpsichord. They started off with a merry tune, its light melody mixing appropriately with the rising hum of laughter and conversation from the crowd of nobles. Servants were appearing from the kitchen tunnels, laden down with platters of exotic southern foods, trays of fine wine.

And then there were the courtesans. Just as Roslene had promised, they did not disappoint. Her girls filtered in from the garden in singles, pairs, and groups, all smiles and wagging hips. Their costumes were magnificently provocative. One blonde was swathed in a cloak so sheer it was near transparent, with only carefully placed jewels to hide her nudity. Another was in a perilously short leather dress, and had procured a shortbow and quiver to complete the costume. There were amber necklaces and jeweled headbands, golden harps and winged helms, even a set of ridiculous feather wingtips bobbing over the crowd's heads.

Marcus averted his gaze. Jacquelyn was watching him, just as certainly as Roslene was now.

"Entertained?" The consort sounded very much so.

"I expect nothing less of you, my lady," he replied, already scooping delicacies onto his plate. He was obligated to spend the next hour at the head table with the esteemed high lords, and he planned to devour his way through it.

But Roslene had no intention of brooking silence at her table. Her craft was people, and she was formidably good at it. She merely started to talk, and the lords around her could not help but pick up the thread of conversation she wove. Even Marcus had to join in after a while, and though the strain between him and the Council was evident at times, Roslene filled in the awkward pauses so effortlessly that they might not have existed at all. She told stories so well that the nine men strained to listen. She got Marcus to eat a suspicious-looking sardine pastry that he never would have tried on his own, and as he fought not to choke, she laughed in such a way that he didn't think to be affronted.

After an hour, he had to remind himself that he disliked her.

Fortunately, the time for the first dance was here. He took Roslene's hand and stood as the musicians' latest tune eased to a halt, and together, they made their way out from behind the head table. The servants retreated from the chamber as the nobles obligingly edged to the sides, clearing a great dance floor in the middle.

They watched as Marcus faced Roslene there. He mirrored her smile, though he wished he could have dispensed with custom and danced with Jacquelyn first—not the woman who had openly courted his father and disgraced his mother in the act. But unlike marriage, tradition was inviolate.

The music rose into a slow melody. Marcus bowed deep, one arm stuck out behind him; Roslene lowered her eyes demurely and curtsied. They joined together, and as the music picked up its second measure, they fell into step. She followed his lead with effortless grace—which was natural, because she had taught him this exact dance when he was a boy, using her daughter as his partner.

That had been many years ago, and much had changed since. Roslene had gone from tutoring Princess Geneva's son to carrying on an affair with her husband, Audric de Pilars. War had come, taking the king's life and propelling Audric to the throne beside his wife. Geneva had faded into obscurity in the victorious general's shadow, stung by the loss of her father, humiliated by his open affection for Roslene—and soon enough, King Audric's consort held more sway at court than his queen.

Marcus was struck by the obscenity of the moment. He wanted nothing more than to let go of her waist, the same one his father held close every night. It was strangely ironic that he had had an illicit affair with Kaelyn, echoing Roslene's relationship with his father. It was a small revenge, unfulfilling at best.

They made for a lovely pair as they stepped, twirled, and swayed across the floor—a handsome young prince and a robed Goddess. Soon the onlookers could no longer contain their envy. Couples eagerly flooded onto the floor to mimic their dance.

A couple of minutes later, the song ended. Marcus smoothly kissed Roslene's hand and applauded with the rest, then excused himself. Somewhere in the crowd, Jacquelyn and her parents were waiting.

But half the crowd was just as anxious for his company. Thanks to the pair of guards at his back, they parted easily enough, but he could move hardly a few yards before getting belayed. Minor lords pestered him to endorse or condemn tariffs. Their wives produced marriageable daughters for his consideration. Ambitious young men bludgeoned their way through the throngs to introduce themselves, likely wanting Kydonian acreage or military commands, though Marcus had the power to provide neither.

Harassed as he was, Marcus had to humor them all. He conjured a fake smile, shaking and kissing innumerable hands, the ladies' perfume burning his lips. But the stream of connivers refused to abate. The more he pretended to care, the more encouraged they became, and their renewed prattling was grinding his patience away.

"Marcus!"

The nobles abruptly stopped chattering, shocked that someone had dared to call the prince by name.

But his smile was genuine. Jacquelyn had come to his rescue.

He kissed her hand and accepted one on his cheek. "You're lovely tonight," he said by way of greeting, looking her up and down. She wore a long-sleeved green dress with gold embroidery. Her cheeks were powdered and her hazel eyes were framed with black liner.

"You think so?" she piped, ecstatic. "I tried putting my hair up but I decided there's a reason I keep it down."

The nobles watched sulkily while Jacquelyn guided him away, helplessly wondering how this lone young woman had stolen their prince's attention so easily. "Who _is_ that?" someone whispered.

Jacquelyn did an admirable job ignoring them. "Your speech was so good! I wish you would talk like that all the time!" She failed to notice the wry look he gave her. "I have to introduce you to my parents," she continued excitedly. "They really want to meet you."

Them and everyone else, he thought. "We've come to that point already, eh?"

"Yes!"

Her parents were perched on a couch on the closed side of the chamber. As soon as they caught sight of Marcus, they rose. Her father had the look of a strong man gone to seed, with a rotund belly and thinning grey hair, but his eyes—the same color as Jacquelyn's—were alight with sharp wits. He bowed. "Your highness. That was a fine talk you gave before, congratulations."

Marcus inclined his head. "Thank you, Lord Duchesne. Pleasure to meet you."

He held up his hands, laughing. "Pierre, just Pierre, your highness."

"Naturally. And this is your wife?"

It was obvious that Jacquelyn had gotten her good looks from her mother. She was a tall woman—taller than her husband, in fact—with brown hair, intensely blue eyes and hourglass figure. In her younger days, she would have made quite a prize—still did, in fact. The woman executed a flawless curtsy, a hint of her past occupation. "Cheryl, your highness. It's an honor."

"It's all mine."

The four of them exchanged some polite conversation. Jacquelyn's parents were friendly people, but Marcus let her do most of the talking. Caution was always the prudent choice, where a girl's parents were concerned.

Jacquelyn squealed as the second song of the night ended. "Oh, can we dance?"

He laughed. "Why not?" That seemed to please her parents. Bowing their way, he took Jacquelyn and led her off. Couples were streaming to and from the dance floor, and the musicians were readying their instruments for the next song.

The pair found a clear spot and faced each other. The impending start of the dance was signaled by a trio of bells. Around them, the gaily dressed couples bowed and curtsied, as did they. The prince stepped forward and flourished his right hand, which Jacquelyn took with a smile. He wrapped his other arm around her waist; hers came to rest on his shoulder. She was perilously close to him, the tips of her breasts nearly brushing his chest, her face bare inches away.

His heart beat faster.

The musicians started to play, and the dance began. It was a good tune—neither slow nor quick, with a steady beat for the dancers to follow and a melody pleasing to the ear. Marcus could barely hear it. He was entranced, intoxicated by Jacquelyn's golden eyes, the smooth angles of her face.

Her head swayed in tune with the music; her movements mirrored his precisely. They may as well have been joined at the hip—they practically were, so close had she pressed herself against him.

"You're a good dancer," he remarked.

She simpered. "You are, too."

More for show than anything, Marcus pulled her even tighter and spun them both around in a tight circle.

"Hope your parents aren't looking."

"Why?"

"Because I'm practically inside you."

She nearly succumbed to a fit of giggles but managed to fight it down, for appearance's sake. People were scrutinizing her—the audience lining the floor, the other dancers. Fortunately, she either didn't notice or pretended not to. They just danced along, enjoying each other's company.

After a few minutes, the music stopped, and the air became still again. Jacquelyn dipped into a curtsy for her partner, as did all the women around the chamber.

Marcus bowed. They joined the rest of the room in applauding the musicians before making their way to the side. Before long they had found an unoccupied couch; many were vacated as couples took to the floor for the next dance.

The scrutiny was still there. Pairs of eyes darted over him and Jacquelyn—most of them surprised or intrigued, but some of them jealous or even angry. At his age, Marcus's affairs were expected to hint toward marriage. Jacquelyn Duchesne, a lesser noble girl whom few had heard of before, was suddenly a threat. They may have been right in that assumption. Marcus genuinely liked her.

He ignored the stares of girls he had spoken with but never pursued—the glares of their elder family members, who saw their potential royal tie in jeopardy. Instead, he talked to the young woman sitting beside him as the dances ran their courses. They occasionally shared a laugh over a courtier who lost his step, or a couple whose outfits were a mite absurd. Vernon stopped by, but Eliza quickly drew him off for the next dance.

Whenever a servant went by, Marcus called one over, constantly supplied with drink. It wasn't more than an hour before their cheeks were rosy with the effects, their heads buzzing pleasantly.

Leave it to Kaelyn to ruin it all.

Marcus was in the midst of a jest when Jacquelyn's eyes drifted over his head. "See, this is why I don't tell jokes. I'm getting the feeling I'm terrible at it."

"You need a sense of humor first."

He twisted around. Sure enough, Kaelyn was standing beside the couch, eying him lazily. Roslene hadn't lied. Her daughter was worth killing for. Marcus had seen low necklines before, but she had parted from hers completely. She loosely wore a blue shawl about her shoulders, with billowing sleeves and an open front that left her breasts bare. Below that, there was a long skirt with chevrons of blue, yellow, and orange. Her feet were sandaled, and her crimson hair was done up in curls.

His eyes were unfairly drawn to her exposed breasts. He couldn't help but notice she had darkened her nipples for the occasion. He swallowed, did his best not to stare. "Nice lack of a dress you have there, Kaelyn."

"Yes, well, I thought the occasion warranted it. Ancient Lyrian style, you see. Not to worry, Marcus, you aren't the only one looking. Are you going to move over?" When he didn't immediately budge, she perched on his armrest. She looked at Jacquelyn. "Hello. We've met but I don't think we've been introduced."

Jacquelyn's expression was uncharacteristically neutral. She gave her name in a monotone.

Kaelyn had rested a hand on his shoulder, seemingly for support, though he knew better. Jacquelyn couldn't have failed to notice; her eyes narrowed a fraction. Marcus took one look at their smiles and thought, _Oh God, they're going to murder each other_.

Even so, Kaelyn rattled off the usual get-to-know-you questions. Her white teeth gleamed like a shark's. "Well, I'm glad we've met," she finished. With Jacquelyn dispatched, she turned to Marcus, who once again was fighting to look at anything but the tits practically brushing up against his face. "How long has it been, Marcus? Weeks now? Maybe we can catch up tomorrow. I've been missing our time together."

His mouth was dry. "I'm getting by without much trouble."

She brushed the insult off with a laugh, a tendency she'd learned from her mother. "Well regardless."

He was dangerously close to telling her to fuck off, but without warning, Roslene was there with them. "Kaelyn, Marcus! How fares the night?" She was unfazed by her daughter's scandalous dress, or lack thereof. More than likely, she had commissioned it.

Kaelyn smirked. "Very well, mother, I was just about to ask the prince to dance."

"Oh, good! I'm sure you'll oblige her, won't you, your highness?"

He wanted to kill them both, but that wasn't exactly an option, what with Kaelyn already hauling him onto his feet. There were eyes on them all again, and to refuse the dance would only make him look a petulant child.

Jacquelyn saw the wordless apology in his eyes. She nodded, pale-faced, and stood. "I'll go find my parents."

She left, and Kaelyn led Marcus to the floor on an invisible leash. They attracted every eye they passed—the crown prince, about to dance with this half-naked girl of the night. She was making an ass of him. He somehow managed not to flush at the thought.

The song was already a minute old by the time they got to the center of the chamber, but they swept into it regardless—and became the center of attention in the process. Now everyone was watching, muttering behind hands. Here was their prince, making himself a hypocrite for all to see.

Kaelyn was pressed so close that her breasts were quashed against his chest. Her nose practically touched his. There was a distinct predatory look to her smile.

"Why are you doing this?" Marcus hissed.

"Doing what?" she asked, all innocence.

He gritted his teeth. "She's a nice girl, Kaelyn. She didn't deserve that."

Her voice fell to just above a whisper. "Oh yes, look at you, so bloody chivalrous all of a sudden. Go ahead and pretend you're angry for her sake. I know you better."

"You don't know a damned thing."

She flung herself back on her tiptoes, pirouetted, and fell back into his waiting arms as the applause faded. Into his ear, "I suppose you're right, I don't know a thing about you. If I did, I would've seen what you were about."

His pulse was racing with pent-up fury. "I was never _about_ anything. It happened the way it did. I didn't mean—"

"You knew full well what you were doing, you fucking liar."

It was the truth. He knew it. Elessia's nobility was snickering quietly as they watched their prince make himself a liar. Jacquelyn would never want to speak with him again. Vernon and Eliza were gaping at the two of them from the edge of the floor. Somewhere in heaven, if such a thing existed, his mother was looking down on her wayward son in disappointment.

What a bitter treat humiliation was.

Kaelyn's eyes stared, seething with a hatred spawned by betrayed love. He couldn't have spared her all that pain, not after that first fateful night she had spent in his bed, but he could have left her a measure of peace. He hadn't, and she had allowed herself to love him. The price was paid.

He wanted to tell her how sorry he was—but his anger and pride took the words, twisted them, spat them out as, "People are going to fuck you and leave you for the rest of your life. Get used to it, whore."

Her cheeks turned pink, and he knew he had won. The victory felt like a knife in his belly.

After what seemed an eternity, the dance ended. Marcus kissed Kaelyn's hand, tasting bile, and she strode off without another word. Sadly, he watched her go.

Jacquelyn wasn't with her parents, who thankfully had not seen him dancing. He spoke with them for a few minutes, hoping their daughter would show up. When it became obvious she wouldn't, he tried the couch where they had sat, but a trio of powdered women occupied it instead. Now he was growing worried. He ran into Vernon, who tried making a lewd joke about Kaelyn's costume, but he was not at all in the mood and excused himself. He made a worried circuit of the Atrium, brusquely dismissing any courtiers with the nerve to approach him. Everywhere were smiling nobles and flirting courtesans, but no sign of Jacquelyn.

Just as he began to think she had left, an idea occurred to him: the gardens. With renewed hope, he pushed towards the throng. Between the garden-side columns, the open night air beckoned. He at last reached the columns—then tripped over someone's foot and nearly tumbled headlong into the artificial stream. Swearing mightily, he regained his footing, ignoring the amused stares of a nearby group of ladies, and found a footbridge. He crossed the gurgling stream, between another row of columns, and found himself in a place he barely recognized.

Fountains had sprung up everywhere, topped with life-size nude statues commissioned just for the occasion. There was a giant cage of Lyrian songbirds, their incessant chirps mixing with the music drifting out from the ball. Elaborately-worked benches dotted the grassy clearing, enclosed by scaffolds draped by climbing vines—perfect shelter for casual liaisons.

Thankfully, Jacquelyn was not there; she was sitting on another bench on the winding palace walk. A sigh of relief caught in Marcus's throat as he realized who was with her.

"What are you doing here, Jaspar?" he demanded as he approached, fists balled.

Jaspar had one foot up on the bench, his muscular bulk looming over Jacquelyn, who looked more than a little intimidated. She flickered a smile at Marcus while Jaspar adopted his customary sneer.

"I'd ask the opposite of you, de Pilars. What kind of man leaves his woman alone while he goes dancing?" He added smugly, "With a whore."

Marcus shot back venomously, "I don't feel the need to explain myself to you, de Martine."

Jaspar put his foot down. He straightened his jacket. "Then I won't explain myself to you."

They stared each other down for a few heavy moments while Jacquelyn glanced anxiously between them, her skirts bunched in her fists. Marcus itched for the blade at his hip. After his bout with Kaelyn, he very much wanted to kill something.

Jaspar stepped forward, a dare that Marcus matched. With that, they were toe-to-toe for what seemed the umpteenth time, glaring balefully into each other's eyes.

"You never come near her again, you hear me?"

"Oh, I hear you. I'll even take you up on that offer. Duchesne, eh? She's a pretty little thing, for having a bought name."

"Fuck off."

His erstwhile friend chuckled malevolently. "You think you're so much better than me, don't you?"

Marcus didn't see fit to answer.

"You're not, not by a long shot. I know the way you really work, de Pilars. Keep pretending you're the better man. You know you're just lying to yourself. And I'll tell you now, you can't lie forever. The minute you slip up, you'll see you're just as fucking low as you think I am."

"No one can slip up as badly as you did."

"We'll see about that." Jaspar grinned and shoved past him with ease.

"There'll be a reckoning between us one day, Jaspar," he said to his enemy's retreating back.

Jaspar turned around. The grin remained. "You're right," he agreed, backing away slowly. "One day someone's going to beat that arrogance out of you. I can't wait to see what's left." He turned his back and had soon disappeared into the Atrium.

Marcus stared after him the whole time, grinding his teeth with frustrated anger. He noticed his knuckles were aching. He looked down; he had been clutching his sword handle. The wire-wound pattern was imprinted into his palm. He could take small comfort in the knowledge that his men-at-arms were not far away, and they would have stopped him if it had come to blades. But one day soon, that reckoning between them would come, and no number of guards would be able to intervene.

"Marcus?"

He sank onto the bench beside Jacquelyn. His hands were trembling. "It's alright. He won't be coming back."

She played uneasily with her hair. "He... he saw me leaving the couch and he started talking to me. He said he wanted to talk out here where it was quieter. He said he was curious about me."

"I'm sure he was."

"He never said anything bad, though. He seemed nice." She went quiet. "I'm sorry, I was angry at you. That's why I went with him."

He let out a dispirited chuckle. "Long as you weren't going to kiss him."

Her face went livid—an expression Marcus had never seen from her before. "I would never do that," she said angrily. "That's the last thing I'd ever do to you, or anyone else."

He thought of Kaelyn. Jaspar had been right about him. He was no better. "It was a mistake," he said after a long time, "between me and her. I let it happen even though I knew I should have stopped it. You shouldn't have to be involved." He couldn't apologize to Kaelyn, and neither could he do it for Jacquelyn—even if they both deserved it.

"It's fine," she said anyway, touching his arm.

He took her hand gratefully. He looked out over the gardens—the man-made waterfall, the orchards, the sparring field. Half a mile away stood the crenellated outline of the palace's walls—no defense against foreign armies, but a barrier to the common folk beyond.

A new realization took hold: this new relationship with Jacquelyn was a mistake too. He was bridging a gap by dallying with her. She was common-blooded, when all was said and done; he was royalty. It could only end badly for her.

But he locked eyes with her and knew something was there, something he had never felt before—and in his selfishness, he could not let her go.

"Why do you hate him so much?" she asked softly, oblivious to his internal dialogue.

He pondered how to explain—whether to tell her at all. Hesitantly, he replied, "There was this girl he was... with... a couple of years ago. Estelle. That was her name. We were all friends—me, Jaspar, Estelle, Vernon. You couldn't help but notice, though—he wasn't good to her. He interrupted her when she talked and he poked fun at her more often than he should have, even when it was obvious she was hurt. But she just followed him around anyway. The worse it got, the more infatuated she was. We saw it happening but we didn't say anything. Didn't think it was our place to say.

"It got so bad that we just started avoiding them. Jaspar got some new mates—some nasty characters, still hangs around them today. One night, he hosted a party at his house here in the city. I stayed downstairs and I didn't see, but I heard what he did. He got drunk, and he took Estelle upstairs and... he brought his mates into the room with them, and he forced her to take off her clothes, and he fucked her right there, with all of them watching. Can you imagine the humiliation of something like that?"

Jacquelyn looked rightly shocked—almost nauseous. "That's so terrible," she whispered. "How could he do that?"

Marcus shook his head. "I don't know. She stayed with him after that. He broke it off with her after a while, but I know she still sees him every so often." He rubbed his mouth. He wasn't going to tell her, but Jacquelyn and Estelle were very alike—kind, loyal, self-deprecating, innocent, hopelessly romantic.

He swore he would never wrong her the way Jaspar had done Estelle.

"So," he said with false brightness, "you just remember that story the next time you want revenge, alright?"

That cheered her up. "And _you_ remember to not give me a reason to want revenge."

"Done." They gazed out over the gardens for a while. The smell of orchids and jasmine wafted over them. The sound of flowing water soothed their ears. Beyond the palace's walls, the white towers of Ancellon shone in the moonlight, yearning for the heavens.

He thought to ask Jacquelyn if she wanted another dance—but as soon as he turned his face toward her, hers was pressed against it, kissing him with sudden passion. Her tongue darted into his mouth. Her breath washed against his cheeks.

His night had taken a notably better turn. Pleasantly surprised, he took her by the neck and kissed her back.

Slowly, she broke away. "Sorry," she giggled.

He grinned. "Want to dance?"

Her smile broadened. "I've been waiting for you to ask." The remainder of the night passed smoothly enough. Thoughts of Jaspar, Kaelyn and Roslene were tough to dispel, but the harder Marcus tried to ignore those thoughts, the fainter they became. Jacquelyn helped. Energized by his romancing and good wine, she turned out to be a marvelous dancer. Marcus was beside himself, watching her move across the floor, her lithe form gyrating and twisting against his, her strong thighs outlined beneath her skirt. Every so often they snuck off to some dark corner for a tongue-filled kiss, but the break never lasted long.

Vernon and Eliza lightened the mood as well. Both were heavily drunk by the time Marcus found them. Vernon was up to his usual antics. "I know you feel hot, I swear, just _one_ more button and you'll feel loads better." This, when her blouse was practically open. When she caught him ogling at her sweating cleavage, she gave him an indignant push—which sent him plunging into the stream. The fun ended when she tried to help him out and he hauled her in with him. Her enraged father very nearly challenged him to a duel then, only Vernon's father and Marcus talked him out of it.

Luckily, the night was practically over by then. The music had mellowed. Most of the revelers had already made their way home. Jacquelyn's parents were among them; Cheryl had bid Marcus good night with a lighthearted wink and a whispered, "I'm sure I don't have to tell _you_ to behave..." That, he wasn't so sure of.

He separated Vernon and Lord de Laumaurne with some difficulty, then bid everyone a good night. Except Jacquelyn. She followed him to the royal suites without protest, and with a certain twinkle in her eye that promised the night was not quite finished.

"Wow," she mouthed as she stepped into his chambers. "I can't believe you just _sleep_ here!"

"I don't. This room is where I entertain my guests," he gestured at the couches, where he and Vernon had so recently entertained two—even three—courtesans. "That there to the right is my study. I don't go in there much—books and all. There's the balcony," where Kaelyn's wiles had gotten the best of him, "and here's the part you'll like." He threw open the door to his bedchambers—where Kaelyn had finished the job.

He ignored that pang and walked in, with Jacquelyn right behind. "What do you think?"

"That bed is huge!"

"Well it has to sleep two or more, you see—"

She went to slap him, but he caught her wrist. Laughing, she yanked it away, crossed the room, and plopped soundlessly onto the down feather mattress. On her back, she yawned. "I don't know," she murmured with her eyes closed. "I don't have a dress for tomorrow."

"You keep forgetting who you're with." He sat beside her and hazarded a palm on her thigh, which she graciously allowed. "I can buy you a dress. Hell, I could have you a dozen by noon. We don't even have to leave the chambers. I'll have breakfast brought here, rosewater for you to wash with—"

"I don't have a nightgown," she said. Her tone made him turn around; her eyes weren't shut anymore. Her straight eyebrows twitched upward.

He chuckled as he lay on his side. "Is there a polite way to say you don't need one?"

"You might be right," she murmured. Marcus knew better than to ignore a hint like that. He obliged her by rolling on top of her, kissing her ear, her cheek, her neck. She threw her chin back, inviting more, and he accepted. Her heavy breathing washed over his face as he pillaged her mouth, gently sliding his hands over her breasts, her hips.

"Mmm, you're good at this," Jacquelyn giggled. She watched him working his way down her chest, her sweat-glistening cleavage, her waist. He bent and began rolling up her skirt, exposing strong calves, then her creamy thighs... "Wait, what are you—" she began, startled. Then, with a lash of his tongue, she shuddered and fell back. "Oh. Alright."

Her back arched. She squeezed her breasts, moaned quietly, pulled her skirt up higher, if only to give her hands something to do. His gently pried her thighs farther apart, steadying her. Then, as she grew wetter and her body started to tense with arousal, he stood.

"Oh God, please don't stop," she panted.

He started undressing. "Got to."

She watched him for a moment, then got to her knees on the bed. She undid her dress with quivering fingers and pulled it over her head.

Even in the dim light with her hair askew, she had a beautiful body—slimmed by careful diet, toned by frequent exercise. Her breasts were modest but round, her belly flat and her hips wide. She had shaved her pubis, something he hadn't expected of her—but then, she was a courtesan's daughter.

She shrunk anxiously under his scrutiny.

He smiled back. "You're just as beautiful with no clothes on."

As he threw off his remaining clothes, she regarded him in turn. "So are you."

"Well then." He climbed onto the bed to meet her, but she sat back on her heels. He gave her a quizzical look.

Her eyes darted. "I've never done this before."

The admission shouldn't have been much of a surprise, he supposed—but still, he couldn't help but feel gratified. No wonder she was so shy and innocent. Just when he was starting to think she was playing at it, too. He regarded her, mulling it over. "Is it you or your parents?" He didn't want to mistakenly annul a virginal contract. He couldn't think of any reason a girl would be a virgin at her age.

"They never said anything about it so... me, I think. I haven't had the chance." She looked his way and hastily looked somewhere else. "I wanted to meet the right boy."

Outwardly, he showed no reaction. But he felt as if his heart had stopped. "So have you?"

For a moment, he was sure she would say no, condemning them both to a very awkward night. That one moment stretched into two as she rubbed her arm—a small worried habit turned arousing, now that she was naked.

Then, "Yes."

His heart soared. That word felt like redemption. All the terrible thoughtless things he had done, the memories of them were washed away with that one syllable. Tomorrow they would be back, but right now, he felt like a new man.

"You're sure?"

She nodded. The smile was back, though with a twinge of nervousness about it. "I trust you."

For the first time, he felt like he had earned that trust. It humbled and honored him.

Slowly, he rolled Jacquelyn onto her back, kissing her on her way down. He crawled on top of her. Tentative hands squeezed at his shoulder blades. Fingers flexed, inexperienced and unsure of their role. Her legs spread on either side of his hips, doing their best not to get in the way.

"Calm down," he whispered.

"Alright... go ahead..."

He did so with infinite care, splitting her as he would the petals of a closed flower. She gasped as he did. Her body went rigid, her nails digging into his back.

Inside her, he paused. "Am I hurting you?"

"No—yes." She half-laughed, watching him through watering eyes. "Give me a minute." With visible effort, she forced her body into relaxation. "Keep going."

Caution had never been Marcus's strong point—but he had never done something as carefully as he did now. He plied Jacquelyn slowly, hips rocking against hers, sliding in and out again, kissing her reassuringly. He pulled every trick he knew—thumbing her nipples, rubbing her belly and neck, anything to make her first time pass smoothly.

Bit by gradual bit, his gambit worked. Her near-painful tightness abated. Her thighs clenched about his torso, her heels knocking his buttocks. Soft moans rose and died in her throat. She met each thrust with one of her own, her shyness fading with each smack of flesh meeting flesh.

It was over after a few minutes. He drew himself out to spill his seed on the inside of her thigh. She lay there with her breasts heaving, gaping at the ceiling. She looked at her hands splayed on her belly, past them at the essence of his manhood glistening moistly on her leg. "So that's what it looks like," she said wonderingly.

He passed her a cloth. "Here."

She wiped it off, but not before taking a first sample. She stuck out her tongue, grimacing. "Blegh!"

Marcus laughed at her as he took the towel back. Beside Jacquelyn, the sheets were stained with her virgin blood. He masked the scarlet spot with the towel and settled beside a humming Jacquelyn. She wriggled into his arms.

"Oh, I like this," she mumbled. "Cuddles."

He stroked her hair and kissed her lips.

"It was a good night," she yawned. There was sleep in her voice already. "Thank you."

"First of many."

Jacquelyn didn't respond. She was fast asleep.

Chapter 7

Marked by Falltide, the last day of summer slipped away. The days were hot as ever, and the lack of morning frost promised a slow onset of winter. Peasant farmers rejoiced at the blessing and busied themselves with plowing, threshing and pruning their orchards and fields. In the city, children splashed gleefully in the public wells under their mothers' stern eyes, while their husbands and fathers set off to Fort Arlimont for their seasonal drills. Nobles spread their gossip at court and had their nighttime soirees at the courtesans' salons, savoring the finest of life's luxuries. The wealthy Guilds—the masons, architects, weavers, carpenters, and of course the merchants—bickered among themselves in their great halls, looking always to wealth and opportunity.

As for Marcus, he did as little as he could get away with. He sat wearily through his weekly stints in the Hearers' Council. Fortunately, there were no more Jebril Carpenters to be illegally pardoned—something his fellow hearers constantly reminded him of whenever he dared voice his opinion. He bore their derision with gritted teeth, and when his duty was finished, he spent his frustration at the practice courts.

Jacquelyn kept him sane. More often than not, she came to watch. She applauded, laughing, while he butchered practice dummies by the platoon. When he was done, she always had a waterskin and a fresh towel ready. They kept their nights open. There was always a pile of salon invitations sitting on Marcus's desk, and they sometimes accepted. Just as often, they did something more exclusive with Vernon and Eliza, whom his friend had taken quite a liking to lately, though he insisted there was nothing more to it than old-fashioned, filthy, perverted fun. Though occasionally, it was just the two of them, Marcus and Jacquelyn, confined to his chambers or dining together in the kitchen, chatting about things that didn't really matter.

Then at night... well, he supposed her first time had impressed her enough to warrant some further experimenting.

None of this was anything novel for Marcus. It was life as he had always lived it, more or less. But for Jacquelyn, everything was new—the palace, the soirees, the glamour all around. What was more, she had found a young man to explore it with, and she couldn't have been happier. Her enthusiasm was infectious.

He reckoned he was happy with her, too.

But late at night, he abandoned her as she slept in his bed and crept out into the city. The wall repairs were well underway, but the tunnel had yielded no leads, no suspected parties. Neither had the assassin's spiked head. Marcus wanted answers, and he suspected the best way to get them was to heed his mother's final words.

So he watched the common people. Hooded and cloaked, with only a plain sword for protection, he ventured deep into Ancellon, farther than any noble had business going. He wanted to see the very worst that Elessia had to offer, and the city was happy to oblige. He slunk down the narrow, winding alleys of the slums that huddled against the Anora River. He walked the stinking dockyards, slipping on rotting fish guts. He paid his way into the seediest brothels and sat at the dingiest taverns, shoulder-to-shoulder with thugs, thieves, beggars and whores.

He spoke to everyone. What's your name? Your profession? Are the goods you buy fairly priced? Do you think your taxes unfair? What's your opinion of your betters—the nobility, the king? What grieves you most? How do you think your life can be improved?

He suspected they knew who he was, because the only ones who tried to attack him were drunk or mad. The rest were surprisingly receptive. This noble lad was obviously among them asking these questions for a reason. They answered willingly, and it wasn't long before he recognized a common pattern to their thoughts.

Their perspective was a troubling revelation—but Marcus knew his only confidante was himself. He could tell no one—not Jacquelyn, not Vernon, because they wouldn't understand, and beyond them, he had no idea who he could trust.

He found himself wishing for another enigmatic letter. None came. His anonymous ally remained unwilling to reveal himself, or herself.

Instead, not a month after the Falltide, King Audric returned.

†††

Marcus remembered when his father had returned from the Kydona War. He had only been a lad of six at the time, but the memory was still fresh. Lord Prince Audric de Pilars was every inch the conquering hero, bedecked in war plate, his gauntleted fist holding the reins of a magnificent black charger—the slain tsar's own warhorse. Behind him came his victorious army, their segmented steel plate shining bright in the sun, their upright spears like thickets of trees. Row after perfect row of chevaliers marched down the Royal Way behind their general while the crowds cheered themselves hoarse. Every flower in the city was soon mashed on the cobbles beneath their hobnailed boots.

Then came the spoils. There were armored Kydonian warhorses, herded miserably after the men who had slain their riders. They were beasts of burden now, straining to pull wagons that sagged under the weight of foreign treasure—jewel-studded weapons, silver plates and goblets, tapestries, chandeliers, all torn from the households of the hated foe's nobility. Behind them was the ultimate humiliation: the captured enemy battle standards, each borne by a soldier who had distinguished himself through valor. Soon, a fresh list of heroes would adorn the square's monuments.

The army had marched the length of the Royal Way. They halted before the palace steps, which Audric ascended alone. His wife Geneva waited at the top. Held between her trembling hands was the royal crown, salvaged from the field where her father had died. Audric knelt before her, and she lowered the crown onto his head. Together, the new king and queen accepted their people's acclamation. The soldiers rattled their shields and the people bellowed for so long that the young Marcus, standing there in his parents' shadow, had forgotten that silence had ever existed at all.

Yes, he remembered well.

Today was entirely different.

No army passed through Ancellon's gates in triumph, because the laws now forbade it. No cheering crowds greeting the king—because he returned in defeat.

Marcus stood at the top of the palace steps, just as his mother had fourteen years ago. The sun beat down ferociously on him and the assembled high lords, melting their patience as sweat gradually soaked through their clothes. Below them, the crowd was still gathering. They had been trickling into Heroes' Square ever since the king's banners had been sighted on the horizon.

Beside him, Roslene fanned herself. "He should be in the city by now."

Marcus heard the suppressed excitement in her voice. He almost wished he felt the same way. He craned his head, but the shimmering air reduced the North Gate to a smudge of whiteness. "We'll soon see."

They waited in the oppressive sun for another half hour before they caught their first sight of King Audric. Even at a distance, Marcus's father was a sober sight. His cape and armor were filmed with dust from the long ride from Fort Arlimont, and his horse was no longer a proud stallion—merely a spare gelding from the fort's stables, shambling along with its head bowed from thirst.

"His dreadnaughts," Roslene whispered, stunned. The king's guard would normally have numbered twenty veterans; now they were reduced to half a dozen, their purple cloaks worn and patched, their once-burnished armor now dented.

The crowd was muted as their king rode by. Every so often someone called out to him, perhaps remembering his past glories—but for most, those had been easily forgotten.

At the bottom of the steps, Audric and his guard dismounted. They passed their mounts to waiting attendants and started up the steps with as much strength as their pride could muster.

Once, the conquering general had been an energetic man, full of vigor and enduring youth. Each of the fourteen years since had taken its toll. His balding head was more grey than brown, and his normally-immaculate beard was an unkempt mess. His lively step was now a tired amble.

But he gathered himself enough to smile as he reached them. "Son. My Roslene." His voice was the only characteristic that hadn't changed—deep and steady as it ever was. He embraced Roslene, breathing in the scent of her hair as she kissed his whiskered cheek. After a while he let her go, smiling wearily into her teary eyes, before turning to his son. "Marcus. I can't say how good it is to see you again."

"Father." Marcus bowed cordially, if only to avoid those eyes—deep blue, so unlike his own. "I'm pleased to see you as well."

Audric watched him with a sad smile. He did not attempt a hug, which was wise of him. "Yes. Pleased indeed." With a deep breath, he stepped past the two of them to face the seven high lords. They bowed, but only Lord de Gauthier's was as deep as it should have been. If King Audric noticed, he said nothing. He inclined his head—the lowest an Elessian king would ever bend—and addressed them, "My lords. It was a long journey and my body cries for rest. If you will forgive me for saying so, there's no business to discuss that can't wait until tomorrow. I thank you for—"

But Lord de Martine swept in, "Please forgive us our prying, your majesty, but your army's defeat is no small matter. If you could hold your strength for but an hour, we would hear what became of the campaign." Despite himself, Marcus's temper spiked. Roberte de Martine had interrupted the king, blamed him for the defeat, and called him a weakling all at once. It sounded like a mere polite request, but Marcus knew better. He saw disdain smoldering there in Roberte's eyes, a shadow of the look he normally reserved for Marcus.

Audric took a steadying breath. He nodded at the ground. "I'll allow it," he said, as if trying to sound as if he was the authority here. He walked into the Atrium, Roberte at his side.

"What of the lord marshal?" Jaspar's father asked, practically demanded. "Where is he?"

"Arlimont, with a chirurgeon. We were attacked as we waited to cross the channel. He lost a hand. The stump's gone bad."

"Will he live?"

"With Elessa's help."

There was no trace of the Falltide's gaiety in the Atrium. The musicians' stage, the couches, the false stream, all of it had vanished. Even the courtiers and courtesans were mostly gone, ensconced in their chambers to escape the heat. Those that remained paused in their business to stare.

Four guards pried Keep's doors open as they reached them. Behind them was an octagonal foyer. Its slit windows and torch sconces—like the city's outer walls and even the Keep itself—were relics of a bygone era, when security had taken precedence over comfort. The thick grey stones kept the place unseasonably cool, and on the ceiling—six stories overhead—was a colored fresco of Ancel Triumphant, his armor and stylized halo done in golden leaf, now peeling with age.

There were three hallways leading off in opposite directions. The right hallway led to the Blind Chamber; the left was the guest rooms, long deserted in favor of the palace suites; and at the end of the front hall was the Sanctum, concealed behind a pair of carved wooden doors.

Without breaking step, Audric took them straight ahead. The doors ground open on old iron hinges. The Sanctum was a grand space, nearly as large as the Atrium itself. Enormous buttresses braced against the ancient walls. Gargoyles leered from crevices between, and angels saluted the pair of thrones at the end of the chamber. The galleries overhead were lined with oak benches. Parliament still sat there some days, but not as often as it had in days when minor nobles had not been quite as minor.

Elessia's assembled rulers had received tidings here in the nation's darkest hours. The Blessed Lady herself had sat in one of the thrones at the far side of this chamber, somehow managing to calm the untried nobility in the uncertain days following Ancel's disappearance. The mad King Lejeune had been named a tyrant here, and his death sanctioned. Barbarian invasions had been thwarted, plagues halted, famines brought under control.

Here, King Audric delivered news of Elessia's latest misfortune. A large round table was in the center of the chamber. He took the tallest of the eight seats, and the Council shortly took their own. They eyed Marcus with animosity as he circled the table to stand behind his father.

"Your majesty," Lord de Guiscard said in a low voice, as if Marcus couldn't hear him, "it seems inappropriate for your son to be here. This is not his realm. Perhaps he should remain outside with the Lady Beauvais."

An angry retort rose in Marcus's throat, but his father spoke before he did. "No," he said with surprising finality. "He stays here. One day, my son will sit in this seat. Whether he faces you or the men who succeed you, he must gain experience in these matters."

One of them muttered, "I'll bring my son next time, then."

"You have something to say, Lord de Villiers?"

The man stared broodingly at the table, and Marcus did his best to kill a surge of pride. Maybe his father wasn't as pathetic as he had thought.

But Audric's weary expression returned as he motioned at the side of the chamber. A dreadnaught came forward to unroll a large map on the table. As he put down paperweights on the corners, Marcus recognized it as a map of the Northlands.

Audric hauled himself to his feet. "The North," he said. "Glatland. The campaign started on steady footing. My three regiments landed here," he pointed at a broad peninsula jutting into the Fell Channel, named for the fell barbarians who had raided the coastline there from ancient times. "We met no resistance. I left two companies to guard the landing zone, and then marched east, using these mountains to mask our movements. Meanwhile, Lord Marshal Gerant took the remaining regiment north from Beltonne, through the mountains, then crossed the ice here, at the Fell Channel's narrowest point. The plan was for him to besiege one of their border towns, if possible take it, in order to draw out their main body. I would meanwhile advance to his position and destroy the enemy in a pincer movement, hammer and anvil. We would then move north and east to burn their coastal villages, which their raiding ships call home.

"A risky strategy," commented Lord de Isnell, his fat-slurred words detracting heavily from his credibility.

"These were the men put at my disposal, my lord. I did what I could. Alas, you are correct. I had to hope that the increased raids on our coastline were a symptom of their clans' rivalry, not unity. I pinned my entire campaign on that hope. History had given me no reason to think otherwise. But I was wrong.

"I had scarcely been on the march for a week when I received word that the landing beaches were under attack. I was compelled to divert half a regiment to relieve them. I marched on, but my force was subjected to repeated attacks along the way. I took few casualties; the attacks were very small. But they managed to delay us by nearly three weeks. Gerant succeeded in taking a town in that time, but the Glats' main force arrived, just as I'd expected. It was a much larger body than I had planned on—Gerant estimated four full clans."

The Lords murmured. The Northmen hadn't assembled such a force in living memory. The clans were usually too busy infighting over cattle and territory to bother allying—but this time they had. Marcus ran an uneasy hand through his hair, knowing that even one full clan could bloody a whole regiment on its own.

"Yes," said Audric. "The Lord marshal held on through sheer tenacity, but after a week, the position was untenable. He was forced to fight his way toward me while the Glats harried him. We managed to join forces here." Marcus grimaced; the ground his father indicated was open and featureless. It was the very last place an outnumbered army wanted to fight. "The enemy used light cavalry to block our retreat. We were forced to do battle with their main body."

The king scowled down at the map for a long moment, shaking his head. "It was a bloody day. I lost four companies' worth of men. We held, barely. It was only timely action by our dragoons that saved us. They punched a hole through the enemy cavalry and held the gap long enough for us to make good our escape.

"That was two months into the campaign. The rest was... ineffectual. We lost most of our baggage trains in the retreat, so we had to forage and hunt for food. By summer, my men were near starving. We raided villages for supplies and we managed to take down an enemy stronghold in this area, which gave us fresh horses, wagons, and grain. That enabled us to fight through the summer. But the Glats were too clever. They would not fight us on our terms. What we fought were little more than skirmishes. I could not bring their army to battle again. With the end of summer approaching, I called off the campaign. I took my army and returned to the channel.

"That was when they chose to attack again. It was fortunate that the captain I left guarding the beaches was of sound mind. Without the fortifications he built in my absence, I would have lost many more than I did. I lost two hundred on the sea. The enemy committed their longboats to the attack. My transports were easily outmaneuvered, easily boarded. I lost another three hundred as we made our final withdrawal from the beaches. Lord Marshal Gerant lost his hand there. He will likely be dead of fever in a day."

"One thousand one hundred men?" Lord de Guiscard asked, incredulous. "That many dead for a failed campaign?"

"No, my lord." Dejection sapped the tone from Audric's words. "Two thousand five hundred, counting disease. Out of eight thousand. Out of four regiments. More than a quarter of my force."

The table was completely silent. The high lords exchanged boiling looks.

Lord de Martine slowly stood and put his hands on the table. "This is what you have delivered to us, your highness? A whole campaign season, and all Elessia can claim is two fighting retreats, at the cost of two and a half regiments?"

"Outrageous!" another lord declared, with the rest in agreement. "Unacceptable!"

"Perhaps I will think twice before committing so many of Ronery's fine men to your command, King Audric," Roberte said.

Marcus stared at him in hatred. As if the man gave a damn about any of the dead, who even now were rotting on the northern plains—no proper burial, no grave with a sword and helmet to mark it. Those fields were cursed ground, now and forevermore. No Elessian would ever willingly fight there again.

Audric's face was colored with fomented rage. With exceedingly brittle calm, he pronounced, "So many, you say. At this time last year, I asked a full regiment from each of your holdings. What I got was half that. And fine men, you say."

"Fine men, I say, your majesty!"

"They were boys! You gave me boys, fresh out of the Novitiate, thrown together into companies at the last minute and given armor that fell apart on the march, swords with nicked edges, bows with no twang! What sort of campaign am I expected to wage with such resources? If I am to hold the entire north at bay—"

But Lord de Martine cut him off again. "So you dare to lay the blame at our feet? Blame for your failure as general?"

Audric slammed a fist on the table. "Then next season I will ask for sixteen regiments! Perhaps then I will get a full eight!"

And the Highest Lords threw all semblance of respect to the wind. The table descended into a shouting match, with all bitter fingers pointed at Marcus's father. He couldn't help but feel sorry for him, despite all his failings as a general, a king, a father. He had done his best at an impossible task—and his best was certainly more than any of these men had to offer.

The men berated their king for a solid quarter hour before he had had enough. He raised his hand, and after a while, they settled into relative quiet. "Forgive me for the grim news I've brought, my lords. Next season, we will have the chance to redeem ourselves. For now, I must retire. I bid you good day."

They returned the farewell with soured voices, then began talking more quietly as Marcus followed his father through a side door and out of the throne room.

"How could you let them talk to you like that, father?" Marcus demanded. "If it were my choice, I'd throw them in the dungeons and tax them until their coffers were empty."

Audric chuckled. His face was sallow with exhaustion, both physical and mental. "Times aren't so simple anymore, son."

"They were yelling at you like you were some over-glorified general!" Come to think of it, that was what the kingship was. Not long ago, the king's power had rested on his command over the Elessia's armies. Training, equipment, muster, campaign—all had fallen under his authority. Between that and his family's holdings, the king was the most powerful man in Elessia. After Kydona, that had changed. One by one, Audric had handed his powers over to the Council of Highest—and now, the only men under his full control were the Royal Watch: the full-time component of Elessia's army. The rest of the nation's men belonged to the high lords.

Marcus quieted, realizing that his father _was_ an over-glorified general—one who could be dispatched at will, should the Council of Highest ever choose to align against him.

His father gave him a wry look. "This will pass. All these things do."

"I hope so."

They were walking through the wide hall that led to the royal suites. Audric looked over each statue as they went, as if reminding himself that each likeness had been a better king or queen than he was. Near the end of the hall, the niches were unoccupied. "I'll stand here one day," the man remarked, coming to a stop. "Next to her."

In front of him stood his wife, Geneva Demo de Pilars—her likeness, at least. The sculptor had been exceptionally talented. Even in marble, the warmth in her expression was evident. She held a breast basket on one crooked elbow, while her other hand extended toward some unseen person in need.

Marcus looked down at the floor. Tears threatened.

Audric reached out as if to cradle Geneva's cheek. "She was such a beautiful woman, your mother. She..." His hand froze, then withdrew as he remembered that it was not his wife, just a statue. "I wish I could have loved her as she deserved." He rubbed his eyes.

"It's alright. You'll feel better when you're done with Roslene, tonight."

With that, Marcus whirled around and stalked off, leaving his father alone and silent behind him.

It was a small field, longer than it was wide, nestled between three hills. The guild-less smith—Horace Smithson, if memory served—had insisted on the location, and though there was quite a turnout, no one looked all that pleased with being lured this far outside the city. What was worse, the spectacle already verged on ludicrous, and the show hadn't even started.

All sorts of people sat on the stands around Marcus. There were Watch captains and their accompanying command sergeants, looking on with calm skepticism. A few bored nobles had ventured out in search of thrills, and they already seemed to be regretting the decision.

Horace Smithson's fellow metalworkers were in attendance as well, but they hadn't come to encourage him. The masters frowned broodingly while their journeymen and apprentices sniggered in the background. It was rare for an independent craftsman to enjoy any kind of success; the guilds made sure of that. But this smith had slipped through their fingers, and without so much as an apprenticeship, he had managed to win an audience with some of Elessia's premier military and political figures—Marcus included. All the Smiths' Guild could do now was hope he failed.

Right now, it seemed as if he had.

"Well—um—I'd like to—to thank you all for—I do appreciate you all coming..." The poor fellow looked just as uninspiring as he sounded. He was still somewhere between young and middle-aged, but his strawberry hair was already half-gone, and he was remarkably thin, for a smith. He wrung his hands and glanced back at his apprentice—a girl, for God's sake—who was tediously burning the stray fibers off a cord with her tongue stuck between her teeth. "In a moment—um—as soon as Clara is finished there—I will endeavor to show you a weapon that will change warfare—um—as we know it!" He grinned and threw his arms wide in excitement, but when that failed to provoke a response from the stands, he anxiously folded his hands and started mumbling to himself.

Marcus ran his fingers through his hair. "God above," he muttered.

"Say something?" Vernon asked through a mouthful of apple. He took another crunching bite.

"If the man doesn't pick this up soon, people are going to start leaving. Hell, I might be one of them."

"Aw, come on! Like you have something better to do! I, for one—" A tiny chunk of apple shot out of his mouth and landed in the curly hair of the journeyman in front of him. The lad stared ahead, oblivious. Vernon breathed a sigh of relief, which promptly sent another bit of apple into the lad's hair to join the first. Hastily, Vernon gulped down the half-chewed remainder. "Fuck _me_ , mate!" Wincing, he quickly swatted the mass of hair, scattering the apple's remnants.

The journeyman looked around angrily. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

Vernon thought fast. He blurted, "But it's so fucking fluffy!"

"What?" He sounded horrified.

"Can I just get another feel? Last one, I swear, then I'll leave you alone."

Looking green, the journeyman turned back around and stayed that way. Vernon happily resumed munching on his apple. Marcus was too busy biting down on his fist to comment.

"Dear lords and—and good sirs!" Horace was ready at last. "I will now unveil my creation! Um. Feast your eyes!" He half-jogged over to a cloth-draped table. Underneath, Marcus could just discern the outline of a long, thin object. Horace tore the cloth off the table and snatched up his new weapon. "Behold! The firelance!"

Actually, it didn't look much like a lance at all—more like an iron pole. One end tapered to a point. At the other end was a thick metal tube, with a hook protruding from the underside.

"You mean a torch?" someone mocked. Laughter reverberated around the clearing.

"Does look like a torch," Vernon whispered. "Put in some tinder and you're ready to go."

The flustered smith pressed on, "A _firelance_ , gentlemen! It is a weapon which will pierce the thickest of armor and make cowards of the bravest soldiers! A revolutionary device, indeed!" He tapped the firelance's strange tube-like head. "Here, I place the—the projectile." He held up a lead marble, no larger than a silver trice. He was warming to the act by now. His stutter disappeared. "Pay no mind to the size. This tiny projectile is thrown toward the foe at such great speed that no armor can stop it. Anyone on the receiving end of this firelance will surely die, and those who do not perish will flee for their lives. The firelance's roar will put terror into the stoutest of hearts!"

The audience's derision was now replaced by intrigue. The Royal Watch captains were leaning forward, and the nobles and guildsmen were whispering behind their hands.

"Show us," Marcus called. More than a few excited voices agreed.

Horace nodded enthusiastically. "Indeed I will!" He rushed over to his assistant. The girl was waiting with a bulging waterskin, grinning with anticipation. Her master held the tube out to her, and she carefully started pouring. The skin contained not water, but some kind of black sand—like crushed charcoal, Marcus thought. "Now Clara is filling the firelance with what I call black powder. It is a clever concoction from the east..." People started muttering. Nothing from the east could be good. But Horace blustered on, "...a combination of three ingredients: charcoal, sulfur, and another which I must regrettably keep secret, for the time being. Exposed to flame, this concoction ignites and explodes with tremendous force."

As his assistant withdrew the waterskin, Horace fished into his pocket. He pulled out a wooden dowel and began ramming it into the tube. "I must make sure," he panted, "the black powder is seated properly, or it will not ignite. Then," he drew the metal marble from his pocket again, "I insert the projectile, like so." He forced the marble it into the tube with visible effort. He used the dowel to bludgeon the marble down as far is it could go.

Clara was at his side with the waterskin again. This time, she used a spoon to drop some black powder into a tiny hole at the base of the tube. "This is the ignition," Horace explained. The girl passed him a cross-shaped stick with a smoldering cord wrapped around. Horace took it gingerly in one hand, leveling the firelance with the other. "Now, my lords and sirs..." Clara stuffed some balls of wax into her master's ears. "I must warn you," he shouted, deaf to his own voice, "to cover your own ears! The noise is tremendous!"

Marcus put his fingers in his ears. Feeling foolish, he glanced around, but everyone else was doing the same thing.

At the far side of the field was a blank canvas target the size of a shed. Horace steadied the weapon under his armpit and took careful aim. With excruciating slowness, he lowered cord's burning end toward the weapon's ignition hole. They touched—

—and air split with a thunderous blast. Orange fire spat from the end of the weapon. Horace rocked back on his heels as the firelance bucked, struggling to break his grip—but the fight was quickly over. The fire almost instantly dissolved into a thick cloud of smoke, which began drifting off in the breeze.

The audience sat there in shock for a moment. Then they were on their feet, applauding and cheering. The smith smiled at them, his teeth stark white against his soot-blackened face, and spread his hands. "Thank you! Thank you all!"

"Amazing!" a nobleman babbled to his companion. "A revolutionary creation!"

"No Northman will stand a chance!"

"A thousand of them! Commission a thousand for the Watch!"

The smith journeymen shook their heads while their masters sulked in their defeat.

And a grizzled old sergeant said, "It didn't hit the target." Those quiet words silenced half the audience. The other half quickly went quiet as they saw everyone pointing at the not-so-distant target. It was blank.

Horace peered at the mysteriously-untouched canvas. "Um... yes, well, that will happen sometimes, with my aging eyes..." he chuckled nervously, but no one seemed inclined to join him, so he summoned Clara back over in the awkward silence. She deftly filled the firelance with powder. Her master anxiously reloaded, took aim, and let the fire loose once more.

The noise was just as terrific, but the result was the same: the target was untouched. People were snickering now. A pair of nobles vacated their seats, unwilling to commit their funds to such a futile operation. More followed. Guild apprentices cheerfully trotted after their smug masters. Captains consulted their sergeants and got up with dour expressions.

Horace Smithson's audience dissolved before his eyes. He gazed after them, mouthing in disbelief. "But—wait! Don't go! There are—I can make adjustments! I..." He saw the futility and stopped talking. Dejectedly, he planted his rump on the table—which immediately collapsed.

Clara helped him to his feet. He cursed bitterly, dusting himself off. "Damned fools! Why can't they see—?" His eyes went wide. "Your highness!" He dropped to one knee.

"For God's sake, man, get up." The smith rose, looking sheepish. Marcus found himself looking down; the man was much shorter than he had appeared from the stands. "That's quite a contraption you've got there, Master Smithson."

He smiled without enthusiasm. "Yes... I wish _they_ thought so." He gestured at the audience's retreating backs.

"They do. They just didn't see what I did." Marcus pointed at the servants coming forward with the horses—more like laboring forward. The poor beasts were frightened out of their wits, and fighting with all their might. Their eyes rolled in terror, and their stamping hooves uprooted clods of grass as the servants dragged them to their masters.

The smith gaped. "The firelance did that?"

"The noise did that," corrected Marcus.

"That it did," said a new voice. The triple diamonds and fortress wall on his shoulder tabs marked the tall man out as a garrison commander of the Watch. He had steel-grey eyes and a well-trimmed beard, brown like his hair. "Even the warhorses look skittish, don't you think?"

As he said it, a captain bounced comically on one foot, his sergeant hurrying to extricate the other from a tangled stirrup before his agitated horse galloped off.

The commander smiled, but there was something worn about the expression. "Tell me, Master Smithson—have you ever fired your lance at something larger? Perhaps a wall?"

Marcus glanced at the newcomer. He thought of Ancellon's crumbling outer wall.

"No," the smith replied thoughtfully. "But it would be no use. There's not enough force. The projectile... has... to be..." His eyes widened up at the commander.

"Bigger? Precisely," the soldier said with that same haunted smile. "My name is Commander Durand. I command the garrison at Fort Arlimont. And to one whose specialty is walls... well, your invention interests me greatly." He stepped in and held out one hand. As the smith tentatively shook it, he said more quietly, "Make a bigger one. Then you come to me. That is, if the lord prince agrees that this project is worth royal funds."

They both looked at Marcus. He grinned wolfishly. "I don't just want those horses scared. I want them running for their lives."

"It's settled, then. You know where to find us both, Master Smithson. Good day."

The prince knew how to take a cue. He followed the garrison commander off as Horace the smith hugged his apprentice behind them. Durand really was tall; he had a good half-foot on Marcus.

"Your job is to guard walls," Marcus commented, "but here you are looking for a way to knock them down."

Durand looked down at him in mild amusement. "I merely play the game, your highness."

"Meaning?"

"The game of war. A military leader's greatest asset is surprise. Once perfected, this firelance will change the face of warfare, just as Master Smithson said. Before that happens, we must learn how to use it, and how to defend against it."

"Keep the initiative," Marcus nodded. "I look forward to seeing where this goes."

"As do I."

They walked on toward their horses—slowly, because the servants were still wrestling with them, and Vernon was having a hell of a time getting on the saddle. "But that's not the reason you wanted me to walk with you, commander." He came to a stop.

Durand paused as well, folded his hands behind his back in that distinctly military manner. "What do you imagine that reason would be?"

His guarded tone made Marcus reconsider what he was about to say—but the look in his eyes made him say it anyway. "You sent me a letter, some time ago."

"What makes you think that?""

"My gut does."

Durand gazed down at him for a few moments, considering. That smile came back, creasing his mustache. "You get that from your mother. You have that instinct of hers—when you know something is out of place."

Then Marcus felt as if his gut had dropped out.

"She always told me it was like those dreams you often have when you're young. You see something in a dream, and it makes no sense at the time so you forget about it—and then what you saw happens in real life. Most people only recognize the moment once it is past. Your mother was different."

"That sounds like fate."

"Yes, but she never much liked the idea of fate. I doubt you do."

Marcus swallowed uneasily. "How did you know my mother?"

"That, your highness, is a very long story."

"I have all day."

Durand looked almost casually over Marcus's shoulder. "As do they," he remarked. As he said, there were a number of nobles milling around still. "We can safely assume we're being watched. More fool them. There's nothing to see."

He smirked. "That's right. We're only talking about the good smith's contract."

"True enough, your highness. All the same, we can only discuss that matter for so long before we draw suspicion. So." He saluted, held it.

Marcus snapped his heels together and swiftly brought his hand to brow. He dropped it, freeing Durand to drop his in turn. "So, commander."

"Will you be reviewing the garrison soon?"

He had to know more. He had done everything his mother had told him, and he was no closer to the truth than before. Durand could change that. "I've been missing Arli lately, have to admit."

Durand chuckled along. "I can hardly leave her for more than an hour before she calls me back. In fact, there's likely a mountain of parchment waiting on my desk right this moment."

"Then I'll let you see to it, commander. Farewell."

"Farewell." Garrison Commander Durand started off for his horse with a clipped gait, a soldier to his very core. Likely he had enlisted after his Novitiate and fought his way up the ranks—a self-made man, built on his own merit. Marcus barely knew him, but he found himself admiring him.

Durand said over his shoulder, "They'll arrive within the week."

"Who?" Marcus asked, bewildered.

"Friends. I hope."

And then Marcus was alone, gazing after his elusive ally's shrinking back—lost once again.

### Chapter 8

Durand's friends did not arrive within the week. Marcus supposed the rains were to blame; they came swift and heavy to the heart of Elessia, just as they did every year. The city's gutters overflowed, flooding the streets with water so fetid that even high above in his chambers, Marcus's eyes watered from the stench. He could scarcely imagine the countryside. There, the roads would be impassible with knee-deep mud. No wonder the mysterious visitors were delayed.

The mud prevented any chance of taking the commander up on his offer. The state of affairs taxed Marcus's nerves endlessly. He couldn't stand it—being so close to having the answers, so close to knowing the terrible secrets his mother had kept from him.

His temper had always been his worst enemy. He couldn't help himself; he lashed out.

Jacquelyn bore the brunt of it.

Lately, she had been trying to acquire an interest in reading. She pored over the books in his library—Lyrian and Northern mythology, histories, apologies, epics. She especially loved poetry, so much that she read him segments she thought were cute or romantic before they went to bed.

Three nights after Horace Smithson had unveiled the firelance, she made an innocent mistake: she spilled a glass of water on his desk. The water soaked not only the poetry book she had left open, but also the Meditations of Cleites—a thin booklet of verses that Marcus's grandfather had given him for his birthday.

Annoyed, Marcus left it on the balcony to air out. Jacquelyn apologized over and over—so many times that he snapped, "Stop it. Just stop talking." Sitting on the bed, she shrank back, chastened.

For reasons he couldn't quite understand himself, he was seething. The book hadn't even been that dear to him. His grandfather had died when he was four years old; the old man was only a few brief flashes in his memory. But seeing Jacquelyn roll over without a fight only amplified his anger. He wanted her to fight back, and he couldn't explain to himself why.

He undressed, aggravated, and joined the girl on his bed. She tried to meet his eyes without success. He yanked the covers over himself and turned away.

An hour went by. His anger fermented, keeping him awake against his will. He could sense she wasn't sleeping either.

"Marcus?" Her fingertips brushed his elbow. He pulled it away—but she didn't take the hint. "Are you angry at me?" she asked in a small voice.

He didn't answer.

"Please don't be angry... I said I was sorry." She waited in vain for his reply. "I just wanted to make love and cuddle and go to sleep. I don't know why you're still angry."

Neither did he, and not knowing only made him angrier. "You're annoying me." The words only just escaped him, but once they did, he couldn't stop. He shifted onto his other side, facing her now. "You think I don't like spending a night alone every once in a while? Well I can't. You're always here. The least you could let me do is sleep a fucking wink. How's that sound? Leaving me alone?"

She sat up. She wiped her eyes, fighting down a sob. "You want me to go?"

Marcus lay back, rubbing his brows. "Elessa..."

Jacquelyn sniffled. She would be in tears soon if he didn't say anything.

He glared. By now, the fury was running on sheer principle. Hatred coursed through him like lethal poison. He wanted to find Jaspar and pummel him into red paste. He wanted to bellow into Kaelyn's face until she wept. As for Jacquelyn—he didn't know anymore. He just wanted to be angry at her, and still, he had no clue why.

He got out of bed, strode across the room, and dunked his head in the wash basin. It was tinged brown, and the salt of their cleansed sweat clung to his lips. The mildly-rank water seeped into his upended nostrils, and it hurt—but it was good.

He pulled his head out of the water, gasping and coughing. Through his drenched eyes, he saw Jacquelyn looking at him, all hurt and confused. He pressed the water out of his hair and went over.

She flinched as he sat beside her.

He stared at the floor. "I'm—" He came that close to saying it, but he stopped just short. "Just... just hit me when I get like that."

It was quiet for a moment, then, "Marcus." Just as he turned his head, she slapped him hard across the face. "Oh God! Oh God I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit you that hard!"

But he was laughing. He ignored her apologies and pulled her up against him. That felt good, too. He was himself again. "It's fine. Just don't wear it out."

"I won't." There was a smile in her voice.

They did make love that night—well, he supposed they were making love, but that was just a polite name for what they did. He'd always heard it was the best after making up with a girl. There was certainly truth to that bit of men's wisdom, as he found out over the next half hour or so.

The fight ended, the night passed, and still, the visitors did not arrive. Marcus waited. He did his best to be patient, and when that became too difficult, he retreated to the practice fields and fought to exhaustion. Jacquelyn knew the warning signs now; she didn't follow him there. She gave him a night of solitude, just as his malicious self had demanded, before going back to the usual routine. One night they went out to a salon with Vernon and drank until they couldn't speak straight anymore, and deeply regretted the decision the next morning, but went out again anyway that same night.

A week passed. Then, just as Marcus was starting to get comfortable, the visitors arrived.

"Tiffanie de Fonte, of all girls!"

"Tiffanie, eh?"

"Aye, Tiffanie! I'll never know how he got her, the bugger," Vernon said wistfully. "But I'm telling you, Talbot isn't ready for that girl. Doesn't have the bloody heart. Hell, girl like that, she'll knock him over and keep right on walking."

Marcus shrugged. "I reckon he'll do fine. It's confidence, is all."

"Aye, that's what I'm getting at! He doesn't think highly enough of himself to keep that girl interested. Where's the confidence supposed come from?"

"From experience. You want me to start listing all the girls who put you down, back before you learned how to win them properly? He'll do fine. By the way," he held up a hand, successfully intercepting Vernon's next argument, "how're things with Eliza?"

The passage came to an end, and the pair emerged into the Atrium. There was a crowd today; Marcus guessed the overcast skies had something to do with it.

"Shitty," Vernon said dejectedly. "All of a sudden she's got this idea into her head that she's giving it up too easy. Least I think that's the way it is. I'm getting all this nonsense like, 'Can't we go somewhere nice?' or 'I'm sore, maybe tomorrow.' If she keeps up much longer, I swear, my fruits'll turn to raisins."

"When did all that start?"

"Yesterday!"

Marcus gave his friend a consoling pat on the shoulder. By then, he had noticed that the court-goers' echoing conversation had a strange tone to it—more like a hiss than a drone, as if someone had just hit a beehive with a rock. The people around whispered to each other, sullen-faced. Their eyes were uniformly pointed in one direction: toward the main entry.

Vernon would have been blind not to notice, either. "Wonder what's crammed up their asses this time," he muttered.

Marcus lifted his hands. "Let's find out."

The crowd wasn't as thick as the noise made it out to be, and the courtiers and courtesans parted with little urging. Marcus caught snippets of conversation as he passed.

"...no right at all..."

"...ought to send them away..."

"...inbred rats..."

Vernon smothered a laugh. "Bet you a trice the end-timers tried to preach on the steps again."

Smirking, Marcus shook his hand. "More silver for me."

The crowd thickened toward the far columns, so that the two young men had to push and pardon their way through. Nobles moved aside with indignant looks, gradually clearing the way until they were on the inside of the ring of spectators.

"I win," Marcus said to himself—but the victory, like all the others he had recently won, was like salt on his tongue.

He hadn't been sure who he expected Durand's visitors to be. He had taken it for granted that they would be Elessian—and now, suddenly, he was forced to confront the error of that assumption.

"Kydonians." Vernon all but spat the word, and truthfully, Marcus sympathized.

There were three in all, standing in an orderly row in front of the petitions desk. They wore long coats, open at the front to reveal loose-fitting tunics that dropped to their ankles, and fur-topped leather boots. They covered their hair with queer round caps, rimmed with thick cloth. They were a drab bunch; only the eldest of them wore any color at all, and that was deep red lining his coat. His younger companions—one about Marcus's age, the other perhaps a decade older—wore the cheaper hues of brown and green.

Facing them from behind the desk, a thin clerk was explaining, "I've told you, sir, to obtain a petition, you must meet several requirements." From his harried tone, this was not even close to the first time he had repeated himself. "First, you must be of noble birth, or have a letter of sponsorship from one of noble birth. Second, you must purchase a Writ of Audience from this desk, and fill it accordingly with your precise business, for which you are seeking an audience with Parliament. Third..."

The oldest of the Kydonians accepted the explanation impassively—which wasn't exactly difficult; the man had a hard, expressionless face, with cold eyes to match.

The clerk was growing visibly nervous under his gaze. He stuttered over a few more requirements before finishing, "Have you accomplished any of these things?"

"No." That one syllable alone was laden with the distinct rolling Kydonian accent, which grew more pronounced as the man went on, "Why must we do this?" Strange, how they turned _w_ into _v_. "We ambassadors."

"Representing whom?"

"Kydona," he said very matter-of-factly. That got the spectators talking, while Marcus and Vernon raised their brows at each other.

Meanwhile, the clerk scrubbed his jaw in exasperation. "Sir, Kydona is an established province of Elessia. It has been for over fourteen years. Surely you know that."

The Kydonian's perpetual frown grew deeper still. "As you say."

"Then you do not qualify as an ambassador. Perhaps you carry a grievance in the name of your local lord?"

"No."

"Then you must obtain a noble sponsor. Until you do, I cannot legally grant you a petition. Good day, sir."

The self-named ambassador started to say something else, but the clerk motioned for a guard. One promptly appeared and guided the Kydonian off with a gentle but firm hand—emphasizing the firm part with a hand on his sword's pommel. Scowling, the Kydonian allowed himself to be led away. His companions cast angry looks back at the petitions desk as they followed, but the clerk was already preparing to receive his next victim.

In matters of bureaucracy, one need not be foreign to get trampled over.

"Good riddance," said more than one onlooker. Murmuring in satisfaction, the crowd dispersed, leaving Marcus and Vernon more or less to themselves.

"Hell," Vernon said. He craned his neck at the entrance, though the Kydonians had disappeared between the columns. "I can't remember the last time I saw an Ivan."

"Me neither. I'd reckon before the war."

"Aye. There were a lot more of them back then, too."

Marcus nodded. He thought of the Battle of Slain Kings, where the tsar had so nearly broken the back of King Basil's army—only for Prince Audric de Pilars to sweep in from behind and crush him. The poets sang of Phor's pristine waters turned to crimson, spoiled by the rivers of Kydonian blood. Historians wrote that half a generation lay butchered on the lakeside, with the tsar among them. The ensuing campaign for their eastern homeland had been short but no less bloody, and it had seen the remnants of their army hunted down and slaughtered. Even now, chevaliers returning from the province claimed that there was not a man over twenty to be found.

Well, Marcus thought wryly, they'd missed one. "Right then," he said, shrugging the thought away, "where was it we were going?"

"Swimming with the girls. Shit on that, though, you see that sky?"

"Aye," he grinned, "you'll have to find some other way to get my clothes off."

"Oh, I've got my ways, don't you worry."

They spent the rest of the morning playing dringuets, a sort of combination of dice and checkers. Marcus had little talent for it; he quickly lost his winnings from the bet, then two whole silvers more. Vernon won so consistently that he quickly figured out how his best mate always seemed to have a surplus of coin. Luckily, Jacquelyn turned up after an hour or so, with Eliza in tow.

Once their men-at-arms had departed, Eliza asked, "Who were those men standing outside? The queerly-dressed ones?"

Vernon eagerly recounted the story. Afterward, Marcus followed with a question of his own. "What were they doing, exactly?"

"They were just standing there," Jacquelyn said. Indeed they were, as Marcus discovered on their way out. The Kydonians were shoulder-to-shoulder off to one side at the bottom of the grand steps—the limit to which the palace guards could force them. By their braced legs and the grim set of their faces, they were expecting a long wait.

Marcus snorted at the observation. They could stay there until the Aspects returned, for all he cared. Whatever Durand said, he had no need for friends like them.

He chatted with the others as they walked past the Kydonians, pure indifference. There were more pressing matters to attend to—like which salon would entertain them at such short notice.

As it turned out, there were plenty of salons available, all filled with young nobles and pliant courtesans, and all more than capable of keeping them occupied. The rest of the day was a never-ending scene of drunken debauchery. Night fell, and the four of them procured a carriage for the ride back to the palace. Though he was seeing two of everything, Marcus was pleased to notice that self-proclaimed ambassadors had vanished. Later on, safe in his chambers with his friends, he gave a hearty toast to the foreigners for disappearing so conveniently.

But the next morning, they were right back at the bottom of the palace steps, waiting with infuriating patience. They were there the next day as well—then the next, and the next after that. The three men stood there with sobriety that would have made even the old Stoic philosophers envious. They disdained all food and drink, at least during the day when Marcus saw them. Likely, they gorged themselves at the inn where they were staying—but still, he had to respect their stubborn fortitude.

Unfortunately for the Kydonians, he was their only admirer, and an unwilling one at that. The constables harassed them from time to time—often at the height of the day, when the heat was at its worst and the men's tempers were more likely to slip—just hoping for an excuse to arrest them. Children incorporated them into their games; they skipped around them, jabbering and jeering, pausing only to throw bits of pigeon dung at them. But for the most part, passersby simply ignored the men.

Nine days passed. In that time, Marcus had not once admitted that he had even noticed the Kydonians—but he saw how Jacquelyn bit her lip whenever they passed them. So when she at last broke, it was a small surprise.

"I feel so bad for them," she said quietly as she picked at her dinner.

By contrast, Marcus was all but annihilating his. "You have to at least try the lamb," he insisted, his voice muffled by a fresh mouthful. Martha had cooked it to perfection; she'd added some kind of lemon and caper sauce that sent shivers down his spine with each new bite. "If you don't eat it, I swear, I'll do it for you."

Frowning, Jacquelyn pushed her plate across the table to him. She watched him spear her cutlet and dump it on his plate. "Can you please just talk to them, Marcus?"

"Talk to who?"

"The Kydonians."

He swallowed hard, annoyance settling in. "Why would I do that?"

"I don't know," she dallied.

"Come on, just say it," he sneered. "Give me a good reason to put them out of their misery, and I just might do it."

"Well I mean, they must have something important to say, don't they? They've been outside all day every day for more than a week!"

"Some courtesans have two-year waiting lists," Marcus pointed out.

"I know but—"

"What's more, whatever they have to say, it might seem a lot more important to them than Parliament. Maybe they want some kind of trade agreement. They look like they could use some spare coin. Might not be a waste of _their_ time, but it'd be a waste of everyone else's."

"But—"

"And what gives them the right to call themselves ambassadors? Who do they even represent? Ambassadors don't speak for nations, they speak for rulers. That means we should be hearing from a provincial lord, not a pack of disgruntled peasants."

"Will you please be quiet and listen to me?" Jacquelyn snapped. That put Marcus into an amused silence. She'd grown some bones since their fight. "They might be nobodies or frauds or whatever, but there's still a chance they have something important to say. Maybe they _are_ representing someone. It just seems stupid to just... dismiss them. You should at least find out what they're about."

Marcus took another bite of lamb. He chewed thoughtfully. "That's a valid point," he admitted. Jacquelyn looked delighted, but her face fell when he observed, "But you already said you feel sorry for them."

"I do." She rubbed her arm. "I just hate seeing everyone treating them so badly."

"You do realize these are Kydonians you're pitying, don't you? These are the people who took a simple dispute over borders and trade rights, and turned it into a full-scale war. They rode across the border, they burned three villages to the ground, slaughtered everyone who lived there, and from what we found out, they basically did it just for spite."

"I know what happened," she said, but there was no fight in her voice.

His voice calmed. Soothingly, he said, "Look, Jacquelyn. I'm not yelling at you. I'm just trying to tell you, there's a reason those men aren't allowed to speak to Parliament. They sacrificed their right to be their own nation when they murdered their way into Elessia. We decide what's best for them now. They're better off for it, and so are we. And someday, we won't even think of them as Kydonian. They'll be Elessians like us."

She nodded but at the same time murmured, "That'll take a long time."

†††

These days, they called it Old Granite. Marcus often wondered when the city folk had deigned to name the tree—certainly not when it was a sapling, nor when it was four heads tall, one granite oak among a thousand. Regardless, the tree was enormous now. Its great leafy canopy was wider than the already-large hill that it sat on, and had it grown just three miles eastward, Marcus had no doubt its trunk would dwarf any of the battlement towers—in both height and breadth.

As the legend went, Ancel himself had rested beneath this very tree, taking shelter from the scorching sun. Once the heat passed, he repaid the still-young oak's kindness with a drink from his hip flask. It had flourished ever since.

Eight hundred years later, Old Granite was playing host to a horde of Ancellonians—here not for shade or shelter, but spectacle. The gentle hills around the tree were dotted with people, hundreds of them, of all walks of life. All eyes were pointed skyward.

Marcus shielded his eyes on instinct as he looked up at the sun, but there was no need. Just two hours from setting, the semi-bright orb was a warm yellow as it hovered over Old Granite's leafy top. "Look at that," he told the others, pointing. "There's a bite on the top right." There it was—the moon, just starting to slowly edge into the sun's way.

"That's bloody amazing, mate, now where'd you put the flask?"

"It _is_ amazing!" Jacquelyn said as Marcus passed the flask over—not before taking his own swig, naturally. "I've never seen one of these before!"

Lord Smelding grinned maniacally at her. "Indeed, young lady, it is quite the sight! Frightening to some, perhaps—yes, in ancient times, events such as this caused much strife, for they have long been considered bad omens. But we live in an enlightened age, and now we can appreciate this for what it is: a natural occurrence, completely explainable, and quite easy to predict! You see..."

Jacquelyn gave Marcus a pleading look but he just grinned back. Watching Lord Smelding melt people's minds with his intellectual talk was always entertaining, so long as you didn't get trapped yourself. Still smirking, he turned away and left the girl to her fate.

Vernon saw. "Rotten bastard," he snickered. He swigged the flask and offered it.

Marcus took it. He poured a little on the ground, a tribute to Old Granite, and took a hearty gulp himself. "I'm hoping he talks the wind out of himself. Should make my request go more smoothly."

"Which request is that?" Vernon asked politely, though the sun held his true attention. By now, it looked like a fruit with a bite out of it.

"Don't worry about it." He'd forgotten his best mate had no hand in the firelance. Horace Smithson had already written twice, informing him that his black powder was not as dependable as he had thought. Without further research, anyone unfortunate enough to wield a firelance more likely to obliterate himself rather than the enemy. The solution to the smith's quandary seemed obvious; Marcus imagined Lord Smelding would jump at the opportunity to explore this new brand of peril.

He resolved to ask later. First was first, though: a solar eclipse was a rare event. Bit by bit, the black disc that was the moon worked its way in front of the sun. Though it was still mid-afternoon, the day grew noticeably darker. The spectators fell silent as they watched, mouths agape despite themselves. Even Smelding trailed off.

The sun shrunk into a golden sickle, its brightness fading with each passing second as it waned to a mere sliver. An awe-struck cry rose from every mouth on the hill as the eclipse reached its height. It was a frightening sight, almost—the mighty sun reduced to a ring of bright light, rimming a circle of utter blackness. The sky, fixed by indecision, was a color somewhere between dusk and night.

Jacquelyn took advantage of the darkness by sneaking a kiss onto Marcus's cheek. He kissed hers back. "What do you think?"

"It's pretty," she smiled as the hills rang with spontaneous applause.

Then, all at once, the cheering and applause stopped. A collective gasp took their place. Suddenly, the eclipsed sun was not alone in the sky. The darkness revealed a spear of piercing light, streaking gracefully across the heavens. Marcus had just enough time to mark its faint red hue before it was joined by another, then another, until dozens of crimson stars were tumbling from the sky. He had seen star showers before—but this was far different. Never had he seen so many falling stars in one moment, never had they travelled so uniformly in the same direction, and never had they been a color quite like this—red, like droplets of blood falling in front of a black drape.

"Lord Smelding? What is this?"

Smelding licked his lips. "I... I am afraid I do not know, dear boy." Which was a first.

The people on the hills were crying out again, pointing at the new spectacle in the sky. "A sign!" someone was yelling. "A sign from God!"

Of that, Marcus was not sure—but then, something that had even Lord Smelding lost for words was something very new. He watched the red spears plunge down, down...

As the first of them reached the horizon, Marcus's eyes narrowed.

The eclipse was suddenly past its height. The sun slowly broke the moon's grasp, and the ring of sunlight became a crescent once again. The sky began to brighten—gradually, but just enough to overpower the mysterious lights, banishing them into nonexistence once again. The people around began to chatter, astonished by what they had just seen.

Noticing Marcus's troubled expression, Jacquelyn asked, "Marcus? What's wrong?"

He cast a look upward again, but the spears of light were long gone. "They were moving to the east," he said. "The eastern horizon. That's where they fell."

She frowned. "Oh."

Jacquelyn didn't seem to think much of the event, but as for Marcus, that feeling of foreboding was weighing heavy in his stomach. He had never been one for superstition, but those falling stars had been something extraordinary. He couldn't fight the feeling that he had seen them for a reason—as if they had been put in the sky for him to see, to draw his sight eastward—toward Kydona.

He thought of Mirela, the void, and the cackling of demons.

A sign from God indeed.

He scowled and muttered up at the heavens, "Fine, you win."

†††

"Watch where you're going," a man growled as he pushed past. That was all Marcus had been hearing since he got here, even though most of the time he wasn't even moving. But the city was like that; act mean, or get walked over.

Marcus opted for the first. His sword marked him as a noble, because under the new laws, commoners were prohibited from carrying any blade longer than a dagger. Normally that would have made him a prime target for thieves and thugs, but his calm, "don't-trifle-with-me" expression blended him back into the crowd.

Truth be told, he still disliked these parts of the city—the constant bustle, the baying mob, the all-pervading stink of sewage and body odor. But other nobles never ventured this far into the mires, which made it an ideal location for this rendezvous.

Gail hocked some phlegm onto the cobbles with a wet squelch. "Almost noon," he observed with a glance at the sky. He paused to give a passerby a baleful glare, clearly daring him to take one step closer. Instead, the man crossed the street and tripped over the gutter on his way. "They ought to be here shortly," the man-at-arms said with satisfaction.

"Ought to. If Kydonians tell time like we do."

"They do," Gail said. "Only thing different is the seasons."

"How so?"

"Summer's terrible. Winter's worse. And they're both far longer than they've a right to be. I hope you never have to go east of the Utmar Mountains, your highness."

Marcus nodded his understanding. He'd heard enough stories about Kydonian weather that he wondered that anyone could bear to live there. That was a question he would ask the so-called ambassadors—if they ever showed up.

For many minutes more, the pair of them stood on the street corner, braving the ever-shifting mass of commoners. Chaos surrounded Marcus. He watched an oxcart push haltingly through the throng, the driver bellowing curses between lashes of his whip. A young girl weaved gracefully between passersby with a clay jar balanced on her head. Farther down the street, a pair of cheap prostitutes lewdly displayed their charms to passing men. A beggar approached Marcus, leering and holding out his hands for coin—but Gail shoved him off. "He would've used anything you gave him on ale," he explained before Marcus thought to be offended. "See how he shook?"

Marcus kept looking around, his impatience growing. Did these damned foreigners have no courtesy?

Then he saw him—the youngest of the three Kydonians, steadily moving along with the crowd. He was alone. Presently, he caught sight of Marcus and made his way toward him.

Gail unfolded his arms and tucked his thumbs into his belt loops, so that his hands were closer to his blade.

"Easy," placated Marcus.

At last, the young Kydonian stepped onto the curb. "Greetings, lord prince." His voice was thickly accented, and just as strange were his features—slanted eyes, a touch of the exotic on a broad and otherwise plain face. It was a hardened face, unaccustomed to expression.

He snapped his heels together and bowed, slow and deep, until his head was practically below his knees. People were slowing down to stare, but the Kydonian straightened with great dignity—especially considering his age, which couldn't be more than a year Marcus's senior.

" _Zdrastvuytye_ ," the prince said with a tip of his chin.

The fellow's face remained passive but his blue eyes lit up. "You speak Kydonian," he observed in his own language.

"Somewhat," said Marcus, reverting back to Elessian. "I write it better than I speak it..." he briefly debated a title, "...excellent sir."

"Evgeny Andreyev Pronin, your highness. My father regrets that he cannot attend you. He sends me in his place." His grammar was good, but his pronunciation was odd. He stressed the wrong vowels and stumbled over a couple in the process—marks of having learned the language on paper.

Likely, he had noticed the same of Marcus's feeble attempt at Kydonian.

"Your father." Marcus assumed that would be the oldest man in the party, the one who had lost the argument with the clerk. "What business does he have that's prevented him from seeing me? The crown prince?" Then he realized the rudeness of the question; it was more of an accusation, one that Evgeny could not comfortably address. He held up a palm. "Forgive my impoliteness. Walk with me. We'll find a more appropriate place to talk."

"As you wish." Evgeny took his side, his hands folded in his voluminous coat sleeves. Gail took up the front—he knew the destination—and Kelly at the back. With the four of them in a diamond, people were more inclined to get out of the way. They passed, glowering suspiciously at Evgeny, an obvious foreigner—but he stared ahead with remarkable composure. Marcus began to wonder if Kydonians were capable of expression at all.

Half-hoping to coax one out, he asked, "Have you been to Ancellon before?"

"I have not, your highness."

"How does it compare to Kamengrad? Or any city in Kydona?"

Evgeny's eyes flickered upward at the slapdash tenements. "It is taller," he said carefully. It was true, but the tallest buildings—sometimes four stories—were also the shoddiest. One tenement listed so badly that Marcus imagined it would collapse on top of them any instant. He looked down just in time to step over a pile of ox manure, mashed into the cobbles by hundreds of uncaring feet. As Evgeny did the same, he added, "Apart from this, your city and mine are much the same."

Marcus nodded. "They all are, if you look in the right spots."

" _Da_. But your wonders are many. Kydona's are few. Your square of heroes is as a sea of white stone, and your palace—the servants there are clothed as kings, and the flowers in your gardens grow no matter the season."

He thought to inform Evgeny that the white stone was hauled from the quarries sixty miles distant, that the servants were dressed so richly because the nobles would not suffer plainness, and that the flowers grew past season thanks to mirrors that amplified sunlight and torches that warmed them by evening—but that would just prove the Kydonian's point. "Your country will know those wonders, one day."

Evgeny hesitated for an instant too long—just enough for Marcus to know he had said something important. "One day, your highness."

"Tell me, excellent sir: from where do you hail? You and your companions?"

"A place of no consequence," the Kydonian said, his tone as mellow as his rough accent would allow. "I am of a very small dreryevnya—what you would call a village—in the north of my country. It was only when I and my father left that we learned it had a name."

"Who named your dreryevnya if you didn't?"

The young man's eyes considered him with dour amusement. "Elessians, of course."

By then, they had arrived at their destination: a little tavern, in no way distinct from the shabby buildings around. After a moment, he noticed Blaxley was there too, gloriously indescribable as he stood dutifully by the door. Noticing them, he started to work the lock, and when a twist of the knob didn't persuade the door to open, a hard shoulder did. The veteran held it open with one hand, resting the other against the horn of his longbow as his colorless eyes darted over Evgeny.

Inside, Marcus's eyes took time to adjust, but there wasn't much to see—smoke-blackened walls, tables bleached by spilled liquor, circled by half-broken chairs. The smell of mold and stale beer offended his nose.

"Welcome to my study," he told the Kydonian. He seated himself in a chair Kelly offered. The split-scalped veteran didn't look at him; rather, he paid Evgeny a look of incredible disgust. Fortunately, Evgeny did not notice. Gail dropped two filled mugs on the table.

Evgeny took the other seat. He removed his cap as he did, revealing a mess of sweat-spiked blonde hair. But his face was as devoid of emotion as always. "Thank you."

Gail grimaced a smile and retreated.

Marcus waited while Blaxley got a fire going. Before long, a yellow flame was dancing in the hearth, though it lacked heart, what with the shortage of breathable air. "Do you drink ale, excellent sir?"

Evgeny took an obliging sip. Swallowing, he said in a voice dripping with diplomacy, "I fear it is not much to my liking, your highness."

The three men-at-arms echoed Marcus's laughter, but he gave them a silencing look. He wanted the Kydonian intimidated into compliance, not menaced into reticence. The soldiers promptly went quiet. Thus freed, Marcus began, "Why do you imagine I've brought you here, excellent sir?"

Considering him for a moment, the Kydonian answered, "I am imagining you have taken me to this place for several reasons. From the presence of these guards, I come to understand that you do not trust me. From the location of this meeting, I come to understand that you desire privacy. From the tone you have taken, I come to understand that you believe me false. Thus, from all these things, I come to believe that you meet me unwillingly. You expect nothing to come of this talk."

Marcus schooled his face to neutrality as he considered the young ambassador's words. With the accent, his natural reaction had been to reckon the man an idiot. Now, it seemed he had come to grips with a man of formidable intelligence. And his candor carried a respectful tone that indicated he was well-accustomed to treating with his social betters. "It seems I've underestimated you," he said. He steepled his fingers and smiled. "Very well, I'll concede to you on all four counts. I must say, I'm beginning to understand why your father sent you alone."

For the first time, Evgeny smiled—though it was a smile of poor quality. He inclined his head.

When he did, Marcus noticed something he hadn't before: a red cut behind Evgeny's temple, half-lost in his hairline. His cap had been covering it before. "What happened there?" he asked sternly.

Frowning—that expression came much more easily than a smile—he pressed at the cut. He checked his fingers for blood, of which there was none. "A trifling matter," he assured.

"Not by that bruise, it isn't. Who hit you?"

Evgeny shrugged. "It was on the street. He was a noble. A tall lad, very broad of shoulder. He confronted us as we returned to our inn. It was last night," he added.

Marcus's brows knit. "Broad of shoulder. Did he have blonde hair?"

"Blonde?"

"Yellow," he clarified. "Blue eyes. Big front teeth, like a rabbit."

"He is as you describe," admitted Evgeny.

Marcus scrubbed his jaw, then his hair. He was furious at Jaspar's nerve. He was a coward, fighting someone he knew couldn't fight back. "I'll be having words with him over this, excellent sir. You'll be compensated."

"There is no need," Evgeny reassured, though that cut seemed nastier every time Marcus looked at it. "It is a matter of little consequence. But your highness, there is another boon you may grant me in its stead."

"Parliament."

"Parliament, da."

The chair teetered dangerously as Marcus settled back into it. He drank from his mug and winced. "You were right, this ale really isn't very good. Now." He set the mug back on the table. "You're obviously a man of sharp wit, Evgeny. May I call you that?"

"As you wish, your highness. If I may say so, I prefer that you call me thus."

Marcus chuckled. "Alright, Evgeny. Being sharp as you are, you must know that I'm not a popular man these days." Evgeny nodded blandly. "So you'll understand my skepticism. Why would I hurt my standing still more by acting as your sponsor? What do you have to tell me that would possibly be worth that price?"

"Your highness, by refusing us, the price would be higher still."

Marcus's smirk wilted into a scowl. "That sounds suspiciously like a threat."

"No. Our presence in your capital is a gesture of good will, your highness. We wish only peace between your country and ours."

"There is peace," Marcus objected. "There has been for a long time now."

Evgeny shook his head, his face even grimmer than usual. "No," he repeated, vehemently.

"What makes you say that?"

The Kydonian's jaw twitched. "You say there is peace. Yet as we rode through our country to yours, the only Elessians we saw were soldiers. There were many of them."

"Keeping the peace," Marcus pressed. "You would know better than any how many lives each uprising has cost."

"I know this. I know also that when the barbars ride out of the north, they burn our villages, murder our men, steal our women and our children. Your soldiers do nothing."

"Why do you think we waged a campaign against the Glats this past year? We lost many good men there, Evgeny, and they died to protect our soil. Our soil."

"It is not enough," said Evgeny, with firmness.

Marcus sat forward. "On whose behalf are you here?" he demanded.

"Kydona's."

"No, whose?"

Evgeny stared at him, his face passive but his blue eyes afire.

When it was obvious he wouldn't answer, Marcus sighed and slumped back again. "You aren't making this easy for me, are you?" He didn't reply to that, either. "Alright. If you won't tell me who sent you here, tell me this: what do you aim to accomplish by speaking to Parliament?"

"Terms." By the finality of his tone, Evgeny was unwilling to say much else.

But Marcus twirled his wrist, demanding more.

"My father alone knows the terms."

"And he sent you to talk to me," Marcus said slowly, his voice colored by doubt, "the son of the king, without telling you the exact purpose of your... visit?"

"Da."

Again, he ran his fingers through his hair.

"This is angering," Evgeny conceded. "Perhaps, though, I have impressed upon you the importance of our task. We must speak to Parliament, your highness."

"I need to know the terms."

"I can say no more."

For the next half hour, Marcus plied the young ambassador with questions, but it was quickly obvious that even if Evgeny knew his father's precise business, he was not going to divulge it. It seemed that even Kydonians—who could read Elessian but barely speak it—understood how little real power the crown prince commanded. He could speak with as much authority as he wanted, but he had no legal power to back it. All he could do was provide these ambassadors with the Pilars family seal. He was a means to an end, and both he and Evgeny knew it.

At last, he gave it up as hopeless. "Very well, Evgeny. It seems our business is coming to an end."

"So it seems, your highness." Once again, the Kydonian was pure impartiality. Had he not known better, Marcus would have sworn Evgeny didn't even care if he had accomplished nothing. But he did know better. "You're no fool. But I assure you, neither am I." He was holding something back, Marcus knew it, and he started to make it clear that he did. "I will consider what we've discussed, excellent sir," he said at last, reverting to the earlier honorific. "If you decide you have more to disclose, send a dispatch and I will accommodate you."

Evgeny was wise enough to know when he was dismissed. He stood. "Thank you for your time, your highness." He donned his cap, obscuring the ugly cut once again, and saw himself out. It would be a long walk back to the palace for him, if only to spend the remainder of the day futilely standing at the bottom of the palace steps.

As for Marcus, he propped his legs up on the table. Some of Evgeny's bad ale splashed out and started seeping toward his trouser leg, but Gail was there with a rag to intercept it.

"What do you reckon on that, your highness?"

Marcus sighed. "Not much. There're more questions than answers, now." In truth, he had learned only two things: that Kydona was bursting at the seams once again, and that whoever was pulling the strings this time, they didn't think him important enough to treat with. It hurt his pride to think on that, but then he remembered the Blind Chamber where he performed his only real duty, and knew that the ambassadors were right.

Gail held up a pitcher. "Afraid it's a bit warm."

"Bit nasty."

"Get you drunk, though."

Sighing, Marcus signaled for another pour.

### Chapter 9

The hangings were draped and the mattress was thick, but neither quite managed to muffle the noise: the panting, the moans, the squeaking of the bed frame, each of its protests accentuated by the slap of skin on skin. Summer refused to die; the stifling heat, doubled by exertion, sent trickles of sweat running down Marcus's back and between his buttocks—but that was just fine, because the sight of Jacquelyn's bare glistening back was enticing to say the least.

Her hands were splayed on the headboard, her head bowed between her shoulders as she watched him take her from her presented behind. "There! Yes," she said between high-pitched breaths. "Don't stop..." He was more than happy to oblige. He grasped the fronts of her thighs and kept going.

With each stroke, pleasure streaked through his loins—and hers, because she was spreading her legs wider and wider, as if willing him deeper inside her. It felt cold, she was so wet—

—and the pleasure overcame them both in a crashing wave. Jacquelyn collapsed onto her side and curled in a ball, her legs quivering as her tickled nerves unleashed their burden. Marcus sat back on his heels. He reared his head up at the bed awning, chest heaving.

"My God," she whimpered. "Why can't it always be that good?"

He laughed, soon as he'd caught his breath. "Maybe we don't practice often enough."

She giggled. "Come here." He did, and she peppered her face with kisses. Sighing, she slithered out from beneath him and stepped over to the dresser with her naked behind wiggling. Marcus watched her, hungry again despite his spent condition, and she smiled regretfully.

"I wish it wasn't midmorning," she cooed.

Marcus didn't. The nightmares had been getting worse. Last night, he had been drowning in a raging red sea while Kaelyn laughed and Jacquelyn wept on a faraway shore. The taste of blood had been so real—and when he jolted awake, he found he had been gnawing on his tongue. Sleep had taken him again, only to plunge him back into a terrible dreamland—this time he and Jaspar alone in a sandpit, blades in hand. But each blow he struck was feeble, and Jaspar had laid open his flesh to the bone, and he had bellowed in pain and rage—

—only to wake up once again with the sun on his face, and Jacquelyn's sleepy voice reassuring him that it had been a nightmare after all... perhaps there was a way she could make him feel better?

"You ought to tell your mother to wait 'til tomorrow," he told her.

"I know, I wish I could, but I promised her already..."

He breathed a mock sigh. "Well I'd make it worth your while, but alright." He watched her, admiring her nudity as she used the wash basin and did her hair. Then she hid her skin from him beneath cruel layers of fabric and had the nerve to ask him, "How do I look?"

"Lovely." The praise was instinct at this point in their dalliance, even if it was true. It satisfied her enough that she smiled and came over for another kiss. That done, she inquired, "What are you going to do today?"

"Play with my sword, I suppose."

"Mmm," she said, biting her lip and rolling her eyes naughtily. "Well, have fun. I'll see you tonight!"

"Wait a minute." He rolled out of bed, went over to her dresser, and dug out a small coin purse. He pulled out her hand and dropped it into her palm. "There. Buy something I'll like you in."

She smirked as she kissed him again, this time with heart. "I will, I promise. Thank you!" Smiling still, she waved as she slipped out of the door.

Marcus flopped back on the mattress as the latch clicked shut. He rubbed his brows, not sure if he was ready for what he had really planned for the day. He had been thinking on Evgeny's words for three days, and he still hadn't reached anything that resembled a conclusion. The Kydonian had shed some light on his mission, but not much—certainly not enough to make an informed decision.

Especially if the wrong one could get him killed. He hadn't forgotten the assassin—who hadn't been an assassin at all, just a warning.

Luckily, the rains had let up for the past two days, and now on the third day of sunny weather, the roads would be passable at last.

Fort Arlimont awaited his inspection.

†††

The fort was nestled in a crook of the Anora river, some ten miles from the capital. Though few now cared to admit it, invading armies from the north had thrice broken into the heart of Elessia. Three times they had come, and each time, they had dashed to pieces on the walls of Fort Arlimont.

The river was wide and swift at all other points, lacking any natural fords—but here at its largest bend, the currents were gentler and the banks closer together. Before Ancellon could be put under siege, the Anora had to be crossed. Here was the only place to do it. Arlimont had been built to deny that opportunity, and had dutifully done so ever since.

Looking at the old stronghold, Marcus could well understand why taking it was such a daunting task. The fort's back was to the river, relying on its deep water and fast currents to guard its flanks and rear. The granite walls were fifteen feet at the thickest point, dressed to a uniform height of four stories. Every hundred yards, a great fortress tower jutted from the main battlements—riddled with narrow slits that were home to ubiquitous longbows and lethal ballistae alike.

Marcus had spent a whole season at Fort Arlimont, and had visited countless times before—but even now, he found himself appreciating its battle-worn grey stone, rising defiantly above the winding river.

The warm sun outlined the crenellated walls. A strong breeze tugged at the red and blue pennants flying from the towers. The sentries saw Marcus and his column of ten men-at-arms approaching, recognized the broken sword of the Pilars coat-of-arms, and called for the gate to be opened.

The gatehouse was quick to heed them. The drawbridge lowered, closing the gap in the stone bridge crossing the river, and the thick portcullis ground upward with the shrieking of chains. Marcus gazed up as he passed under the gatehouse. Black murder-holes stared back down at him. He imagined himself an unfortunate barbarian bludgeoning a ram against the gate, only for those murder-holes to shit out rocks, arrows, boiling water, or worst of all, hot pitch—which would quickly be followed by lit torch, dooming all below to an agonizing death by immolation.

He shivered.

The inside of the fort was cheerier, which really didn't take much. Though the bastion commanded the place, there was plenty of room besides, and all the available space had been utilized. There were two-story stone barracks for the permanent garrison, and squat wooden ones that had recently housed the Novitiates. There were two large wells on opposing sides of the space, which gave a constant supply of fresh water from the river. A company stood in formation on the parade ground—likely having been hurried over only to wait around for half an hour, Marcus thought wryly—while a battle line marched along one of the well-kept paths that linked every building, field, and tower in the fort. When the wind blew right, he could hear swords clashing on the drilling grounds. Bowstrings twanged as archers fired from the battlements at targets across the river.

Marcus inhaled deep, smelled sweat, toil and suffering, and grinned to himself. It smelled like home.

"Arli welcomes you, your highness."

He opened his eyes. Garrison Commander Lyle Durand approached him in his spotless uniform. He didn't wear any medals or commendations, Marcus noticed—not like the officers around him. He thought they were shifty-looking bastards—pudgy, pink-skinned, their uniforms so starched that they fairly crackled. These were the second-born noble sons whose families had paid for their commissions—yearning for the front lines that would never suffer their incompetence, consigned instead to desks and paperwork.

They looked daggers at Marcus—but Durand took no notice of the mutual dislike. He offered a salute, a gesture which his officers yielded with too much dignity to be genuine.

Marcus returned the salute. He dismounted, passing Breggo's reins along to a stable boy. The stallion snorted indignantly but allowed himself to be led away, expecting a salt lick—a luxury Fort Arlimont surely lacked.

"And I embrace her in return, commander," Marcus beamed. "She took a good amount of sweat and blood from me in my Novitiate, and I don't begrudge her any of it."

Durand's smile was small, but present nonetheless. "What pleases you pleases me, your highness. Now, shall I show you the defenses?"

He'd seen them many times before—cursing as he jogged along their length, stumbling over the heels of the lad in front while the one behind tramped on his in turn—but it was a convention, and he would be unwise to dispense with it. He nodded. "Of course. Lead the way."

Durand dismissed his underlings with a flick of his chin; they sulked and tramped off for their offices. Then he started off in the direction of the north gatehouse, whose twin towers were even more formidable than the ones Marcus had just passed beneath. "I trust that our enterprising smith has kept you updated?" the commander inquired.

"He has," confirmed Marcus. "The new prototype—the one you requested—is well on its way, but he's informed me that his black powder is a tad..."

"Volatile?"

"As you say. I've asked a favor of a friend, one Lord Smelding of Livet. He'll help Master Smithson perfect the formula."

"Very good, your highness. You are the perfect partner in crime."

Marcus nodded, concealing his intrigue at Durand's choice of words.

Soon, they arrived at the north gatehouse. A sentry stood at attention as they filed past him into one of the towers. They climbed a staircase—built wide for so the fort's defenders could relocate swiftly in a siege—and after a five-story climb, they emerged onto the crosswalk directly over the gate. Marcus stepped around a huge iron pitch-pot and leaned between the crenellations to look down.

If the space before the north wall was a killing ground, this space below was a graveyard. The gatehouse was recessed behind the walls to either side, creating an artificial chokepoint that the enemy would have to pass through in order to reach the gate itself. There were four towers enclosing the "corpse garden", as the garrison lovingly named it—each topped with two ballistae. Together with arrows, stones, and burning pitch, no attacker could dent the gate without paying an unbearably-high cost.

"Lovely," Marcus commented.

The walls themselves were not quite as tall or as thick, but as he walked them, he reminded himself that were no less formidable. Wooden palisades topped the battlements, providing an able shield from enemy missiles. Pitch pots had been placed at intervals to combat ladders. A wide river-fed moat ran the length of the fort, and just in case the enemy managed to fill it in, loose gravel was piled around the base of the walls, preventing siege towers from maneuvering close enough to drop their assault ramps. As if this were not enough, half a dozen trebuchets lined the inside of the walls, ready to hurl stones over them to smash enemy stone-throwers in turn.

He wondered how many Glat corpses had been fished out of that river-fed moat, where their armor's weight had dragged them below the surface. How many siege towers had been thwarted when the defenders had diverted the river, turning the narrow field into a swamp? How many had been riddled through with arrows before the walls, or thrown from them after a long, lonely, futile climb up a siege ladder?

"You've done outstanding work, commander. The enemy wouldn't have a chance in hell." He shook his head, laughing in his throat as he surveyed the killing field. He imagined it packed with fresh corpses, the river to either side tinged red by streams of blood. "It's almost unfair."

"Your highness, it is unfair. My fear, though, is this: with these defenses, I may best any of our present foes, but what of our future foes?"

"You mean the firelance."

"I do. Once that weapon is perfected, this—" he thumped a fist on the battlements, "—will become obsolete. War is a battle of wit as well as brawn, your highness, though many hold the latter in higher esteem. Men like my subordinates—they refuse to see that our enemies are learning. The Glats now know that to outfight the Watch is to outmaneuver it, as they did in the king's unfortunate campaign. They have at last gained some mastery of the composite bow, which they now use to great effect against our slow-moving dragoons. And on the seas, those cursed pirates from the Broken Isles—they've rediscovered the ancient formula for ever-burning fire. Our warships are faced with fire that no amount of water can douse. They are helpless against it. One day soon, both our great enemies will discover this black powder for themselves. If we allow them to make good on this advantage before we do, it will be a dark day for Elessia."

Marcus crossed his arms. "Commander, I may be an auxiliary, but I do sit in Parliament. I've heard the briefs—from the fleet admirals, watch commanders like you... I know this already. You're preaching to the converted."

Durand shook his head with grim eyes. "Geneva's son, you hear my words yet do not heed the lesson." He sighed, glanced up at the sun. "It is past midday. Would you take your meal with me before you are on your way?"

"Of course," agreed Marcus, mystified despite the indignity of being lectured like a child. He followed Durand to the bastion, a miniature fort all on its on that stood in the center of the Arlimont's grounds. Its walls were ideally-angled for archers to rain arrows on any who somehow managed to breach either gate. Assaulting it would be every bit as daunting as assailing the outer wall—perhaps more so, since the defenders would retreat there in the event of a breach, condensing the resistance into a steel-solid core.

Durand led him through the open gates, into the antechamber, up two flights of stairs, and into his office. Marcus stopped in the doorway, surprised. He had never been into the garrison commander's chamber before, but this was something new. It was a surprisingly small space, mostly occupied by a large conference table just inside the door, empty except for a pair of rolled scrolls. On the far side of the chamber sat Durand's desk, a chaotic affair to say the least. It was piled with paperwork—orders, waivers, vouchers, requests, memorandums. They all served to remind Marcus that behind every war, every campaign, and every muster, there lay a frustratingly-complex bureaucracy that helped only slightly more than it hindered—a fact most people were unaware of, and one even he had forgotten until now.

"You've been busy," he remarked, looking over the empty pigeonholes and bookshelves that lined the walls. Durand's office, much like his uniform, lacked the pompous decoration of most military offices—the plaques, commendations, certificates. If there was one thing that told Marcus about the commander, it was that he was a man of business rather than flair. He could certainly respect that, after a lifetime surrounded by the latter.

Durand nodded. "Always. Cawley!" A mild-looking young aide promptly appeared from a side door. "Some lunch, for the prince and I. Some sausage and cheese for myself, and a finger of rum. As for his highness..." He raised his eyebrows at Marcus.

"The same."

Bowing, the aide hurried off. Durand meanwhile pulled a chair up to the conference table and held it out for Marcus, who seated himself. Durand took one opposite him. He drummed his fingers on the table, musing.

"Well, your highness, I do hope the fortifications have pleased you."

"They have," Marcus said. He corrected, "For the time being, as you've said."

"Indeed." Cawley reappeared with frightening quickness and deposited two trays in front of them. Hefting his goblet, Durand said, "To the king."

"To the king," echoed Marcus, and drank shallowly. The rum burned all the way down and fizzled in his stomach. His cheeks warmed and his eyes watered.

Durand smiled as he put his drink down. "It's not to everyone's liking, I know. Go out on campaign, though, and you wind up spending a good deal of time with the stuff. You acquire a certain fondness for it."

"I surely believe you." Marcus lost his breath on the last word and coughed, bile souring his tongue. "I look forward to the day."

The commander did an admirably good job pretending to ignore his prince's discomfort. He busied himself slicing up a sausage, spearing a piece on his knife along with a potato, and meticulously chewing both. His bearded throat wobbled as it worked the food down.

Marcus helped himself. After a few minutes of silence, he could contain himself no longer. "Do we have privacy?"

"Cawley!" The aide peeked through the door. "Go for a walk."

"Moving, sir!"

"Good lad." Soon as the footsteps faded, Durand nodded at Marcus. "Now we have it."

Marcus took another sip of rum and immediately regretted it. He fought down a wince and said, "I asked you last time we met and I'll ask again: how did you know my mother?"

"I was one of her men-at-arms," he said with remarkable quickness, as if he had been waiting for the question all along. "Long before you were born."

"Tell me," prompted Marcus.

Durand made the last cube of cheese disappear and washed it down with rum. His set down his knife, piercing Marcus with his grey eyes. Finally, he began, "Your mother was a noble woman. The Blessed Lady herself would have smiled on her deeds. But it was not always so.

"Naturally you recall the blind beggar—how she let him touch her face, as no other noblewoman ever would. In her youth, though, she would have baulked at such a thing. I suppose she was like any noble girl. She was preoccupied with her looks—she was always a great beauty, you know. She was not vain—not quite—but she was certainly willful. I imagine that is why she requested me as one of her men-at-arms. I was a lad, even younger than you, and I distinguished myself enough that I was awarded a place in the ranks of the palace guard—but certainly I was not experienced enough to safeguard the princess herself. So you can imagine my surprise at her request." His beard twitched. "Years later, she confessed that she thought I was comely. She could not resist having me.

"I would not have imagined it at the time, though. I thought she simply wanted to torment me, because that is what she did. Oh, she mocked me like no one ever had before. She loved to call me 'little one'; I was the youngest son of an impoverished noble house, you see, and that is no far cry from disgrace. My parents could not even afford to buy me a commission; she often teased me about that, as well. She tried to temper her cruelty with kindness, because in truth she was fond of me. Sometimes she would ask me to dine with her, and she was friendly then, yes, but in front of the other men-at-arms and in front of her peers, she treated me little better than a dog.

"She was just a girl; she didn't know how to tell me what she really wanted to. I forgave her later—but at the time I hated her. With passion. So I conspired to teach her a lesson. One spring, she decided she wanted to picnic with a lad. He'd been wooing her for some time. Of course, this only compounded my hatred with jealousy, but it was a perfect opportunity. I put myself in charge of procuring a carriage. I made sure the driver was inexperienced—impressionable, I suppose the word would be. The next day, when we rode out of the city, I saw to it that he had the wrong route in mind.

"She was supposed to picnic at Old Granite—but thanks to me, she wound up in a leper colony." He smirked, savoring and regretting the old triumph both at once. "She was beyond terrified. I remember them crowding around the carriage and her trying to scream, only her fright wouldn't let her. I kept myself under enough control that I did not laugh—only barely, though. I helped the other men-at-arms beat the lepers off. They kept touching the carriage with those fingerless hands of theirs; they thought the princess had come to save them. I started to feel some shame when I realized that, but the deed was done. But then..."

His expression turned proud. "Then she came out. You could see she was scared, but she had her wits still. She told us to keep off them—that Elessa would have willed the same. Her voice shook but she told the poor wretches she grieved their plight. She promised to send bread, surgeons, priests, even, so they could live in as much comfort as she could grant. I admired her, then.

"That is, until she called me into her chambers that evening. She told me she knew what I had done. She was alone, but I was just as terrified then as she had been that day. I knelt before her. I begged her forgiveness. But she did something I hadn't expected at all: she thanked me. She told me... she was glad of me, because I had opened her eyes. She said no one deserved to suffer as those poor lepers did, not when others had the means to help them. She told me she wanted my help... and..."

Durand dropped his eyes from the ceiling to look at Marcus, his eyes smiling for him. "Well. The rest is for me."

Marcus faked a chuckle. He had tried to imagine his kind mother as the cruel young woman Durand described, and found he could not. He believed the man, though. And he was glad he didn't have to hear the rest. The thought of his mother as a girl, subject to the same urges that tugged him to and fro today... that was a matter better left undisclosed.

"What about after?" he asked.

"She changed. Well, perhaps she became herself. She gave freely to the poor, served the weak, spoke her support to the soldiery. I was her confidante, her helper. I had grown up in poverty with only my family name to sustain me, and I will tell you, it was not much to go on. I knew what the problems were, and how to alleviate them. She was clever enough that no one saw my hand in her efforts—but the nobility grew concerned. They began to talk and say she was forgetting her place. They said she was a princess, not a priestess—or handmaiden, things of the like. In truth, I think those in high places knew what Geneva would discover. She did, ultimately—but not before they connived King Basil into wedding her to a promising young general, a man of good birth and good standing. Your father, Audric."

The old soldier's face was hard. His eyes focused on someplace over Marcus's shoulder, a bitter place that existed only in his memory. Marcus had seen that expression before.

He thought of Kaelyn.

Durand cleared his throat, banishing the memory. "Well, war was brewing by then. The traders came out of the mountains yelling about gold and jewels and such, the harvest failed, the treasury went empty—all that at once, and suffice to say, the blame fell on Kydona. Everyone was so preoccupied with the affairs in the east, they forgot to worry about Geneva. She and I continued our work. The more we helped, the more we learned. Eventually... eventually, we learned enough that we began to see through the farce. We didn't believe it at first, but we kept digging. As things turn out, the matter went deeper than either of us could have ever fathomed.

"When the border villages burned, we were wise enough to be suspicious. As much as Geneva knew, though, she was—in her heart—a trusting soul. She put too much stock in people's goodness. When we'd gathered enough evidence, she went to the Council of Highest—despite my misgivings. They acted precisely as I had predicted: they accused her of sedition. They correctly assumed that she had not acted alone; they exiled her servants, de-robed her tutors... they broke up her men-at-arms, sent us all straight to the front under separate units." He shook his head with anger and sadness in equal measure. "We were lucky they did not kill us all. I warrant they did not because they could not without harming her, as well."

Marcus swallowed uneasily—yet he hungered for more. "What then? What happened after?"

He had never heard Durand laugh before, but the sound he made then lacked any trace of humor. "Well I suppose you would not know the rest, few speak of it these days. Rumors spread, despicable rumors. Each morning, there was talk about someone else the princess had cuckolded her husband with. They said she whored herself to commoners on the streets, or gave herself to any noble son who would have her, or she spread her legs on Elessa's altars and such nonsense. They said anything that might discredit her. Everyone knew it was false, but hear something enough...

"The king got his share, too. They said he was in league with the tsar. They said he was going to divorce his daughter from Audric and marry her off to one of the tsar's sons and create some bastard nation. Even commoners started saying he was withholding grain so he could profit by the famine. When he had the good fortune of getting killed, it was a precious few who truly mourned him. The poison was strong, indeed."

They watched each other for a while, both embittered by the revelation. Such rumors had never reached Marcus's ears. Perhaps they had died off out of respect for the dead. Regardless, he was disgusted that such odious lies had ever existed at all. His grandfather had been a kind ruler, and his mother a gentle soul—and their reputations had been marred simply because she, Geneva, had gotten some decidedly inconvenient ideas.

"What did you learn? Why would the high lords respond so drastically?"

Durand upended his goblet, downing the last of the rum. He grimaced, having either drunk too much or remembered too much at one time. Sighing, he folded his hands on the table and looked very soberly at Marcus, his grey eyes heavy-lidded with emotional wear. "We learned nothing incriminating, only parts of a whole. However, we had a more-than-vague notion of what was truly happening in our country." He stroked his beard, musing—wondering how best to tear Marcus's world apart. Eventually, he said, "What did she tell you, at the end?"

Marcus furrowed his brow, trying to recall her exact words. "She said to watch everyone around me. She said watch the common, the nobles, my father. That it was all a lie. She said she'd been protecting me and she couldn't anymore."

The commander nodded without looking away. "It was true, and sound advice. Have you heeded it?"

"I have."

Durand leaned forward, his hands folded. "You have been told things all your life. Before now, you have never had reason to suspect these things untrue. But my words alone will not convince you, so I will not speak them—not yet. You must see the evidence for yourself, just as I and your mother did. Here is what you must do: go to the royal archives. You will find that the Watch is scrupulous in its record-keeping. Find the gaps. Fill them in. Come to me. Do you understand?"

Why was it that whenever people asked him that, he never understood at all? He let the thought show as a frown. "Where exactly do I look?"

Again, Durand massaged his beard. "There's a certain regiment, the 16th. Start by finding it. For a clever lad like yourself, more will quickly follow."

"16th Regiment," Marcus echoed. He memorized it. Across from him, Durand was on his feet. The meeting was over. The prince stood as well—more like lurched upright. Scholars loved to say that knowledge was a burden, but before today, he had never quite felt it. But now his head was filled to bursting with thoughts of his mother as a reckless youth, forced to confront the reality of the world around her—just as he was now.

He was still ruminating as he left the bastion and accepted his horse back from the stable lad. Preoccupied, he mounted badly.

"You alright, your highness?" Gail asked in a low voice, seeing his expression. Kelly nodded his concern behind him while Blaxley gave him a bland look.

"Fine," Marcus said. "Let's go home."

Marcus and his ten men-at-arms galloped off—through the south gate, under the murder-holes, across the moat... and into territory deadlier than any fortress's corpse garden.

"Sixteenth... sixteenth..." he muttered to himself, turning what seemed to be the thousandth page of the ledger. Parchment rustled, and the candles lighting the table flickered with the shifting air.

It was a lonely place, the royal archives—tucked deep into the lower levels of the Keep where no parchment-destroying fire or sunlight could reach. There was an unintended consequence: most people couldn't be bothered to reach the place, either. They hired clerks to do that for them—and since sifting through centuries' worth of ill-sorted documents was such a specialized task, it often became a lifelong career.

The clerks were his only company, and bad company at that. They were pallid creatures, rake-thin from too many meals skipped, half-blind from squinting at faded script by candlelight for far too long, and almost completely mad from the solitude of their livelihood.

"Rats!" cried one, fluttering a badly-chewed parchment. "A pox upon all vermin! Except squirrels," he added thoughtfully. "Charming creatures, squirrels. It's been ages since I last saw one... have you chanced upon a squirrel lately, your highness?"

"Past season, Clerk," Marcus said absently. At least memorizing their names had been easy. They were all named Clerk, because they'd been passed the job from their fathers. The same was true for most any occupation—including king.

"What are?"

"Squirrels," reminded Marcus.

"Oh. Pity. Charming creatures, squirrels. It's been ages..."

The prince rubbed his aching eyes. He almost wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of his situation. He'd been here since morning. For all he knew, the sun was already down, but the lack of sunlight had obliterated his sense of time. Age-old dust caked his hands. It clogged his nose, too, so that his breath came in wheezes. And still, he had found all but nothing on Durand's 16th Regiment.

He shifted a nearby candle and retrieved the little he had gotten thus far. In his left hand, he held Fort Arlimont's mustering record, which indicated that the regiment had reported two months prior to the Battle of Slain Kings. In his right hand were two more parchments pinned together. The first were orders bearing the Lord marshal's seal, commanding the regiment to march to the Phor Gap. But the second parchment rescinded the order by authority of the king, Marcus's grandfather.

Beyond that, nothing.

"Clerk, have you found anything more?"

There came a chorus of replies, all in the negative.

Marcus knit his brows and glanced between the parchments once more, trying to make sense of them. Try as he might, he couldn't fathom it. He had checked and rechecked, and now he was certain of only one fact: the 16th Regiment had halted on the march, but it had not returned to Fort Arlimont. Yet there was no further mention of the regiment in any records Marcus could find. How could two thousand veteran chevaliers simply disappear?

It was a quandary, to be sure, and it had Marcus grinding his teeth. He reached for his wineskin but thought better of it. Right now, he needed a clear mind. Besides, he'd been drinking far too much lately. He was getting the distinct impression that he was beginning to rely on the stuff—and bad habits were something he couldn't abide by, not in the slightest.

He watched a moth darting around the candle's flame, empathizing with its frustrated sense of purpose.

"Water, your highness?"

He took the waterskin, surprised by the clerk's sudden burst of sanity. "Thank you," he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"But of course, your highness." The man may have been twenty years old—or fifty, in the half-hearted candlelight. He bowed. When he righted himself, his face was twitching again, as if it was trying to adopt an expression it couldn't quite remember. It settled into a maniacal grimace-smile-pout, which honestly befuddled Marcus to no end. "I do miss the sight of squirrels," the clerk whispered.

"Uh..."

"Fascinating little creatures, squirrels, I always did love to watch them as a lad, I did, indeed. Always so energetic, so busy with their rummaging about for nuts and such." The insane clerk bobbed with glee, though whether it stemmed from the fond memory of squirrels or the rare chance for conversation, Marcus could not have guessed. "Why, did you know—when squirrels prepare for winter, they bury whatever they cannot eat? The only trouble is, their memory is not so good as ours, so they must bury caches of nuts everywhere, in the hopes that they will manage to accidentally dig one up, come spring. Fresh reserves, if you will." His mouth tried to worm its way into another forgotten expression, and this time failed.

But Marcus was gaping up at him. "What's that you said?"

"Squirrels?"

"Damn you, man, can you keep sane for more than a few instants at a time?"

The clerk somehow managed to look chastened. "Forgive me, your highness."

He waved an impatient hand, banishing his unfortunate companion. As the clerk retreated, Marcus tossed the paperwork aside and dove back into the ledger he had been studying before. "Fresh reserves..." His mind raced. He tried to keep his excitement tentative, but he couldn't help himself. For the first time today, he was on to something.

There—the mustering records for the March 882, near to the 16th Regiment's report date. It had not been the only unit to muster. Six more regiments had rendezvoused at Arlimont for the march to the Phor Gap, destined to confront the balance of the tsar's army before autumn.

He flipped the pages, reading and rereading copies of the units' orders. To his dismay, all of the regiments reached their destination unhindered.

At that, he slumped back in his chair, his head hung with dejection. So close, yet so far from the truth—it was enough to drive him as mad as the poor clerks who worked here. This time, he didn't fight the urge to swig his wine. He took a healthy draught of the sweet nectar, shut his eyes as the warmth spread from his belly to his extremities. Sighing, he corked the wineskin and turned back to the table.

And before his eyes, a parchment page turned on its own.

He yelped out loud and very nearly toppled out of his chair.

"Your highness?"

The far door hurtled open and slammed against the wall. Gail stood framed in the light, his sword drawn and his eyes wild. "The fuck was that?" he roared. Spittle flew.

"It's nothing," Marcus assured him, though he was clutching at his heart so tightly that he could feel his nails through his tunic. "I was falling asleep."

Gail lowered his sword. The other two guards, close on his heels, sheathed their own blades and walked off, grumbling. Gail shook his head and shut the door, muttering something about skittishness and retirement.

With the men-at-arms' offending presence gone, one of the clerks hurried over—the squirrel fellow, maybe, but they all looked more or less the same to Marcus. "Are you sure you're alright, your highness?"

"Do you get sudden drafts down here?"

"Er... sometimes? Do you require a blanket?"

"No I don't require a bloody—!" He stopped and collected himself. "No, thank you nonetheless. Go keep searching. Any mention of the sixteenth, come to me."

Nodding subserviently, the clerk made his retreat.

Marcus gave the ledger a black look. "The fuck," he hissed in consternation. He gingerly lifted one page corner. Even without the full weight of the page, the parchment was thick and heavy. Nothing short of a gust would have turned it—but turn it had, and brazenly enough for him to see.

Another moment went by before he gathered his courage. Then, with a deep breath, he scooted his chair close to the desk and leaned over to read the newly-opened page.

He hadn't been praying, but if he had, what he read there would have been God's answer. It was the mustering record for the next month of that year—April—when another five regiments had reported. All had set out for the Phor Gap, but only four had made it. The last one had been waylaid by orders before vanishing—at least from the records.

Suspicious now, Marcus began to browse all the mustering records throughout the spring and early summer, and not just from Arlimont. He scrutinized all the Royal Watch's great forts: Ligny, Trescott, and Ingold. Each yielded the same pattern: units mustered and sent off toward impending war with Kydona, only to arrive less one, sometimes two regiments. Each of these regiments halted under orders from King Basil himself. Then, they vanished completely. They sent no further reports, requested no more orders, asked for no new supplies. If he were to take the records literally, Marcus would have arrived at the conclusion that the ten whole regiments—over twenty thousand soldiers—had simply stopped marching and deserted all at once.

Only he didn't. Instead, he arrived at an inescapable conclusion: his grandfather had been purposefully, secretly siphoning off men from his own army. Yet again, new knowledge bred even more questions, more uncertainty. Why would King Basil have weakened his forces, knowing that the battle would be desperate even with his army's full strength? Where had his regiments disappeared to? And, with Basil fallen in battle, who had so exactingly purged all meaningful record of this phantom army's existence?

He sensed that he had learned all he could here. He marked each suspect page and parchment, bundled them together, and called over a clerk. "Here," he said, passing him the thick bundle. The man visibly strained to hold it up. Quieting his voice, he ordered, "I want each marked item copied in full—twice. Deliver the copies to my chambers. Do not label the parcel."

"As you will, your highness," the clerk whispered back with a bow and an eye's twitch.

Marcus started to turn away, but a thought occurred to him. "One more thing, Clerk. You've worked here a long time, have you?"

"All my life," he said in what might have been pride, had he remembered the tone.

"In that time, how many have accessed these records? The ones in your hands?"

He glanced them over. "All of these? To my recollection, just one, your highness."

"Who?"

"Why, the Lady Roslene de Beauvais."

†††

If there was one thing Marcus hated to be involved in, it was intrigue. Even in happier days, getting caught up in court drama had never failed to become a God-awful mess. Ever since he had been old enough to understand such matters, he had done his utmost to avoid being ensnared by them—who this married lord was fucking, which nephew would inherit from his childless uncle, which family was close to bankrupt and would soon ask a loan from the banking house...

Those were simple affairs on their own. But where nobility was concerned, someone always stood to profit. A cuckolded wife of good standing could have her husband censured, divorce him, and win back her dowry and a quarter of his holdings. A distant relative who suddenly stood to inherit could count on more than one other family contacting him, seeking alliance through marriage or investment. A family could drive its rival further into bankruptcy with a respectable bribe to a receptive bank official. And of course, of course there were measures that the parties in question could take in their own turn...

In those days, Marcus Audric de Pilars had still been a popular name. He had lost count of the number of times people had approached him, begging his favor in some affair or another. But where royalty was concerned, such matters could easily evolve from dangerous to deadly.

This matter was worse.

It may have been the second month of fall, but the gardens were lovely as ever. The groundskeepers had honed their yearly routine down to a science. The gardens now lacked the orchids' exotic hues, but in their place were bulbous cardunculae, violet cosmos, white hydrangeas and bunched goat's rue, their beds artfully placed to create splashes of color among the dull green leaves of autumn. They had scattered around bundles of wheat, and palisades for climbing ivy—which would have been delightfully quaint, if Marcus had a taste for tackiness.

The weather didn't improve his mood. The sun only occasionally made its presence known through cracks in the clouds, and the chill breeze promised more rain by afternoon.

Anticipating it, he did up one more button on his coat. He debated in his head whether he wanted to meet her at all. This was a terrible idea. But still—what choice did he have? Desperate times call for desperate measures, as the saying went. Whoever had spawned the phrase, Marcus very much doubted that they had been in a situation quite as nasty has this.

"Your highness."

He rose from the bench with a set jaw. "Lady," he greeted in the monotone.

Kaelyn smiled the kind of smile a killer makes before twisting the knife. "What sort of joyous business are we meeting to discuss?"

He had never seen someone manage to dress modestly and provocatively at the same time, but Kaelyn had managed it beautifully. The only skin she displayed was her face, neck, and forearms, but her scarlet dress fit her form so closely that despite the fur cloak on one shoulder, she might have been wearing nothing at all. Either that, or Marcus had seen her naked one time too many.

"I'm amazed you decided to show up." He didn't know why he was making conversation, he really didn't.

"Well. The prince's summons is no small matter. Particularly when it gets touched by every pair of hands in the salon." She cocked her head, her blue-green eyes narrowing. "But you arranged it that way."

"Of course," Marcus said. A letter within an envelope within a parcel within a package, each with a different address of a different courtesan in the same salon. Crude and complicated, but it had gotten the job done.

"So." Her tone was amiable, though Marcus knew the girl speaking it was anything but. "What business?"

"Would you sit?"

She did, and he took the seat beside her—as far away on the bench as courtesy would allow. Her scarlet eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing. She let him hang awkwardly, waiting to react to his first move.

"I need your help." Saying the words was agonizing, but he managed.

Kaelyn sputtered with laughter. "You? My help? And I thought pride was your greatest vice, Marcus."

"Not today it isn't. This is too important. You know I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't."

She nodded slowly. That predatory smile was back. "You've given me the upper hand already, you bloody fool." She sat back and crossed her legs toward him, feigning approachability. "I'm listening. Go on."

"It's something you'd fancy. Intrigue."

"Obviously."

He thought very carefully about what he wanted to say next. "First, I want your oath of secrecy."

"An oath?" She laughed. "From a courtesan? We don't swear oaths, Marcus, you can't buy something sacred. You know how us whores work." Her voice was deceptively offhand. "What you can do is pay me for my silence. Then we can draw up a contract with the Guy—my salon's chamberlain—which will say something to this effect: I shall be obligated to notify you if someone's offered me a better sum to divulge your secret than you offered me to keep it. If you make me a better offer in turn, my mouth stays closed. If not, your secret is mine to do with as I please. You see?"

Marcus wanted to say he knew damned well how information brokerage worked, only he had to stay on her good side. Instead, he nodded. "I see. What's your price?"

She smiled and named an exceedingly-exorbitant amount of gold.

"Done."

Surprise slackened her features, but she quickly schooled her face back into impassivity. "No haggling? This is important," she said, bemused. "Well, that's verbal contract. My lips are sealed. Give me the details."

He told her about the job. He gave no indication of the motivation behind it—only that it needed doing, and he needed her help.

Kaelyn nodded along, her lips pursed with thought. Once he finished speaking, she sat forward and twirled a ring on her finger—a nervous habit, one only he and perhaps Roslene knew. It was the first sign of vulnerability he had seen from her in a long time, which was reassuring. "That's all?" she asked after a long time.

"That's all," Marcus said grimly.

"And why would I help you with this? I don't know if you've thought on it, but one of the parties in question here is my mother."

"Because she won't come to harm over any of this. That's my oath to you." He added, "And, I'm paying you a lot of money." And, I see that look in your eye when it turns my way. You're not as careless as you pretend.

He remembered Estelle, the way Jaspar had dragged her around like a pup on a leash, and felt like the vilest shit on earth.

Kaelyn regarded him. A ray of sunlight bounced off her hair, turning it a lovely shade of orange. He abruptly shook the mental praise away, but the damage was done. She was beautiful, he had known her nearly all his life... and much as he tried to deny it, their mutual attraction was not easily done away with.

"Alright," she said. "I'll do it."

"What's your price for the job itself?" he asked suspiciously.

The corners of her lips turned upward ever so slightly. "Not so much. Just a kiss."

He hated it when he was right, he really did.

She dangled her ringed hand in front of his eyes. "Do we have a contract?"

"What if I offer you more gold?"

"A kiss."

"Three hundred strikes." A veritable fortune.

"A. Kiss," she repeated with amused finality.

What choice did he have? He took Kaelyn's hand and kissed it, as had every man and woman who had ever negotiated a contract with her. Her pale skin was sweet with perfume.

With the deal set, she withdrew her hand. Marcus eased over to her side of the bench, leaned in with his lips unwillingly parted—

—but she ignored him and rose smoothly. "Oh, no, no. I didn't say when..." The smugness in her voice was clear.

Marcus had no doubt that when the time came for him to honor his end of the bargain, it would be decidedly inconvenient for him.

"I shall have Guy put this to writing. You'll have your own copy by tonight. Farewell, your highness." She walked off without looking back, her wide hips wagging confidently.

He watched her go, wondering what sort of price he had just paid for his own little piece of court intrigue.

†††

The feast was perfect—which was to be expected, of course, because the king and his guests deserved no less. Cloth-draped tables lined three sides of the Atrium. The head table was reserved for King Audric and his household: Marcus at his left hand, Kaelyn alongside, Roslene at his right. Flanking them were the high lords, with their first-born sons or stewards seated beside them. That left the side tables, which the high lords' wives and latter children occupied. Clear across the Atrium at the far end of the tables, Marcus could just make out the faces of a few guildmasters and noted dukes who had managed to secure invitations.

During the campaign, this chamber had only occasionally hosted feasts, but now that the king was back, it was obvious that the palace had not lost its touch for hospitality. The table drapes were silk imported from the Lyrian islands. The silver candlesticks and ebony-handled goblets were complementary gifts, free for the guests to carry off at the end of the night. Minstrels' music echoed gently around the chamber, meant to promote conversation rather than drown it.

And talk they did. "This goose is impeccable! I must have the recipe for my cook, or I'll surely perish for want of it!"

"Have it you shall, my good lord," Roslene said, leaning over the table and smiling at Lord de Morent's whale of a son, though it was probably the fourth recipe he'd demanded tonight.

Martha had earned the praise; she'd outdone herself tonight. Sprinkled across the tables were pewter trays piled high with strips of boar and slabs of venison, dishes of milk-boiled oysters, bowls of quail-egg salads and chestnut soup, among delicacies beyond Marcus's ability to count.

He prodded at his roast dove, nudged aside a few capers, and began to slice the bird up.

"You seem a bit wary of your food there, son." His father was looking over at him with a warm smile, which utterly belied the conclusion of their most recent talk.

That was just fine by Marcus; it would make his task easier. "A bit," he admitted. "I never had much of a problem with doves. But since it's already dead..." He took a bite, chewed, and decided it was delicious.

Audric nodded his understanding. "While we're on the subject of dead things—I understand you've been keeping up with your bladework."

"It's practically all I do, father."

"As the fieldmaster informs me," the king said, dissecting a mutton chop. "Perhaps we can spar, sometime soon."

"I wouldn't want you to take time off your schedule." Which was a true statement, but politeness wasn't the motive.

His father, taken in by Marcus's false mildness, waved his fork and said dismissively, "A king can make time for his son. I'm eager to see how your swordsmanship's progressed."

Might even put a mark on you, old man, his son thought, hazarding a bite of saffron-dyed potato. "I'll do my best to impress you, father."

"I'll give you a run for it," Audric grinned. "These damned politics will be the death of me one day soon, but my arm's got some strength in it yet!"

Privately, Marcus reminded himself that his father's political life was about to grow quite a bit more complicated. For the time being, however, he would play along with the father-son-re-bonding routine. "What sort of politics?" he asked, feigning concern.

"Ah, well. Nothing that ought to concern you," reassured Audric. But he was a career soldier, and a mediocre liar—at least to an accomplished one like Marcus.

"I'm to be king one day, aren't I? Everything concerns me."

Patting his shoulder, his father said proudly, "As it well should." He leaned in close and murmured, "Matters of taxes and such. The high lords are saying they're overburdened, they say I need to draw down the regional tax collection to promote growth and such nonsense. The moment I cut their taxes is the moment they raise the taxes on their own peasants, I know that for certain, but I must pretend to entertain their wishes, else they'll underreport their collections to cut their losses."

"That's tax evasion," Marcus whispered back, irate, "halfway to stealing!"

Audric shrugged helplessly. "That's been the game for years, son. Everyone gets rich at everyone else's expense. Even the king is no exception." He touched Marcus's shoulder again. "Don't fret over any of it. We'll battle for a month before they cave, but cave they shall."

Marcus went to say something else, but Roslene had been tapped Audric's shoulder, and the king turned away. Fuming, he drained his wineglass and settled deeper into his chair.

Under the table, Kaelyn's foot nudged his knee. "I wager you're as bored as I am," she said with a foxy smile.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Hmm, we're in a sour mood tonight, aren't we?"

Better to brush thighs with her than Lord de Martine, who he would have been sitting next to if not for her presence—but it wasn't better by much. "It's hard not to be," he said, smiling in case of watching eyes.

Kaelyn lifted her petite shoulders, left bare by her dress. "Well I have no intention of watching you pretend to be a loving son all night. How's Jacquelyn?"

"With her parents for the night," he answered, which was no answer at all.

"Lovely girl. I'd heard she was unspoiled, is that so?" Her smile was sideways. "Is that still so?"

That was a question Marcus refused to answer.

"She's got quite the figure—you know, so lithe and shapely at the same time, that's rare. You must fair throw her around the room."

"Are you finished?"

She tossed her hair. "No."

"You ought to be soon. It won't be long."

The courtesan grew abruptly serious. Her eyes surreptitiously wandered over her mother, then past her so quickly that she might have been envying the tablecloth instead. Marcus did the same, only he scanned the reflection of a conveniently-placed glass. Roslene and Audric were deep in conversation, their foreheads touching as they smiled into each other's eyes.

Excellent. Good cheer was easily spoiled, and difficult to feign.

But it rarely hurt to be safe. For the next hour and more, Kaelyn and Marcus plied their parents with wine. With Audric, the task was easy; with each challenge from Marcus, questioning his father's drinking ability, another glass disappeared. Roslene, a more cautious personality, was more complicated—but Kaelyn succeeded in talking so much that her mother could scarcely get a word in and sipped her wine instead, and Marcus proposed a never-ending series of toasts, obliging her to drink still more out of courtesy. Soon, the king and his consort sported rosy cheeks and lazy smiles.

Encouraged by their king's good mood, the guests were getting rowdy. Drinks and conversation passed freely. Wives left their secluded seats to chatter with each other in the center of the floor while their sons flirted shamelessly with their daughters. Courtesans leaned over tables toward lone men, enchanting them with wiles and abundant cleavage. The musicians raised a lively tune to compete with the commotion echoing around the chamber—talk, laughter.

Unbeknownst to everyone, there were two sober souls left among them, though no one would have imagined it. Kaelyn was perched on Marcus's lap, speaking meaningless words into his ear, just to keep up pretenses. They drank heavily from their glasses—but the wine was practically water, just as it had been all night. Even if they had been drunk, he doubted much would have been different between them. He gazed into her eyes, saw loathing and helpless attraction both at once—and saw the same look in his reflection.

Finally, after what seemed hours of false revelry, the moment of truth arrived.

It came in dull form: a maid, slipping in from a side passage. She had a purple pillow balanced on her forearms, bearing an envelope sealed with ribbon and wax. Only a noble of very high standing could deliver a missive in such a way, but none of the guests—not even the high lords—took any notice of the maid. She hurried behind the head table, whisked past Marcus and Kaelyn, and stooped to offer the king the pillow.

He stared for a moment in drunken consternation before taking the envelope. As the maid retreated, Marcus acted as if he hadn't noticed any of this happening. He reached around Kaelyn's waist, fork in hand, and picked awkwardly at his cake—something he reckoned a drunk Marcus would have done. He brought the cake to his mouth, squeezing her waist and making her laugh.

But they were both watching.

Audric inspected the seal—blank. Frowning in consternation, broke the wax and opened the envelope. He reached inside and pulled out a sheaf of parchments. He flipped them right-side-up, his eyes darting from side to side as they tore through the text there.

All at once, his face drained of color. The parchments shook—almost beyond perception—in his hands.

"What is it, my love?" inquired Roslene. The pet name made Marcus just as sick now as it had the first time he'd heard it. Audric's consort accepted the envelope and read.

Marcus had to give her some credit: she was an artisan of her craft. She offered no reaction whatsoever. The pattern of her blinks did not change. Her color—red like the wine she'd been drinking—neither rose nor fell. She methodically read through each page with infuriating aplomb before passing it back to her lover. She whispered something as she did.

He saw all this distorted in his wine glass. "What're you looking at?" he asked Kaelyn, in order to cover her. She'd been playing the part of curious onlooker.

"Oh. Your father, I think he's gotten some bad news," she whispered, and no louder than she normally would have—an actress through and through.

"Father?"

He acknowledged Marcus with a harried glance. "Yes?"

"Is everything alright?"

"No trouble." But Audric was scanning the tables with narrowed eyes. He paid particular attention to the high lords. "Politics as usual."

Good—he didn't suspect him. But Roslene, just like before, was a much trickier prospect. She finished her dessert—almond pound cake with blackberry curd and mint, absolutely delectable—and sat quite comfortably afterward, even joining in conversation with all her usual verve. It was another half hour before she moved at all.

"Well, Audric, Marcus, my daughter." She levitated to her feet, wiped her already-spotless fingers, and set down her inexplicably-folded napkin on her plate. "It has been a wonderful evening, but I am afraid I must retire."

"So soon, mother?" Kaelyn asked, finally rolling off Marcus's lap. It stung in sympathy, all pins and needles.

Roslene smiled. "I wish I was still young like you, when midnight wasn't nearly as daunting. Good evening."

The three of them said their farewells. Marcus watched her steadily making her way toward the keep, toward his father's chambers, and couldn't help but feel a wave of disappointment. He had hoped she would react less favorably to the missive, but her instinct for self-preservation was far too strong. Back still turned, she disappeared through a passage to the royal suites—and out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Kaelyn motioning toward some nearby columns with one finger. A previously-unseen servant detached from his hiding place to follow Roslene at a discreet distance, a picture of demureness.

A few minutes later, Audric got up to leave as well, though his good cheer had faded entirely. He scarcely paused to wish them a good evening. Marcus cursed himself, wishing he had been as clever as Kaelyn—but once again, a servant emerged at her signal and took up the king's scent.

He almost cheered.

With the lord and lady of the household gone, the guests were quickly on their way. The high lords collected their ladies and departed without a backward glance. The guildmasters and young nobles took their leave as well—some with courtesans hanging onto their arms, some not. That left Marcus and Kaelyn in the Atrium, surrounded only by silent guards and invisible servants. In the palace, both were known for their loyalty and trustworthiness—but after seeing Kaelyn's hired cronies chasing after the king and his consort under their own roof, Marcus wasn't in a very trusting mood.

He jerked his head toward the gardens, and she dutifully followed him out.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well what?" She'd been more than pleasant throughout the night, but every trace of that had abruptly disappeared.

"What did you observe? When they read the missive, what did you see?"

She pouted as she called on her memory. "Your father was obvious. Whatever you put in that missive, he'd seen it before. By the look on his face, I'd imagine he hadn't counted on seeing it again. And didn't want to."

"And... Roslene?"

Kaelyn stared at him disdainfully. "You mean my mother? That was difficult. But yes. She'd seen it before, too."

"And you know this even though she had no tell, none whatsoever."

"That's how I knew," the courtesan explained, as if that were obvious. "My mother has no tell. The ones you think you see—those are fake. People always say, oh, she shifts to her left hip when she's bluffing—more fool them. She's been at this far too long."

Marcus couldn't help but smile at that. He'd hired the right girl, even if he was sorry that girl had to be Kaelyn. "Why the tails? I didn't pay you for that."

"No, you didn't. Those are my tails. They're getting my information. If you want to hear what they learn, it's going to cost you."

He cursed inwardly at his own lack of foresight. But really, there was no such thing as a safe deal with courtesans. They were endlessly cunning, and altogether ruthless.

Especially Kaelyn, and especially with him.

"Alright," he nodded, trying to salvage some pride. "Tomorrow we'll negotiate—if they even learn anything."

She laughed. "You think those were ordinary servants? They'll learn something. I guarantee it. As for me—" She pulled in close, pecked him on the cheek, and whispered in his ear, "I'll see you tomorrow."

He awoke the next day to a growling stomach and an exceedingly-bright sun glaring through his windows. Still half-asleep, he reached over to scratch Jacquelyn's back, only to realize he hadn't spent the night with her. He sighed. After Kaelyn's antics last night, some morning companionship would have been refreshing.

A few lazy minutes later, he willed himself out of bed, calling for breakfast as he did. A servant appeared not two minutes later with boiled eggs, bread, and strawberry preserves—a humble morning meal, but enough to stave off hunger for a handful of hours. He wolfed it down as he donned his white sparring outfit. After last night's overabundant intrigue, he was feeling a keen urge for some simple, honest bladework. Cinching on his sword belt, he stepped out of his chamber door, an anticipatory smile adorning his face.

He greeted his men-at-arms as he swaggered down the statue-lined hall. A half-remembered tune from last night found its way into his mind, and he hummed it cheerfully as he went. It was nice, being in a good mood. With the last few days' events, he had almost forgotten what that felt like.

Deciding not to spoil the mood with a trip through the Atrium, he swung into one of the Keep's side passages, which helpfully led to the gardens where the practice fields lay.

He hadn't gone more than a few yards when the pounding of armored boots sounded from behind him. It was a group of palace guards, swords drawn and faces lined with concern. "Your highness," said their leader, who wore a red helmet plume and silver throat gorget, "My name is Sergeant Ronold. You must come with us. At once."

Marcus's heart froze in his chest. His father was cleverer than he had credited. He had gone too far last night, after all.

Gail stepped forward, his face set. "What for?"

"There's a fire in the cellars," the sergeant quickly explained. "We're organizing a bucket detail now but we must get you out of the palace, your highness." He added, "It's a precaution."

Relief flooded through him. "As you say, sergeant. Lead the way." He was struck by a sense of irony—that he would rather see his home burned down than have his espionage discovered.

With a nod, the sergeant hurried off in the other direction, with Marcus and the rest behind him. He guided them not toward the Atrium, but into another side passage, down a flight of winding stairs, and into the kitchens. Servants and maids hurried about the place like so many flustered chickens. A pair of guards chased after them, plucking some and shoving them off toward the stairs so they could join the bucket detail. Ignoring the mayhem, Ronold found a pantry door and promptly kicked it in. Wood splintered; maids squealed in fright.

"In here, your highness," he said urgently. Gail, ever suspicious, insisted on being the first inside. As he stepped through the shattered door frame, it occurred to Marcus that the alternate route, the drawn swords, and Gail's wariness were not mere precautions. His guards were anticipating danger beyond mere fire.

He found himself in a seemingly-ordinary pantry, its shelves stocked with jars of pickled vegetables and fruit preserves. Sergeant Ronold nodded to Gail, who stepped forward, drawing a string necklace from the confines of his tunic. A plain key dangled on the end. Meanwhile, the sergeant brusquely swept the jars from a chest-height shelf, shattering them on the floor and spattering his boots with artichoke petals. He yanked a false panel out from the rear of the shelf, revealing a hidden keyhole. Gail deftly inserted his key, twisted, and together with the sergeant pried the whole shelf open on a swinging hinge.

There it was—a narrow stone tunnel stretching into the darkness. Marcus had heard stories of secret tunnels in the Keep—tunnels that had provided Elessia's rulers an escape from assassination, riots, and plague—but he had never imagined the stories could be true. Now he was about to become part of one, himself.

"Let's go, your highness."

The passage was so narrow that they practically sidestepped down its length. Evidently people had been shorter when the Keep was built, because even stooped, Marcus's head scraped the ceiling. He swatted cobwebs aside, imaginary spiders crawling on his skin. Gail's torch guttered in the stale air, barely illuminating the cramped space. Marcus navigated more by touch than sight, running his fingertips along the walls. Luckily, the floor was smooth and arrow-straight, with a slope so gradual that he barely noticed at all.

After an indeterminate length of time, they found the end. Another door stood in their way, this time made of stone, not wood.

"Remember how to open it?" Marcus asked with a hint of humor.

"It isn't hard," Gail said grumpily. He bent and undid a thick iron bolt in the floor. Bracing a foot against the wall beside the door, he pulled, arms quivering, and the door gradually yielded with the sound of grinding stone. Huffing, the veteran gestured Marcus through.

"Where's my father?" He didn't bother asking after Roslene; she could burn for all he cared.

"Safe, I'm sure." Gail gave him an odd look. "What, did you think this is the only tunnel out of the Keep?"

"Not at all." In fact, it would have made less sense if there wasn't an escape passage from the king's chambers. Its presence was likely part of the reason the royal family still dwelled in the Keep, despite the drafty winters and oppressive summers.

He glanced around. "Where are we, then?"

"Just outside the royal compound's walls, your highness," Ronold replied. "We went under the gardens."

Marcus nodded. "Under" was right; by the looks of it, they were in a basement of some sort, one that had evidently gone unused for many years. Darkness made the place nondescript—which he guessed made it the ideal place for a secret tunnel, especially considering that the now-closed door's edges would have been obvious under decent lighting. Fortunately, there was no way of opening it from the outside—save a sledgehammer and lot of patience.

The sergeant spent a minute wrestling with a rusted lock before he got the door open, revealing a set of stairs holed by dry rot. They climbed the rickety steps with extreme care, keeping as far to the edges as possible. Miraculously, Marcus and the troop of guards got to the top without anyone falling straight through.

Like the cellar, the house above was abandoned. It might once have belonged to someone of status, but now, the dust settled thick on the sagging furniture, termite holes pocked the floorboards, and a once-spectacular chandelier had crashed to the floor in a heap of broken crystal.

"Charming," Gail muttered. "I might retire here in a few seasons."

Kelly gave him a prod, grinning. "Was that a joke, old man?"

"Give me a share of your wages and I'll make it a retirement plan."

A truly unnecessary number of boards had been nailed up over the front door—that and the windows—but the back door was merely bolted and padlocked. It took some persuasion to make them work past the rust, but eventually, they got out of the decrepit old townhouse—quite a relief, because Marcus's nostrils had been starting to burn.

They squeezed through the back alley and out onto a busy street, wedged tight against the wall of the royal compound—just as Sergeant Ronold had said. Commoners stared curiously at the group, whose garb made them a near-comical sight outside the confines of the palace—the guards' plumed helmets and burnished plate, the men-at-arms' chainmail and leather, and Marcus's white sparring outfit, every inch of it marred by cobwebs and grey dust.

Marcus glanced around. A tavern sat a few doors down from the abandoned house. "The Red Heron," he mouthed, knowing that if he ever had to find this house again, he needed only to ask a local for directions. People didn't always know shops or streets, but they never failed to recall their taverns.

He, Gail, and Ronold briefly conferred and decided on finding a stable, just in case the commotion at the palace had indeed been a fire and not something more sinister. It didn't take long to locate one. There, they requisitioned a horse for one of the guards, who rode off to ascertain the situation at the palace. Marcus and the rest waited, talking in low voices and doing their best to ignore the stablemaster, who was so ecstatic at the prospect of selling to the prince that he wouldn't leave them the hell alone.

Luckily, the young guard reappeared in good time. "All's well, your highness," he reported. "The fire's out. We can safely return." Better yet, he had been mindful enough to bring along a quartet of horses for Marcus and his three guardsmen—at which the stablemaster's face fell. Tossing him a silver halve, Marcus hauled himself onto the saddle and galloped off toward the palace, eager for news.

Before long, he was riding through the equestrian tunnel beside the palace steps, which brought him to the royal stables. Leaving the borrowed horse in a groom's care, he near-dashed up the steps to the Atrium.

There's an odd thing about bad news: it travels much faster than good news. Even stranger is that people never tire of hearing it. Courtiers took this maxim to new heights. The rumbling crowd rivaled that of the Falltide in size. They eagerly swapped rumors of what had happened—and true to form, none of them were good.

"The whole thing, up in flames!" said one woman, her voice shrill and loud in a competing bid for people's attention.

But others had more tantalizing tidbits. "I spoke to a guard who was there—you should have seen the soot on his face!—but he said the fire spread so swiftly, none of the clerks had time to get out. Burned to a crisp, every last one of them!"

Marcus almost stumbled. God, what've I done? He prayed it wasn't true, but the gossip surrounding him quickly made his prayers into wishful thinking.

A young man said to a friend, "The archives, completely gone, they're saying. No one's certain how the fire even started."

"I'd wager it was one of those clerks. He got clumsy a candle or something."

"Well we'll never know now, will we? They're too dead to tell us what happened."

Marcus quickened his pace to a stride, leaving the courtiers' cruel laughter behind him. Everyone was saying the same thing, but he couldn't bring himself to believe them. If it were true, there was no doubt in his mind that the fire had been no accident. Yet he couldn't believe that Roslene could be cruel enough—evil enough—to burn those men alive, destroying centuries of vital records in the process.

She wouldn't do that. Not over a few slips of parchment, bearing the names of a few forgotten regiments.

Would she, though?

The doors of the Keep stood barred before him. "Open them," he ordered a guard.

"The Council of Highest is in session. I cannot—"

"Open them," he snarled, "or so help me, I'll have you scraping barnacles off the fleet's hulls for the rest of your life, and you'll thank me on your knees for not doing what I could do, now open the God-damned doors!"

"Of-of course, your highness," the guard stammered. He signaled to the other guards, and four of them hauled the doors open just wide enough for Marcus to fit through.

He strode across the octagonal foyer to stand before the doors of the Sanctum. This time, the guards offered no hint of resistance. Great hinges squealed, and Marcus plunged into the breach like some dauntless hero of old.

Unlike them, however, he was faced not with hordes of bloodthirsty Glats or rock-worshipping pagans, but merely sour old men. Gathered around the table in the center of the chamber, they glared at the intruder with intense loathing. The king sat very still at the head of the table—and at his side was Roslene, fixing Marcus with a look that managed to be cool and piercing at the same time.

"So good of you to join us, my lord prince," said Lord de Martine as Marcus drew up to the table.

He paid the arrogant bastard no mind. "Is it true, father? Are the archives gone?"

Audric sat in his great chair at the end of the table. His grim expression drew new lines down his cheeks, underscoring his age. He looked at Marcus with wearied impatience. "Yes, Marcus, it is true."

"In fact," chimed in Roslene, "we were just discussing the cause." She said it neutrally, almost innocently—but she was Roslene de Beauvais, queen of whores, mistress of deceit, and Marcus didn't trust her worth a damn.

He got right to the point. "What about foul play?"

Roslene cut off through all other dialogue with, "Oh? Have you some reason for suspicion?"

He did, but he couldn't exactly come out and say it. Not when he was face to face with the guilty party. Not when she was scrutinizing him as well, searching for any sign that he knew her secret—whatever it was. So he made a reason up, if only to cover himself. "It seems awfully convenient that the whole archive would go up in flames all at once."

"Parchment burns," Lord Isnell said in his blubber-filled voice.

"Every clerk who worked there is dead."

Isnell's meaty shoulders jiggled with his shrug. "Parchment burns quickly. It seems perfectly reasonable to assume that one of the clerks mishandled a lit candle. Certainly, even a small fire started by accident would spread quickly in such a place. There was no lack of parchment to feed it."

Marcus balled his fists. "Well isn't this convenient? There's no need to look further, we have dead men we can blame. Those clerks worked in that place all their lives, my lord. It strikes me as odd that one's judgment would suddenly lapse, and lapse enough to cost them all their lives."

Isnell shifted his bulk in his seat, harrumphing. "In such matters, we must deal with evidence and not speculation—as you have surely learned through your duties as a hearer, my lord prince." His tone smoldered with derision.

"I don't acknowledge your right to lecture me, Lord de Isnell," Marcus snapped, all traces of diplomacy falling away. "Foul play can be disguised. You know that as well as I do."

"My lords, please." Roslene held up her hands, playing the voice of reason, and playing it well. "Lord prince, your passion is commendable, but Lord de Isnell is correct. Given the testimony of the guards present, we have no evidence of foul play. The door was barred from the inside, and the men inside gave no alarm prior to the fire."

"Who were the guards posted outside the archive? Are they in custody?"

"They are not, but we have noted their names," the consort assured him with aggravating calmness. "They will be available for questioning in good time."

Marcus shook his head, scarcely able to believe that these people were willing to let the matter rest so easily. "Questioning by whom? Parliament, I hope. Surely this warrants a special session."

Roslene had an answer for that, too. "Parliament will be called to session, indeed. The king merely thought it prudent to discuss the matter with this council first."

A thought had been hanging in Marcus's mind ever since he had stepped into the Atrium—since he had read through the archives, even—but now that quiet thought became a warning shout in his mind.

It wasn't just his father and Roslene. The whole Council of Highest was involved. Everyone in this room had something to hide. Yes, there were military rosters, census forms, and other records that could be replaced only through years of painstaking labor—but among the burned documents were tax records, marital contracts, death wills... all gone. The high lords suddenly had a clean slate, one they could rewrite to their advantage. They could marry their daughters into new families without need for divorce, claim annulment of all their standing debts, collect inheritance from even the most distant relatives. There was money to be made here, and plenty of it.

And as for King Audric and his beloved consort, their secret was back in safe territory. Marcus still had his own copies of the half-incriminating documents, wedged between the pages of the least-read tomes in his study—but if he produced them as evidence, Roslene could now claim Marcus had forged them in hopes of making an early bid for the throne. The original, sanctioned copies were nothing but ash. And the only other people who had known of their existence were now dead—burned alive in their own workplace, after being locked in, likely as not.

This whole episode reeked of foul play—but the fire had consumed any proof of it.

Audric and Roslene had played their hand, and won.

Marcus took a step back from the table. With a painful gulp, he swallowed his pride. "Discuss it, then," he said with defiance that he no longer felt. This was a deadly game, one he was completely unprepared to dabble in. "I will take my leave. Good day, my lords. My lady." With a solemn bow, he abandoned the chamber. Murmurs followed him out as Elessia's rulers resumed their business, free at last of their prince's meddling. As the doors shut behind him, it occurred to Marcus that his father's voice was not among them.

They sat on a bench beneath an ivy-hung arbor, thighs touching, looking for all the world like a pair of star-crossed lovers taking shelter in darkness. But appearances were ever deceiving. Their hissed conversation made the scene an illusion, created to deceive prying eyes.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Marcus." In better lighting, Kaelyn's expression might have been livid. Her tone was evidence enough though, sheathed as it was in anger—and behind it, well-concealed worry.

He appreciated neither sentiment. "I know that," he shot back. "But they're hiding something. They proved it when they burned the archives."

"That should be the least of your concerns. They know you know. You want to know what you're called at court right now? You're the Boor Princeling. You're arrogant, you're self-righteous, you're meddling. You are taking it much too far."

"Meddling?" Marcus demanded between his teeth. "A constable has more power than I do."

Kaelyn massaged her temples. "Yes, Marcus, but you have influence. The people love you. Everyone in the nobility knows it. That's the reason they despise you so much. You're a threat to them."

"Pleased to hear it."

"You shouldn't be! They'll fucking kill you, don't you understand that? The archives, that's nothing. You—"

"Men are dead, Kaelyn! They were innocent!"

"Yes, and you're the only one who gives a damn!"

There was little Marcus could say to a statement like that. He clamped his mouth shut and looked out over the orchards, doing his best not to sulk and failing miserably. He hated it, but the courtesan was right. "I have to follow this. I have to. It goes deeper than either of us knows. Those documents—"

"I don't want to know," Kaelyn said flatly.

He gnawed his tongue. "Fine." For a few moments, it was quiet between them. Crickets and frogs chirped, competing with the crash of water cascading down the artificial falls. A cold wind blew, prompting Kaelyn to pull her thin shawl tighter around her. It was a decorative article, meant to please the eye before it was easily cast onto the floor. No good whatsoever for any practical purpose, save bringing her a step closer to fucking. "How'd the assignation fare?"

"Short. Mercifully," she said without looking at him. Marcus imagined that whatever the job had entailed, a good deal of sin had been involved.

He frowned but chose not to comment. He wasn't sure what to make of his sudden upwelling of regret. Was it for his sake, or hers? Even he didn't know anymore. "What did those spy servants of yours ever find out, anyway?"

A lock of crimson hair—turned black by the night—obscured her face. "I don't know." She inhaled deeply and sighed, "They're dead."

Marcus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind. All of a sudden, the wisdom of her advice seemed much keener. "What happened?"

"They got caught. I don't know how. They used poison on themselves." Concealed in a false tooth, Marcus warranted, or in vials lining their gums. "I was a fool to think my mother wouldn't be on guard."

"I suppose we both should have known. She didn't get to where she is today by being idle."

Kaelyn stared. "You need to let it go. Prince or not, they will kill you."

"They can try," scoffed Marcus.

She shook her head, accepting defeat. With another mighty sigh, she eased herself standing. "I'm exhausted. I need sleep." She thought. "And a glass of wine."

Marcus chuckled despite himself and stood as well. He walked to the Atrium with her, between the columns, and into the vast space—all but empty, now that it was past midnight. Servants were scrubbing the floor of a day's worth of dirt, and a few nocturnal courtiers still threw dice at the gaming tables. Jacquelyn was there too, curled and sleeping on the couch where he'd left her half an hour ago.

He gently shook her awake. She stirred, grunted, and looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. "Is it morning?" she mumbled.

"No," he laughed. "Come on, get up. We'll go." He helped the girl up. She yawned behind her hand and straightened her dress, then her hair.

He had thought Kaelyn was gone, but her voice said behind him, "Good night, your highness."

He turned—and her face was abruptly up against his, her fingers vice-like on his cheeks. Her tongue slithered into his mouth, and she moaned within hers, purely theatrical. Aghast, he broke away, but the damage was already done. The courtesan had claimed his end of the bargain, just as she had promised. "Done," she purred. With a content smile, she turned and walked away.

Marcus watched her leave, stricken and furious, reminded once again that while she played the part of a concerned friend, she was a woman first—envious and spiteful to the very last centime.

"Goodbye, Marcus." Jacquelyn brushed past him and strode off, following in Kaelyn's wake, fists clenched at her side.

Shit.

He hurriedly followed, anticipating disaster. "Jacquelyn, wait. For God's sake, stop."

She wouldn't listen, of course, deafened to his pleas by rage. Even after months of knowing her, he hadn't reckoned her capable of it—and now he was being proven a fool yet again, stuck in a quagmire of his own making. "Just a kiss," he muttered, cursing his idiocy for what seemed the thousandth time in the past few months. "One fucking kiss..."

Jacquelyn moved fast. He'd admired her shapely legs countless times, and now he was forcibly reminded that shapely meant strong as they quickly propelled her away, widening the gap between them with long strides. He quickened to a jog, racing after her with his heels clicking on the checkered marble tiles, passing column after identical column.

She passed the entrance and veered left, toward the stairs leading to the stables. Marcus redoubled his speed—but by the time he'd caught up, Jacquelyn and Kaelyn were literally face to face.

"You are a fucking cunt!" Jacquelyn screeched, jabbing a finger into the courtesan's sternum. "You're a whore past a whore!"

Kaelyn impetuous smirk belied the frenzy in her eyes. "Oh, I've never heard that one before," she taunted. "You think he's yours? He's had a hundred girls before you and guess what, they were better-looking and better-born, wench."

"And you're better than me how?" Jacquelyn said with absolute scorn. "You spread your legs for coin! Just look at the way you waddle, both your fuckholes are wide as fists, you loose little harlot!"

Marcus couldn't help but gape. The horse grooms were spectating as well, peering out from the stables and the room windows just above. He sprang forward and pushed the two women apart—but even holding them at arm's length couldn't stop them from shouting.

"Look how jealous you are," sneered Kaelyn, her blood red hair a-fly. "Just because you know I've let him into me, you can't stand me. Grow some bloody dignity."

"Says the whore!" Jacquelyn yelled right back.

"How about your mother?"

"That's enough!" roared Marcus, so loud that it stunned the pair into fuming silence. "What in the hell is wrong with the both of you?" he demanded, much more quietly.

They glared at him with mutual hatred. "You," they said at once, though when they looked at each other, the utter contempt between them was undiminished.

Without another word, Kaelyn whirled and took off, her skirts billowing behind her. She climbed into a waiting carriage, which promptly lurched forward and disappeared through the equestrian tunnel.

Marcus looked at Jacquelyn, whose chest still heaved angrily beneath his palm. "Are you alright?" he asked nonetheless.

Her jaw muscles clenched. "Get your hand off me."

He let it fall, reflecting on the oddity that he could face down all the lords of Elessia at his mother's funeral, save a man from execution to the delight of a baying crowd, declare the king a lecher directly to his face—and still baulk before this one young woman. Words left him. He could only watch her.

"I hate you," she whispered. It sounded very much like she meant it. "If I ever want to talk to you again, I'll tell you."

"Jacquelyn..."

She dashed his hand away before it reached her. Then, without looking at him again, she strode off to the stables. She stood alone under the thatched roof, silhouetted by the lamplight within, hugging herself. A groom murmured something to her. She nodded, and the men quickly set to horsing a carriage for her.

Marcus just watched, letting sorrow and guilt enfold him. He could still hear the two women in his life screaming venom, could still see the hatred burning in their eyes as they turned on him.

"Your highness," Gail said softly behind him. He had seen the whole thing, him and the other men-at-arms, but they had been wise enough to hang back. "We should leave."

He nodded soberly. "Kelly." The veteran appeared beside him, the cleft in his scalp deepened by shadow. The prince dug a few coins from his purse, passed them to him. "Pay her fare. Make sure she gets home safe."

"No problem, your highness."

Marcus cast one final look at Jacquelyn. Before he turned away and began his lonesome walk to a cold night in his bed, he thought he saw tears glistening on her cheeks.

Chapter 10

Seven days eked by, and all of them wasted. The fall rains returned to once again clog the roads with mud, denying Marcus the chance to meet Garrison Commander Durand.

The Kydonians, despite the poor weather, still waited at the bottom of the palace steps—sodden and miserable, though they gave no indication of the latter. Evgeny stared each time Marcus passed, but he refused to meet his gaze. He had problems of his own to deal with.

Jacquelyn was true to her word: she wouldn't speak to him. She sequestered herself in her house, refusing to reply to his letters. After a few days, he stopped sending them. At night, he sat alone on his bed and imagined her body's heat behind him, her long legs squeezed around his waist, her lips working at his neck. It was almost enough to make him send for a courtesan, if only to warm his bed for a night—but honor wouldn't permit it. That, and shame.

Prompted by the latter, he drank until he worried no more. Vernon joined him, even took him out to the salons to cheer him up, but being surrounded by fawning courtesans only worsened his mood. He spurned their advances. Instead, he drank until his head swam, his mind floating in an inebriated purgatory where emotion was forgotten and meaningless.

It felt good, feeling nothing.

The palace swelled with rumor—mostly speculation on the fire, but that quickly died as the fickle court took notice of Marcus's plight. Their reaction could have been nothing but delight. Anything to the Boor Princeling's detriment pleased them well enough. As an added bonus, his low-born love interest had faded away at last. Good riddance, they said. Common rubbish ought to have no place at court.

His father couldn't fail to take notice. He succeeded in conniving Marcus into a sparring match. With the rains falling thick, they fought the match in the circular chamber where Marcus had dueled Kaelyn what seemed like ages ago—the chamber where he had learned his mother was dying.

Marcus flexed his grip around his sword's handle, keeping a high guard that mirrored his father's. With a grunt, he chopped downward. Metal clanged, and his blade bounced off Audric's, steel reverberating in his grip. He followed with another chop, an inside slash, then another outside.

Audric staggered under the flurry of blows, but he kept his footing. He sidestepped, deflected the next strike, and replied with a quick jab at Marcus's exposed side.

He whirled aside, avoiding it by a hair. Then the two stood facing again, sword tips crossed, legs tensed.

"You still have it," the king panted, grinning. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and caught on his brow.

"So do you."

His father moved first this time—a step to the right, followed by a wide outside cut.

Marcus reared back on his tiptoes. The blade's tip grazed his belt buckle and swung wide, leaving Audric's whole upper body open. Marcus swiftly threw his weight forward, swinging a hammer blow toward his father's collar. It was a strike that might have killed, had Audric not blocked in time—but he managed, barely.

"Whoa there," he said loudly. He held up a hand. "Cool your blood, son. It's a sparring match, not a death contest."

Marcus inclined his head, lowering his blade. "Forgive me, father. I'm used to practice dummies."

"They do tend to take beatings rather well, don't they? Better than I do, anyway," grinned the king. He looked over his practice blade, its edges nicked from the repeated blows. "Well, call it a draw, before this shoddy thing breaks and gets me killed."

"A draw it is," agreed Marcus, but only because he had to. He knew he could have beaten the old man—though he might have accidentally murdered him in the process.

They walked over to the stone wash basin at the side of the chamber. The water there was cool and crisp as he splashed it on his face.

Audric wet his own face, and wiped it dry with a servant's proffered washcloth, as did Marcus. Then his father said, "I'm sorry for what happened, between you and the girl."

Marcus fixed him with a stare. "What would you know about it?"

His father met his gaze, nonplussed. "Not much. Only that you fair chased her out of the Atrium, there was shouting involved, and..." he raised his eyebrows. "Kaelyn?"

Marcus didn't see fit to reply.

But Audric nodded with a knowing smile. "I always knew it could come to a head between the two of you, one day." The smile fell. "I should have expected it would turn out this way. I regret it, truly, but—"

"You have nothing to be sorry for, father," Marcus interjected. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next.

"—this is for the best," he finished. He held up a hand, preempting his son's riposte. "I haven't had the pleasure of meeting the girl—I suspect you prefer it that way—but I've heard she's very gentle. Very unassuming. A young woman like that doesn't deserve the games they play at court. It would lower her, being involved in them."

She already was involved, Marcus thought. Scenes from that night one week ago flashed through his mind. "Which is true," he acknowledged. "But that's not the real reason you don't want me back with her, father. What's the truth? Try me."

"Very well then," Audric said with a trace of anger. He lowered his voice, so even the servants and guards—famously tight-lipped when it came to their lords' affairs—would not be able to hear. "I also know of her birth. A Writ of Name, I've been led to understand. A match with that girl is no match at all. Your peers will not accept such a marriage, and neither can I. Your duty as future regent demands a different path of you."

"Who ever said anything about marriage?"

His father crossed his arms. "You were playing the girl, then? Because if that's so, it would seem that I don't know my son at all." Marcus glowered, but Audric blustered on, "So what then? Would you keep up with her and make her your consort once you marry? Because you will marry, and it will not be her."

"This is something you have some experience with, father," Marcus said—a low jab, but one Audric had walked directly into.

"I have many regrets. That," his father said grimly, "is the worst of them. I wish with all my heart that I had taken the time to know your mother, rather than... We might have grown to love each other in time, had we tried." He sighed. "But I made my choice. That remains my regret."

It was a revelation, but not a very surprising one.

"I don't want you to have to make that same mistake, son. If you're wise, you'll take my advice: Leave it be."

Audric was the king; the last word was his privilege. He patted his son's shoulder, but the reassuring gesture fell well short of its goal. He blew out a mighty sigh and left the chamber, handing his dented sword to a servant as he did. The servant accepted the blade with one hand and passed the king a sheaf of missives with the other, stacking a whole new pile of worries on his shoulders.

Marcus didn't have much room for pity as he watched his father go. The man was an old fool, in his eyes. He couldn't even see how the high lords leeched off him, stealing his power for their own gain, like a pack of wolves nipping away at a wounded bull.

In his mind, only fools gave advice which they knew made them hypocrites.

Ultimately, he went to Jacquelyn simply because his father had told him not to.

He was no connoisseur when matters came to baubles, but with a bit of asking around, he learned the name of a reputable jeweler who many noblewomen favored. He summoned the man to his chambers with a case of his finest wares. There was certainly a wide selection to choose from—earrings that came in hoops, whorls, or jeweled studs; necklaces with chains almost too fine to have been forged by human hands; bracelets dangling with precious stones; rings set with enormous diamonds; tiaras, waist chains, anklets, hair nets. Marcus gauged it all with a buyer's eye and decided on a silver bracelet with tiny square links and diamond studs between—a relatively simple thing, not at all gaudy, which he thought fit Jacquelyn's mild tastes.

He had his stallion saddled and rode off for the Duchesne townhouse. Jacquelyn's father owned a respectable trading company, so naturally he had bought a house near the Merchants' Quarter of the city—a stroke of good luck for Marcus, because as he rode past the rows of shops and stands, he realized that he hadn't bought nearly enough.

By the time he arrived at Jacquelyn's home, his slightly-miffed guards were laden with bundles of flowers, candies, dresses, and of course, more jewelry.

The Duchesnes may have lacked influence at court, but they most definitely had no want for wealth. The building bore more resemblance to a salon than a home, which Marcus reckoned was Jacquelyn's mother's doing. A balcony encompassed the whole front of the second story, and a lush garden was just visible behind the tall iron fences.

A single man-at-arms tended the gate. He bowed deeply as Marcus dismounted and approached. "Good day, sir," he said.

"That'd be 'your highness'," Kelly said loftily from atop his horse. He shifted the box of honey-glazed almond bunches to a more comfortable position under his armpit.

The man's jaw hung open. "Your—your highness!" he exclaimed. He felt to one knee and averted his eyes.

"Stand at ease," said Marcus. As the man-at-arms got shakily to his feet, he explained, "I'm here for Jacquelyn. Fetch her, if you would."

"At once, your highness!" The man rang a bell and fairly dashed to open the gate. "Please, wait inside, you and your men."

Marcus thanked him and walked through, his guards-turned-mules right behind him with the bundles of gifts. The Duchesnes' man-at-arms looked quizzically over the packages but said nothing as the men carefully set them down on the walk.

A pretty servant girl emerged from the house. She startled at the sight of the prince and his armed guards lounging in the front garden. Kelly grinned at her; she turned pale and looked at Marcus instead—an altogether more pleasant sight. "Good day, how can I serve you...?"

"Your highness," Gail and Kelly supplied, while Blaxley shifted his face into an expression that defied classification and went back to polishing his bow.

"Your highness!" blurted the maid. "Elessa! I'll go get the Young Lady Duchesne..."

Marcus looked after her with bemusement. With Jacquelyn's low station, he had never heard anyone else apply an honorific to her before.

Minutes passed. Whatever Jacquelyn was up to, she was taking her time with it. Marcus had the distinct impression that she was making him wait. The scenery was pleasant; Cheryl, Jacquelyn's mother, was either a fine gardener or had paid a lot of money for one. She had added a small fountain complete with fish, which Marcus entertained himself watching. His men-at-arms were not so easily occupied. Kelly hummed tunelessly, making Gail snap at him, and when Blaxley started sharpening his arrows in what could be construed as a threatening gesture, Marcus finally expelled them from the property.

Eventually, the servant girl appeared at the front door. "She'll see you now, your highness."

Fighting a rare twinge of nervousness, Marcus followed her in.

Jacquelyn was waiting in a sitting room off to one side, perched rigidly on a couch. She acknowledged him with a colorless stare and didn't bother to voice a greeting.

"Jacquelyn," he said. There was an easy chair placed perpendicular to the couch. He sat on the edge. He smiled at her, but her neutral expression remained. Soon it was evident that she had no intention of breaking the awkward silence herself. "How have you been?" he asked lamely.

"I've been better." Her voice was quiet and hoarse.

He folded his hands, stared down at them until his knuckles grew white—trying to come to grips with the words he knew he had to say. His nails were biting painfully into his palms, but the words still refused to come. Instead, "My father told me not to see you anymore."

She took that in for a stretching moment. "What did you say back?"

"I haven't listened to him for a long time," he answered with a shrug. "Not since I was a lad." He had a speech all rehearsed in his mind—but as soon as he tried to remember how it began, it was gone. It left him with only the truth. "I'm not about to start listening to him now. I know what I want." He reached for Jacquelyn's hand, squeezed it in his grip. Even before he spoke again, he knew what a fool he was being. A wiser man would have taken his father's advice—a better man, maybe.

But that selfishness in him refused to let go. "I want you."

Jacquelyn turned her face away. "You want her," she said with her eyes shut, as if to ward off her own words.

"I told you it was a mistake," Marcus insisted.

Her eyes turned on him again, accusing. "Did she tell the truth? Did you sleep with her?"

"Yes." There was a lot of hesitation in that one word, but there it was. The girl tried to pull her hand out of his grip but he held on tight. "But I'm not with her. I came to you. I came to win you back. I'll do anything. Please."

"Then say you're sorry." She saw the way he hesitated. Her eyes flashed. "You never say you're sorry. Ever. Even when you should. I just want an apology—a real apology—for once. Then maybe I'll take you back."

"What should I even be apologizing for?" he demanded, exasperation setting in.

Her disbelieving laugh came out as a cough. "Is that a serious question? Did you really come here without knowing what you did wrong?"

"Alright!" It was an effort, but his pride began to give way to desperation. He had told the truth before: he wanted her, and he didn't want to lose her. She was something special, a breath of genuinity in a world desperately lacking it. And finally, as he sank to one knee in front of her, his stubborn arrogance fell away completely. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you so I could dance with her at the Falltide. I did it again a week ago and I'm sorry for that too. I know I'm stubborn and I get angry for no good reason sometimes, and I don't always treat you the way I should—but I'm trying, I really am. That's why I'm here. So please. Please take me back. Nothing would make me happier, I swear it."

Jacquelyn's smile started off tiny, but it grew and grew with each word, until at last she sat there beaming at him through her tears. "That was good," she half-laughed, half-sobbed.

He laughed with her. He had never known relief so intense in his entire life. His body felt light, as if a weight had literally been lifted off his shoulders. Clichés existed for a reason. "You'll take me back?"

She nodded, and he pulled her into an embrace. He inhaled the scent of her hair—and for the first time, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was what love truly felt like.

"I'm so happy," she giggled against his neck, kissing it. "You have no idea."

"Well I had another plan ready, if you'd believe it. There's a God-damned mountain of presents on your walk."

She let out an ecstatic squeak and ran for the door. "Oh my God!" she screamed, her hands at her face. She practically vaulted into his arms, covering his face in kisses. "I'm so glad you didn't show me this before, I would've taken you back right away and you'd have never learned..."

He groaned aloud.

Jacquelyn shushed him long enough to glance outside once more. "Take me upstairs to my room," she said with a sly look. "My parents won't be home for a while."

Marcus raised his brows. "What about the presents?"

"They'll be here when we come back," she said. His favorite naughty grin was back, the one that promised a solid hour of mattress-squeaking sin to come.

Which was one offer he was more than happy to accept. "Fine by me," he smirked, lifting the girl in his arms and carrying her up the stairs.

He found himself in a necropolis, a forest of mausoleums and headstones reaching from the mist-covered earth. He recognized this place, vaguely, but he couldn't quite ascribe a name to it. Thinking on it, he didn't recall how he had gotten here, either. But he knew right away that he didn't want to be here.

Dark shapes lurked in the fog, ever present, never fully resolved. He had the distinct feeling that they were hunting him. But there was no escaping them; the fog was everywhere, and so were they. Dread began to rise in his heart—because he was dreaming again, he knew it, and no matter how hard he willed himself to, he could not wake up. Something wouldn't let him.

"Marcus. My son."

He spun around. There was his mother, pale with death, her burial shroud clinging tight to her scrawny frame. He froze, numb with fright. All he could do was shut his eyes as tight as they would go. "This is a dream, mother, let me wake up..." Despite himself, his eyes came open again—to find the corpse right in front of him. Her milky pupils stared, sightless. He smelled decay.

"Go now," she rasped. "You must not linger. Go."

He stayed, rooted to the spot by terror.

"Go!" his mother shrieked.

And he sat bolt upright in his bed, his heart thumping against his ribs. He scrubbed the sweat out of his eyes with shaking hands, and did his best to recover his wits. He had been having nightmares for weeks now. The ones in the past few nights had been particularly bad—despite making amends with Jacquelyn, and despite her warmth beside him. Never had the nightmares been as terrible as this, though. The stench of rotting flesh still hung in his nose, and he could practically hear his mother's shriek echoing in his ears.

"Marcus?" It was Jacquelyn. She was propped up on her elbows, studying him with red-rimmed eyes. She yawned and asked in a hazy voice, "Are you dreaming again?"

He nodded.

She patted the bed, and as he lay back down, she cuddled up against his side. "Better," she mumbled. Then, just as quickly as she had woken up, she was asleep again.

Marcus envied her. The last thing he wanted to do was fall back asleep, but with her up against him there was little choice. He tried his best to stay awake, but comfort and weariness gradually eroded his resolve until at last, his unwilling eyes shut on their own.

Then he was back in the necropolis, the wet fog cold on his skin. A stone angel looked down on him, her face crumbled away. Mist rolled around his feet, and those hulking, formless shapes were surrounding him once more. Terror engulfed him again. He knew his mother would be waiting for him.

"Why are you here?" her deathly voice demanded.

He didn't turn around—just bowed his head and closed his eyes. "I'm dreaming," he said to himself. "She isn't real."

"There is no time! Go at once!"

A hand locked on his arm with ice-cold fingers and pulled him around. His mother's skeletal face glared at him, hung with strands of thin dark hair that fell out in patches.

"Marcus! Wake up!" she cried. "Wake up!"

He did. Now there was no mistake—this had been no ordinary dream. His arm ached where his mother's fingers had dug in, vice-like. He rolled up his sleeve, expecting to see marks. There were none, but he couldn't deny the pain.

Well, there was no point in going back to sleep now. Carefully, so that he didn't wake Jacquelyn, Marcus eased out from under the covers. He glanced at the window. It was pitch dark outside, and still raining. Cold goosebumps popped up on his skin as he pulled on some clothes, then boots, and finally his longsword. With a last longing glance at the bed, he slipped out of the bedroom, through the foyer, and out of his chambers.

"Your highness?" Darkness obscured Blaxley's features—just as well, since he had none worth mentioning—as he sat on a chair in the hall, but Marcus heard his tired yawn well enough. "Is the day too short for you or something?"

"Come on, Blaxley. We're leaving."

To his utmost credit, the man-at-arms hesitated barely an instant before he got to his feet. "Right, as you say. Where to?"

Marcus had to think about that. His mother had told him to go, but she hadn't seemed to care about the destination. There seemed only one logical choice. "The necropolis."

It was raining outside, just as it had for the past week. Storm clouds, invisible against the black sky, spat showers from the heavens, dousing the unfortunate city below with water. Ancellon's sewers were overflowing, unable to keep up with the downpour. The stench of human waste was overpowering even high above on the palace steps.

"Are you sure about this, your highness?" Blaxley inquired. He looked over the square below, parts of which were ankle-deep in water.

"Not exactly," Marcus said, privately thinking that his mother had picked a hell of a time to send him out on an errand. Steeling himself, he stepped out from under the Atrium's sheltering roof and into the falling rain.

By the time they reached the stables, they were soaked. One sleeping groom was manning the bay. He grudgingly saddled two horses for them, and before they'd even left, he was on his chair snoring again.

Heroes' Square wasn't the storm's only victim. Ancellon was practically a lake. Its streets were transformed into flowing rivers, covered in inches of murky brown water. The horses splashed through it without complaint, though their heads hung low with unvoiced misery. Their road was the Royal Way. The city stewards had lit the lampposts, which was a blessing; if not for their dim yellow light, Marcus and Blaxley would have been utterly blind.

Rain and wind buffeted Marcus's face and turned his hair into a tangled wet mess clinging to his scalp. His muscles trembled in a useless effort to battle the cold. He could feel his mare quivering between his knees too, made skittish by the intermittent peals of thunder. He clenched his teeth and rode on, hoping to God that he'd been called out here for a reason.

Without warning, a flash of lightning turned night into day, and thunder split the air with a deafening clap. Marcus's horse whinnied, panic-stricken, and reared back on its hind legs, flinging him off its back. With a terrific splash, he landed in the water. Hard cobblestones were not far beneath the surface. Pain lanced up his left side.

"Shit," he gasped, spitting out water that tasted like just that. The mare galloped off into the night without a second thought.

Blaxley was already helping him up. "You alright?"

"Did something to my wrist," Marcus winced, flexing the joint. It moved, albeit stiffly. "No, I'm alright." He looked up—and caught motion on a nearby side street. A number of dark figures were jostling around in a tight bundle. He thought he could hear shouting above the wind and rain. He loosened his sword in its sheath. "Over there, let's see what's happening."

They left Blaxley's horse milling in the middle of the Royal Way and half-waded, half-strode toward the commotion. As they approached, it became clear that they had chanced onto a scuffle. There were five men in all. Four of them had formed a loose circle around the fifth and were knocking him around inside it, swiping punches and lashing out with low kicks whenever he regained some balance. Marcus heard the distinctive packing sound of fist meeting flesh, punctuated by grunts of exertion.

"Fight back, you piece of shit," one of the attackers jeered.

A right hook put the unfortunate fifth fellow on the ground. He wallowed in the rank water for a moment before rolling to his knees. "Come on, you've got more than that," said another coward, with a kick to the gut for good measure. This time, the fellow sank down and didn't get back up.

Marcus drew his sword. The four men still standing whirled at the sound of ringing steel—and he recognized them. Especially the biggest of the lot. "Leave off, de Martine," he said levelly, though his pulse raced with anger.

Jaspar's shoulder's tensed. "De Pilars," he said in mock greeting, covering his tension with a laugh. "It's a bit past your bedtime, isn't it, Boor Princeling?"

"Your mother wasn't keen on letting me go," replied Marcus.

Jaspar laughed again. "That's good. Really good. I'd say the same of yours, but she isn't taking many lovers these days, is she?"

Even with the freezing rain, Marcus felt his blood running cold with rage. "So what's all this, de Martine? I didn't think even you were low enough to kick a man while he's down."

"This?" The big lad gave the prostrate form a hard toe in the ribs. It wheezed, cursed up at him in Kydonian—in a voice Marcus recognized. Evgeny Pronin's. "We're settling an old score, here. It doesn't concern you."

"Settling it four-on-one, eh? That's something you'd stoop to, alright." It was all he could do not to charge the cowards and take them on himself. He gave in just enough to take a step forward.

They presently drew their blades.

Well and good. Four cowards against one proper swordsman were good odds, in his mind. He tossed his sword point in circles, all nonchalance. "I'll tell you what. You all leave, right now, and I won't put a mark on any one of you. I won't even tell your precious fathers what you've done."

Naive "Might be that we're in the mood for a proper fight," one of them braved. Marcus recognized that one, too. "No fucking quality," he'd said once before—to his and Vernon's backs.

"Might be that I'll follow my own advice and give you a pretty scar, de Mexvel," Marcus retorted. "That weasel face of yours could still use one. Then I'll take you, de Martine, while the rest of your mates run for it. And my man here," he tossed his chin at Blaxley, who had suddenly appeared on a rooftop overlooking the scene with his bow drawn, "will shoot them at his leisure."

The coward tried to raise another taunt, but Jaspar cut him off with a hand gesture. He took a step forward, spreading his arms wide. "So it's come to this, eh? You'd spill noble blood over some Kydonian wretch."

Marcus chuckled without amusement. "That depends on how you define noble blood. Because me, I don't see any of it here." He pointed his sword. "Your move."

Jaspar's blue eyes flickered up at Blaxley, whose string lost more twang with each moment spent in the rain—then at Marcus, whose contempt had met its equal. "Fine." He sheathed his sword, wisely reckoning that a duel with the crown prince was not at all to his advantage. "Your time will come, de Pilars," he said over his shoulder. He passed Evgeny, then disappeared into a side alley. His worthless friends followed, looking back at Marcus disdainfully—but only once they were at a safe distance.

"Don't keep me waiting too long, de Martine!" Marcus called. Once they were gone, he sheathed his own sword and hurried over to Evgeny. The Kydonian was on his knees again, holding his ribs—but as ever, his expression betrayed no pain. Marcus helped him up by the armpit, admiring his stoicism all the while. "How bad are you?"

Evgeny covered up a cough. "I will live," he said grimly—which was true, but only just. Blood ran freely from a cut on his brow, his eyes were already beginning to swell, and his lips were cracked and bleeding. Ignoring the dizziness he surely felt, the young Kydonian stooped to retrieve his cap from the water. He wringed the water out of it and carefully pulled it over his blonde hair.

Marcus started leading him off. "I'll take you to the palace. I'll have a chirurgeon see to your wounds."

"Thank you," Evgeny said, but he gently pulled Marcus's hand off his arm. "But this is not necessary. I will sleep and I will be well in morning."

"You're sure?"

He nodded.

If there was ever such thing as a man, Marcus decided, Evgeny was a prime candidate. He cracked a grin. "You're a tough bastard, is what you are. Where're you staying, then? We'll take you there." Evgeny was willing to allow that, at least. He led Marcus to a nearby inn, quite close to Heroes' Square. They trudged inside, trekking rancid water, and settled by the hearth to dry off. Holding his hands close to the orange coals, Marcus asked Evgeny, "So what happened?"

As it turned out, the chain of events had been rather predictable. For reasons he would not specify, the Kydonian had been wandering the streets alone when Jaspar and his minions happened across him. They had followed him until cornering him in the side street. "You came not long after," he finished. "And what of you, Elessian prince? What has brought you here at such late hour? And," he added in a suspicious tone, "with such fortunate timing?"

"Well." Marcus frowned, thinking about his recurring dream—about his mother's walking corpse screaming for him to get out of bed, and the all-too-real pain in his arm when he hadn't. She had wanted him to save Evgeny. The only question was why. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

Evgeny nodded slowly. "You would be surprised, if you heard some of the things we Kydonians believe. But, you may keep your secrets, for you have let me keep mine." As he spoke, he fished a tiny wineskin out of his pocket. He took a draught and offered it to Marcus, who accepted.

He followed with a swig of his own. Vodka. Fighting down a grimace, he offered it back to Evgeny, but the young man waved his hands and pointed to Blaxley. The man-at-arms drank gratefully, gave the skin back, then retreated to go stand by the door, keeping a watch for danger.

Marcus leaned over. "If you wish it, you can press for compensation from Jaspar's family. I would stand by your claim. They'd be obligated to pay."

"Perhaps," Evgeny mused aloud, "instead of coin, this family—these de Martines—they would sponsor us, so that we might speak to your Parliament."

Marcus's chuckle had some bitterness behind it. "You would have a much better chance at coin."

"Then I wish nothing."

Marcus stared at the embers. "What's so important that you would stand in this hell-spawned rain for weeks on end? Now look at you—your eyes are almost swollen shut, and the first thing you think of is talking to Parliament. Why?"

"It is my task. My duty. I must not fail."

"What would happen, then, if you did fail?"

The Kydonian regarded him for a long time before answering—and then, with just one dreadful word. "War."

Marcus's stomach felt hollow. He rubbed his jaw, fighting the urge to ask all the obvious questions—why, when, how—because he knew it would do no good. "You're certain of this?"

"Yes, your highness." With his set tone, there was no reason to doubt him, though Marcus wished with all his heart that he had been lying.

Now—now, those half-forgotten nightmares that had plagued him for weeks were fresh in his mind. He remembered seeing black ash swirling round and round, stirred by wind that stoked the raging fires surrounding him—a once-great city reduced to ruin, its people lying butchered in the streets, sprawled between toppled temple spires and burning buildings.

_This nation will crumble, and with it, every nation in this circle of the world_. Mirela's words were becoming more prophetic by the day. Everything was beginning to fall into place. Marcus saw it all—a nobility corrupted by power and wealth, a people disillusioned by poverty and never-ending war, and a king too weak to mend the rift between them both. And even as Elessia rotted from within, new threats continued to rise from without. The northerners, emboldened by their recent victory, would no longer be content to raid small coastal villages. Lyrian pirates would continue to humble the Elessian navy while fattening themselves on merchant shipping. And now, Kydona threatened to rise again, plunging Elessia into a war that it could not afford.

Evgeny knew his duty; so did Marcus. He could not allow pride to stand in his way, not for a matter this important.

There was only one more question for him to ask. "If I were to grant you my sponsorship, and if you spoke with Parliament—could we prevent this war from happening?"

"Yes," Evgeny said, promptly.

Marcus nodded. He could already hear the nobility denouncing him, his father censuring him, all of Elessia despising him as a collaborator and traitor. But it was the right thing to do. "Then I am your sponsor."

†††

The Sanctum's galleries were packed with nobility—a baying mass, protruding with shaking fists, oscillating with obscene gestures that dazzled the eye with their variety. There was little to distinguish Elessia's nobles from the commoners they ruled. Their refined accents made their bellowed oaths all the more ridiculous, and their ornate dress was disheveled from hours of heated stalemate.

Government, Marcus thought, was an ugly thing up close—no matter the ideals that it was founded upon.

King Audric sat on his gilded throne at the head of the chamber, elevated on a platform that rose even higher than the Parliamentary galleries—but his crown sat crookedly on his head, and sweat beaded his harried face, both reminders that even though Ancel's blood ran through his veins, he was still just a man.

The Council of Highest were just as fallible. The seven high lords sat on smaller seats to each side of their king, looking either angry or annoyed. Lord de Isnell murmured a message to his steward, who proceeded to deliver it to his supporters in the galleries via a series of complicated hand signals. Other stewards conferred orally with their masters' opponents. If politics meant cutting deals, then the deals were lying in pieces.

Marcus sat on one of the many seats lining the floor below the galleries, just close enough to befit his station. The cushion had once been luxuriously stuffed, but half a day after meeting his ass's acquaintance it was flatter than a sheet of parchment and notably less comfortable. He shifted, feeling blisters coming on.

"Apple?" offered Vernon, producing yet another one from his coat pocket. The fruit's skin was a mass of tender spots, and Marcus suspected his best mate of concealing a bite on the other side of it, so he declined. Shrugging, Vernon chomped into it, spattering the floor and nearby nobles with juice. "Wish I'd brought a wineskin," he said with his mouth full.

"Wish they'd just table the business," said Marcus, frustration bubbling through his tone. He had been listening to Parliament's bickering for hours on end as they debated on how to best reconstruct the archives. There existed copies of almost every record that had been lost—in the Royal Watch's forts, and in the possession of various lords and dukes throughout the chamber—but Parliament had succeeded in complicating the mundane task of copying those in turn. It was an orgy of accusation and shady negotiation—because in fact, there were those who stood to profit by the loss of certain records, and they were more than willing to negotiate to ensure that those records stayed lost.

But of course, they disguised their self-serving motives as noble-intentioned. "I merely suggest that the wording of this particular record could have been miscopied," one protested to a steward. "My own records would indicate just that."

The steward adopted a skeptical look. "So you can recall the precise wording on this particular tax document, my lord? It's rather obscure, I'm sure you know. My Lord de Morent had heard many claims such as yours today, and all of them equally suspect. He will not be receptive."

The lord scowled. He leaned in and said in a low voice, "I assure your esteemed lord that I will be... grateful... for his support in this matter."

With a sly nod, the steward departed.

"Well played, my lord," Marcus commented, just to let him know that he wasn't as smooth as he reckoned. The man turned up his nose and looked away. In truth, Marcus could not have cared much less. Parliament was an honorless arena, a maze of bribery and back deals, and he would have been a fool to think it otherwise.

He just wished they would get to the business that truly mattered. Just outside the doors, in the entry of the Keep, the Kydonian emissaries were waiting.

He looked up at the head of the chamber; his father was staring back at him with his eyes set and his mouth drawn into a frown. Marcus knew why: his father had heard Parliament's order of business before the day began. He knew who stood outside, and who had put them there.

The king was not pleased.

Marcus met his stare evenly. He even smirked. "Get it over with, old man," he said half-aloud.

"What's that, now?" Vernon asked, spitting pieces of apple everywhere. He looked thoughtfully at the core, mulling it over, then popped that into his mouth as well.

"This day is about to get more interesting," Marcus told him.

"Oh, brilliant. I'm all out of apples. And I've got to piss."

As Marcus shook his head, the noise in the Sanctum began to die down. He looked to the throne again and saw his father standing, his arms spread. The conversation gradually quieted as people took their seats, frowning unhappily—except the stewards, who looked nothing but grateful for the reprieve.

King Audric raised his voice. "My dear lords. This has been a long day, and a trying one for us all. The matter of rebuilding the Royal Archives is a matter that will not be resolved with one day of debate. But I assure you, we will resolve it in weeks to come. With that promise, I hereby declare the matter tabled until the next session. Two days hence," he raised his hands again, waiting for quiet as the chamber rumbled with discontent, and as it did, he continued, "two days hence, we will adjourn once more to discuss it. For now, however, we must move on to our last matter."

Chatter rose once more as Elessia's lords speculated on what this could possibly be.

King Audric's jaw muscles clenched. His eyes carefully avoided Marcus as he pronounced, "This esteemed Parliament recognizes Andrei Miasoedov Pronin of Kydona."

Silence born of shock fell over the chamber. The reinforced doors boomed as the bolts came undone, then groaned apart. A trio of figures stood silhouetted in the opening, gazing over the packed galleries with impeccable composure. A chamberlain tapped his cane on the floor, and the Kydonians began their long walk up the aisle.

The silence died quickly, replaced by an insulted uproar. Nobles were on their feet, shaking their fists at the emissaries as they passed. They shook their heads and muttered indignantly to their neighbors, unified for once not by duty or patriotism or honor, but by contempt.

To their credit, the Kydonians took no notice of the clamor surrounding them. They moved with careful dignity, their eyes staring straight ahead under their caps, their long coats dragging on the floor behind them. None of them acknowledged Marcus as they passed him—not even Evgeny.

Marcus did the same. He kept his face rigidly passive as he watched them go by. In the privacy of his thoughts, though, he wished them the best of luck.

"That's far enough," his father said as they neared the base of his throne. His tone, like the words themselves, was undiplomatic at best.

The Kydonians halted side-by-side at the base of the steps, a lesser mirror of the spot where they had waited so long for this recognition. They bowed as one in their queer eastern manner. The nobility had fallen more or less silent, but their snickers were audible. "Simpletons mimicking better men," said the lord beside Marcus.

He almost reminded the man that he had just bribed a high lord to cut his own expenses, but opted against it.

From atop his throne, King Audric made a lazy gesture at the emissaries below. "Speak your business, sirs."

The nobles hummed, pleased by the lack of proper title—but again, the Kydonians would not be moved. Andrei took a half-step forward, bowed once more, and said, "Your majesty, King Audric. Lords of Elessia." If his lined face had not been of a grim set before, it certainly was now as he stared around the chamber, his grey eyes hard enough to bore holes through stone. Custom dictated that speakers thank the assembly for their graciousness and generosity, but Andrei Pronin, whether by accident or design, dispensed with the courtesy.

His next words were quite the opposite of customary. "We come to your country in name of our Tsaritsa Nadiya Sidorovna Yeskevich."

The racket that arose then was close to deafening, but it was no longer mere indignity. Men cried out in disbelief, consternation, even fear.

Marcus kept his silence, but he was cursing himself yet again as a fool. Evgeny had given him only a fraction of the truth.

King Audric's face was red. His voice was laced with fury as he spat just one disbelieving word. "Tsaritsa?"

"Nadiya, born of Sidor and Ishild, youngest of their children and guardian of our motherland."

"Sidor and his wife are dead, sir," pronounced Audric, dangerously. "Their line is extinguished." A kind euphemism. The tsar's son, the tsarevich, had been slain on the battlefield at his father's side. His wife and daughters had been put to death in their palace as the city Kamengrad burned around them—an evil deed, but a necessary one, enacted so that none of them could rise to claim their birthright in the future.

But with a shake of his head, Andrei confirmed that that was precisely what had transpired. "Nadiya Sidorovna lives," he declared. "She sends with us tidings, and makes offer."

Again, Audric's eyes found his son, blaming him for this disaster. In his disgust, he did not keep Marcus's gaze for long. He raised his hands, quieting the shouts of denial and outrage from around the chamber. "Very well then, emissary. If we cannot ignore this imposter laying claim to Kydona, give us her offer, so that we know what we're about to reject."

Grim laughter echoed. As it did, Andrei gestured toward his son Evgeny, who stepped forward, unfurling a rolled parchment. He read aloud, and in much better Elessian than his father, "Sixteen years ago, Elessia waged war on the motherland, and conquered her thus. The time since has proven that Kydona has not been merely defeated, but subjugated. Elessia claims to have brought the light of justice to Kydona, yet our people see none of this. Instead, they suffer. Our lands are ruled over by lords whose foreignness makes them ignorant and therefore cruel. These men have no understanding of Kydona's people. They do not speak our language and so do not hear our pleas. They scoff at our Gods and punish those who worship them. They demand unfair labor of their serfs and take much of the crop, so that we starve in winter. They conscript the ablest of men against their will to work in the mines, which is slavery and an abomination against any God. They deny the people weapons, yet give no protection against raiders from the north. These Elessian lords enforce their rule through soldiers, men who commit unspeakable crimes yet face no justice.

"The motherland has endured thus for sixteen years, and shall no more.

"I, Nadiya Sidorovna, as tsaritsa and protector of Kydona's people, offer these terms. Despite Elessia's many transgressions, I wish earnestly for peace between our two nations, and so I name the following terms in good will.

"All Elessian lords shall immediately relinquish any claim to Kydonian land." Angry murmuring filled the Sanctum—but the tsaritsa was not finished. Evgeny pressed on with his reading. "All Elessian strongholds east of the Utmar Mountains shall be vacated, at once, and all Elessian soldiers within shall surrender their arms. All Kydonians held in bondage or custody shall be immediately released. Elessia shall recognize the sovereignty of Kydona and her ruler: I, Nadiya Sidorovna. King Audric shall pledge non-aggression for the remainder of his reign and shall recognize the border as agreed between Tsar Sidor and King Basil. Finally, all Elessians shall depart Kydona across this border upon the first rainfall of spring."

Evgeny paused for his next breath—during which time a lord shouted, "Preposterous!"

"How dare she!" cried another.

"Hang the dogs, all of them!"

More and more joined in until the chamber reverberated with calls for blood. The dreadnaughts lining the sides stirred, gripping their spears tight as they eyed the discord from beneath their plumed helmets. Audric sneered down at the three Kydonians with enviable disdain, likely agreeing wholeheartedly with his noble peers.

For his part, Marcus watched with masked unease, and wondered what kind of hell-spawned storm he had unleashed by allowing the Kydonians their time with Parliament. Their offer could mean only war. This tsaritsa's terms may have been justified and reasonable in her mind, but to the lords of Elessia, they were a slap across the face—a low blow, aimed straight at their pride.

Audric spread his hands again, but with everyone so bent on hurling venom, few took notice. He stood, his mouth moving to form soothing words that were immediately lost to the cacophony of shouts and curses. Finally he nodded at a chamberlain on the side of the chamber. The servant hauled on a cord, unleashing a peal of heavy bells. Ringing pierced the chamber, reverberating almost painfully against Marcus's eardrums.

Parliament fell into a brooding silence. In it, the king addressed the Kydonians once more. "And what does your tsaritsa offer in return for her reasonable demands?" His voice was calm, but his fists were clenched at his sides, quivering with barely-suppressed rage.

At his father's nod, Evgeny picked up where he had been interrupted. "In return, I offer clemency to all Elessians residing in Kydona. All are granted safe passage to Elessia. There shall be no retaliation of any kind. No tribute is demanded, and no recompense is desired. In order to ensure lasting peace between our nations, and as a gesture of faith and good will..." The young Kydonian stopped dead. His eyes tore through the line a second time, then a third, not quite believing what they had read.

"Well?" The king prodded, his patience all but spent.

Evgeny's throat worked visibly—perhaps the most emotion Marcus had ever seen him display. "...as a gesture of faith and good will, I offer my hand in marriage to your royal heir, the Lord Prince Marcus Audric de Pilars."

For one precious moment, all was still as the assembled lords of Parliament looked at each other, stunned by the audacity of this false queen and her lackeys. Eyes turned on Marcus, who held his composure despite his roiling thoughts, stirred by the impossible prospect of taking this tsaritsa as his wife.

His father let out chuckle, low and dry. "This must be a joke. No regent would offer terms like these and expect us to accept them." The forced laughter quickly faded. Audric stood with fire in his eyes. "No, you insult this honored Parliament. You connive your way to the spot upon which you stand, like the snakes you are—snakes in the employ of a harlot! This woman has no claim to Kydona, a land which Elessia won in righteous battle. And yet she expects us to willingly abandon it, simply because she demands it? And she goes further still! She dares to play at magnanimity! Faith and good will?" He snorted with outraged disbelief. The chamber harrumphed in agreement.

Audric glared down at the Kydonians with menace and contempt. "And how does this tsaritsa intend to act, once we reject these ludicrous terms?"

Andrei inclined his head. "We shall defend our motherland."

"She threatens us with war?" the king near-shouted in his fury, his eyes fairly bulging out of his head. "Give your God-damned tsaritsa this reply: we reject your terms. A thousand times, we reject them! We treat your words as a declaration of war. Indeed, we welcome it!"

The men of Parliament were standing too—the high lords, the dukes, all on their feet, jeering and rattling their fists at the three emissaries below. The Kydonians, for their part, wore somber expressions. Surely they had known their mission would fail. With such insulting demands, how could they have possibly succeeded?

The declamation last a long time. Gobbets of spit took to flight, spattering at the Kydonians' feet. The railings on the galleries shook from the boos and taunting whistles. Salvoes of insults echoed off the walls. Above it all, the king signaled for the guards to come forward, his face tensed between grimness and satisfaction.

Marcus watched the king's dreadnaughts clamp their armored gauntlets over the Kydonians' arms—first Evgeny, then the Kydonian whose name Marcus hadn't bothered to learn, and finally Andrei. The old foreigner stared up at the king with what might have been fury, though his flint-grey eyes and solid-hewn face made it difficult to tell at the best of times.

"You have been warned, Elessian king!" Heedless to Andrei's yells, the guards hauled him and his fellows from the chamber, as a parent would steer a wayward child. Evgeny passed once again—only this time, it was Marcus who refused to look his way.

Instead, the prince gazed down at the tiles, wondering to himself why his mother had woken him and sent him into the rain, why those red stars had fallen on the eastern horizon—what he had done wrong, if heeding both those signs had only succeeded in bringing war to Elessia, once again.

Chapter 11

Parliament left the Sanctum. Their loose tongues were soon wagging aplenty. The news rang at court first, where the eager courtiers devoured it whole, and then spat it into the streets. By dusk, every mother's son in the city had heard: Kydona had risen again. Elessia was at war.

The king stayed ensconced in the Sanctum for the rest of the day. He banished the Council of Highest for the time being; he would summon them again in the days to follow, once he ascertained how many fighting men and how much money to beg them for. Marcus thought it prudent to leave as well. That left the king alone with Lord Marshal Gerant, who had survived the loss of his hand and the fever that followed. Together, Elessia's two highest commanders sketched out their predicament. They worked quickly. Within half an hour, riders were tearing from the stables with dispatches destined for Arlimont and the other Royal Watch strongholds.

Marcus loitered around the palace, certain that his father would have plenty of words for him soon enough. But soon turned to later, then even later, until the Atrium was empty of courtiers and the chill nighttime air poured in to take their place.

Finally, he gave up waiting and retired to his chambers, regretting his earlier decision to tell Jacquelyn to stay at home. He had scarcely shut the door when a few quiet knocks sounded on the other side. "My lord prince," a muffled voice said through the thick oak, "the king summons you to his chambers."

Marcus straightened his clothes and made his way down the hall, with each step breeding new thoughts of how his father planned to punish him. Steeling himself, he rapped on his father's chamber door.

"Enter."

Audric's living quarters were much like his son's, only the rooms were larger and the decoration more ornate. The sitting area's table was topped with a sheet of solid gold, upon which one could still see the outlines of the plundered foreign coins that comprised it. The velvet seat cushions were stuffed with goose feathers, which got replaced whenever they started losing their spring. Old paintings—painstakingly restored—hung on the walls, depicting the many great men and women of Audric's lineage.

"Here," his father said from the study.

Marcus stepped through the glass-paned doors. His eyes skimmed briefly over the captured enemy standards concealing the walls, and the looted artifacts on the shelves that were meant for books. There was the hated Tsar Sidor's crowned helmet, a barbarian warlord's buckled great-axe, and similar trinkets.

And his father. The man sat rigid on a chair behind the desk, staring implacably at his wayward son. Roslene was present as well. She stood with a bejeweled hand on his shoulder, studying Marcus with an impenetrable look.

"You called for me, father." Marcus should have inclined his head, but didn't.

"As you knew I would." The words slipped out in low growl. "You have circumvented me. You have made a fool out of me. Why?"

Marcus glanced at Roslene, hating that she was here. Forty paces away was the bed where she had disgraced his mother. He had refused to look at the thing when he came in. "I'm guilty of the first, not the second."

"Explain."

"I spoke to the Kydonians on my own. I admit it. I learned their intention was war. Had I not given them my leave to speak to Parliament, they would have left. They would have started this war and caught our armies unawares. They had terms to offer. I gave them a means to do so. So. I say I spared you from embarrassment. Father."

The tone had been respectful, but the words were insolent. The latter affected Audric more. His cheeks took on an angry red—but just as he opened his mouth to put that anger to words, Roslene swept in.

"If I may, Audric."

At her mellifluous voice, the man's temper abruptly mellowed. He gave her a gentle nod.

Her emerald eyes fixed on Marcus. "There is a more pertinent question: Why did you seek out the Kydonians in the first place?" To naive ears, that may have seemed a gentle rebuke at most.

Marcus knew better. He stared evenly, and said just so, "What makes you think I sought them out?"

But like him, Roslene knew a lie when she saw one. After all, she was the one who had taught him to do it so well. "Do not think for a moment that your actions go unnoticed. There were eyes on you from the moment you left the palace to see the Kydonian, this Evgeny Pronin." She let that revelation sink in for a moment. "We know him, yes. Perhaps you were confused as to why he was out in a rainstorm that night, when you brought him back to his tavern. Do not deny it, the tavern keeper is in my employ. Perhaps you will do us some courtesy and tell us what you said to the Kydonian that night."

Marcus didn't bother answering. She knew already.

She sighed. "He had just come back from a meeting with one of my girls. He told her precisely the same as he told you. Perhaps now you are thinking there is a reason your father and I ignored this Pronin. You would be correct." Roslene's eyes were cold with ridicule. "We were buying ourselves time. The longer those men stayed here, the more time we had to make our war preparations. Your father was just beginning to draw up his battle plans. I was attempting to find coin to finance a new campaign. Now you have put events in motion, prematurely. Your haste may well have ruined us, Marcus."

"He has ruined us!" blared Audric, unable to contain himself any longer. "The Kydonians would have waited until the roads were set to close up before they left. Now they have the answer they wanted, and the roads are still clear. They'll make Kydona within a week, and their God-damned tsaritsa has a solid month of campaigning weather to make her move."

"Send out riders," Marcus suggested, trying not to sound nearly as lame as he felt. It was a difficult task. "Warn the landholders and the frontier forts to be ready for anything."

Audric raised a fist to pound on his desk with fury, but Roslene added her other hand to his shoulder, and he settled for an aggravated groan. "Do you think we haven't done that already? We sent riders the day before yesterday. What good will it do? Even if our people in Kydona get our warning, even if they can cobble together some sort of defense in time, they'll have to hold out until summer at the very least. I'd told them to make for Kamengrad to stage a primary defense but now there's no time. You've seen to that."

Marcus could almost feel himself withering under the look Roslene and his father gave him. Every word drove home the magnificence of his failure. Men were going to die thanks to him.

"Maybe next time you will think before you circumvent me," Audric pronounced, lurching to his feet, sighing in exasperation. Every one of his fifty years showed in his tired eyes. Grey whiskers seemed to protrude from his beard as the sun's waning light silhouetted his face in the window. He looked out over his city and murmured, apparently to himself, "Ruined."

Solemn quiet ruled the chamber for several moments. Roslene broke it first. "There's still the question of Marcus. What shall we do with him?"

The prince quelled a fearful thrill.

When Audric did not answer, his consort persisted, "It is only a matter of time until the court discovers what he's done. They will think him a traitor. If hotter heads prevail..."

"Lie," said the king.

Roslene thought that over. "Perhaps. He could winter at Aubigne. He would be safe there until affairs have calmed somewhat... but I believe I have a better alternative."

"And that is...?"

"Your orders call for an advance force out of Fort Ligny—one regiment. Have Marcus volunteer to command them." The king began to voice his reply, and Marcus's pulse spiked, but Roslene held up a placating hand. "He will volunteer, but you will kindly turn him down. I will have the rumor circulated that the war to come is insurrection, nothing more, and you see no need to commit your son to some backwater conflict. Your son's image will not only remain..." She searched for a proper word to describe his reputation. "...intact... but you will also ease fears at court and among the populace. They will believe this war will be short and bloodless."

"Which is a lie."

"Yes. But it will not come from your lips."

Marcus had to admire the woman's cunning. Still, he was anything but grateful.

Audric stared out the window as if he had not heard. War gripped his thoughts—and dread. But he listened just enough to give a slight nod of agreement.

It was a dismissal, they both knew. They turned and silently left, neither looking at the other until they had stepped into the hallway. Statues surrounded them, the likenesses of kings and queens better than either could ever hope to be.

Roslene glanced sideways at Marcus. "The things I do for you," she whispered. With that, the king's consort strode off with her hips swiveling beneath her skirt, leaving him with only his own imbecility for company.

†††

The remainder of fall passed quickly. Just as Audric had predicted, the rain stopped for a spell. The mud dried and for a few weeks, the roads were clear. Traders took the opportunity to hurry their last caravans of the year out of the city. In the countryside, farmers gave their fields a final plowing, loosening the soil to ease their springtime workload.

And Elessia prepared for war.

Couriers made their rounds from door to door, their satchels bursting with sheets of parchment. Elessia's men were being called on to fight once again. Soldiers from Arlimont found their leave cancelled. They left the taverns, inns, and brothels sulking and swearing. The city's men, most of them reservists, watched the hordes of full-time soldiers departing the city with some measure of optimism, hoping that they wouldn't be needed themselves. Those hopes were soon dashed as the couriers arrived at their doors, brandishing rosters bearing their names.

As the Royal Watch mustered, a giant encampment rose up around Fort Arlimont, built by swarms of requisitioned quarry laborers. Row upon row of canvas tents took shape, from humble triangles that housed pairs of soldiers to the gargantuan command tents from which the officers led. All the tents were soon occupied as the king's army reported for duty—first the full-time professionals, the true Royal Watch; then the reservists, pulled from their homes to fill the holes in the ranks. The northern campaign had been costly, and there were many fresh faces to be seen. More than a few of the conscripts were lads, only recently Novitiates.

It took still more men to outfit the army. Smiths were yanked from the city to hammer out weapons and armor for the growing army. Leatherworkers, tailors, and wagon drivers were not spared from the king's roll call either. The army conscripted chirurgeons to keep the men healthy, and cooks to keep them fed. And of course, no supply or aid would have reached any company, battalion, or regiment without the expertise of another veritable army on its own, one that wielded quills and parchment rather than swords and shields: clerks, administrators, logisticians.

Chaos seemed to rule. There was so much to be done, so many preparations to be made—and everyone was trying to do it at once. Officers bickered among themselves, each convinced that his unit had the greatest need for armor, food, or whatever. Administrators got harassed from every quarter, their expertise constantly needed. The linemen, the ordinary soldiers, often got overlooked. There were simply too many thousands of them to supervise. Every morning, there were gaps in formation. Some men snuck off in the night to visit their families. Others could be found sleeping in one of the many whore tents that had sprung up around camp, having drunk themselves senseless the previous evening. Gambling grew common. Fights broke out with alarming regularity.

When King Audric inspected the camp with his son, he made a dry comment to the lord marshal on the state of his army. The lord marshal calmly advised the three generals—Somervell, Dupisre and Deboer—to get their divisions in order. The generals rounded on their regimental commanders, who yelled at their battalion colonels, who went apoplectic on the company captains. The captains might have murdered the lieutenants in their all-encompassing rage, but instead they screamed until the young junior officers were practically shitting their pants. The terrorized lieutenants passed the news to their sergeants, who each called the fifty soldiers of their battle line to formation. There, the sergeants informed the men that the king had singled them out as the single worst battle line in the whole fucking army, that they were a shit-awful disgrace, that they ought to execute every one of them and wouldn't feel badly about it. The sergeants were more prudent than to follow through on such threats. Rather, they gave the very worst soldiers five lashes, then consigned the remainder to latrine duty, reduced rations, and like punishments.

Chastised, the Royal Watch gradually came to order. The same kind of scene would be playing out at Forts Ligny, Trescott, and Ingold. A fortnight after the Kydonians delivered their terms, the king's army numbered fifteen thousand men, most of them at Arlimont. That number could well triple if the high lords kept their promise and supplied men from their provinces. But a month into the war preparations, only Vernon's father, Ronold, had contributed soldiers—and only a few battalions at that. Marcus couldn't blame him; Muegette was a small province, sparsely populated. The other high lords had no such excuse.

Then again, Marcus wasn't that much better. Roslene's plan worked flawlessly. Marcus offered his military service, Audric politely declined, and Roslene made it known that the king saw no good reason to involve his son in such a minor conflict. The nobility was happy to accept their king's supposed line of reasoning; now they could avoid the war in good conscience.

Marcus's own was in turmoil. He watched families bidding their men tearful farewells and thought himself the vilest shit on earth, knowing that when they marched off to Kydona, he would be safe at home. The fact that he had hastened the start of the war only deepened his guilt. He could take some tiny comfort in the fact that his father could have prevented conflict altogether, had he bothered with negotiation. Instead, Audric's pride had gotten in the way. He would rather accept a costly war than peace at the price of honor. In the end, this war was not Marcus's fault.

But a small comfort that remained.

Jacquelyn and Vernon saw his melancholy state, but neither understood what had caused it. They did their best to cheer him up anyway—individually at first, and then as a pair once they realized their goals were one and the same. They got together and threw him soirees, with plenty of fine drinks and company to distract him. In the process, they became fast friends. Jacquelyn loved Vernon's endless stream of ribald jokes, and Vernon quickly discovered that when she sang his praises to girls he liked, they became much more willing to sleep with him.

Marcus watched their friendly banter smilingly. The two of them took that as a good sign. What they didn't notice was that his smile had a wooden quality, and he never once refilled his glass. He pretended to enjoy the soirees because Vernon was his best mate, and Jacquelyn was...

Well, that was the problem: he didn't know how to describe her anymore. They had crossed a threshold, although Marcus hadn't the faintest clue what that threshold was or where it lay. All he could say for sure was that they were no longer mere lovers. His world had become filled with uncertainty—and his dalliance with Jacquelyn was just another worry to add to his already-tall pile.

Mercifully, she didn't notice. She made love with all her usual enthusiasm, fell asleep contented on his breast at night. When she was away from him during the day, he knew he preoccupied her every thought. He haunted her dreams and nightmares; she had a new one to tell him about every morning. Often she asked him, "Did you dream about me?" Each time, he lied and said yes, he always dreamed of her. Jacquelyn wanted to be his foremost concern—only she wasn't. As the forests shed their last leaves and winter finally came on, Marcus found that he was deceiving her with startling regularity.

Realizing that, he began to question himself. Finding no answers, he started questioning him with Jacquelyn.

With the onset of winter, the lands froze. Elessia's capital seemed to do the same. Trade came to a standstill as the roads became impassable with ice and fallen tree limbs. Snow turned the white city whiter still. The narrow streets channeled the wind into icy gusts that shocked the breath from people's lungs. Ice clung to the cobblestones, breaking many an ankle. It was the worst winter in living memory—so cold that the Esteemed Mediator complained to the king that he presided over an empty mass on the Lord's Days. To that, Audric simply shrugged, "It's chilly outside, heavenly father."

Instead of attending mass, people sat huddled around their fires. Elessa's priests found themselves wandering door to door, their teeth chattering as they politely demanded alms from their parishioners. Scowling, the people handed over coin which they had likely planned to spend on firewood.

The nobility was little different, although it was the Esteemed Mediator who bothered them for alms, not the lowly parish priests—that, and nobles weren't actually required to pay the tithe. It was a newer law as well, a source of great pride for the Council of Highest because finally, they claimed, someone had had the courage to undertake the long-promised separation of church and state. So the nobles courteously told the Mediator he would be getting nothing from them. Having achieved their main goal of staying rich, they quickly turned their attention back to their second priority: staying warm.

Wooden, straw-stuffed palisades came up around the Atrium's columns to keep the freezing air out. Servants installed great braziers, which they kept lit day and night. Against stacked odds, they succeeded in keeping the enormous space warm so that when Midwinter's Eve arrived, Roslene could throw the customary ball without having to worry about enormous holes in the guest list.

It was a lavish affair. The nobles came in all their finery, which was even more ostentatious than normal, since winter had kept them indoors and they had a lot of showing off to make up for. Women came with their hair bundled in golden nets, and their dresses in bright reds and greens, all in anticipation of the coming spring. Many of their husbands and sons had commissioned new swords to display their support for the war, as if any of them would be participating in it.

Roslene had no intention of allowing her guests to top her in splendor. Gigantic silk drapes hung from every column, and pine wreaths the size of wagon wheels. Every delicacy on the tables had a golden trinket hidden inside—tiny chevaliers, angels, snowflakes, stars, and similar charms—and whoever found one took it home as a gift. Overhead on roof galleries, servants tossed silver tinsel down onto the audience all night long while the musicians cranked out their stirring melodies. Wine flowed freely. Best of all, it was warm. When Roslene's courtesans paraded in, a number of them were stark naked, just to flaunt their mistress's conquest of winter. Marcus thanked God that Kaelyn was not among the unclothed. She'd even dressed modestly, although that did nothing to dim her beauty. She greeted him good evening, but apart from that, she left him alone—another blessing.

All in all, it turned out to be a fine evening. Marcus, Jacquelyn, and Vernon wallowed in the entertainment and got merrily drunk in the process. There were no worries. No one looked daggers at him, occupied as they were with the war and the frolicking courtesans. One of the naked ones sidled up to Marcus and inquired if his lady companion would fancy sharing him later on. Jacquelyn overheard the question. She was not entertained. In fact, if she had had a knife on her person, Marcus imagined she would have run the woman through right then and there. He and Vernon shared a hearty laugh over it, even though Jacquelyn sulked for the next half hour. Vernon drew her good mood back out when he leapt up and started conducting the choir, shouting along made-up lyrics to their slow dance tune until they gave up and played a faster one.

After that, Marcus didn't remember much. The night wound down, the people left, and Vernon managed to procure a willing courtesan at a remarkably good price. As his best mate left for the guest wing, Marcus retreated to his chambers with Jacquelyn. There, she stumbled around as she undressed, recounting the night—especially that naked whore and how much she had pissed her off. He lay back in his bed, watching her amusedly. Sighing, she flopped down onto the mattress beside him.

"I had something to show you," she mumbled into the pillow. Another sigh. "I'll show it to you tomorrow... when we aren't this drunk..." With that, she was asleep.

Marcus had to maneuver her to get the blankets out from under her, then again to draw them over her. He moved the pillow under her head.

There, where it had lain, was an envelope. His name was written there in Jacquelyn's round script. Against all better judgment, he opened it and began to read.

Marcus,

I could not sleep last night. I need to be honest with you. The past four months have been the best months of my life; I have experienced happiness I never dreamed I would. I want you to know that I will do anything, anything to stay this way. I know you think I cannot cope sometimes. I admit it has been hard adjusting to this new lifestyle. I know I can be jealous, especially where Kaelyn is concerned. I understand why you have been holding back your true feelings for me because I worry you. But I can cope. I can respect your duties as the Crown Prince, and I know I must place my personal needs second. I will. I promise. I love you, Marcus. I have known it from the first moment I met you. I could not envision a life without you if I tried; I would not want to. I know I can be honest with you because I know you feel the same way. I love you.

-Jacquelyn

He folded the letter. "Oh, Jacquelyn," he whispered to her sleeping form, his voice thick with regret.

He watched her for a long time.

†††

Some weeks later, a lone horseman came through the North Gate. He was a haggard sight, to be sure. His armor was so filthy that the guards had to look twice to make sure he was Elessian, and when he arrived at the palace doors, the chamberlain refused to let him in at first, convinced that his appearance would offend the court. It took some heated argument and the intervention of the guardmaster himself, but the rider got admitted at last.

"We've promising figures so far, your highness," Lord Marshal Gerant was saying in the Sanctum, where he, the king, the crown prince, and the Council of Highest were gathered around the map table. The lord marshal made to push a script-laden parchment across the table, only to remember that he no longer had that particular hand in his possession. Swearing under his breath, Gerant handed the king the parchment. "Twenty thousand men mustered. We've furnished most with weapons and armor; a few thousand are missing one or the other. Our rations should last us through the winter. By spring we'll have stocked enough to make Kydona, and there should be plenty of foraging to sustain us there. There's one concern, your highness, and that's sniffle wear. We're short on blankets, jackets, and so on. The men are cold. They'll be illness spreading soon if we don't—"

"Blankets?" Lord de Martine said derisively. "How is this army to subdue Kydona if they can't cope with a little chilly weather? They are men. They will cope."

"Not to mention the cost," added de Villiers, anxiously twisting a button on his tunic. "The treasury simply cannot afford a coat for each and every soldier, not on top of all other expenses."

Gerant scowled at both the men. "Let me remind you that cold as our country is, Kydona is far worse. We must endure at least one winter there, it's a certainty. If our men are not adequately equipped, I promise you—"

"Promise nothing," snapped de Isnell, cutting the lord marshal off. "Were you not involved in the northern disaster this past year? I find myself questioning your competence as deputy commander of this army. I am certain that I am not alone in that regard."

Gerant turned pale with rage. He seemed certain to unleash a tirade on the lot of fat old men, none of whom had ever known a cold winter or a military campaign, yet deemed themselves wiser all the same. Marcus thought he might well join in, though the men were barely tolerating his presence as it was.

Just then, the great doors blundered open. The guardmaster bowed on the threshold, took three steps in, and bowed once more. A man slouched in after him—hollow-cheeked, shivering slightly, his clothes torn and his armor streaked with grime.

"What is this?" Audric asked. It was the first sign of life he had shown in over an hour.

"Indeed," Jaspar's father sniffed. He might well have just been told to devour a cartload of snail shells, such was the disgust written on his expression. "Evidently the state of our army is sorrier than we presumed. I apologize, lord marshal."

As the rest of the high lords snickered, the guardmaster announced, "I beg your forgiveness, your majesty, your highness, my excellent lords, but this man brings urgent news from the east."

The man swayed visibly, his lusterless eyes speaking of a week or more deprived of sleep, and his bent stance indicating that he had spent nearly all that time in the saddle. Only willpower kept him upright—and it was obviously hanging by a thread.

"You." Marcus pointed at a servant. "Get this man a loaf of bread. And ale." As the servant scurried off, the soldier gave him a tired but grateful smile.

"My thanks, my lord prince." He forced some strength into voice and delivered his news. "I've come from the Southern Pass." There were only two narrow passes through the Utmars and into Kydona; the Southern Pass was one of them. "There's been a massacre. A regiment dead, at least. Captain Blake sent me straightaway, I've been riding all week—"

"Slow down and speak sense, whelp," Roberte spat. His eyes smoldered with distaste.

"Be quiet, de Martine," said the king, which stunned the man into a furious silence and tugged a grin onto Marcus's face. "Start from the beginning, soldier. Take your time."

The servant had returned with a foaming mug of ale and a still-steaming bread loaf. Taking the mug, the soldier upended it in his haste to guzzle it down. The high lords' lips curled, though Ronold de Gauthier masked a grin. With the mug drained, the man breathed a refreshed sigh and started to speak with new vigor.

"The 22nd Regiment came through Fort Desmoine ten days ago. We restocked their feed and water and we sent them on into the pass."

"It was an advance force," explained Gerant at the Council's blank stares. "They were the first regiment to muster at Fort Ligny. Their orders were to reinforce Kamengrad. Two thousand men was the best we could do with the time we had."

Marcus felt some guilt at that but kept his face rigid.

Nodding, the ragged soldier continued, "When a unit marches through, they'll send back a pair of riders with a report. For the Watch's records." Apparently he had realized that he had to frame his words, seeing how many in the chamber didn't know a damned thing about the military. "This regiment didn't. Captain Blake waited two days, then he sent a scouting party in after them. We got about three quarters of the way through before we found them. It was a slaughter. A good number of fellows were still in marching column, they'd died so quick. The rest were bunched up in two great piles—half a mile apart, I'd say. Whoever did it, they knew what they were about. They lined up archers on the high ground to either side. When they started loosing arrows down at them, the Captain figures the 22nd tried to advance up the slopes, seeing how we found so many bodies there, but they couldn't gain it, so they tried pushing on ahead through the pass. There was someone waiting for them. Someone with some hard bones.

"It was a slaughter," he repeated. "We found a lot of dead fellows there, about a third of their strength. Once they figured out it was hopeless, they tried retreating. There were arrows coming at them the whole time. The ones who survived, they only made it half a mile before they ran into another enemy group. There were tracks on the mountain slopes so we think the enemy waited at the top until the 22nd passed them, then they came down and cut them off. That's where we found the other big pile. Dead, every last one of them." The man swallowed. "A lot of—a lot of them had their throats cut. They killed the wounded. And their battle standard was missing. So were their name bracelets. We couldn't even find their officers—right down to the lieutenants. We—"

King Audric stopped him with an outturned hand. "Has your captain secured the pass?"

"Yes, your majesty. Both ends. Captain Blake already requested reinforcements from Ligny. They ought to be there by now."

"Good. Do you have anything else to report?"

The soldier retrieved a half-soaked parchment roll from his satchel. "A full report from Captain Blake, sir. That's all."

"Very good. You are dismissed," said the king as a servant deposited the roll on the table before him. To the same servant, he instructed, "See that this man is fed straight away. Give him a bunk in the guard's quarters, and a strike for commendable effort." As the servant led the thoroughly-exhausted soldier out, Audric sank back in his chair. The double doors thumped shut. "It's worse than we feared," he said to no one and everyone at once.

"A regiment, a whole regiment," a high lord whispered.

"How could this happen?"

Audric's eyes flashed. "Is it not obvious?" he snarled. "We are at war, a war for which we are ill-prepared. Our enemy is not. He is well-led, well-organized, well-disciplined." He stood and leaned over the table, his eyes rooted to the map of the known world—Elessia, Kydona, Lyria, and the North. "This is only the start. He has been planning this for many years—before the last war was even over, more than likely. He's sent us a message. He is taunting us. Daring us to come on."

"And face the might of the Royal Watch? We've twenty thousand men, your majesty," reminded de Guiscard, pointedly. "We'll have fifty thousand by the end of winter."

"But they have this," murmured the king. His spread fingers traced a circle over Kydona. Without even counting the unexplored eastern reaches, the territory was massive. It utterly dwarfed Elessia—three, maybe four times the size. There was a gilded icon marking Kamengrad, the old capital; half a dozen crossed swords representing Watch forts; and three-score or so small dots denoting towns from which Elessian landholders governed. There were other dots, too—hundreds of villages. And only the larger ones were marked on this map. In the space between, there was nothing but open, trackless plain—nearly a thousand miles of it.

With exceeding calm, Audric said, "Mark my words, lords: there is a war raging beyond the Utmars, at this very moment. When we march in spring, we will not be moving to defend our territory. We will be attacking a hostile nation."

†††

The winter was harsh but brief. By mid-February, the weather was already warming again. The regular snowfall became sporadic before ceasing altogether. As it began to melt, the roads once again turned to muddy quagmires. Overeager traders sent out caravans, only for their wagons to get bogged down and stranded. Amid their mighty cursing, one could hear the laughter of children, who had quickly rediscovered that mud was just as fun as snow—mostly because it pissed their mothers off so much worse.

"Remember the old twenty-two!" The cry could be seen and heard at all quarters, from the army encampments to the country hamlets to the city streets. The regiment's standard may have been captured, but many more had taken its place—countless banners draped from the outer walls, from the monuments and statues of revered heroes and ancient martyrs, each bearing a shield and gauntlet: the 22nd Regiment's insignia. On the street below them, people had placed clay statuettes, candles, and strips of parchment bearing scrawled prayers. Elessia remembered, and with one voice, they vowed retribution.

Suddenly, Kydona had given the country a cause—precisely as they had done by burning the border villages eighteen years previous. Men mobbed to the street side recruiting desks, seeking the chance to serve—the same men who had so recently prayed that their names were absent from the king's mustering call. Many a noble-born son lined up to see Lord Marshal Gerant, demanding officers' commissions. What he had was a disappointment: to most, he offered lieutenancy, and with it the command of a fifty-man battle line—a meritless position, for lads who dreamed of leading whole regiments to glory. Others, he offered places in the ranks of the esteemed dragoons, under the condition that they provide their own horses and armor. Except for a few-score brave—or foolish—souls, the noble lads turned their backs on Gerant's offer.

Among the volunteers was the crown prince.

Before, Marcus had seen some merit in the Kydonian cause. But what they had done in the Southern Pass was little better than murder. The doomed regiment had been hemmed in, butchered like animals, shot full of arrows as they fought to escape. No one deserved that.

He wanted to make the enemy pay.

A surprised tremor ran through the court at the news. People speculated that the king would grant his son command of a division—even the whole army, with the lord marshal as his deputy. But inside the king's chambers, the scene was entirely different from what they imagined. Marcus argued his case for an hour and more, but his father would not be swayed. He would not send him east. Even more infuriating was that he wouldn't give any reason for the denial.

The palace was full of excited court-goers. Spread among them were young men, their splendid blue uniforms decked with a bewildering array of accoutrements: gold-threaded lanyards and fourragère, merit medals, silver throat gorgets, and dangling epaulets. Conspicuously absent was their regimental insignia, since they hadn't yet been assigned to their units, but the lads wore their rank prominently, and they returned many a congratulatory bow with boisterous pride.

An embittered Marcus was there to commend them as well. Though his gorge rose with every word, he politely thanked his peers for their service. Most seemed pleasantly surprised. A few decent souls offered him sympathy.

But as a matter of course, there were a number of noble lads who delighted in the prince's bad fortune. Jaspar was one of them.

He wore a colonel's rank—as if Marcus needed any proof that there was no justice in the world—and stood grinningly at the center of the Atrium with a flock of cooing girls surrounding him. Marcus refused to look at him. He deliberately skirted the area as he made his agonizing circuit, praising spoiled lord's sons who had no right in hell to lead men in battle, hating every moment...

"Are you avoiding me, your highness?" Jaspar taunted his back. He had a sneer in his voice.

Marcus stopped carefully in his tracks. He shut his eyes, teeth clenched.

The space around them went deathly silent. Even the girls stopped chattering to watch. Jaspar's mocking voice rang out again, "Ah, I see. You must be saving me for last. I understand. You may continue." Gasps.

That did it. In the space of two seconds, Marcus had crossed the space between them. "Congratulations to you," he snarled through his teeth, wishing a painful death with each syllable. "May your soldiers win victory." Them, but not you.

Jaspar made a shallow bow. When he rose, his arrogant grin was wider still. "A whole battalion of them, yes. A battalion. It's amazing what some quality will get you, isn't it?" He paused for a reply. Receiving only a frosty smile, he needled on, "And what of you, your highness? What will you command?"

Marcus had never wanted to murder someone as keenly as he did now. Only a lifetime of instruction kept his expression blank—and just barely, at that. His fingers twitched. "The marches."

"The marches," chuckled Jaspar, casting a superior look around him. "So while I'm off razing Kydona to the ground, you'll be here chasing down brigands? The crown prince—doing militia's work! That's disheartening to hear."

"No, no, I'll tell you what's disheartening to hear, de Martine," Marcus uttered. He knew his next words would echo, that everyone around would hear, but he didn't care worth a damn. If he was going to be made a fool of, he was going to do it on his terms. "It's disheartening that an arrogant sod like you gets to lead at all. If you treat your men half as badly as you treated Estelle, I feel nothing but pity for them. Quality, is that what you said? Here're the qualities you've got: an old name and a rich father, that's it."

Jaspar had turned a deathly sort of pale. Outrage struck him speechless.

"You bought your commission, de Martine. You can deceive everyone here, I can't blame them for being fooled. But to deceive yourself—now that's a feat. For that, you have my congratulations." With that, he turned on his heel, denying Jaspar the chance to salvage his pride. Except for his clicking footsteps, the chamber was still as a tomb. Shocked eyes followed him. He and Jaspar had always managed to conceal their enmity; now he had made it plain for all to see.

In his cold anger, he only dimly realized that he had made a mistake.

When he reached his chambers, he rested his forehead on the door, willing his temper to cool.

"That might've been unwise," Gail told him quietly.

Marcus looked at his longtime friend—the man who had guarded his life since he was twelve. The old veteran had taught him much in their eight years together: how to kill with a sword rather than entertain; how to wrestle and fistfight even when the tutors thought it unchivalrous; how to lead through self-denial rather than self-aggrandizement. Evidently he had not learned quite enough. "Might've," he agreed wearily.

"If I may speak freely, your highness..."

"Don't bother, Gail. I know."

"As you say, then." Gail settled into a chair. "Gonna be a long night for us."

Blaxley shrugged and moved toward the far side of the hall. Kelly frowned down at his feet. "He might be a cocky bastard," he muttered, "but least he's going."

Gail shot him a warning glance. "What's that you just said?"

Kelly glowered back at him. "I say that lad wasn't the only one with an important dad. And his dad wanted him to fight. I see no problem there."

Now the older soldier was standing. Beneath his graying beard, his throat muscles were taught. "You'd best be heading home, quick-like," he growled. "Else there's a drubbing in store for you."

Kelly met Gail's hard stare for a few tense moments. Then, muttering under his breath, he settled his sword in its scabbard and walked off, scratching furiously at the ugly crease on his scalp. With a final challenging look over his shoulder, he was gone.

Gail deliberately sat back down. "It was me he was after, not you, your highness."

Marcus sighed, straight-lipped. "I'm not so sure, but I hope so."

"It was so. Give him 'til tomorrow. He'll come back around."

"I hope so," he repeated. Then he stepped into his chambers. There, he flopped down on his bed and stared sightlessly at the ceiling, ruminating on the events of his day. He spent the remainder alternating between restless napping and distracted reading.

Until that night, when Jacquelyn joined him. A servant notified him of her arrival, so he had time to make himself presentable—though in truth, he wished he had told her to stay home. The past few nights had passed awkwardly between them. After seeing the broken seal on her letter, she had looked at him with some anticipation. But soon it became evident that he wasn't going to return her sentiments. Her excitement turned to anxiety, then to distress.

When the servant let her in, she was something else entirely. "Is it true?" The quiet way she spoke made her anger all the clearer.

Seeing no use in deferment, he answered, "That I tried to volunteer? Yes."

Jacquelyn's eyes burned. "Why?"

He gestured toward the sitting area. "Come sit down."

"No, I don't want to sit down. No." Her voice quavered. Her chest rose and fell quickly, nostrils flaring. "I want you to tell me why. Why is it so important that you leave?"

He saw the accusation lying behind the words, but he wasn't ready to address it. What kind of man would have been? "I wanted to fight. I want to make Kydona pay for what they did."

She shook her head vehemently. "You're lying." She took in an incensed breath and let it go at length. "I guess it's better than saying nothing."

"You're talking about the letter."

"Yes, I'm talking about the letter!" she cried. "Is that what you were trying to do, Marcus? Are you trying to get away from me?"

He could have denied it—but the words would have been only half-true. He settled for, "I need time to—"

She slapped him across the cheek. The blow was light. Still, it hurt in more places than one. She meant it to. "You've had days to think! You've had four months! And I didn't need half that to know how I felt." The tears were on their way. He could hear them clogging her voice already. "Am I really that stupid?"

"You aren't stupid."

"Then tell me what this is! If you aren't playing with me and you don't love me then what are we?"

"I don't know!"

Jacquelyn shut her mouth. She looked at him through glazed eyes, her occasional sniff punctuating the silence between them.

Marcus paced to the window, aggravated, then back to the sitting room. The critical moment had arrived at last. He had known it was coming ever since his father's warning. A match with that girl is no match at all. Well, those words were true, and it had taken a heartfelt admission from Jacquelyn to make him realize it. "Shit!" He swiped a vase off the low table. Glass shattered. There was a commotion in the hallway, and the door latch came undone, but Marcus barked, "Stay out, Gail!" and the door quickly shut again.

He raked his hair. He had made up his mind. There was no point to prolonging this. Facing Jacquelyn, he told her, "I don't know what we are. That's the honest truth. Maybe it's love, but how the hell am I supposed to know? I'm not past twenty. I have no clue what love is. And then, what would it matter if I did? I couldn't stay with you anyway."

Jacquelyn froze even stiller. She covered her mouth as if that would stem the flow of tears. It didn't. They came on regardless. She stood trembling as comprehension took hold.

Marcus steeled himself. He hated himself, he hated what he was doing, but he had to get it done sooner or later. Better sooner. "It was a fairy tale, Jacquelyn. I'm sorry."

Contrary to his expectations, she didn't bawl. She just dropped her hand, her eyes rooted to the floor. With a sober nod, the girl turned to the door. Her hand on the latch, she looked halfway over her shoulder and said softly, "I'm sorry too."

That hit him harder than any tears could. He could only stand, transfixed by the growing realization of what he had just done—and before he could address it, Jacquelyn had shut the door behind her.

Marcus sat. His gut had taken on that hollow feeling again. There was no comfort in the sensation, despite the familiarity it held. He stared down at his spread hands—weapons that he knew how to wield, whether by knuckle or blade—and he wondered at the harm he could do without ever having to use them.

Chapter 12

No more word arrived from Kydona. The dead of winter still gripped the eastern land's heart, and travel there would be an ordeal at best—but none of the couriers sent on the Kydonian emissaries' heels had returned. Over three months had passed.

Whatever had befallen the eastern holdings, there was little to be done. King Audric continued on with the campaign preparations as best he could, though the high lords were not helping his cause. They had predictably fallen short of their promises, supplying barely ten thousand men between them. Even that small number posed a problem: few of them possessed weapons or armor, and Audric, lacking the funds to equip them, had to take out loans from several banking houses to cover the cost.

Worse still, Lord Marshal Gerant's predictions had come true: influenza had begun to spread through the army's encampment. Without respite from the bitter cold, the men became susceptible to illness. When Audric conducted his weekly inspection, he returned to Ancellon claiming a blind man could find the camp from ten miles away, just from the coughing. Several scores of men died. Many times that number were bedridden.

At court, the Lady Astrid de Roux petitioned the Hearing Council for divorce from her lecherous husband. Lord Ernoult Devreney caused a scandal by naming his nephew heir to his holdings over the head of his own son. Both those events were tidbits compared to two-week old scene at the Atrium, where the son of a king and the son of a high lord had made their vendetta plain for all to see. There was talk that the young Lord Jaspar would challenge the crown prince to a duel. Others said King Audric and Lord Renold de Martine had forced their sons into a meeting to resolve their differences, but with no result.

The speculation was more or less accurate, for once. Marcus and Jaspar did meet, and Jaspar had made it plain that if the prince did not retract his insults, there would be blood to pay. But Marcus refused on the grounds that Jaspar had slandered him as well. In the end, all their fathers could do was forbid them to spill blood over the disagreement—and promise dire consequences if they disobeyed.

In truth, Marcus paid little attention to any of it. Kydona, the army's illness, even Jaspar seemed minor issues compared to his latest mistake. After sending Jacquelyn away, he spent much of the ensuing fortnight moping in his chambers. He drank copiously. One night, he got drunk and angry enough that he punched a near-priceless painting on his wall, splitting both the canvas and his knuckles. The nurse tutted as she stitched him up; Gail complained that he could protect the prince from any foe, save himself; Vernon insisted he'd done right, the mountain in the painting looked loads better with a giant crater in the side.

As ever, Vernon was there to keep his best mate out of trouble. He brought plenty of rum, wine, and spare coin to Marcus's chambers every evening. They diced and drank themselves into oblivion. Once there, they talked.

"You're a fuc-fucking idiot, I ever tell you that?" Vernon hiccupped as they sat out on the balcony one night.

"Makes you say that?" retorted Marcus, though the wine took much of the bite out of the words.

"Shit on me, it's cold out here... what did you say?" He swayed in his chair, hugging himself against cold that his body felt but his inebriated mind couldn't acknowledge. "Oh, right. That girl, Jacquelyn... nice girl, mate... not sure what you're about, if I'm honest."

Marcus swigged a wineskin. He handed it over, though he had to check again to make sure Vernon had taken it, since he saw two of everything—and it was all spinning. "I had to do it. Had to. She wrote me this letter... said she loved me... wanted to be with me forever and all that."

"Why the hell not?"

"No." Marcus shook his head, then immediately regretted it. Clutching his eyes, he moaned, "I had to do it. It was now or later... had to do it now, understand? She wanted me to say I loved her. I don't think I do."

Vernon studied the glass of rum on the railing for a moment. "Fuck it." He gave the glass a swat, sending it tumbling off into the night. "What's not to love, eh? She was good-looking, nice body on her if I'm allowed to say so... pretty clever—maybe thought people are better than they really are, but still... nice, too, never met a friendlier girl in my life, mate... bet she swallowed, too..." His eyes sprang into focus. He pointed alertly at Marcus. "Did she?"

"What?" He had lost his friend's yarn a long time ago.

"Swallow?"

"Did she...? Right. She did."

"Fuuuck!" Vernon howled into the night. "You let that go? You stupid, stupid piece of God-damned rubbish! Who the hell are you? Do I know you?"

Marcus smiled wryly and took a very ill-advised swig of wine.

Vernon demanded, "Did she make you happy?"

Marcus lurched onto the railing and vomited. "Yes," he panted, his drunk-wild eyes staring into the darkness below.

"Then you get her back!" Vernon blustered on, completely unaware of his friend's predicament. "Who says the two of you weren't right together? You love her; that makes it right. Fuck the court! That's what you always say, isn't it? So get back with the girl! If it's love, you marry her, to hell with anyone who tells you not to! If it's not love, deal with it some other time. Right now you're in an awful kind of state..." He did a double take. "Wait a minute. What are you doing?"

"Puking," Marcus heaved.

He deflated a little. "Right. Sorry. Carry on then."

"No, you're right," Marcus mumbled. He spat, wiped his mouth, and sank back into his chair. "I'll try tomorrow." He leaned his head back, staring up at the stars. There were a lot of them out tonight—though that could have been because he was seeing double. Still, even in his drunken state, he knew what he had to do. Vernon was right. There was no point in being this miserable when he had a choice. "Tomorrow."

"Brilliant! Let's celebrate! Fancy another rum?"

The two of them proceeded to get drunk beyond all reason. Standing should have been impossibility at best, but years of drinking to excess had pounded their livers into weary submission, and neither of them was in much of a mood to pass out. They sent out for wine, and as an afterthought, some music. A yawning minstrel subsequently appeared in the chambers, and they made him strum out a merry tune on his lyre while they hurled random objects off the balcony. People surely noticed, but no one dared to stop them. Afterward, they sat spent on the now-cushionless couches, exchanging slurred, repetitive conversation while a semi-nude girl danced in the background. They emptied a bottle of wine and another decanter of rum in the process.

Marcus knew he would remember none of this tomorrow, but would regret all of it.

When Vernon started snoring mid-sentence, the two-man party died down rather abruptly. Marcus told the musician to go home but had the courtesan stay, just in case Vernon woke up and needed entertainment. Paying them both, he retired to his bedchamber.

The room gyrated chaotically all around him. Everything was moving—or maybe that was him stumbling, he didn't know anymore. But even as he collapsed onto the bed, sleep wouldn't quite come. Thoughts of Jacquelyn kept penetrating the drunken haze. He wanted her so badly—but there was dread, too, and with his wits all but gone, he couldn't imagine where it stemmed from. Did he want her back or not? The 'yes' he had given Vernon before seemed so distant all of a sudden. And now, all alone, he didn't know anymore. He could barely have even said his own name.

His door came unlatched. He only heard it vaguely over the erratic pounding of his own heart. He rolled his eyes over with agonized slowness. "You came back," he said, his voice strangely clear.

"You knew I would, sooner or later," she said.

"You came at a bad time," he groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. "How did you get in?"

"Kelly let me in. He's always had a soft spot for me." She eased down onto the bed beside his sprawled form, stroked his hair. "Oh, Marcus. What did you do?"

The room was all but pitch dark. He couldn't see her face, or much else of her. But the sympathy in her voice was clear. He didn't understand what it was doing there. "Drank," he said. "Too much. Why are you here?"

"I'm here for you," the girl told him. Her fingers stretched out on his stomach, nails gently raking his skin. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "How drunk are you?"

Not drunk enough to miss a cue. His hand found hers, and squeezed. He felt her smiling as she kissed his ear, then his cheek, and his lips. A deft roll of her shoulders, and her dress slid to the floor. Between gaps in consciousness, he saw her pulling off his clothes, her lips working at each sliver of skin she exposed. She grasped his manhood—stiff, against all the odds—and her tongue caressed it. His heart beat quicker—fast enough to cull the wonderful toxins flowing through his veins. He got her by the waist, whirled her around, pinned her to the bed.

She ran the soles of her feet along his hips as he found his way between her knees. "You never did forget me, did you?"

His only reply: a gentle thrust. He wedged himself deep inside her, coaxing an enamored gasp from her lips. It was the first step of a baser kind of a dance. There were many more steps to go.

"Oh God, I didn't," she moaned as he rode her. She squeezed her thighs around him, nails raking up and down his spine.

In the back of his mind, he did realize it wasn't Jacquelyn sharing his bed. But Kaelyn Beauvais had come to him at a time when he could not possibly have said no. He was lonely, distraught—though he would have admitted neither—and all that rum and wine had amplified both. He was past reason.

Perhaps it wasn't so strange, then, that even as he fucked Kaelyn, he longed for Jacquelyn. But she was here, she was willing, and she was beautiful enough to make a fool of any man.

When it was over, Marcus was just sober enough to see the satisfaction smoldering in her eyes—and just sober enough to realize what he had just done.

He could only lay there, dumbfounded, as his guilt and shame began to stir. Kaelyn was already dressing. She pulled her dress on in one careless motion. Seeing how Marcus stared, she smiled—gloating right to his face. "Done," she said, just as she had when she kissed him in front of Jacquelyn. With a wink, she turned to leave.

"Was it worth it?" Marcus asked hoarsely.

At the door, she looked back at him with a quirked eyebrow. "Worth it? It was a job. What I think doesn't come into the equation." She shut the door behind her. Just as his consciousness fled, he imagined that he had seen a glint of gold in Kaelyn's palm.

†††

The next morning, Marcus startled awake. His mind raced. "No," he whispered. He looked around, desperate for some evidence contrary to what he knew. But Kaelyn was everywhere. The sheets were ruffled. Strands of crimson hair clung to the pillowcase. Perfume scented the air.

A roar of disbelief rose and died in his throat. Groaning, he scrubbed furiously at his hair. He might have tugged out a fistful by the roots in aggravation—but then he realized something. He moved his hand in front of his face and stared in growing disbelief.

His family crest was gone.

A search of the room yielded nothing. Frantic, he burst into the entry chamber still naked. Fortunately, both Vernon and the dancing courtesan had already left, but he likely wouldn't have paid them any mind if they hadn't. He turned the room upside down, breaking a couple of empty glasses in the process. His ring was nowhere to be found.

Dejected, he collapsed onto his couch—then swore and rubbed his bare backside. The cushions had inexplicably vanished. It looked like him and Vernon had been throwing things off the balcony again.

"Brilliant," he growled. He ran through his memories of last night; there were precious few of them. There was only one clear recollection—and that was the event he wished to remember least of all. But it also told him where his priceless family crest had gone.

And where it was going. Horror overtook him as that realization dawned. She wouldn't, he thought desperately. Only she would. Kaelyn was no fool. She wouldn't have stolen his ring and expected to get away with it. No, she was going to return it to him.

Marcus had a terrible feeling he knew how.

He threw on his clothes, trying to ignore the agony that lanced through his brain with each hard pulse. Knotting his sword belt, he made a final scan of the chambers, of course to no avail. Swearing oaths fit to insult a sailor, he flew out into the hallway.

Gail and Kelly sat on opposite ends of the hallway, both of them sullenly quiet. Seeing Marcus, Kelly looked away with a half-hidden smirk. Gail regarded him colorlessly.

"Too much of a good time last night?" He tried to make the inquiry sound polite, but the effect was akin to stuffing a pillow with gravel; the thought was benign but the effect hurt far more than it helped.

Marcus ignored him. He glared at Kelly instead. "Did you stand watch last night?"

"Aye, your highness." The younger veteran traced the scar on his scalp with his middle finger, a nervous habit.

He gnawed his tongue until the urge to scream was gone. "You know not to let that girl into my chambers."

Kelly made a valiant attempt at looking offended. "With respect to you, your highness, I never heard that command. I saw no problem letting her in."

"You're letting a lot of problems get past you these days, Kelly," Marcus said. He wanted to hit him, but that wouldn't have changed a thing. This was his own damned fault. He rubbed his eyes. "We're going to Roslene's salon." He started off, one hand involuntarily gripping his sheathed sword.

Behind him, Kelly muttered, "Figures, is what that does."

Marcus stopped, but Gail had already pulled the man face-to-face with him by the collar. "You keep your fucking opinions to yourself 'til someone asks for 'em, got that, chevalier?"

"Got it," Kelly uttered with a deep scowl. Gail let him go.

They got to the stables without further incident, save the two men-at-arms glaring intensely at each other. Marcus was somewhat surprised they didn't spontaneously combust. The grooms shortly had the horses saddled. Mounting up, the three men set off into the city with the clatter of hooves on stone.

Contrary to the charged mood, it was a fine day outside. The winter had been harsh but short, and spring was well on its way. The morning sun shone bright and strong, dulling the air's briskness, playing across the rooftops, reflecting off the white walls so that Marcus was forced to squint. The snow had all but melted. Children caroused in the fresh mud puddles, shrieking with laughter. Vendors noticed Marcus's wealth and redoubled their morning cries as he passed, only to fall silent as they realized who he was.

Every courtesan of note owned a salon—a euphemism for a brothel, though they masked that truth behind layers of refinery and taste. Roslene's pleasure house was the most dazzling of them all. It was a miniature palace, a glimmering façade of tiered balconies, topped by a hexagonal dome decked in golden leaf. It sat on an edge of the bustling Royal Way, but a high wall and stacked gardens behind created the illusion of spaciousness.

A pair of ornamented guards stopped him at the gate. "Are you expected, esteemed sir?" one asked. Between his oiled voice and his smooth features, Marcus could well believe the rumors—that salon guards were the prostitutes' bastards who had had the misfortune of being born the wrong sex, and so couldn't practice their mothers' vocation.

"I'm here on other business," Marcus said without dismounting.

"That business being?"

"Kaelyn."

"And you would be?"

The other guard hissed. "Forgive him, your highness, he did not recognize you. Please," he twisted a large key in the lock and held the gate open, "wait in the courtyard, you and your men. You will be attended shortly."

With a curt nod, Marcus guided his stallion inside. He found himself on a wide pathway that cut through a garden—lush and green despite the season. There was a team of servants hard at work in one corner, replacing the cold-withered plants with fresh-grown ones. Ahead was an elaborate mahogany doorway, its surface carved into a strikingly-erotic mural. The door parted, and a young girl walked out. Her beauty marked her out as a courtesan-to-be—a bred creature, much like the guards outside, only with better luck. Or worse, depending on how you looked at it.

"How may I please you, my lord prince?" she asked, her youthful voice tainted by a sultry overtone.

Marcus pitied her—but not as much as he pitied himself, at this moment. "Kaelyn Beauvais," he told her simply, climbing out of the saddle. Polished red tile greeted his boots.

"Of course, my lord prince." She flitted off.

Another servant—a boy, this time—came along to take the horses. Marcus took one look at the lad's powdered cheeks and knew precisely what his nightly occupation was. Sickened, he sent him away.

He waited uncomfortably for a little while before recognizing that Kaelyn was taking her time. More than likely, she would make loiter for another half hour before relaying that she was ill and couldn't see him. He had no intention of allowing her the pleasure. "Hold him," he told Kelly, passing over Breggo's reins. Then he strode up to the front door and threw it open.

He remembered this place. There was a fountain in the center of the great foyer, encircled by purple velvet couches. Exotic plants and trees lined the chamber's edges. Mosaics covered every inch of wall, depicting beautiful women in various states of undress and coupling. There was a grand staircase at the far side, its railings topped with golden statues of demure angels and cavorting succubi. On Marcus's fifteenth birthday, courtesans had lined that railing, all done up in jewels and makeup and perfume—all smiling enticingly as Roslene offered him his pick.

Now, as they had then, his eyes roved up to the lower gallery—where Kaelyn stood watching him. I always knew it would come to a head between the two of you, one day, his father had ruefully told him. Truer words had never been spoken.

"Fond memories, my lord prince?" She wore a white gown and the sweetest of smiles, her deep red hair gleaming by the light of a vast gold-and-crystal chandelier plundered from Tsar Sidor's palace.

"I suppose I've always tended toward whores," he replied. His heart pounded—but whether from the hangover, the recollections, or Kaelyn, he couldn't say.

Her laughter tinkled down the staircase before her. She descended it without taking her eyes off him. They gleamed with triumph—and with hateful longing. Still, she masked her conflict well. "Paige, wasn't it?"

Marcus gnawed his cheek, despising this foreplay but knowing he had to tolerate it. "How is she, these days?"

"Oh, fine I'm sure. She's in Montagge now. She tripped and broke her ankle—right on this spot, actually. There aren't many sights as sad as a pretty girl with a limp."

"That's a pity, alright," agreed Marcus, though he didn't care much at all. It'd been a little embarrassing really, his first time. He hadn't had a clue what he was about, and while the girl Paige straddled him and did what she'd been paid for, he had thought only of Kaelyn—watching him, stricken, from the top of the stairs as he picked out his first lover.

She reached the bottom of the stairs. There, she paused, nibbling her thumbnail. "So. What's your business?"

"You know full God-damned well what my business is, Kaelyn," he snapped.

"The ring, then. Yes." She nibbled for a moment longer, looking thoughtful, though in truth she was just making him wait. At last, "You frown far too much, did I ever tell you that? It takes away from your looks."

"The. Ring."

"Oh fine, you're no fun. I gave it to Jaspar."

His jaw nearly dropped out of his head. "Jaspar?" he sputtered.

"Yes," she said, sounding annoyed.

"He paid you to...?"

"Take the ring? Yes. Fuck you? That, too." She cocked her head, smirking. "But that's the last time you'll have me for free, I promise you that much."

"What the fuck do I care about that? Why Jaspar? What does he want with my ring?"

Kaelyn sighed. "I don't know. I didn't ask. But I'd wager he's about to hand it over to your precious lover." She traced her lower lip, musing. "That's clever of him. I wish I'd done it. The look on her face..." Hers became a satisfied smile.

"You're unbelievable," he growled, twirling on his heel and making for the door. He kicked a plush couch out of his path as he went. He felt his toenail crunch. The pain seared, but he managed not to stagger, somehow.

"Hurry," Kaelyn called after him with mirth in her voice. "If you and I know a thing about Jaspar de Martine, it's that he isn't satisfied easily!"

†††

Jacquelyn wasn't at her townhouse. Her father was off on business somewhere and her mother had gone along, which left only a witless man-at-arms guarding the gate—and Molly.

"What business of yours is it, where she went?" the handmaiden asked, glowering at him through the gate's bars. "She's through with you."

"Tell me where she went, Molly. I never asked a thing of you but I'm asking now, and I wouldn't if it wasn't important. Where is she?"

The girl's eyes flickered at the urgency of his tone. "Old Granite," she mumbled. "A lad came over. He asked her along with him." Her face hardened as she saw Marcus's incensed look. "What, then? She's been crying for a week and more, and now you care? Now that some other man wants her?"

"He doesn't—!" He scratched his hair. "Is her man-at-arms with her?"

"No, he had plenty of his own—"

But Marcus was already on Breggo's back. He kicked the stallion's flanks and pelted off, with his two men doing their best to keep up.

The morning was quickly turning to noon, and the crowded city streets slowed Marcus's pace. He came close to riding down more than one pedestrian. Shocked people hurled themselves out of his path, dropping baskets and vases, sullying their clothes in the gutters, splitting shins on the curbs. Curses trailed after him, but he rode on deafly.

They flew through the West Gate, then out into the countryside. Spring was well and truly on its way. The sun—rising higher every day—had dried the roads enough that Breggo could run at a full gallop. The fields were a bouncing blur from the saddle, but Marcus could see the snow had nearly melted. Soon the farmers would be coming out for the first tilling. It was somewhat warm out, but Breggo's unrestrained speed sent a brisk wind washing over his face. Grimacing, he kept on, heedless to his men shouting behind him. Their horses were good and strong, but they couldn't hope to match the prince's stallion. The yards between them were widening.

The minutes it took to reach the ancient granite oak tree might have been eons—but finally, Old Granite's canopy came into view over the gentle hills. Marcus furiously kicked Breggo up the nearest hillside, then reined him to a stop at the crest.

A group of figures stood clustered next to the enormous tree trunk. The leaves blocked the sun and threw them into shadow, but Marcus could just make out Jacquelyn's slight form at the center, and Jaspar's thick one facing her. As he watched, they both turned to face him. Even from this far away, he thought he could make out his worst enemy's cocky grin.

He slid his sword an inch out of its sheath and rammed it back down, his lip tucked into a snarl. Kelly and Gail pulled up beside him, their horses quivering and struggling for breath even as Breggo stamped his hooves, yearning for more.

"If you're looking for a fight, your highness, those there are some long odds." Gail said pragmatically, counting the men below—five in all.

"Then stay here." Marcus gave Breggo a nudge, and together, the plunged down the hill.

Jaspar's front teeth gleamed through his rodent-like pout. He spread his arms mockingly. "Welcome, your highness," he greeted. "You're late." His five minions—the sons of old nobility, scoundrels and cowards to a man—laughed along. And Jacquelyn stared coolly, as if daring him to address her, arms folded beneath her breasts. She had made a tight fist of her right hand.

"And what, precisely, am I late for?" Marcus's tone was thick with menace. He slid off the saddle and dropped to the grassy ground. He already had one hand on his sword. He heard Kelly step up to his right side, Gail just beyond him, heard their swords grinding as they loosened them in their sheaths.

Jaspar scowled at him. "I'll let the girl tell you."

Right then, she did just that. Without warning, she dropped her arms and hurled something at him. His family ring blinked brightly in the dappled sunlight before bouncing off his chest and landing harmlessly in the grass. He looked back up just in time to see the girl crossing the space between them. Reaching him, her hand came up and dashed him across the face. Jaspar and his friends groaned with delight.

Marcus made no attempt to stop Jacquelyn. Blow by blow, she spent her anger—her palm stinging his right cheek, her knuckles bruising his left. Angry tears glazed her eyes.

Finally, the strikes tapered off. Jacquelyn clutched her reddened hand, glaring at him from the depths of her hatred. "I was wrong about you." Each whispered syllable was a vial of deadly poison.

"I know," he said somberly.

Her blazing eyes dimmed. She began to look like herself—only torn and betrayed, hurt beyond anything he had seen before.

But Jaspar had no intention of watching a tender moment. "That's enough," he said. "Lads, get to it."

Metal rang out, and long blades appeared in the gang's hands. Marcus grabbed Jacquelyn's arm and hauled her behind him, tearing her dress, sending her sprawling to the ground at his heels. He went for his sword—but something crashed into his skull, something round and hard. His limbs failed him, and just before his vision blackened, he saw grass coming up to meet him.

Then he was awake again. He was dizzy, felt close to vomiting. Somehow he was on his feet. As he tried to move his arms, he understood why. Someone was holding them in a vice-grip behind him. Over to his right, he heard ragged, agonized breathing. It was Gail. The veteran was sprawled on the ground, an ugly gash splitting the leather across his ribs. Blood oozed out.

Standing over him was Kelly, his sword streaked with red. "You should have known, old man." He gave his erstwhile comrade a kick in the side, provoking a pained cough. "How's it feel, being put low for once?"

"Kelly?" Marcus couldn't believe it, despite the evidence in front of his eyes. "No..."

The ginger-haired veteran glanced over disdainfully and turned away.

"Why?"

Jaspar answered for him. "He got tired of playing loyal to a self-righteous little prig like you, de Pilars. What, you didn't see this coming?"

Marcus would have groaned in horror, had his voice not failed him.

Jaspar stood in front of him, thumbs tucked into his belt loops, his blade lodged in the earth by his feet. Behind him, a minion had Jacquelyn on her knees, holding her tight by the hair. It was de Mexvel, the weasel-faced lad Marcus had promised a scar. He was looking between Marcus and Jacquelyn with a foul grin.

This couldn't be happening. This had to be a nightmare.

But Jaspar made the moment terribly real. He reared back his right fist and sent it crashing into Marcus's jaw. His teeth rattled, his head snapped to the side and returned to its original place—only for Jaspar to grab a fistful of his bangs and lay another punch into his nose. Bone crunched. Warm blood trickled out of his nostrils and ran down his chin.

He licked his lips, tasting iron. "Is that all you have, de Martine?" The scorn in his voice was remarkably strong, considering how little he felt it.

The only reply was another punch. This time it split his eyebrow. If not for the two lads holding him, he would have toppled, but they pulled him upright, jeering with all the rest.

"You think you can do whatever the fuck you want?" Jaspar bellowed into his face. "You think you can insult my family? Insult me? Well here's some news for you, cousin of mine: I've got a lot to repay you for."

Another blow sank into Marcus's gut, drawing out a muffled groan. He panted for a spell, then looked up and spat a gobbet of blood into Jaspar's face. "Fuck you."

Jaspar made him pay for that, too. He laid in a new round of pummeling blows—into his face, his eyes, his stomach and ribs. Pain shot through him. Blood ran freely. Between each strike, Jaspar put his hatred into words. "You're shit, understand that? You walk the streets like you're Ancel himself. You cut men off the gallows like you're God in judgment. You belittle the authority of better men. And the commoners still adore you, dumb shits that they are." His blue eyes were frenzied as he railed on, accentuating each new word with a hard punch, "You—are—nothing!"

With that, he let off for a moment, giving Marcus a precious few seconds to catch his breath. He retched, his stomach rebelling against the punishment it had taken. Blood dripped from the tip of his nose, staining his shirt.

He saw Jacquelyn sobbing. She shook her head, mouthing over and over again, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Marcus raised his head to stare evenly at Jaspar—evenly as he could between his swelling eyelids, anyway. He spat again through his split lips, feeling his cracked jawbone shifting. "I never claimed," he uttered, panting, "to be a better man. There's only one difference between you and me: I tried. So do whatever you want to me, Jaspar. You aren't getting any closer to being a good man, yourself."

Jaspar's expression was one of unadulterated loathing. His torso heaved as his lungs fought for breath, spent by minutes of letting out years of acrimony. But at last, his expression fell away—then became something else entirely. Something Marcus feared even more.

He had seen this look from Jaspar before. It was the same one he had turned on Estelle that night when he had destroyed her for spectacle.

And he turned that look on Jacquelyn.

"You're right," he said. "I'm no better." The girl's eyes went round as he did away with the yards between them. Shoving de Mexvel off, Jaspar took her by the collar and hurled her onto her back. Her astonished cry quickly turned to a fit of coughing as she smashed into the ground, knocking the breath from her lungs.

"No!" Marcus roared. He struggled, but to no avail. Laughing, the pair of minions tightened their grips on his arms. "Leave her alone, de Martine! I'll kill you, I swear!"

"You're in no position to swear a thing," Jaspar drawled. The coldness in his eyes was a dreadful thing. He had a foot on Jacquelyn's sternum. He was undoing his belt.

She saw. "No," she said, terror dawning as she began to comprehend what was about to happen to her. "Please don't! Oh God..." Her legs kicked under her skirt, but her strength was no match for even half of Jaspar's. Realizing that, she started to cry.

Marcus could only watch.

"I'm going to do it, de Pilars," Jaspar catcalled. He knelt, clamped a hand over the girl's throat, inhaled deep the scent of her hair. "This, it's all mine. I'm going to take her right in front of you. I'm going to bend her over and fuck her like a dog. And you're going to watch. De Mexvel, go over there and hold his eyes open." His friend looked squeamish, but another glare from Jaspar got him moving.

Marcus's mouth was hanging open, but his voice was gone. This was a dream, a terrible dream... Any moment, he would wake up, safe in his own bed with Jacquelyn beside him, telling him everything was alright, asking about breakfast...

But her wails, the sound of tearing fabric as Jaspar ripped open her skirt—that brought it home. Marcus watched Jaspar turn her around, shove her onto her hands and knees, kicking her legs apart—staring at him all the while. The girl was sobbing, pleading to him and God and anyone who would listen. She scrabbled, trying to escape, but he just tugged her back into place. Tears coursed down her face—and she turned her hazel eyes on him. They begged for help, even though she knew he had none to give.

And that was the worst of it. He was just as helpless as she was. That knowledge tore at him like nothing else could have.

"Jaspar." The last of his pride evaporated. He couldn't watch this. Nothing was worth punishment like this. "Don't do it. For the love of God."

Jaspar's eyes glowed with frenzy—and triumph. He knelt there behind Jacquelyn, her skirt hanging in tatters, her head bowed in defeat, her breath coming in piteous sobs. Together, Jaspar and Marcus had opened her eyes to the cruel truth of the world. They had defiled the innocence that Marcus had always loved about her, even if he could never acknowledge it—not even to himself.

"Go on," prodded Jaspar, his lips pulled back into a feral snarl—like the animal he was. "Beg me not to."

He had never begged for a thing in his life. "Please leave her alone. I'm begging you. She doesn't deserve this. Look at her, Jaspar."

He did, his eyes swirling with madness.

"Look at her!"

"I am," he panted. "You know what I see? Meat."

Marcus sank, crestfallen. The only sounds were Jaspar's wild breathing, and the cries of the girl he was about to rape. The evil wretch drew up behind her, made himself ready to do his foul work.

A strangled roar from Kelly pierced the silence. The soldier was suddenly writhing on the ground, face contorted in agony. He clutched his heel with scarlet-stained hands, trying fruitlessly to stem the pain and blood flowing from his split Achilles tendon. Gail hauled himself on top of the traitor, knife in hand, grimacing with red teeth. With a growl, he plunged the knife down. It pierced Kelly's ribs with a revolting crack. Gail gave the knife a wrench, twisting it, sending blood spurting—and with a wet gurgle, Kelly died.

With a furious cry, one of Jaspar's mates charged, sword raised—but Gail rolled onto his back, the dead traitor's crossbow tucked into his armpit. The lad's face had just an instant to register shock before a bolt split it in half. Now a corpse, he tumbled to the ground all at once, like a puppet with its strings cut. The old veteran lurched to his feet, sword in hand, clutching his rent ribs.

In their amazement, the brutes let their grips on Marcus's arms go slack—just for an instant. But that was more than enough time for the prince to seize his chance. He tore his right arm free and with a mad strength borne of fury, threw a wicked elbow back into someone's mouth. The lad staggered, spitting out his front teeth. Marcus whirled left and brought his arm around in a right hook, his knuckles connecting with the other lad's eye. Yowling, he staggered back, clutching at the ruined socket. Then he looked down—just in time to notice his sword was missing. His wide eyes found Marcus—

—too late. A panicked scream escaped his throat—and then, with a spray of blood and the crunch of vertebrae, Marcus's blade met the trunk of his neck.

Marcus had never killed a man before. Had he been in a right state of mind, he might have been surprised at how easy it was—taking a life. But he was not right, not in the slightest.

The sword jarred satisfyingly in his grip as it sliced through skin, muscle, tendons and bone, chopping halfway through the young man's neck before lodging in his spine. Marcus planted a foot on his chest and wrenched the blade free with a shower of gore. The body fell in a heap, half-beheaded, rasping hideously as it instinctively tried to draw breath through its severed windpipe.

The other one gagged—an instinct that cost him dearly. Before he could correct his stance, Marcus took a step forward and drove his sword straight through his belly.

He gave the blade a hard twist, felt hot blood pump all over his hand, then yanked the sword out all at once. Moaning, the young man sank to his knees, clutching the ragged hole in his stomach.

That left two. De Mexvel stared between him, Gail, and the four bloody forms on the hillside. A dark stain spread down his crotch, knees quivering. Then he ran for it.

Jaspar glanced over his slain friends with no small measure of bewilderment. Not a minute ago, he'd had the upper hand. Now all he had was Jacquelyn, who he had pressed against him like a shield, his blade at her neck.

"Stay the fuck back!" he shouted, his gaze alternating between Gail and Marcus as they approached.

But Gail was visibly swaying. Marcus glanced over at him. "This one is mine, Gail," he said, his voice icy calm.

The man-at-arms looked over at him. He stopped in his tracks. Then he sank to the ground, hunched over, and shut his eyes, relieved of his duty at last. Dead—perhaps. There was little to be done for him now.

With the odds evened, some of Jaspar's courage returned. He tightened the blade against Jacquelyn's artery. "What now, de Pilars?" His voice was a mite too strained for his bravado to seem convincing. "You've murdered noble sons today. The court won't just be whispering about you now, they'll be calling for your life."

Marcus took a step forward. "They can have it. Long as I take one more with me."

Jaspar's clenched his jaw. "I'll kill the girl. Just one slice and I'll open her throat up."

Jacquelyn only stared, dull-faced. Her mind had long-since fled to some far-off sanctuary.

"You kill her," Marcus intoned, "and your mates' ends will seem a kindness compared to what I do to you. Let her go. We'll settle this here, you and me. Just the way you've always wanted."

For one precious moment, Jaspar looked ready to listen. But then that grim determination came back to his features. His fingers flexed on the sword grip.

Marcus lunged forward, lightning-quick, the tip of his blade aimed right at his hated enemy's face. Jaspar could have done it, just as he had promised. With one movement, he could have slit Jacquelyn's throat. Perhaps some last measure of decency provoked him, or perhaps fear of Marcus's retribution if he survived the fight, or some other reason entirely. No matter what the motive, he threw the girl aside, sending her sprawling on the grass.

With a wide swipe, he deflected Marcus's thrust, but left himself open to another. Marcus threw a reverse slash, narrowly missing Jaspar's thighs, then jabbed, keeping his enemy on the defensive. His face was contorted with unspeakable rage—but his form was flawless, his balance perfect, his advance irresistible. Jaspar may have been a fine swordsman, but he had few advantages here. He had lost the initiative. He was dancing to his opponent's beat, and the moment he mis-stepped, he would die. By the sweat beading on his brow, he knew it.

Marcus read his every intention. He left a false opening, let him launch a counterattack, steadily fell back step-by-step. He parried a low cut, knocked aside a stab, then caught a downward cut on his handguard. Growling, he twirled his blade, throwing Jaspar's wide. Then he was on the attack once again. This time he was relentless. Step by step, blow by blow, he whittled away Jaspar's defense. He stepped over a mewling form, staring into his enemy's desperate eyes.

After another minute of staccato clanging, Jaspar was tiring. His movements were losing their deftness, and his attacks grew more and more sporadic. He wanted to shout for mercy, Marcus could see it, but his pride wouldn't let him.

Good.

He let his next outside cut go wide, but Jaspar didn't take the feint. Rather, the lad made a cut of his own—straight for his neck. Marcus had planned for that, too. He ducked beneath the swing. Before he even came up, he lashed out—a low blow that caught Jaspar under the kneecap.

Howling, his enemy collapsed onto the wounded leg. They both knew the end of a fight when they saw one. "I yield!" Jaspar shouted, his free hand held up beseechingly.

A hero of legend would have had something suitably epic to say at that moment. As it was, though, Marcus did not hear the entreaty in his frenzy. He was already chopping downward with all his might, a wordless roar on his lips. Jaspar tried to get his sword up, but he wasn't in time.

His scream echoed across the hills.

He clutched his mangled right hand, sword forgotten by his side. His fingers were gone—all but the index, which only hung by a thread of skin. Blood spurted out of the stumps, tracing ugly crimson lines across his fine tunic. He moaned, rocking back and forth as if that would ease the pain.

Marcus stared down at him grimly for a moment, his chest rising and falling with fatigue that he was only now feeling. Teeth bared, he hefted his sword for the killing blow.

But before he could finish what he had started, Jacquelyn was beside him. Her hand found his, clenched white-knuckled around the dented sword grip. "Stop!" Her voice quavered. "Please stop."

He looked into her moist hazel eyes. They darted, unable to hold his gaze. He must have looked quite a sight—all doused in blood, eyes swollen, nose broken. Maybe it wasn't that, though. Maybe it was the look in his eyes that Jacquelyn couldn't bear.

The eyes of a killer.

He let her guide his arm down.

"It's alright," the girl whispered, even though it wasn't. She was crying again.

The rage left him as he looked over her—stained with grass and dirt, skirt torn, her beautiful face salted with tears. She collapsed against him, weeping as if the world had just ended all around her, heedless to Jaspar's sobs of pain, of Gail's shallow breathing, of the new corpses marring the once-fair hillside.

There they stood: a young woman, her innocence stolen; and a young man, his own freely given.

†††

"I demand justice, King Audric, I demand it!" Roberte de Martine had always taken care with his composure, but now the façade had fled. His grey eyes were popping halfway out of his head, teeth bared, foot tapping and fists balled.

Given the circumstances, everyone was remarkably calm—which is to say, they were either verging on hysteria or were already there. There was only handful of people gathered at the foot of the king's throne, but the enormous Sanctum might've been a closet, for all the unbearable tension crowding the air. Audric sat on the throne, rubbing his beard with one trembling hand, the other clamped tight onto the armrest. As ever, Roslene stood at his side, and even she looked anxious. Marcus couldn't blame either of them for their worry. He might've blanched too, with four aggrieved fathers calling on them to deliver blood.

His blood. Strangely, that fact didn't bother him at the moment.

But it certainly bothered everyone else. At the other end of the chamber, the thick doors rumbled and shook with the tumult on the other side. The whole court was in an uproar. A swarm of highborn men and ladies had descended on the palace, all bellowing the same news at the tops of their lungs.

"Murder!" One could almost hear the refrain amid the cacophony of voices outside.

But it was nothing compared to the noise inside the Sanctum.

"My son has been murdered!" cried Lord de Fremault, his watery eyes fixed on the statue-still king. He aimed one crooked finger at Marcus. "Why is this—this beast not in chains?"

"Murdered! My son is dead!" added Lord de Gonse, his voice thick with dramatized grief.

"And mine! Shot through the eye, like game in the woods!"  
Roberte shouted, "Their sons are dead, and mine is maimed, King Audric, maimed! Look!" He held up a blood-spattered sleeve. "His lifeblood, shot from his wrist while the chirurgeon took what was left of his hand! I held him down while he screamed! How can you not act?"

The other three lords added their voices to his. The effect was akin to a gaggle of hens squawking over vanished eggs.

Audric seemed to gaze straight through them while they railed. Then Roslene's fingers closed over his shoulder, and he jerked, as if he'd been awoken from a dream. He fixed a morose look on Marcus, who stood motionless at the base of his throne, before turning it on the assembled lords. "What crime am I to act on?" The question came out as a near-whisper. "My son did not strike without cause."

The four gave protest, but Roberte's came out strongest. "There is no cause worth the price we've paid! Your son has done murder today, against his own peers, and upon sacred ground! He must be made to pay!"

The king shot to his feet. "He defended himself! He protected a woman's honor! I would have done the same in his position, and if you've any honor yourself, so would you!"

"He did no such thing!" roared Clyde de Mexvel. "My son has given his testimony, you heard it yourself. It was meant to be a duel, nothing more. But your son went mad. Mad! He refused to yield when Roberte's son asked it, a criminal act in itself! And when the rest tried to intervene, your son and his guards began killing. This is nothing less than cold murder! It's a miracle my son escaped at all!"

"Look at his face!" Audric cried. It was true, Marcus's looks had left him completely. He could barely see through his puffed eyelids. His broken nose whistled with each breath. Not that he cared much, despite the dull pain born of bruised skin and shifting bones. "Am I to believe," his father was saying, "that my son sustained injuries such as this with a sword in his hand?"

"Are you calling my son a liar?"

"If I could, believe me, I would, Lord de Mexvel. But I cannot, because I could barely understand his testimony with the way he sobbed."

Lord de Mexvel gaped at the insult, but Jaspar's father had quicker wit. "Pathetic a sight as it was," he sneered, "de Mexvel's son's testimony is the only viable one we have. This young woman you refer to, this Duchesne girl, hasn't even presented herself to us. What's more, she is known at court as a harlot and a liar, and we cannot in good faith—"

"That is a lie!" Save his loud breathing, it was the first sign of life Marcus had given in half an hour. He could only imagine what his scowl looked like, but the lords' appalled expressions were a good indication.

"Then why," inquired Lord de Martine, his grey eyes narrowed to slits, "is she not here?"

"Because your son, the one whose hand I took, was about to rape her."

Jaspar's father waved his hand in what would have been a dismissive gesture, if not for the red flush in his cheeks. "Hearsay," he scoffed. "How convenient, that she does not see fit to come to your defense after you so gallantly came to hers."

Marcus could have told the truth: that when he had ridden through the city gates with Jaspar's sorry ass wedged onto a horse in tow, he had ordered a set of guards to take Jacquelyn home, and keep her there. Gail, he had left in a chirurgeon's care, unconscious and pallid with blood loss. But the bastard was tough; he had survived worse. It was Jacquelyn that concerned Marcus most. She had been through enough already, without having to defend a man who didn't deserve her aid.

Instead, he shut his mouth and returned his gaze to the floor.

"Nothing to say, I notice," Roberte taunted.

"That is quite enough, Lord de Martine," barked the king.

"It is not!" shouted Roberte, a sentiment his fellow lords echoed. "I—we demand justice! Even if your son tells the truth, even if he acted in self-defense, the measures he took were far in excess of reason. Three of our own lie dead. My son has lost his hand. We... demand... justice!"

"Justice," Audric said, "has already been done."

Roberte's face drained of color. He exchanged an outraged look with his fellows. "What is this you say?"

"I say I will do nothing!" asserted the king.

"You will!" screamed Jaspar's father. "You will censure your son, as we have petitioned you since you returned from your failed campaign! You will publicly withdraw his right to your crown! You will confiscate his lands and his wealth, you will turn it over to us as compensation for his misdeeds, and all of this will be a mere shadow of what you owe us, King Audric!"

"I will not!" Audric bellowed right back, purple-faced. "I am the king! What I say is law! You have no hold over me, and how dare you insist otherwise!"

It was fortunate for Roberte that he was unarmed, because otherwise, he likely would have drawn at that instant. Of course, the dreadnaughts would have descended on him at once and added his body to the count—but matters seldom lend themselves to convenience.

Rather, Lord de Martine contorted his face into a look that ought to have killed on its own. He hissed, "I do not insist, I know otherwise. As do you."

King Audric turned white.

The air was intensely still. Marcus looked between the two men, perplexed. There had been something in Roberte's words, something beyond mere denial. He had uttered a threat, though what that was, Marcus couldn't begin to guess at. The other lords couldn't either, judging from their confused stares.

"I have a proposal." Every eye in the room snapped onto Roslene. She left her lover's side and stood between him and Roberte, her face grim.

The high lord curled his lip. "You have no stake here, good lady. Perhaps it is best you do not speak at all."

Roslene's eyes flashed. "On the contrary, it is best that I do speak, and for precisely the reason you have just named: I have the smallest stake in this affair. Therefore, my opinion is the closest to objective. If anyone is to pass judgment here, it should be me." She alternated her challenging gaze between Roberte and Audric, brows arched. "Is that not so?"

Roberte flexed his jaw and looked away.

"Speak then, Roslene," said Audric.

She nodded. "Send Marcus east with the army."

"March him to war?" demanded Roberte. "Reward him with glory? I think not!"

"Men of the line win little glory," said Roslene, which sent the man into a thoughtful silence. She explained, "He will not ride to war as a commander, or even a junior officer. Instead, he will march through the dust and mud as a common soldier."

"To what end?" a lord squeaked.

The woman answered smoothly. "To all ends desired here, Lord de Gonse. You all demand that the prince be censured—that the king deny him his birthright. But consider the broader consequences: Marcus is Audric's only son. Censure him, and we bring the accession into contest. The court is volatile enough as our affairs stand. Too many families have too much to gain to simply stand by and let some distant relative take Marcus's place. They will do whatever they see necessary to advance their positions. Family alliances generations old will break. Money will be spent, blood will certainly be spilled, that much I can guarantee. Eventually some victor will emerge, and the entire balance of power will shift."

Roslene turned her pointed gaze on each lord in turn. "You have striven for years to bring your families to greatness. You hold in your hands more wealth and more land than ever before. One false move, and all you have achieved will crumble away. Censure Marcus, and you risk everything. You know it to be true."

Silence reigned as the noble fathers considered Roslene's words. Then one spat, "And I will ruin myself gladly, if it sees this scum laid low!" The room erupted in a chorus of agreement, each man vying to make his loathing Marcus plainest.

"Censure him!"

"A dog is more fit to rule!"

"Then reform him!" the woman shouted. The lords quieted, glowering sulkily. "You want him humbled, do you not? Each time you have demanded his censure, you cite his willfulness, his arrogance. But the prince is still young. His character may mature yet. I say there is a fine way to do this, and that is Ancel's Way. Send him to war. As an ordinary soldier, he will learn to follow rather than lead. He will learn the humility and patience he so sorely lacks. He will spend years away on campaign. In that time, you will be free of him. Then, once he returns, I assure you that you will find him a fit match for his father's throne."

She looked aside to consider Marcus. He stared back levelly, but in his mind, he cried, Do it. Send me away. Anywhere, anywhere but here.

Roslene returned to her audience. "You accuse him of murder. Perhaps he is guilty. But perhaps not. We lack proper testimony in the matter, and it is clear that no amount of information will cool the heads in this room. We have been reduced to heckling. So let God decide the matter. If the prince is guilty, he will fall in battle redeemed. If innocent, he will return to us worthy of his birthright. It is as fine a compromise as has ever been suggested. Consider it, my lords."

They mulled it over as Roslene stepped back to Audric's side. Marcus could already see the wordless thanks in the way he gripped her hand. But his father wouldn't look at him.

Meanwhile, the lords glanced at each other—or the three minor ones did, at least, their expressions uncertain. They were waiting on their leader's cue—just as their sons had with Jaspar. Even in their anger, they were was spineless as ever.

After several long minutes, Roberte spoke up—and in a bare whisper at that. "The first battle line."

Audric seemed about to reject the demand, but Roslene squeezed his hand. They exchanged a mute conversation. Once their eyes broke apart, the king gave a single, tired nod. "Agreed."

"Then our business is finished," Roberte said. Face twitching, he twirled on one heel and swept off with his cape flowing behind him. As he passed Marcus's shoulder, he took the time to give him one last stare—a look of intense, terrible loathing, one that wished agonizing death a thousand times over. Marcus returned it, despising the man to his very core just as he always had. This was the father who had raised Jaspar into the pig he was.

Roberte de Martine passed, and the moment with him. The other lords trailed in his wake, only they didn't deign to notice Marcus. The door shut, and they were gone.

Marcus found himself alone with Roslene and his father. He thought the tension would have left with his accusers, but now the air was thicker than ever.

Audric looked at him at last. His face was somber, even mournful. "I did warn you, son, did I not?"

"About what?" Marcus said bitterly. "Leaving the girl be?"

"Yes, to protect the both of you! Arrogant as you are, you ignored me, and this is the price you both pay!"

"Jaspar tried to rape her!" he cried, voice breaking at the memory. He rubbed his eyes to blot out the vision, but it did no good. He could still hear Jacquelyn sobbing. "What was I to do?"

"You could have started by turning my daughter away." Roslene's voice was phlegmatic, but it might as well have been a whip's lash.

Marcus couldn't have met her gaze if he tried. That childish part of him wanted to make excuses—tell them he had been drunk, that she had known it and taken advantage. But he would have been ignoring the simple truth: that he had slept with her because he wanted to. "I know," he whispered to the floor.

Audric looked between them with some bewilderment. "Kaelyn was involved in this?"

Roslene nodded. "She was... though she only saw fit to inform me when I received your summons today." She heaved a sad sigh. "It was a lover's game turned to spite. With anyone else, that would have been all. But here..."

"She could have told us herself!" groaned Audric. "She could have helped us!"

"What my daughter did has no bearing on what Marcus's actions today," the consort said firmly. "If her testimony would have had any impact, I would have called her in. But Audric, you know those men were here for blood. We're fortunate they agreed to anything less."

Audric sank back in his chair. "I know, love. But that gives me no comfort. The first battle line!" he put a quivering hand over his eyes. "Ancel guard him."

Roslene eased up behind him and spread her fingers over his collarbones. She murmured in his ear, "He will, my love. He will." But she wasn't looking down at her lover. Her blue-green eyes were fixed on Marcus, narrowed with satisfaction—and all too late, he recognized that she hadn't been negotiating a compromise at all. A new set of bargaining chips had fallen into her palm—whether by accident or design, he could only guess—and she had played them beautifully. But there was one fact he knew for certain.

Kydona was precisely where Roslene Beauvais wanted him.

Chapter 13

The day began much the same as any other—with a rude interruption. The mattress was rustling, and a woman's hushed voice was saying, "My lord prince," again and again.

Marcus cracked his eyelids. "Morning already?"

"A hour 'til dawn, your highness," the maid's unresolved shape replied.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, still exhausted—because in truth, he hadn't slept at all. The past two nights had been the same. He had spent each tossing and turning on his bed, bathed in cold sweat. Even if he had been capable of sleeping, he wouldn't have. The nightmares were bad enough when he was awake.

Sighing, he hauled himself out of bed while the maid set about lighting the lanterns. He went over to the dressing table, where a clean set of folded clothes were arranged. He recognized the plain blue of the Royal Watch.

"Your highness? Are you alright?"

He frowned, wondering what the woman could possibly be worried about. Then he noticed he was gripping his belly, just below the sternum. Feeling sheepish, he dropped his hand. "I'm fine." But he wasn't. He was trying not to think about the gash in that lad's belly, about twisting his sword and feeling the warm blood gush all over his hand...

"I'm fine," he repeated, if only for his own reassurance.

The maid nodded and stepped to his side. She unfurled his clothes and helped him dress, one garment at a time. He let her, grateful for the simple task to be concentrating on. First came the white undershirt, then the woolen blue trousers and matching tunic. He tugged on some marching boots—thick-soled, hobnailed—and tucked his pants into them, then clamped thick leather gaiters around his ankles to keep the mud out on the march. Next came a chainmail vest, which he made as tight as the leather side straps would allow before knotting his sword belt over it. The maid handed him a leather cap, but he tucked it into his belt. He wouldn't need it until it came time to don a helmet.

"You look very handsome, your highness," the maid commented, standing off at a discreet distance while Marcus inspected himself in the mirror.

He stuffed his hands into his gloves. "Thank you. My sword?"

She came forward with her eyes lowered, holding out a sword in both hands. It was a familiar blade—the same one that had done him so little good on Old Granite just three days ago. He lifted it carefully, eying its laminated blue steel—unmarred by blood and death. He was thankful for that, though he knew it wouldn't be the case for long.

Face grim, he slid the weapon down into its sheath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the maid take an involuntary half-step back. It stung, but he supposed she had a right to her fear.

"Thank you. You may go."

Curtsying, the woman made for the door. She hesitated on the threshold. "Good luck, your highness. May the Aspects protect you." The door shut behind her.

Marcus studied his reflection again. He was glad that was the only farewell he would have to endure today. He didn't want anyone to see this new look in his eyes. They frightened even him.

He had said his goodbyes yesterday, and precious few at that. His father had been one, though Marcus had gone out of obligation rather than desire. The dinner had been profusely awkward, with just the two of them sitting at a table in Audric's chambers, eating little and talking less.

"You'll do fine," his father had promised. Marcus would have believed him, if he hadn't pronounced the words like a death sentence. "You've always been the best at everything you did." He had added other assurances, all equally valueless. Toward the end, Roslene joined them. She wished Marcus the best, asked if there was any favor he wished of her, behaved amiably all the while—as if sending Marcus off to war hadn't been her idea. Sickened by her presence, he had politely excused himself, but not before his father enfolded him in a rough embrace.

"Come back, son." The king's voice was husky with tears, but he didn't shed a one. He held Marcus at arm's length and looked him up and down, as if savoring the sight of his flesh and blood one last time. He wouldn't be joining the campaign as he had planned; half a dozen campaigns had taken their toll on his body, and recently, he hadn't been able to keep a saddle. A king who couldn't ride had no place on the campaign trail. The Council of Highest had made that plain enough—though Marcus suspected their true motive was far short of altruistic: they wanted to keep the king apart from his son.

For the first time in his entire life, he was grateful to them.

Marcus masked his thoughts with a formal bow. When he rose, the pain in his father's face was clear—but he let him go.

So had Vernon, with extreme reluctance. His best mate had steadfastly refused to believe he, Marcus, was being punished for acting justly. But it didn't matter whether Vernon believed or not, just that he knew to do Marcus one last favor: to tell Jacquelyn not to wait for him. Vernon's confusion had been clear, but Marcus pleaded with him until he relented and agreed to the task. They shared a last jug of wine, a hug, and a handshake—and the farewell was done.

Which left Marcus here, alone in his chambers. He was dressed as a soldier, ready to go to war, and truth be told, he was scared. But anywhere was better than here. He reminded himself of that now. He had to escape—from the waking nightmares, from the court games... from Jacquelyn.

An envelope lay on the dressing table, her name etched tidily on its face. It was empty. Instead, a sheet of parchment sat beside it—blank except for a great ink blot where he had rested his quill, debating what to write. It was a strange question that faced him: How do tell someone not to love you anymore, and mean it?

The answer had eventually come on its own: You don't.

Mournfully, he had set the quill down, pushed the unwritten letter aside, and laid down for a third sleepless night. He would let Jacquelyn's love for him die on its own, and she would be happier for it. That knowledge, at least, was some miniscule comfort.

But it was a new, terrible day now, and with it came a momentous realization: he was really leaving. He had said his goodbyes—to his mother whom he had loved, to his father whom he barely loved at all, to his best friend Vernon... and looking down at this last goodbye that he would never say, the one that mattered most, it occurred to Marcus that he had never felt so sad and forlorn in all his life.

Tears threatened. He rubbed his eyes, both of them welling. It's your fault, he reminded himself. That thought made him angry enough that he didn't cry. Which was fortunate. He had a long day ahead of him, and bawling was a poor way to start.

Clearing his throat, Marcus left his bedroom. He found a shield resting against the wall beside the chamber door. Its face was royal blue, with the fist of Ancel painted in yellow on the center. Marcus hefted the shield's bulk, testing the straps as the Novitiate had taught him. Satisfied, he slung it across his back.

He turned around for a final look at his chambers. There were fond memories here—his mother, smiling as she taught his young self to read; Kaelyn, sneaking in as a girl to share his bed each night, seeking shelter from bad dreams; Vernon, all the debauchery the two of them had enjoyed on those couches, whether drinking or jesting or entertaining girls; and Jacquelyn.

But he didn't have them anymore. He remembered that, and abruptly the recollections turned sour.

Marcus worked the door latch and with one last, regretful look back, he left.

It was so early that even the servants hadn't woken up yet. The hall was cold, empty except for the scores of watchful statues. The flickering torchlight cast their faces into eerie relief, their shadowed eye sockets staring Marcus down as he walked past. He ignored them. He slowed only to brush his fingers along his mother's old door, breathing deep, hoping for a last hint of his mother's scent. But like her, it was long gone.

As Marcus walked, he kept reminding himself that this place was his home, and it would be a long time before he saw it again. He tried to appreciate it, view it through a different lens—and failed. He knew every statue, door, and tapestry—as he had for years. This place held no new wonders for him.

Jaded, he made his way down the halls with only his clicking footsteps for company. Before long, he found himself in the Atrium. He gazed up at the giant columns, the gilded ceiling, willing himself to feel something. Again, it was a fruitless task. Pulling the shield tighter around his shoulders, he started across.

The winter palisades were still up and most of the lanterns were unlit. It was dim—so much so that he went past a bench without even noticing the figure sitting on it.

"Marcus."

He stopped. "Kaelyn."

The young courtesan rose, but she stayed put. Her eyes flickered across him.

He just faced her and waited, his emotions swirling in a maelstrom of conflict. Caught between tenderness and hatred, he didn't trust himself to say a word.

From her hesitation, she felt the same way. "I..." She bit her lip. Unclenching her hands, she held out a palm. Metal twinkled there—only this time, it wasn't a ring; it was a golden strike. "Would you take this?"

Marcus furrowed his brows. It wasn't so much the gift that surprised him—more the way her voice trembled. He'd never heard it do that before. There was a lengthy pause. "I can't," he said at last.

Kaelyn was still holding it out. "Please," she murmured without looking at him, "just take it."

He complied. He weighed the coin in his hand, rubbing his thumb along its face. Evidently the coin had endured the same treatment quite often; the whole side, which had once borne Elessa's wings, was worn smooth. "Thank you," he said automatically. In reality, part of him wanted to hurl the coin off.

The courtesan smiled bleakly. "It's yours. I stole it years ago. That first night we spent together."

Marcus didn't remember, in truth, but he kept quiet.

"It's always brought me good luck... When I don't leave it lying around, anyway..." She bit her lip. Finally, she settled for, "I thought you needed it more than me."

For several long moments, there was silence between them. Marcus wished Kaelyn would just go, but she stayed rooted in place, watching him through moist eyes. He supposed it was his turn to speak—though there really wasn't all that much to say. Except for one thing. Gathering his breath, he told her, "I have a favor to ask."

"What, the strike wasn't good enough?" She made an odd little sound, part chuckle and part sob. "Ask, then."

"Look after Jacquelyn for me."

She looked mortified. "That wasn't exactly asking," she stammered.

Marcus shrugged. "It's not in the way you're thinking. I want you to keep her away from court. Keep the court away from her. She'll be happier for it. So will you, I imagine."

It was a strange moment they found themselves in—two corners of a love triangle scheming to help the third. Even shrouded in darkness, Kaelyn looked anything but pleased.

"Can you do that for me?" he insisted.

"Yes," she said quietly. Another awkward silence passed between them as each waited for the other to say goodbye.

Marcus jerked his head at the far entrance. "I ought to be on my way."

Kaelyn nodded. She scooped a stray lock out of her eyes. "Be careful. Come home safe."

Grasping her final gift, he walked off without a backward glance. His first love watched him go, having gained nothing by her jealous schemes save a twice-broken heart.

†††

Outside, the purple horizon provided the merest hint of dawn. Ancellon was a formless black stain spread at his feet, its people still cozy in their beds, as they would be for another hour at the least. Marcus turned up the collar of his tunic against a cool breeze, envying their comfort.

He walked down the hidden staircase that led to the stables, where a pair of grooms had saddled a horse for him. Though he already knew it wasn't Breggo he'd be riding out, it still saddened him to see a skinny gelding standing in place of his great white stallion. The horse eyed him warily as he approached. A groom held the reins while Marcus inspected the load, making sure all his equipment and provisions were tied securely to the saddle.

"Good," he said once he was done, to which the grooms both inclined their heads. "You'll keep a special eye on Breggo until I'm back?"  
The older of the two bent once more. "Aye, your highness, and both hands. He's a proud one, that horse."

Marcus smiled. "Stare him in the eye until you're firm in the saddle. He won't throw you then. Probably." Advice spoken, he climbed onto the gelding's back. It snorted haughtily in an ill imitation of its better cousin. "Shut up," he growled.

The younger groom handed him the reins, and a spear. "Good luck. Stick some Ivans for us, your highness."

He thought of spurting blood and crunching bone, and he suppressed a shudder. "I will," he promised nonetheless, and kicked the gelding forward. With hooves clattering beneath him, he sped out of the courtyard and into Ancellon.

Heroes' Square passed him by, its statues saluting as ever, the draped banners flapping in the breeze. He rode under Ancel's arch with the names of countless victories chiseled into its black stone, then onto the Royal Way. The leaves rustled on the trees, masking the sound of Marcus's passage. The horse was slight but swift, and it made short work of the mile-long fairway.

At the end, the North Gate loomed, its edges highlighted purple in the predawn light. In its shadow, Marcus spotted movement. He tensed, already expecting that the aggrieved lords were making a last bid for revenge.

"Oy!" Vernon trotted his horse into view, grinning. "You thought you were just going to slink out of here on your own now, did you?"

"Vernon?" Marcus couldn't hide his astonishment. "What are you doing here?"

"The hell do you reckon I'm doing, mate?" his best friend asked by way of reply, sounding affronted. "I'm coming with you. Look!" He brandished a spear. With his free hand, he half-drew his sword—an austere Watch blade, not the overelaborate one he had always preferred. "Ready to go!"

Marcus drew his horse to a stop thigh-to-thigh with him. "You can't do this," he protested, though the joy he felt was a tough thing to fight.

"Well, looks like I can. Paperwork's already signed. Turns out there are perks to having a high lord for a father. Who knew?" He leaned over to punch Marcus's arm. Chainmail clinked. "Took some doing but there it is, mate. You're stuck with me."

His eyes welled as Vernon clasped his hand. "I'll never know a better friend."

"Don't you dare start crying. It's hard enough being out of bed this early without you getting all weepy on me."

Marcus nodded, swallowing and blinking the tears away. He forced a smile. The expression felt unfamiliar, and it fled quickly. "Well. I suppose we should be off." Vernon gave a nod of his own. With a jerk of their reins and a kick of their heels, they started down the long, straight road to Fort Arlimont. They exchanged some conversation, which they kept light, though falsely so. After a while, Marcus fell into a glum silence, one that even Vernon didn't seem inclined to fill.

Behind them, Ancellon's walls gradually diminished to a faint white line. A few miles more and it disappeared altogether. That left the pair to confront Arlimont, a granite square squatting on the distant river bend. As they drew closer, a new feature resolved itself out of the darkness: the army camp.

It was a city in its own right, though made of canvas rather than stone. The limits were a cluttered mess, an amalgam of tents and lean-to huts. These were home to the opportunistic folk who had made their living off the army since the start of winter, selling everything from bread to blankets to bedding. The last, it had to be said, seemed the most prosperous trade by far.

"Fancy a go, lads?" a woman called, leering at them from the front step of a ramshackle building. She pulled up her skirts in what she meant to be an enticing manner, but one look at her filthy, bruised thighs would have turned Marcus away at his most desperate.

Vernon made no secret of his appalled expression. "Elessa's tits," he muttered. "I'd rather stick my cock in a knothole."

There were many more like her. Gaggles of prostitutes trailed in the two lads' wake, some offering themselves for less than the price of two loaves of bread. For that price, they promised debaucheries that a courtesan would flush to mention.

The peddlers were no less troublesome. "Rabbits! Rabbits here, straight out of the burrows and freshly skinned, lads!"

"Homespun jackets!"

"Dice! Marbles! Cards! Ease your boredom on the march!"

It took some persistence, but the two noble sons gradually forced their way through the press of people. After what seemed an hour, the posts of a large wooden gate rose up over the crowd. To either side stretched a palisade of sharpened poles, with a complement of archers lining the parapet at intervals.

Half a dozen armored men were guarding the gate itself. They formed a tight barrier, shoulder to shoulder, to hold back the crowd. They parted to let Marcus and Vernon through, but the looks they gave them were suspicious. All the same, Marcus was happy for the reprieve.

"Right, and who would the both of you be?" It was a sergeant who spoke, stepping into the horses' path. He studied the two strangers, frowning. "Your names and units."

"Marcus." His habit had always been to give his full name, and he had to make a conscious effort to stop there. Commoners, he remembered, had rare occasion to use their surnames—usually to sign tax paperwork and the like. "24th Regiment, 1st Battalion, Sword Company."

"Vernon, same unit. Want to kick us in that direction there, sergeant?"

The man grunted, rolling his eyes. "Fresh cuts, you. That's Bloodied Regiment you're looking for." He spat in the mud. "Only no one told us they'd lost a pair of girls."

Marcus held up a placating hand to Vernon, who looked set to detonate. With the same hand, he dug into a saddlebag and retrieved a parchment. "These are my orders." He passed them down. "My friend has the same, if you want to see them. We're to report to that regiment this morning."

After a brief scan of the document, the sergeant handed it back. His mouth still had a twist to it, but his next words had lost their snide quality. "Right. Bloodied is on the other side of camp, straight on from here. Best move your arses. They're the first order of march."

Marcus thanked him, to which he received a grunt, and rode his horse through the gate with Vernon close behind.

It was dawn by now, and the brightening sky only served to highlight one fact: the camp was little less chaotic than the shanty on its outskirts. Though Marcus hadn't heard them above the clamor, the morning trumpets had already sounded, and the army was shuffling into wakefulness. Men were stumbling out of their tents bleary-eyed and half-dressed. Shouts filled the air as sergeants put their own morning grouchiness to a practical purpose: getting their men moving.

"Up and out, lads, up and out," one bellowed, punctuating his words by hauling a young soldier out of a tent by the back of his collar. Even as the lad went rolling in the dirt, the sergeant tugged a stake out of the nearest tent, which promptly collapsed. "Stop whining!" he yelled at the occupants thrashing beneath the fallen canvas. "Next ones I catch in their tent get a bucket of water, now wake the hell up!"

Similar scenes were playing out on all sides as Marcus advanced. It bewildered him, somewhat, seeing the army up close and personal once again—but then, it felt oddly refreshing in some indefinable way.

The camp was a hive of activity, with men scurrying to and fro. Some dismantled tents. Others stuffed their rucksacks, squeezing their things in as tight as they could before securing the sacks with belts and lengths of cord. Still more labored with shovels to fill in latrine ditches, among other menial tasks. Most worked with one hand, ate with the other—because they knew they would need all the energy they could get for the day's march.

Many stole surreptitious glances at the two horsemen riding along the main avenue. Dragoons? No, they didn't have the armor, neither did the horses. Officers, then? That couldn't be, they didn't wear the rank. They couldn't be couriers either, they weren't in any kind of hurry...

On the debate went, but neither Marcus nor Vernon took much notice of it. Their business was on the far side of camp.

They found 24th Regiment clumped on the bank of the Anora. Whereas the rest of the army was just rousing, this unit was already in formation along the road—and had been for some time, it seemed. Most were sitting on the ground against their rucks, gnawing at hardtack and jerky. The sergeants weren't yelling, just stepping up and down the rows, chuckling and joking as they inspected their men's gear.

Vernon sighed. "Well, we've found them. What now?"

"We get rid of these." Marcus patted the gelding's neck.

Fortunately, the regiment's baggage train was clustered nearby. There they found a spare hand who was willing to take the horses back to Ancellon—for a small fee, naturally. After a few minutes, they managed to wrestle their equipment off the saddles, if only to encumber themselves in turn. Shouldering his load, stuffing his helmet on, Marcus tossed the young lad a silver trice, and he watched as the horses were led away. Thus freed, he and Vernon turned back toward their regiment, near-staggering under the added weight of their rucks.

"Right," wheezed Vernon. He looked down the line of company battle standards stuck in the ground along the road, ten flags in all. Each had a numeral in the top left corner denoting its battalion, and a symbol in the bottom right marking the company—each named for an implement of war, whether Sword, Shield, Hammer, or the like. "1st Battalion, Sword, isn't it?"

Marcus gave a nod, and the pair set off along the road. They trotted past company after company, many of whom had no compunctions about staring openly. They saw archers with their light mail, knives, and longbows; pikemen, whose barb-tipped polearms were easily three times a man's height, and the bane of any cavalryman; and chevaliers, the majority, distinguished by their deadly longswords, broad shields, and segmented plate armor—though the latter two had been strapped to their backs for the time being. They were the standard infantry—and the shield on Marcus's back reminded him that he would soon be among them.

But the ones he was passing were the wrong battalion. His company, he reasoned, had to be at the front. Brilliant, he thought: first to march, first to fight, first to die.

Halfway down the line, wedged between the two battalions, they encountered a strange sight. "What in the hell are those?" Vernon sounded flabbergasted, and he certainly had a right to it.

"Firelancers, I'd suppose," hazarded Marcus. It wasn't a company of them, hardly even a battle line—but still, fifty was more than enough to make for a sight. Their armor was much like any archer's, but that was where the similarity ended. Each carried a stick of wrought iron—what looked to be refined versions of Horace Smithson's firelance. At their waists and across their chests, they wore a bewildering array of pouches and satchels—and unlike everyone else in the whole army, they didn't carry any rucks at all. Those, they had dumped in a pair of wagons at the rear of their formation.

Marcus smirked. "It seems Commander Durand has some say with the lord marshal."

"Who?"

He waved a hand. Throwing the firelancers a last look, he moved along.

The 1st Battalion lay just beyond. It was a column of five companies laid out beside the road. Judging by the way they were wolfing down their food, they had just been informed that they would soon be on the march. With that observation, Marcus redoubled his pace.

The first he saw of Sword Company was its standard: a blood-streaked sword sewn onto scarlet cloth, embroidered around with golden thread. Battle honors filled every available space—the names of dozens of victories Swords had helped win, and defeats, though each of those had a strike through it.

Beneath the battle flag rested Marcus and Vernon's brothers, all two hundred of them. A winter spent in the field had left its mark. Their armor was weather-worn and dented, but their movements were crisp, efficient, and sure. They were a picture of professionalism, of competency, and though that should have comforted Marcus, it only made him wonder how he could hope to match up.

"Tough-looking bastards," Vernon remarked. He let his breath out long and slow. "We're going to get ass-reamed in our sleep tonight, aren't we?"

Before Marcus could say anything, they got noticed. A man detached himself from formation and stalked in their direction on wiry limbs. Even from a stone throw's distance, Marcus could see the way his eyes smoldered. "And just when I get my head count, a pair of lost sister-fuckers come wandering my way. Who the hell would you two be, eh?"

Marcus creased his eyebrows. He knew that voice.

"I asked you—" The sergeant stopped dead. His jaw went slack.

A wry smile reached Marcus's lips. He recognized the man, too. His cheeks had lost some of their gauntness, and he had hidden his jutting chin beneath a layer of stubble, but the eyes were unmistakable. "Well met, sergeant."

Jebril Carpenter stared in disbelief. Marcus didn't say so, but the man's appearance had certainly improved since they had last met; a sergeant's rank looked far better on his collar than a noose. It was a strange moment that passed between them—because Jebril was likely thinking exactly the opposite of his former prince. The mighty had fallen, indeed.

A trumpet call pierced the morning. Another sounded nearby, and fainter ones after. The sergeants were shouting again, but there was no need. A ripple of motion passed through the seated ranks. Men shrugged on the straps of their rucks before lurching upright, bending to help their fellows do the same. The air was suddenly full of commotion as every soldier in the army rushed the road at once. For several moments, pandemonium seemed to reign. But months of onerous drilling had done their job, and the men quickly found their places in line. Soon enough, Sword Company had arranged itself into four neat columns—one for each battle line—with the rest of the 24th falling in behind.

Recovering his wits, Sergeant Jebril told Marcus and Vernon, "You're both in first line. That's mine. I trust you have everything?"

"We do," confirmed Marcus.

"Hope so. Come on." The men strode off toward the company, leaving the pair of them to hurry along in his wake. He led them to the trail end, where he pointed them to the leftmost column. "Fall in."

They obeyed. Marcus found himself in the second to last spot, with an enormous specimen of soldier encompassing his vision. The soldier looked partway over his shoulder, studying him with the air of a dog sniffing a morsel it hadn't yet deemed edible. Marcus met his eye and held it.

The sergeant came between them. "You give either of these two a fleck of trouble, Jorel, and I'll rip the hide off your back." He raised his voice for the benefit of those nearby. "That goes for the rest of you, and I don't give a damn if you're in my line or not. You hear that, chevaliers?"

"Aye," came the gruff chorus. Not one pair of eyes strayed Marcus or Vernon's way as Jebril sauntered down the line. It was a mark of his authority that even after he was gone, not even a mutter arose—but Marcus felt eyes on him.

Around them, all was still. The army stood ready, awaiting the fateful order to take that first step away from home. A cool breeze blew, whistling through ruler-straight rows. Every helmeted head pointed forward, staring rigidly at the hulking shape of Fort Arlimont on the opposite bank of the river.

Hooves sounded behind Marcus, and a dozen or more horsemen galloped into view. The great feather plumes on their helmets marked them out as officers, the heraldry on their capes spoke of noble birth, and their gilded armor and jewel-encrusted swords flaunted wealth beyond most men's reckoning. One carried aloft a great banner, scarlet like Sword Company's, only larger by far. Its cloth bore a Goddess armored for battle, standing proud and undaunted despite her tattered robe and dented shield. Inscribed at her feet were the words, "Jactura, triumphamus", and below that, the numerals XXIV.

The regimental staff came to a halt beside the company. They didn't have to wait long before a brace of officers rushed over on foot—the captain and his two lieutenants, Marcus guessed. They came to attention and saluted as one. One rider eased forward and calmly returned the salute. Even from this distance, it was obvious that he was the man in charge—the regiment's commander. But his breastplate was austere silver, and his cape was plain red, the same as his regiment's banner.

And with a start, Marcus realized that he knew this man as well.

"Report, Captain Rowley."

"Yes, Commander Durand. We have all men and equipment accounted for. We're heavy two chevaliers; they just arrived this morning. We'll march on your command, sir."

Durand's gaze roved briefly in Marcus's direction before returning to the captain. "Good. If you would allow it, I would say a few words to your men."

"Sir." Captain Rowley turned to his men. "Company!" he boomed, "Left, face!"

Two hundred soles scuffed the dirt road as the company rotated in place; two hundred pairs of heels snapped together.

Durand surveyed them from atop his horse, his expression almost tender. He raised his voice and called, "Sword Company! It has been a long winter. Now we have come to it at last: the moment of crisis, when we leave behind all we hold dear and venture off, together, into the unknown. Unknown but for one given fact: peril. But that is our lot, chevaliers. While there are those who make their living selling fruit, or tilling earth, or forging metal—our profession is war. Ours is defend our country so that our families may live in peace. Remember that when your spirit reaches its crossroads, upon which it shall either break or endure. Remember, men, that every step you take is another foot between your homes and the enemy. Each cold night you stand watch is one your children will spend warm in their beds. Each strike of your blade wins peace for your families. Remember, in your moments of doubt, that Ancel watches, strengthens and guides you. Sword Company, you are the tip of the blade. It is you who shall first meet the enemy, and you who will deliver him the first lash of Ancel's fury. Remember, brave chevaliers, that you are here at our army's head because I have put you here. Be worthy of my pride, Sword Company! Forward, for Ancel!"

"For Ancel!" two hundred throats howled. Marcus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright.

Making a fist over his heart, Durand brought his horse about and rode back the way he came, his staff officers in tow. Captain Rowley ordered the company to right face. Then he and his lieutenants resumed their place alongside the marching column.

There the company waited in silence, its standard fluttering in the wind. As the minutes stretched on, the men's excitement dwindled into tension. Why the delay? Maybe a wagon axle had broken in the rear somewhere, or a lieutenant had gotten lost. Even in a unit as small as a company, the possibilities were infinite—and this was an army of thirty thousand men.

But just before the mood devolved into agitation, a lone trumpet sounded, deep and long. "For...ward!" yelled Captain Rowley. The command went juddering down the road, replenished by each captain in turn. Then, "March!"

The 24th Regiment stepped forward in unison. The suddenness startled Marcus; it seemed to him that he had been standing in place one instant, then marching at a full trot the very next. The formation tramped across the bridge on the Anora, under Arlimont's southern gate, then through the fort itself. The garrison cheered them from atop the battlements, brandishing swords and waving banners. Then the company slipped through the northern gatehouse and out onto the corpse garden, framed between the cruel angles of Arlimont's walls. Escaping even that, they were free. Open countryside beckoned.

The column beat a brisk pace across it. In the brief removes between each synchronized step, Marcus heard the distant clatter of wagons rolling along behind the regiment. Their supply caravan was two dozen wagons long, but it wouldn't even last them that many days.

Marcus did not think much ahead, more focused on the matter at hand. He had not quite bargained on the weight of a full armor set; it had been years since his Novitiate, and his body was no longer accustomed to burden. But he drew his straps tighter against his shoulders and plodded on, ignoring the discomfort.

Unlike his body, his mind was not so easily brought to heel. The task of putting one foot in front of the other was not enough to distract him, by far. So his thoughts kept wandering back to Ancellon, back to the girl he loved.

The sun was shining bright, though the cold was still strong. Jacquelyn, always an early riser, would surely be awake by this time. Marcus caught himself looking back at the city's ivory walls more than once. Steadily, they were shrinking, becoming obscured by the earth's gentle curve. He wondered if she was looking his way right now—if she was missing him as keenly as he missed her.

He thought about Durand's words. Maybe the commander had given the men heart, but Marcus could only envy them. There was no just cause for him—merely his own selfishness, and the foolish things it had made him do.

Sighing to himself, he plodded on, trying to occupy his thoughts with his surroundings. Not even an hour into the march, the terrain was already beginning to alter. The hills became steeper and more commonplace. Rocky outcroppings were now visible—flat, winding areas where the Anora's tributaries had iced over. Frozen water glittered in the sunlight.

Marcus found himself admiring the beauty of the landscape around him. Winter had stripped the trees and browned the grass, but the land still had an element of untamed beauty to it. The only thing out of place was the dirt road that cut through the country. That, and the armored men marching it.

Marcus fancied the army a creature—an immense beast bristling with upright thorns, its steel hide glittering in the sun. Its innumerable legs stepped in unison, sending a thunderous beat across the grassy hills. And in one rumbling voice, it was singing.

"Shoulders wagging to and fro, away from home and wife I go, leave my crop and babe to grow, pray you Lord to save this soul!"

A good marching song. It made the men's fading heartache and impending hardship into a work of art—a crude one, but heartening as all good art is. Marcus knew the words to it; his father, like so many Elessian fathers, had sung it and other soldiers' tunes to him in lieu of lullabies. He had loved those songs of toil and bloodshed as much as the soft, soothing ones his mother had used to coax him to sleep.

He sang along, as did Vernon, both of them adding their youthful tones to Sword Company's gruff one. The song had a functional purpose, as most anything in the army did: it set a step for their march. It kept the pace strong and unwavering, and it kept the men who sang it hearty and spirited.

For a while, at least. As the sun passed its zenith, the air became increasingly chill. Throats sore from singing and cold alike, the soldiers gradually fell silent but for the sergeants' cadence. "Left... left... left right..." Their pace neither slowed nor quickened; they marched as lively as they had when they set out.

Marcus was reminded once more of his load's weight as it began to bear down on him. His knees were growing sore from the strain, and if his legs were not burning yet, they soon would be. Every frigid breath sent a dull ache through his lungs. Silently, he cursed the sun for lighting the earth but keeping it cool. Its rays were scorching his neck, yet the cold endured.

"Queer weather," Vernon remarked.

"Chilly," agreed Marcus, glad of the chance to complain.

They were talking as lowly as they could—quite the task, since they also had to make themselves heard over the clamor. Vernon looked up at the sun, squinting. "Not so much the cold, I'd say. Summer's worse. You can escape the cold—you know, bundle up, dress warm. Heat, though... best you can do is fan yourself. Doesn't help when the air's humid."

"True." Marcus paused for breath; he was already gathering the difficulty of carrying on a conversation during a quick march. "Maybe Kydona will be an improvement."

"It's bloody awful, I hear. Their summers are twice as hot—their winters are thrice as cold."

Marcus nodded glumly. He had heard the same. Gail had told him all sorts of tales—of nights so cold that in the morning, he'd awoken to find the pack horses frozen to death still standing; of men losing fingers, toes and entire limbs to frostbite. The summers were supposed to be so hot that you could fry an egg on your breastplate. But Marcus didn't tell Vernon any of that. He felt badly enough that his friend was here, as it was.

The march wore on for hours. Marcus had thought his Novitiate had been tough, but compared to this, it was naught but a country stroll. His feet were sore and blistering in places, despite the calluses he had carefully cultivated, and the cold only compounded the pain. It hurt to breathe. His lips were chapped; licking them made it worse. His ruck's straps were rubbing his shoulders raw. He was in a bad way, all in all. And it was only the first day of marching.

When the officers called for a halt near sunset, Marcus's stamina was barely enough to keep him standing; twenty five miles in a day, a pace he had scarcely thought possible—and without so much as a breather.

The day's march was over, but the sun was still up, and there was work to be done. Marcus and Vernon soon had reason to give thanks for their Novitiate, which had betimes called them to strange trials such as erecting a tent with a partner in under three minutes, or digging a deep hole and filling it up again. All of a sudden, those skills had a use.

They built their canvas tent in the northwest quadrant of their division's camp—a square arrangement, split by two perpendicular avenues running through its center. That setup would remain identical wherever the division made its camp. It lent an element of familiarity to lands far from home—an idea the Elessians had borrowed from the long-gone Imperium, whose legions had been the envy of the world for millennia.

Once all the soldiers' tents were pegged, Bloodied Regiment was set to work digging a trench spanning the camp's perimeter. Other regiments within their division soon joined them. It was an arduous task. He labored until well after sunset, cutting deep into earth with a pick while Vernon shoveled it away. Despite the night's chill and their fogging breath, the two were soon drenched in sweat—but by the end, their efforts were rewarded with the sight of their trench: as deep as a man was tall, and twice as wide. Dirt had been piled on the trench's inner edge to form a high embankment, the top of which was lined with sharpened wooden stakes. It was a makeshift wall and moat, which, in theory, would hinder an attacking foe long enough for the division to muster a response.

By then, Marcus didn't care for much else but food and an eternity's worth of sleep. He threw his shovel onto a pile of its counterparts and made his way back to the 24th Regiment's section of camp, where Hammer Company was doling out rations. 'Rations', they found , was a slight overstatement.

"Eh? What the hell is this?" Vernon held up a cracker, which was about the size and thickness of a human hand. He frowned and banged it on his knee. Not a crumb fell off.

"Hardtack." Against his better judgment, Marcus tried to gnaw a corner from his cracker but gained little more than a toothache.

Vernon eyed a strip of dried pork warily before wrenching off a piece with his teeth. He grimaced, chewing with effort. "Well this is edible, but that's about all I can say for it." He managed to swallow the chunk, though it made his eyes water. "So what now?"

"Now it's time to make some friends.

Marcus and Vernon wandered for a while, observing the men of their company. Most had evidently been in the unit for some time. There were noticeable cliques formed, various groups that quickly migrated to their usual spots around the little peat fires, jawing and laughing with their friends. Some groups were louder than others. The noble-born pair passed a silent group of round-eyed lads.

"They look new," Vernon piped in hopefully.

Marcus wasn't impressed. "Which is exactly why we're not sitting with them. They'll be here for us tomorrow."

"Who are we looking to sit with, then?"

A chorus of laugher erupted over a row of tents. "Them."

Them turned out to be an indefinable lot with little in common but their loud mouths. One immediately drew the eye—a immensity with arms as long as a yoke, and a torso wider around than a keg. Marcus recognized him as Jorel, the man who'd marched in front of him in formation. Seated across from him was a scraggly-haired highlander, his cheeks covered in blue whorls. There were a pair of burly fellows too—identical twins, if the firelight didn't deceive. The last was seated on a cheese box, tuning a mandolin.

Marcus strolled up to their fire—not a little one, either, but a roaring blaze, every bit as hearty as their laughter. "You have room for me and my friend here?"

They fell silent and scrutinized him. The challenge in their eyes was subtle. He was an intruder, but they weren't quite sure how to confront his audacity.

One of the twins spoke up first. "Who's asking?"

"Someone who'd rather sit with a quieter lot, only you have the knack of building a fire." Uninvited, he sat. Vernon, wearing a grin that only Marcus would recognize as anxious, did the same.

The other men exchanged looks, but Marcus just ate in silence, projecting an air of nonchalance. He made no secret of studying each in turn. The big one, Jorel, was an ugly sort of bastard. His teeth were like chips of rock, and they were half-bared in a show of instinctive dislike. He had thought the twins were tan, but closer inspection revealed a mass of freckles—in matching spots, he noticed. The highlander had flint grey eyes and a collection of short blades spread at his feet, from skinning knives to a Kydonian kindjal.

It was he who spoke next, in a rolling highland accent. "Might be we don't want your company. Might be we were having us a good chat before you showed up."

Vernon put a hand on Marcus's shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

"Now you're just being rude. We're pleasant fellows. Vernon here, he's bedded some of the loveliest women this side of the Utmars. Hundreds. I'm honestly amazed his cock hasn't rotted off or just plain given up. He's got a story for every one too, and you'd be lucky to have wind in your lungs by the time he's through."

A few wary eyes glanced over Vernon, licking their lips.

"Well," the highlander asked, "what of you then?"

Vernon leaped in. "Finest swordsman west or east, north or south, this bugger. He could shave the hair off your balls with one good flick, and never even graze 'em. He'd get the grundle too, he's just that decent a man."

That got them laughing. It was good, strong laughter too, right from the belly. These were men accustomed to talk, and that was exactly what Marcus wanted of them. He was no Owen, to suffer in silence and anonymity.

He undid his waterskin and took a swig. As he passed to Vernon, a twin pointed. "What's that you're drinking?"

"Vodka," Vernon squeaked, coughing up the overlarge draught he'd just taken.

An eager look came over the group—though the giant still stared with that same expression as before, one of intense suspicion. "Well?" the first twin asked.

"Call it a trade," Marcus offered, smiling for the first time. He held up the skin. "Your fire, my drink."

The highlander nodded vigorously. "Aye to that!" He snatched the vodka and drank deep. Licking his lips, burping, he asked, "Your names?"

"Vernon." Eyes snapped onto him again, recognizing the name as noble.

"Marcus." This time the eyes went wide. Marcus raised an eyebrow. "What?"

His tone seemed to put them off the question they had been about to ask. Instead, they just took the vodka. They gave their own names as they drank. The highlander was Tristan, a one-time sheep shearer hailing from Elessia's mountainous hinterland. Aidan and Damon were the twins. Reggy played the mandolin but spoke little. Jorel was simply gargantuan. He opted to finally drop his glower as the vodka came his way. As he took his drink, the men let out a cheer, and just like that, Marcus and Vernon were part of the group. There was more vodka than he had bargained for, and the skin went around six times before it ran dry.

It didn't get anyone drunk, but it got the men in a good enough mood that they insisted on opening up their rum in turn. Marcus abruptly found himself undertaking a rite of passage, of sorts. More men approached the fire as word spread of this oddly-named noble pair that had stumbled into their midst. Most insisted on sharing their drink—which meant a lot of rum, and he couldn't take small sips either, not with them looking on. There was talk throughout, and not all of it friendly.

"Swordplay's your talent, eh?" Jorel the giant asked Marcus, gazing down at him. "Looks like it's mostly play, with that girl face of yours."

Marcus's temper flared, but he grinned despite it. "What was your name again? Gore, right?"

"Jorel."

"Well, Jorel, this face got me your mother, and I played with her all night."

The big man tucked his lip into a snarl, but a then the twins forced themselves between them. Their thick frames belied their grins. "Now Jorel," chuckled Aidan, "no need to measure cocks now, you know yours is the shortest of anyone's."

Damon added to Marcus, "And not another word against Jorel's mum, you. Mrs. Weaver is a saint!"

Shooting off a last scowl, the big man lumbered off. Marcus watched his retreat for a moment before turning to the closest twin. "My thanks," he said.

"No problem," Damon replied. He was still in the grip of youth, but his arms were as thick around as most men's thighs, and that more than made up for the difference in age. "Jorel's a sour sort. His pap didn't give him enough attention, we reckon."

"Aye, true," agreed his brother. They gave him identical queer looks. "The Marcus?" one asked slyly.

Marcus quirked a lip. He was somewhat surprised the question hadn't come up sooner. "It doesn't exactly matter now, does it?"

Aidan—or Damon—groaned. "I hate it when people do that."

His twin nodded vigorously. "Right impolite. But you keep your secret, Marcus, you'll slip sooner or later." With a good-natured toast, the twins departed—and the mob descended on Marcus once again, eager to drown their newest comrade in rum.

The rest of the night passed quickly. Marcus exchanged words with nearly everyone—Jorel was the notable exception—and soon had fifty new names memorized. They plied him with drinks all the while, and all told, his liver took a terrible pounding. But he had been a copious drinker for a long time, and he stayed cogent enough to realize these simple soldiers were cleverer than they let on. Every so often, one would slip in an offhanded question as to his birth, but he deflected the inquiries with ease born of a lifetime of intrigue. Remarkably, Vernon did the same. Like Marcus, he sensed that noble status could be of little help here. All the same, it was a good time. There was drinking and laughter aplenty—music, even, when a bagpiper by the name of Gwin joined Reggy, with the rest of the men providing the beat and vocals.

By that time, though, the night was drawing to a close. The last purple hues faded from the western horizon, and just before the evening trumpet call blew, Carpenter came around to kick his line off to bed. Grumbling, the men slunk to their tents.

Marcus and Vernon crawled into theirs with cotton mouths and spinning heads. "What a night," Vernon moaned, flopping onto his bedroll.

"Drink some water," advised Marcus. "Long march tomorrow." He had spoken too late, though; his friend was already snoring. Shaking his head smilingly, Marcus bunched up a tunic and slid it under Vernon's head.

He was drunk, and it was dark, so he was sloppy in his hygiene. He changed his drawers and stockings, scrubbed his teeth with some leftover water, and rinsed his armpits and groin using the same. The icy water made him shiver. That done, he curled up under his blanket—a thin, raggedy thing, no help at all against the cold.

He lay there uncomfortably for a long while, willing sleep to come. Gradually, Vernon's snores deadened, the tent canopy shrank into darkness, his mat grew softer beneath him...

Iron. The taste was overpowering. He felt it, too—running warm and sticky on his hands. There was a sword clenched in his fist, pulsing gently. He knew why, he didn't want to look, but his unwilling gaze came up, up—until he saw the ripped human belly he had driven the blade into. He felt every dying heartbeat running up through the sword as the blood spurted—and those eyes were staring wide at him in the agonized knowledge that he was the last thing they would ever see.

Marcus jarred awake. He was sweating despite the cold. He made up his mind, then: no sleep for him tonight. Still trembling, he reached for his ruck.

A few minutes later, he stepped out of his tent, the moon gleaming off each segment of plate that decked his torso. He adjusted his helmet; the nose guard was rubbing painfully. With a deep breath, he started walking.

The camp seemed deserted, except for the snores and the feet poking out of the tents. The full moon illuminated the avenues, so he found the perimeter with ease. Men were standing guard on top of the earthen walls—the unlucky ones who had drawn sentry duty. Marcus picked out the one from his line without much trouble; he was the one swaying on his feet.

Hearing him struggle up the dirt slope, the soldier turned. "Oh. You," he breathed, dropping his spear back against his collar.

Marcus assumed the man's side. His mind picked up the drooping mustache, and a name came to him. "How fares the watch, Atwood?"

"Dull. Shouldn't change 'til we hit the border."

"I'll enjoy the dullness, then."

Atwood peered at him from under his helmet. "You alright, lad? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Closer to the mark than you think," he muttered under his breath.

"Running from nightmares, eh?" the aging soldier chuckled.

Marcus stared out over the hills. Even white lines trailed down their slopes, and at the crest of each sat a giant canopy where the commanders had made their headquarters. There were over a dozen regiments spread across those hills. By the time the army reached Kydona, that number would almost double.

Beside him, Atwood shifted his weight. "Big army. A lot bigger than the one we had in the north this past year."

"You were in the north?"

"Aye. Me and most of the regiment. Tough fighting, that."

"I heard as much."

"Well, you've got to see it. I've seen a lot, but nothing unmans you like a sea of Glats coming down on you with axes waving. And there's that wail of theirs—like demons howling in a gale. Keeps you awake at night, if you think on it."

Marcus had no stories to match that, so he said nothing.

Atwood glanced at him. "What's a young pup like you have to get nightmares over, anyway?"

"Nothing that bad, I'm sure," he answered after a long moment. "Go on back to your tent. I'll take your watch tonight."

"If you expect me to trade half my watch for a whole one of yours, you're sorely mistaken, lad."

Marcus said quietly, "No, you owe me nothing. Go to sleep, Atwood."

The man mulled it over, debating if a few hours' rest was worth his trouble. "My thanks, lad." With a little salute, Atwood slid down the slope and trotted off into the night, humming to himself.

Marcus listened to his footsteps fade. Alone now, he leaned wearily against his spear, watching the silent camps huddled on the hilltops—wondering to himself why, awake, he could still feel that sword juddering feebly in his palm.

Chapter 14

Elessia changed. The gentle green hills around Ancellon melted into a broad valley, a patchwork of fields freshly browned from the first tilling of spring. Every so often a village rose out of the earth, though never very high. It was strange to witness how quaintly country folk lived. Their houses were little more than rectangles of mud bricks with thatched hay piled thick on top. There were square holes cut into the roofs as crude chimneys. With the winter finally gone, the animals sheltering in the lofts had been evicted. There were still hoof tracks around the front doors.

Comfortless as their homes were, the peasants seemed to spend most of their effort on their livelihood. To irrigate their fields, they had constructed an elaborate network of ditches, water wheels and windmills, which pumped a constant stream of water from the Anora and its tributaries. Leaving their irrigation system to do its work, the peasants took to the fields. No one family could tend its acreage on its own, so whole villages banded together to work each family's field, one after the other, in a remarkable display of solidarity. Teams of ploughs broke up the land while dozens of peasants trailed behind, driving the soil into neat furrows with rakes and hoes. Within a week, planting would begin.

Despite the urgency, the peasants never failed to drop whatever they were doing and cheer the army on. People lined the road in every field and village, clapping and waving and stomping their feet. Girls gave the soldiers kisses as they went by. Women passed out eggs and new socks. Laughing children chased along beside the column, shrieking with laughter. Then there were the older men who had done it all before. "See you on your way back," they'd murmur among with similar well wishes. "Ancel guard you. God keep you."

The encouragement was good. It livened the men's step, because it reminded them of home—wherever that was. Sword Company, much like any company in the Watch, had been drawn from all corners of Elessia. There was Aidan and Damon, the burly twins who had joined to escape lives as farmhands in Isenne. Reggy was a quiet sort, but his nimble fingers—once destined to pluck peaches from Atrine's orchards—worked wonders on the mandolin. Phil provided vocals with his Cockney drawl, only for Gwin to drown him out with his screeching highland pipes. Rich, a city rat from the back alleys of Ancellon, had a snide twist to his mouth and a talent for dicing. His and Vernon's dice battles quickly became legendary—as well as a source of revenue all on their own as men placed bets on the winner. There was Atwood, the whiskered veteran; Rauf, the rumormonger; Hamo, the youngest.

Maybe they were crude, vulgar. But they were the best men Marcus had ever known. When Avery rolled his ankle in a pothole, Don and Fulk made a seat out of their belts and carried him along between them, complaining good-naturedly as they staggered under the added weight. Aldwin, a recent conscript, had left a wife and two sick children back in Ancellon—but not before the company had pooled their spare coin for a chirurgeon to treat them.

They were a brotherhood, and they welcomed their two newest soldiers into it. Vernon quickly gained renown for his indefatigable sense of humor and the ribald stories that came with it. Men from throughout the regiment often trickled to Sword's camp section to hear his wild tales of often-inebriated misfortune and glory—usually with a girl or several involved.

Marcus, for his part, sat and listened to the retellings with a quiet smile. He frequently arrived late, but they always made space for him by the fire and had his rations waiting. They saw how he always volunteered for the duties no one else wanted, like latrine digger or courier or sentry, and never asked anything in return. He did everything right. He never gambled, never whined. He was the first awake every morning. He got his ruck fastened before everyone else. He knew how to start a fire, saddle a horse, read and write. Sword Company knew Marcus for his perfection, but they admired him rather than despised him for it—because he was the one you could count on to help find that whetstone you'd lost in the night, the one who'd hold your ruck up while you got the straps on right, the one who'd stay up late and help you compose a letter for your family—not that many commoners could read, but the local priest might, as Marcus pointed out.

Privately, he did his best because he had never had a brother before. Now he had two hundred. He wanted to be worthy of them.

They liked him, even if they couldn't, for the life of them, figure out who he was. That he was high-born, they had no doubt. Vernon, too. Their refined accents had given them away the moment they had opened their mouths. They were young, unscarred, and—from the way they spoke—accustomed to authority. Normally, any of that would have been cause to despise them both. Only they didn't foist their status on anyone. They pulled their weight. And, for a pair of highborn lads to get stuck in the front line, they must have done _something_ to piss the nobility off.

All of that sat just fine with the common men of Sword Company.

Together, they continued on through the countryside, passing beneath slow-turning windmills and the shadows of decaying castles. Day after day, the miles stretched farther behind them. The land changed ever more. Occasionally, the flat expanse of the valley gave way to copses of trees huddled around gurgling creeks. Those copses soon turned to woods so ancient and overgrown that even loggers couldn't be bothered to touch them. Running through those woods was a river called the Sien.

The Sien was wide, with a slow but strong current that the melting snow had quickened. When they arrived at the bridge they were meant to cross, they found it had been swept away. Once again, Bloodied Regiment was put to work. They cut down a whole forest and dragged the logs to the river, where Fulcrum Regiment built a pontoon bridge beside the ruined first. By the end of the second day, the bridge was finished. There was no sleep that night; the army spent it crossing the bridge. Darkness made the footing treacherous; a wagon was lost and its oxen drowned. Fortunately, that was the only incident. The army crossed the Sien and moved on.

As if on cue, the jokes and hearty complaints that usually accompanied the march were suddenly absent. Ahead of them rose the foothills of the Utmar mountains. It was a strange landscape—bulging hillsides split in half by rocky crags, ravines cutting through the valleys where the Sien's tributaries had once flowed free. Scraggly trees clung to the slopes, leaning precariously over cliffs where flash floods had washed away the soil beneath them.

The imposing terrain, though, was not what silenced the men. It was the graves.

"Grease me up and fuck me in the—"

"Shut up, Vernon," Marcus snapped.

There were thousands of them, tens of thousands, marked by swords and spears stuck into the earth. A forest of rusted weapons protruded from the shattered hills like ill-kempt stubble. Once they had stood upright as headstones, planted on the very spots their wielders had fallen dead as testament to their sacrifice. It was a hallowed tradition passed down from Ancel himself. But the years cared nothing for that. Those weapons that remained were leaning sticks of crumbling red-brown metal. The rest of the graves were long gone, the soil eroded where they had once been.

The company didn't break step as they marched through the ruined hills, but their eyes were pointed anywhere but forward. They glanced around with palpable unease. Marcus heard muttered prayers to Ancel, saw white knuckles gripping their spears. The road, once smooth-cobbled and straight, had turned to a winding jumble of upturned rocks. Stepping over one, Marcus glanced at a hill they passed beneath. Floods had worn the nearest side into a cliff. He could see hollow pits dug out of it with piles of moldering bones inside. Skulls grinned out at the passing soldiers with broken teeth. Vertebrae and finger bones sat wedged between the ruined cobblestones.

The whispered prayers rose in volume. "We should stop," someone muttered. "We have to cover them! Why aren't we stopping?"

But they could not. Captain Rowley moved up and down the line at a shuffling jog, jaw squared beneath his beard. "Keep going, lads, keep going. There's nothing to be done for them now. Don't look and keep going."

Shaken, his company marched on past the graves of their fellow chevaliers, who had been expelled from their resting places by cruel chance and nature. Each step they took was a denial of their own faith. Bones crunched beneath their boots and Marcus imagined every man thinking, This ground is cursed. He thought it, too.

It was an old battlefield, and vast, though no one seemed to recall its name. That unnerved them more than anything else. As each man walked, their eyes betrayed the same thought: How long will people remember me when I die?

Memory, this battlefield taught them, lasts only half as long as it takes steel to rust. By the time their own headstones had crumbled, they would be forgotten.

Around the fires that evening, there was little talk and no laughter. Even Vernon kept his eyes lowered, stirring his porridge with no apparent desire to eat it. The battlefield was miles behind them, but the gloom it had inspired was still very much present.

Marcus knew that someone needed to coax them from these doldrums. These were the men who would be guarding his left and his right. They needed heart if they were to survive. But no one else was going to rise to the occasion. The task was left to him.

When he rolled to his feet, every eye found him. He walked to the center-most fire with purpose, gesturing for men to follow. Bemused, they did so. "May I?" he asked Jocelin when he'd arrived. The company standard bearer hesitated a moment before he handed over the battle flag, rolled carefully around its pole and covered in canvas. Marcus untied the cover and threw it aside. With infinite care, he twisted the pole in his hands, revealing the standard inch by scarlet inch.

He held the unfurled standard for his brothers to see. The bloodied sword and fist glowed by the firelight. "Bloodied Regiment, 1st Battalion, Sword Company," he said. "Take pride in it. This," he fluttered the banner, "is cloth our brothers have carried into battle for four hundred years. Some of it is newer than the rest." He pointed to a lopsided square, a more vibrant red than that surrounding. "When this company returned from campaign, the mothers, wives and daughters of the fallen would gather around this very standard. Together, they patched every hole and tear until this standard was the same one their men had fought and died beneath.

"This has happened fifty-four times. Fifty-four victories and defeats our company has endured. Three hundred and thirty-one years since the day we were founded." Marcus cast his gaze around the silent circle. He spoke his next words firmly. "This cloth is our heritage. It is the men who came before us. The instant we allow ourselves to forget them, this cloth becomes meaningless, and we might as well cast it into the fire for all the good it does anyone."

He let that sink in for a moment, let the challenging stares bore into him. Then he started anew. "Bloody Bank. Our first battle, the year 567. This is where the Bloodied Regiment got its name. In the shadow of the heretic Arius's abbey, we fought the traitors who swore allegiance to him. They numbered in the many thousands, and we were but one regiment. We found ourselves cut off, our backs pressed to a mighty river, while the rest of our army tried to battle its way back across the lone bridge to our aid. We were alone. The heretic army threw all they had at us. Again and again they fell on us, and as they did, their blasphemous chants named Ancel as mere flesh rather than a divine being." Angry murmurs arose. "Despite our fury, we found ourselves sorely pressed. It is said that at the height of battle, our first rank fought in knee deep water. The rearmost ranks were all but submerged, and the current carried many off to their deaths. The river flowed red with Elessian blood. But at the urging of our chaplains, we began to sing. Our holy hymns drowned out their blasphemy, our banners rose from the raging river and flew valiant," he raised the standard high, provoking fierce grins, "and inch by inch, we prevailed. Together, we broke the back of Arius's horde. Our regiment lost more than half its strength that day. But Bloody Bank entered the 24th Regiment into the annals of history. Since, we have always been the Bloodied Regiment.

"Do you take pride in that, brothers?"

The company raised their voices in acclamation, and Marcus smiled.

He talked for a long time. He told his company the tale of the Crooked Crossroads, where their regiment had turned the flank of a mighty Glat war host and brought it to annihilation. Withered Orchard, where they had fought stooped beneath sagging plum tree branches, sacrificing their ground only so they could burn it all down around the enemy's ears. At the Heights of Alettium in the Glats' northern homeland, the Bloodied had repulsed wave after wave of barbarians, though with terrible losses that had seen the regiment disbanded for nearly three decades.

He spoke until his voice began to hoarsen. Then he told his brothers' glowing faces, "These are not just our regiment's stories, but ours. We uphold a legacy forged in blood and sweat. Take pride in every stitch on this battle standard. Carry the names of these fields in your hearts. The names of our brothers who fought there have faded. One day, yours will too. But your deeds will resound in the hearts of those who come after us. We will stitch our own battles onto this flag, and you may rest assured in this: we will be remembered."

Cheering surrounded Marcus as he gently passed the standard back to Jocelin. The bearer gripped it with renewed purpose alight in his eyes. Marcus looked around and saw the same fire burning in everyone else's. Someone nudged him. "To the Bloodied Swords." Towering over him, Jorel offered a waterskin with rum swishing inside.

Surprised, Marcus took it. Whenever Jorel had looked at him before, he had steeled himself for a fight. Now the big man was smiling—as close to a smile as he could come, anyway. "The Bloodied Swords," toasted Marcus, and drank deep.

"Tell some more tomorrow," Jorel suggested. "Gets the blood up." He lumbered off before Marcus could reply.

The skin was still in his hand, too. Smirking, shaking his head, he returned to his spot. Soldiers on the way there expressed the same thirst for more. He was suddenly glad that his mother had insisted on the royal historian tutoring him privately—because Sword Company hadn't been his only audience.

Sergeant Carpenter was beckoning to him from the edge of the fire. With hands still thumping his back, Marcus got up and made his way there. As he did, Carpenter clapped his hands and yelled, "Look up, chevaliers! It's dark! You know what that means! Move!" The soldiers groaned and dispersed, chattering among themselves.

Carpenter gave Marcus a lively grin. "I was supposed to do that half an hour ago, you know."

Marcus shook his hand. "I'm glad you didn't."

"So are they."

A group of officers stood in a group, half-shrouded in darkness. Golden epaulets and braids twinkled in the orange firelight. Regimental officers.

"Good show, lad," came one jovial greeting from a man wearing a commander's rank.

Marcus saluted them all and stood at rigid attention. Without moving his eyes, he counted three commanders among the dozen lower officers. He also noticed that Carpenter had retreated to a safe distance.

The same commander added, "Perhaps you will recount Fulcrum Regiment's battle honors tomorrow for my staff."

"Of course, sir." In the privacy of his mind, he resented the thought of lecturing a group of officers who ought to know their unit's history already.

The second commander seemed to share his opinion, though for different reasons. "Nonsense, de Coutier," he sniffed. "This boy glossed over a number of important details."

"Which ones would those be, Desceulx?" Commander de Coutier was large enough that he likely had trouble gaining the saddle, and his mustaches gave him the appearance of a walrus, but Marcus found himself liking him all of a sudden.

Commander Desceulx was another matter. He was an easy man to dislike. He was known at court for marrying a girl of thirteen, who had died in childbirth the following year. Her family's bitter protests had fallen silent after a week. A courtesan divulged the secret later; he had repaid the dowry in full, plus five hundred strikes. Evidently the deal had left him poor enough that he couldn't compensate the scheming whore for her silence. He had since used his family name to gain command of Vigilant Regiment, which every other regiment now despised for its unearned sense of blue-blooded disdain.

"The dates, for one matter," the pale-eyed old officer huffed. "Broken Ridge was fought in 727, not 729."

Marcus's bile rose, and he was certain that Desceulx was wrong, but he said nonetheless, "It must have slipped my mind, sir."

De Coutier snorted. "What does that matter? This lad was speaking of his regiment and even I was stirred. I say you've some fine soldiers under your command, Commander Durand."

Desceulx retorted, "An errant tutor, I say, and the wrong voice with which to school any group of fighting men. I wonder why you dragged me from my tent just to waste my time, Durand." His junior officers tittered behind him.

Lyle Durand ignored the slight as he spoke for the first time. "I summoned you from your tent for a command meeting, as you well know. And there is no need to be impolite."

"Just as there is no need for these firelancers you so cherish," sneered the thin commander. "Or for this meeting to continue. I bid you good evening." With that, he twirled on one heel and strolled away with his retinue in tow. Some were unable to resist throwing scornful looks Marcus's way. That confirmed it for him; Desceulx knew precisely who he was, and relished the reversal of fortune.

Evidently, de Coutier was none the wiser. He lifted his meaty shoulders and sighed, mustache flying. "Arrogant bastard, that one. I just hope he's up to snuff when we take the field." He cleared his throat. "I'll retire as well, Commander Durand. Lad." He winked at Marcus, then took his leave, wheezing with effort as he waddled toward his command tent with his staff.

That left Marcus alone with Durand, who, unlike the others, hadn't bothered to bring anyone else along. The commander began to walk. Marcus followed beside and slightly behind him, in deference to his rank.

"You're doing quite well, it seems," Durand said, grey eyes flicking over his shoulder.

"Sword Company is a fine unit."

"I put them at the front for a reason."

"So it was your decision to assign me to them."

The commander made that odd half-smile of his, the one that didn't reach his eyes. "Indeed."

"Whose decision was it to assign them to you?"

"The decision was mine. I had to call in a favor. Fortunately, the lord marshal is an old friend of mine. He gave me the command. When I put in for the first order of march, he granted it."

Marcus frowned. "You requested this after I...?"

"Yes," was the prompt reply. "I know how noble spite works. When I heard of your... punishment... I knew where you would be assigned. So I took the liberty. Otherwise, Desceulx's Vigilant would have been your parent regiment. I hope you will forgive me."

"A hundred times over," said Marcus, gratefully. The Desceulx family had long-standing ties with the de Martines. Under that command, he would have been quickly and quietly disposed of, and with few questions asked.

By that time the pair had arrived at the regimental command tent. It was an enormous canvas construction with eight sides, pegged to the ground with thick ropes lined with scarlet pennants. A chevalier in full battle armor stood watch by the entrance. He saluted as they passed the threshold.

Durand's office back at Fort Arlimont had lacked both pomp and comfort. The command tent was no different. Now, as then, a large map table took up most of the space, leaving little room for a folding desk wedged into one corner. For the moment, it was piled with ink-stained paperwork, but the bedroll under the chair hinted at its double function as a cot. Except for the gloried regimental banner planted near the entrance, there was no decoration whatsoever.

A lone adjutant sat a tiny desk off to one side, scribbling furiously with his back turned. Pausing, he looked around. "Sir," he nodded without standing. Marcus's hackles rose at the slight. Then he realized Durand had probably told him to dispense with the courtesy.

"Why are you still awake, Morten?"  
"Movement report, sir. I had to leave it 'til late. Accountability was an awful mess today."

Durand nodded sympathetically. "Go get some rest. I'll finish the report."

"Yes, sir." The young adjutant got up with a yawn. He bid the commander good night and stepped past Marcus, eying him curiously. He shut the tent flap behind him, leaving the pair in relative privacy.

"God knows that young man does even more for this regiment than I do. Sit." Durand indicated a collapsible chair at the map table. He busied himself behind his desk as Marcus sat, straightening after a moment with a pair of thick glasses and a decanter. He set them down on the table. He poured. The rum's sweet, toxic scent filled the confined tent. Still standing, he raised his glass. "To the king," he toasted.

"The king," Marcus echoed. The sugary rum went down his throat bitter. Before Durand could put his glass down, the prince said, "To Bloodied Regiment."

Durand smiled, tipped his rim and drank. He eased down into a chair, grey eyes considering his guest. "You did a fine thing tonight."

"I remain a lowly lineman, sir. I saw a job that needed doing and I did it. That's all."

"That is not all." Marcus had never heard vehemence from him before. "You are a leader. Born, raised, and now proven. You took beaten men and gave them pride. I wish I had ten more like you." He paused musingly. "Ten officers, that is."

There was little reply Marcus could give. Accepting the praise, he lifted his glass and drank shallowly. He found he liked the rum better now that he knew what to expect. It tasted like vanilla with a bite at the end. "Good rum, sir. Thank you." It was easier to thank him for that than an offhand compliment—especially one that deprecated his superior officers.

Durand waved a hand. "You needn't call me sir. Not here."

"I'm a third of your age, and a lineman under your command. Sir." Marcus smiled as his misfortune stared him in the face once again.

"I was your mother's dearest friend, and the closest I ever came to an informal address with her was 'Lady Geneva'. So, think of this as helping me break a bad habit." Durand paid him a kind smile in turn, though as always, it failed to reach his eyes. "Do not call me sir."

"As you say." Marcus drank again. This rum was either too good or the conversation too uncomfortable.

Durand left the silence for a moment. When he spoke, it was quietly. "You are likely wondering the purpose of this meeting. And why so late."

Marcus nodded.

"The answer to both questions is: you. I wished to give you time to acclimate to this new... state of affairs, I suppose. And I would rather meet you when I have a cause, instead of summoning you at random and risk raising suspicion. Very few know you are here. The rest are already guessing."

Guessing, as matters stood, was all most of the army could do. The crown prince's visage was not well known. Most people ever saw it at a distance. For those who hadn't, there were no coins struck with his profile that they could recognize him by. But honestly, he regarded anonymity as blessing these days.

"As to the purpose..." Durand settled back in his chair, massaging his grey-streaked beard. "Captain Rowley has informed me that you are not sleeping."

Marcus blinked. Maybe the wizened captain was more observant than he had credited. "I do sleep," he said.

"Not nearly enough. You've been taking sentry duty from your fellow linemen. Regularly, I'm told. Is that true?"

Being found out was such a helpless feeling. There was no point denying what Durand already knew. "Yes."

"You're having nightmares."

It took some nerve and a full minute, but Marcus finally admitted the fact with a pair of short nods.

"About that day on the hill," ventured the older man.

Marcus hadn't been looking at him, but he glanced up sharply at that. "How would you know what happened?" He hadn't meant the angry tone, but it came on its own.

Durand's face was patient. "I know enough to piece the story together. Truth be told, every man in this army knows. The prince and heir, punished for defending a young woman's honor." He leaned back in. "There is no shame in that, Marcus."

If only he knew...

Durand saw that he hadn't gotten through. He said, "I saw their faces too—those first few men that I killed. I saw them every night. For a very long time. I thought myself a murderer. That I slew them in battle did not matter. Neither did it matter that had I not killed them, I would have died instead. They visited me all the same."

Marcus couldn't look at the man who was trying to help him. His gaze remained anchored to a candle flickering in its stand on the table corner, the yellow flame rising thin and resolute from the dying wick. He saw without noticing.

That day played out in his mind again, only differently. Now he saw Jaspar raping Jacquelyn right in front of him. They held his eyes open, made him watch. Then, laughing cruelly and carelessly, Jaspar let his mates take her, one after the other. Her screams faded to quiet sobs before even those fled, the fight gone out of her. In his mind, Marcus watched, and he knew that when they were finished with her, they would murder them both.

"I'm not sorry," he whispered.

"You shouldn't be."

"But I dream about them anyway. I don't know why. I'm not sorry." He heard liquid poured and looked down. Durand was refilling his glass. He hadn't noticed that it was empty.

His mother's friend set the tankard down with a thud. "Drink. It helps." He watched Marcus down another dose. "You would not be human," he said, "if you did not feel this way. Taking a life is a dreadful act. You cannot kill without losing a part of yourself in the process. That is what you feel. If not sorrow, if not guilt, then pain. You feel the wounds where your idealism and innocence once were." He paused, then sighed, "There is little comfort in seeing the world in its true light."

Marcus sweated. The rum was starting to affect him. It emboldened him enough to look Durand in the eyes. "When does it go away?"

"The pain? Soon. All wounds heal with time. This one is no different."

But wounds become scars, Marcus thought.

"This will end. I promise you." Durand pointed to Marcus's glass. "Finish that. The night grows late."

He obeyed. The man hadn't lied; the rum did help. The steady pounding in his temples was drowning out any desire to think. Sleep, for the first time in weeks, was an appealing notion.

Durand helped him out of his chair. "I will summon you again soon enough." He steered a sluggish Marcus toward the front flap. "Until then, I am giving you an order." Turning him around, Durand stared intently into his eyes. "Get some sleep. No more sentry duty. You will be on your bedroll from evening roll to morning call. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Marcus said drowsily. The man must have slipped something into his rum. Either that, or he hadn't slept for more than a handful of hours in three weeks. "Good night."

"Good night, chevalier."

A quarter of an hour later, he crawled into his tent. With his eyelids drooping and head pounding, he collapsed onto his bedroll and didn't even remember to pull a blanket over himself.

Beside him, Vernon stirred. "Mate? That you?"

Marcus's snores were so loud that the taut canvas trembled.

Chapter 15

Dawn came late the next morning. The morning trumpet call did not. As the soldiers emerged from their tents, many looked around, perplexed. The sky was light, but their camp was still shrouded in darkness. Turning their eyes to the east, they quickly saw why.

The Utmars towered of them. Silhouetted by the rising sun, the mountains were a series of jagged black peaks cutting an ugly line into the sky. They were dizzyingly massive—tens of thousands of feet of sheer-sided rock. Marcus had never fully comprehended why Elessia didn't share close ties with Kydona despite the two nations' long histories. Seeing the barrier that divided them, he understood. He might have stood at the very edge of the world, had he not known what lay beyond.

They spent that day traversing the rocky foothills. The winding column of the king's army struggled up and down slope after slope. Sword Company was fortunate to be in the lead; they at least had some semblance of a road. But even as they walked it, the cobbles began to shift beneath their weight. By the time the rest of the regiment had gone by, the road had disappeared altogether, leaving the remainder of the army to battle over the loose shale.

"Poor bastards," murmured Hamo, his youthful tone colored by sympathy as he watched the army floundering along behind them. The silver ranks squirmed as men lost their footing, then became steady again as the ones behind pushed them up back up the slope.

"Listen hard enough," Gill panted, "and you can hear them cussing."

The soldiers around snickered. "I wager Vigilant tries something on us tonight," someone called, with grinning nods of agreement. Bloodied and Vigilant regiments had developed a heated rivalry over the past weeks. One of Desceulx's companies woke one day to find its standard missing, only to rediscover it at day's end—acting as a saddle blanket for their commander's horse. Furious, Desceulx had demanded a flogging, but an amused Durand had politely rejected him for lack of proof of wrongdoing. The supposedly "Vigilant" regiment had despised Bloodied ever since.

The regiment marched on singing merrily, their cadence carrying back for its wallowing rival to hear.

There rose a strange sound behind them. Marcus recognized hoof beats—though muffled and distorted by the shifting rocks—and his head turned just in time to see a troop of armored cavalry pounding up the hill after them.

"Make way right!" he shouted. The call went up and down the line, and the column shrank onto the right side of the road, craning their necks to see what the interruption was.

The dragoons were a fearsome sight. They were armored from head to toe in thick steel plate, the blue feather plumes of their helmets flying in the wind. The fine destriers they rode wore armor too, with their heads, necks and chests covered with banded steel. These were Elessia's famed heavy cavalry, whose headlong charges could shatter whole sections of line, their long lances impaling several men in one stroke and leaving the survivors for their horses to trample.

"Why the armor?" Joyce asked in his highland accent. "They know something we don't?"

"It's a mark of pride," Marcus told him, watching the dragoons stampede by—three hundred horses at the least. The sons of nobility and wealth, they commissioned their own armor, rode their own destriers and wielded swords that were family heirlooms. Their shields were emblazoned with their personal coats of arms, and their standard bore not their unit insignia, but the heraldry of their captain.

Catching a flash of burnished bronze amid the steel-clad riders, Marcus had no trouble picking out their leader. "Roberte de Auffay."

"Roberte?" Vernon's neck clicked as his head shot in that direction. "Here?"

Too late, the dragoons hurtled past. Not one of them turned his head to regard the chevaliers who'd moved aside. The flying pennants disappeared over the knoll.

"Well doesn't that serve us right!" cried Gill, who had been so quick to laugh at the rest of the army's misfortune. The dragoons had left the road in ruins.

"Rotten bloody bastards," swore Ross, among other, more colorful statements from the others. The company shuffled back to the center of the road and pushed on with markedly greater difficulty.

Hamo nudged Marcus's arm. "Who's Robert Afraid?"  
Marcus laughed. Hamo was an uncertain lad, known to stumble over his larger words. It, along with his overlarge eyes, gave him an air of innocence that made the younger soldiers treat him like a little brother, and the older veterans like a son. "Roberte de Auffay. Me and Vernon knew him years ago. A more arrogant sod you'll never meet."

"Not to say he doesn't have a right to it," Vernon piped in, red-faced with exertion. "Half the girls I got were his seconds. Not to mention, he's the only man to ever beat this one," he jabbed a thumb at Marcus, "in a proper bout."

Hamo grinned. "You make it sound like a feat."

Vernon rolled his eyes. "Oh aye, it is."

Marcus gazed after the vanished dragoons, mulling over the prospect of meeting Roberte again. He wasn't the same sort of elitist as Jaspar, in that he didn't think himself better than anyone for the sake of blood. Roberte just thought himself better than everyone, period. He was a cocky son of a bitch—always had been.

Wearing a thoughtful frown, Marcus crested the hill. Then another, and several more after that. Each was taller than the next. The Utmars loomed ever higher overhead, enormous beyond reckoning. Bleak. There was no vegetation to speak of—just barren rock.

And at the foot of the iron grey mountains sat Fort Desmoine. "There she is!" came the cries as the company crested yet another hill, the highest one so far. The last vestiges of civilization had faded nearly a week ago, and the fort was good cause to rejoice. For most of them, anyway.

"That?" Jorel rumbled, his jutting forehead creased with scorn. "That pebble is Desmoine?"

Aubrey punched the big man's elbow. His teeth stood stark against his face, which the hills had coated with sparkling black dust. "You can sleep outside then, brother. That's one more bunk for me."

"Besides," added Avery, still limping slightly on his rolled ankle, "you'd take up two bunks on your own, you fat lug. You'd break 'em both, too."

The fort was a tiny thing, a child's pillow castle compared to Arlimont. It was built of piled shale, the same stone as the surrounding mountains. The keep was more an oversized hut than anything else. The outer wall was barely two stories high. Desmoine was a mockery of a fortress, and the monstrous peaks of the Utmars only accentuated its diminutive size.

But it did have one advantage: placement. It sat at the mouth of the Southern Pass, a narrow opening between two mountains. So narrow, in fact, that only a battalion was necessary to plug it. A larger garrison was simply wasted space.

As they approached the fort, its size quickly made it obvious that no one would be bunking there that night. Jorel had a good laugh over that one, though everyone else was less than pleased.

The trumpets sounded the halt, and the army coiled and squared itself into its usual box camp. Officers circulated the order that there was to be no digging that night. The army was to get a full night's sleep.

The regiment's glee at that announcement was short-lived. For some reason no one could understand, Bloodied was assigned to plug the Southern Pass. They were to defend it in shifts the whole evening through, one company at a time. Sword Company, to their dismay, got the worst shift of all: the second to last.

Once camp was made, they wolfed down their rations—an accomplishment, considering the food's near-inedible quality—and practically leapt into their tents, anxious to catch as much sleep as possible before their watch came up. Marcus did the same. He was fast asleep within moments.

The nightmares came, as always, but they didn't have their usual edge. He made it the whole three hours without jolting awake. But all too soon, his rest was over. He woke to the sound of chainmail rustling.

"Time already?" he yawned, blinking drowsily. Outside his tent, it was pitch black, but he could make out Vernon's kneeling form.

His friend glanced around. "Bloody hell, mate. Here was me trying to sneak off. Go back to sleep."

Marcus snorted. "As if." He rolled out from under his blanket and started getting dressed.

"Really, there's no need. Sergeant even said you deserved a solid night of sleep."

"I didn't hear him say that."

"Well aye, you were passed out."

"Too late. I'm already half dressed."

Vernon sighed and handed over Marcus's sword belt. "You're a stubborn breed of ass, did you know that?"

A few minutes later, fully armored, the pair gathered with their company around the fire pit. Captain Rowley had the sergeants take a head count. Once satisfied that everyone was present, he formed them into a column and marched them off. The pass was a mere quarter mile away, and they made it in good time. Shield Company accepted the relief gladly. Still yawning, Sword Company lined the mouth of the pass, already anticipating two hours of dozing in the darkness.

It wasn't to be. Carpenter made frequent rounds to ensure his battle line stayed awake, and at any rate, the chill air made sleep an unlikely prospect.

Grudgingly, the men turned to conversation. They spoke in murmurs, as if unwilling to disturb the night's stillness. Marcus found himself guarding the barricade alongside Aidan, Damon and Atwood. The twins did most of the talking, each feeding off the other's nervousness.

The pass made them uneasy, and Marcus couldn't blame them. Moonlight stood no chance of reaching the narrow crack between the mountains. The result was a pitch black maw that swallowed the men in shadow. There was something oppressive about this place. Maybe it was the way every sound echoed down its length, so that their own murmured voices were reflected back at them as what sounded like the whispering of ghosts. Or maybe it was the simple knowledge of what had transpired in that pass just a few months before. Only a few miles distant, a whole regiment had been slaughtered.

Regardless of the reason, the men were edgy.

"Why did I sign up for this, anyway?" Damon muttered. His arms were the size of tree trunks, but they were useless against this drowning blackness.

Aidan's teeth chattered. "Let me know once you've got an answer. I signed up because of you, you bastard."

"That makes you a bastard too," his twin brother pointed out.

Marcus laughed, if only to show them that there was nothing to be afraid of. "It's a question, though. Why did you join the Watch?"

Damon pondered his answer. "Escape, I reckon."

Aidan's voice filled with indignation. "From what? We had a fine life back home, in Isenne. Nice and quiet, no black God damned murder-filled oversized ditches like this here..."

"Well tell me then, brother of mine: what's the farthest we got from home before the Novitiate?"

"Easy. Ten miles. At harvest time."

"Aye, and we _lived_ for harvest time. We got to leave home. Even if it was just once a year, even if we only went ten miles, give or take—"

"Well that was safe," protested Aidan.

Damon waved a hand—appeared to, anyway. The dark made it hard to tell. "You thought that was safe? You remember father petitioning Lord Devoret to be allowed to leave the village. Months in advance he did it! And Devoret would say, 'Yes, yes, you may go,' but when the time came to sell the crop in town, the roads were suddenly full of bandits—"

"But we hired guardsmen to protect us!"

"Aye, from Devoret! We hire two men with puny little swords to guard us, and the bandits are suddenly gone! Bloody miracle is what that is." The burly twin spat on the ground with a loud squelch. "I'd believe it, if I didn't see those buggers peeking at our wagon through the trees. There must've been a score. You saw them yourself."

"I saw a bunch of skinny cowards, is what I saw."

The conversation was now more of an argument, but Marcus didn't much mind it. If anything, it captured his attention. "But you had blades as well, did you not?" he pressed as the twins fell silent.

They both looked his way. "Blades?"

"Weapons."

They exchanged a glance. "Commoners, with blades?" Damon chuckled. "Won't happen. They took 'em all. I still remember when Devoret's men came and took my father's, after he came home from the war."

Aidan nodded. "Had to beat him senseless, they did."

Marcus shook his head. He remembered when the law had been passed in the city—a measure against violent crime, Parliament said. With their leave and the king's, every blade in Ancellon had been requisitioned. It was an unpopular act, to say the least. Some swords had been passed from father to son for generations, and their owners hadn't given them up willingly. The riots had been bloody and frequent.

Marcus scowled. "Who hired you the guardsmen?"

"Eh?"

"Whose men were they?"  
"Oh. Lord Devoret's. Who else?"

"Bear with me for a moment. Could you imagine why those bandits would have left you alone when they could have easily overtaken you?"

Aidan gave a shrug. "They wanted easier pickings, I reckon. Someone else going to market—with an unguarded wagon, that is."

Marcus went to rub his hair, only to encounter the cone of his helmet. He settled for scrubbing an eyebrow instead. "So you joined the Watch so you could escape your village without your lord's permission? Without fear of being killed?"

The twins conferred with another silent glance. "I hadn't looked at it from that angle, but I suppose that's part of it."

"The other part," Aidan added, "was going around a dead end. We never made any money off the harvest, that's the truth. You have to pay everyone. First you've got to tithe your crop to your local lord. How much would depend on his quality. Then you have to sell the rest. You pay for the guardsmen so you can get to town. You have to pay tolls on the road, then more to cross the bridge outside of town. You set up your wagon in the square, then whatever coin you earn, you have to give a portion to the duke. You go home, pay the tolls again, and _then_ , once you're home, you pay a tax to your lord." He looked at his brother. "Did I cover it all?"

"You missed some," said Damon with a shrug of his thick shoulders. "The point is, by the time we got back home, we had precious little coin left over."

Marcus understood. He knew racketeering when he saw it. The dukes had come up with a clever system of trapping their own peasants on their holdings: keep them in poverty. The ones who tried to better their lots, like Aidan and Damon's family, only fattened their lords' purses. He wouldn't have been at all surprised to hear that the bandits on the roads were in the local duke's employ.

Of course, he had heard this before—during his forays into the mires of Ancellon. He'd met men trapped into their fathers' professions: ropemakers, dockhands, rug weavers. Guilds kept firm control over the skilled trades. Whoever wanted to become a mason or smith had to undergo a strict selection process that kept the poorest out, since they couldn't hope to pay the fees for their lengthy apprenticeship. Caught between impossibilities, men often became thugs in the gangs that ruled the backstreets. Children were cutpurses and pickpockets. Women were prostitutes. The traits they had in common were destitution and disillusionment, and it had disturbed Marcus profoundly to see people in Elessia's glorious capital brought so low. Hopelessness, he supposed, could have that effect.

He looked at the twins. "What would you have spent it on, had you made more?"

"Never really thought about it. Iron plow?"

"Or an ox," added Damon.

Marcus pitied them. Both of those things could only increase the duke's profit. The twins had thumbed their nose at their landlord in the only way they could: by leaving for the Novitiate and never coming back. But they had left their family behind, too—their young brother and two sisters, whom they spoke of often, as well as their aging parents.

He masked his thoughts with a smile. "Both fine choices, I'm sure." Reminded of all the things in his life that he'd gotten for free, and feeling badly about it, he decided to drop the subject. He returned his gaze to the gaping maw of the Southern Pass.

The burly twins did likewise. With the conversation gone, they quickly became jittery again. Muttered oaths filled the dark, echoing eerily down the pass.

"Fucking hate this... feel like a Goddamn black horseman is gonna come shooting out of there any second..."

Atwood, the veteran, had been standing aside quietly all this time. He spoke for the first time. "It's not the Kydonians you ought to be fearing. It's their weather."

"Why's that, old man?"

It was an affectionate insult, one that Atwood had never taken offense to. "In spring and summer, it's hotter than hell. It's the sun that does it. There's no cover—only miles and miles of fields, and flatter than your mum when you both were done suckling her dry." He let the groans fade, mustache twitching as he grinned, before continuing. "You couldn't hide if you wanted to. That sun's always over your head, just beating down hotter than it has any right to. You'll swear the days are longer there, and you'd probably be right to say so. Last war, we lost more men to thirst than the enemy. Maps were bad. We didn't know where the bloody rivers were."

Marcus tried to imagine the hottest day he'd ever lived through. Then he imagined coping without water. The thought wasn't pleasant.

"And the winters," Atwood said with a shiver. "You know the expression, 'Chills your very bones'? Well, Kydona's winter does just that. I saw frostbite so bad that it cut through flesh, got right down to the bone. You see fingers and toes go black, and when the chirurgeons chop them off, you won't even feel a thing. It happened to a lot of good men. The worse ones, they lost hands, feet, ears... noses."

The three younger soldiers looked on, aghast. "N-noses?" Aidan stammered, clutching his.

The old soldier grinned wider. "Oh aye. But the ones who do, they'll usually die soon after. The wound freezes. Frostbite digs in, cuts deeper. There's nothing to be done for you once that happens."

"Well what the hell do you do to stay warm then?"

"You change your socks and drawers as often as you can. You drink water. Don't eat snow like you'll see some lads doing. Keep dry, keep moving."

Aidan wasn't satisfied. He tugged at one blue sleeve. "What's this going to do? I'll freeze to death in a fall breeze, for God's sake. And," he added, "we never got issued coats."

Marcus remembered that day he'd spent at the conference table with the king, the lord marshal, and Council of Highest—when the high lords opted against supplying cold weather clothing to the army.

Atwood's grin faded. "That's a problem you solve on your own."

It was a poor answer, and they pressed him further, but he refused to elaborate. The twins made their outrage clear, but to Marcus, the lack of reply was an answer in itself. Whatever the then-Prince Audric and his army had done to keep warm in Kydona, Atwood was not proud of it.

The fruitless conversation did have one advantage: it got them through the remainder of the guard shift. Another company soon arrived to take the next, and Sword Company moved back to their camp more bleary-eyed and exhausted than before. There was little point in sleeping, though; only an hour remained until first dawn. Such was the nature of the universally despised second-to-last watch.

The company spent the ensuing time breaking down their section of camp. Darkness made the task difficult, but soon enough, they had loaded the wagons and stuffed their rucks. Assembling by the road, which was more a loose gravel track than anything else, they dropped their rucks and settled down against them. The rest of the army wouldn't be up for a quarter hour at least. Marcus sat with his back propped against Vernon's, mulling over the night's revelations—and the sort of country he would one day rule.

His thoughts were anything but heartened.

In the shadow of the mountains, dawn was almost nonexistent. Clouds gathered thick on the upper slopes, blotting out the morning sunlight. When the trumpets blew, the army woke to darkness.

Some had risen earlier than others. Despite the lack of light, Marcus picked out a group of horsemen congregating at the edge of the camp. The horses ate greedily from canvas feed bags hung around their necks as the riders secured gear to the saddles. Soon after, they rode past Sword Company—a score of men in light mail, armed only with shortswords and bows, sitting geldings with sinew that stood taut on wiry legs.

They were scouts, and everyone knew what that meant: the generals had no idea what lay on the other side of that pass, save that it was enemy territory.

The company threw each other dour looks. Any lingering desire for sleep had departed with the scouts, and they sat in darkness, listening to the formless sound of the army breaking camp. Soon enough the rest of the regiment formed up behind them, then the rest of the army after. Thirty thousand men lined the road in a thick, banded column of steel, every man standing with bated breath as they waited for the long-awaited call—the one that would send them marching into the enemy's lair. Just ahead lay the Southern Pass, every bit as imposing by day as it was by night.

For an hour and more, the Royal Watch waited. The minutes eked past, the tension they all felt stretching longer and longer but never dwindling, until their heartstrings quivered with strain and threatened to snap. Captain Rowley made his way up and down the column, cracking jokes and murmuring assurances, but all he got for his trouble were forced smiles.

They wanted to go. No one cared if it was forward, only that they moved.

A messenger on horseback arrived from command. He spoke to Rowley for a moment before riding off again. The captain relayed the order to Lieutenant Lemay and the others, who spoke quietly to the sergeants, who were all of a sudden yelling, "Ground your rucks! Plate on, lads! Armor up!"

The men exchanged looks that were even darker than before, then complied. Marcus dug into his bag and wrestled his cuirass out. Its segmented plates rustled as he pulled it over his head. Jorel stooped to tighten the buckled straps on either side, checking the pauldrons to make sure they were snug against his shoulders. He knelt so that the smaller Marcus could do the same for him. Next came a leather cap, followed by a chainmail coif, and finally the cone halfhelm. His eyes kept crossing in a reflexive need to study the noseguard hovering between them.

Rubbing them exasperatedly, Marcus looked around. The Royal Watch was headlong into its preparations. He saw the spear companies fastening on their strangely lopsided armor—high neckguards and thigh plates that protected their left sides, the sides they would present to the enemy as they leveled their pikes. Archers were slinging on an extra quiver each, stringing their longbows, testing the draws. The chevaliers, the backbone of the Watch, had decked themselves out in armor identical to Sword Company's and unslung their shields, which they hefted uncertainly with their left arms, unaccustomed to balancing the weight against their spears.

A wagon came forward at the behest of two great oxen, stoic in their stupidity. One line at a time, the company piled their rucks in the wagon's bed until the axles creaked, the canvas cover bulging as the cargo threatened to spill over. The wagon drivers didn't seem to care. They just secured the tailgate and loitered, glowering all the while. Their task was a vital but thankless one: to join the other supply companies at the army's tail, forming a baggage train that they would guard while everyone else fought.

Marcus wondered who was the luckier: the men who died winning victories, or the men who lived wishing at a chance for glory.

He looked past them, past the roiling army as it struggled into readiness. He imagined he could see through the hills of black shale, beyond the Sien River and the thick woods that clung to its banks. In his mind's eye, he saw the gentle green hills of Ancellon's countryside—and the city itself, its white walls sparkling in the morning sunlight, its shops and stands already opening for the day's business. There was the majestic palace rising above it all, and the towering grey shape of the Keep standing sentinel over even that. The people would only be rousing just now, cursing groggily at the brightness—not knowing how lucky they were.

"What the bloody hell are you smiling at?" Vernon demanded. Still wearing the expression, Marcus shook his head. "Nothing much." He'd been thinking of Jacquelyn. Maybe she was sleeping late this morning, her light brown hair tangled on the pillow. Or maybe she was combing it out in front of the mirror right this minute, hating how ugly she was without makeup on. He wished he could be there with her, if only to tell her how wrong she was.

But he wasn't with her. With that thought, he came back into his own present. The smile went away.

Excited whispering surrounded him. "The commander's here!" Before Marcus could digest that, a hand nudged his arm. He turned.

Commander Durand faced him, decked in his plain armor with only a red helmet plume to denote his rank. He gazed on him with grey eyes that were soft and reassuring. "Are you ready, chevalier?" he asked quietly.

It took a moment to realize the officer was holding his hand out. He took it. "Ready, sir."

Something gleamed in Durand's eyes, though Marcus couldn't be sure what it was. "Truly, you are. Good luck." Then he released his grip and moved down the line, shaking hands, gripping shoulders, murmuring gentle words. His soldiers accepted, their eyes solemn beneath their low helmets.

"Thank you, sir," men said to him. "God bless you, sir." They meant it. They knew what a rare trait they were seeing in their senior officer. This man was no uncaring highborn who would commit them to a slaughter for his own gain. This was a man they could fight under, and gladly—because he cared for them. He would bring them home.

Marcus was suddenly and fiercely proud to be serving under Lyle Durand.

With his encouragement said, the commander mounted his horse rode back up the line, his hand pressed to his temple in salute. The air reverberated with the cheer his regiment raised for him, yelling and stamping their feet and rattling their shields as he rode past.

The hoof beats faded, and the waiting started all over again. The short-lived excitement dwindled in the face of foreboding. Just a quarter mile away, the ever-dark Southern Pass gaped like a toothless mouth just waiting to swallow them whole—just as it had with the 22nd Regiment a season ago. With their eyes flickering nervously over the mouth of Kydona, the minutes ground by, agonizingly slow.

The striated battle lines of the Royal Watch flexed as the soldiers shifted their stances, unaccustomed to their armor and unmanned by the sunless canyon before them. There was nary a mutter to be heard, save prayers.

Chaplain Stallings helped with those. He was a strange sight—black armored, red-cloaked, a wolf's pelt draped around his shoulders. His mace was a double-handed weapon, its pommel cast into the shape of a skull and its head into that of a clenched fist. Parchment strips scrawled with holy verse dangled from wax seals stamped onto his armor's every surface. Most disconcerting of all was his helmet: a howling brass skull leering from under his low hood. Appropriate for a priest of Ancel—death incarnate, wrath embodied.

From the gleaming skull's mouth, the regimental chaplain's voice boomed, "Steel your hearts, sons of Ancel! Suffer not weakness to water your soul, for weakness is a sin in the eyes of our Aspect!" He walked the lines at a deliberate pace, his mace raised high above his head. Even a hundred yards away, Marcus could smell the incense from the burner dangling from his waist. "What does weakness spawn?"

"Doubt," a few uncertain voices said.

The chaplain was not pleased. He slammed his mace into the ground. Shattered rock flew in all directions, some pinging unnoticed off his jet black armor. He voiced the demand once again, only far louder.

This time, the reply carried much more vigor. "Doubt!"

Stallings nodded. Marcus could imagine the wild grin beneath that helmet—almost. It occurred to him that in three weeks of marching, he had never seen Stallings' face. Such was the lot of the chaplains: anonymity, chastity and fanatical zeal in all things.

The chaplain shouted, "What does doubt spawn?"

"Hesitation!" two thousand voices chorused. Every Elessian man knew this prayer. Their fathers had taught it to them as children, and they had learned it again as novitiates.

"What does hesitation spawn?"

"Mercy!"

"What does mercy spawn?"

"Forgiveness!"

"And what is forgiveness?"

"Heresy!"

"Heresy, amen!" roared the faceless chaplain, prowling back and forth, his skulled visage scrutinizing the men before him. "Punish the wicked; that is your task. Condemn the guilty; that is your calling. Deliver the evil unto God; that is your undertaking. Deliver, that the Lord may judge them! But beware! Safeguard your own souls even as you send the wicked into the Lord's sight! For whom does he judge most harshly of all?"

"His servants!"

"Permit not that first sin of weakness, that when your time comes, you may stand upright before God! For what are we, and what are we not?"

"We are sons of Ancel," Marcus intoned with all the rest, "and we are not afraid!"

Nodding with satisfaction, the chaplain stalked off, slinging his mace as he went. There came a near-audible sigh of relief at that. The Royal Watch feared its chaplains more than they feared the enemy. They were conduits of Ancel's will, and they could punish deviancy as they saw fit, without interference from the chain of command. They exercised that authority only rarely—but when they did, it was usually through the nine-tailed whip holstered beside their personal weapons. Every Elessian man had known the cat-o'-nine's bite at least once, and never wanted to again.

Marcus almost winced, though he wasn't sure whether it was from the memory of his lashing or the reason he had gotten it.

No sooner had Stallings finished than the first pair of scouts emerged from the pass at a gallop, gravel flung in the air behind their stamping hooves. Waving, the horsemen blew past the lead company and disappeared. It was a good sign; the first few miles of the pass were clear. A few minutes later trumpets blared the ready call, and the soldiers' tense stance became more rigid still. They squared their shields and lifted the butts of their spears off the ground, ready to march at the order.

Captain Rowley's barrel chest expanded. "Forward!" his deep voice called, beard quivering. The call repeated up the army column, and Sword Company stood with bated breath. They looked up at the black wedge of the pass, and despite their promise to the chaplain, there wasn't a man in that formation that didn't know fear in those stretching moments.

"March!"

Gravel crunched under Marcus's foot. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but the first step wasn't in any way difficult. The next was even easier. As he fell into step with the rest of his company, marching to four sergeants' joined cadence call, the tension in his belly came unknotted. Not completely—just enough that he could think, that he could realize this wasn't all that bad. Whatever lay ahead, he would not face it alone.

Together with his company and regiment, he crossed the threshold of the Southern Pass. Marcus had never minded enclosed spaces before—but now there were sheer rock faces to either side of him, so close together that two wagons couldn't have fit through them side to side. Rocky outcroppings protruded at regular intervals, splayed and cracked like sheaves of dried parchment—and every shale page looked ready to come crashing down on his head at any second. It was dim; the sun's rays could not find an angle to penetrate between the mountains. The air was close, akin to that of a musty cellar recently flooded. The rock amplified every sound. The synchronized footsteps turned into a thunderous storm of racket, the ring of their armor into a discordant symphony.

With all of this, claustrophobia suddenly became a very valid fear.

Marcus looked aside. Hamo's face was beaded with sweat despite the chill. The youth glanced back at him and grinned as if nothing was wrong. Beyond him, Reggy—the mandolin player—was humming what sounded like an old lullaby. Jorel chewed endlessly on what must have been his tongue, his enormity a pale thing in comparison to the mountains. Joyce kept trying to scratch the blue woad tattoos on his cheeks, only to knock himself on the chin with his shield, tangling his knotted beard.

It was fascinating, seeing the small ways men coped with fear. Marcus wondered how he did it. Then he checked the urge to run his fingers through his hair—the helmet would have gotten in the way anyway—and found he already knew.

Hours passed. Despite its name, the pass seemed unwilling to let them do so. The ground was pitted and uneven. Sometimes it was loose shale. Other times, the soldiers glanced at their feet to discover that they were traversing solid rock—buried boulders, unspeakably large. There were cracks in which any of them could have easily broken an ankle, but the men in front were sure to raise their hands to mark each hazard for the constricted ranks behind. Other obstacles they could see quite well on their own. They clambered up and down hills of piled rubble, struggling to keep some semblance of order in the ranks. Whole battle lines shrank aside to avoid jutting promontories of razor sharp rock.

Hellish as the terrain was, no one thought to complain. They had more important worries. Hard men glanced around uneasily, scrutinizing every slope, overhang and crevice. An incessant itch nagged between Marcus's shoulder blades, as if his body expected an arrow to thud into his spine at any moment.

It wasn't an unfounded fear—because three hours into the pass, they came upon the cairns. Two thousand of them. There had been no dirt to bury the 22nd Regiment in, so piles of ragged stone had to suffice. Swords and spears were stuck upright between the stones, helmets balanced on top. A whole season after the fact, the steel was just beginning to speckle with rust.

The company stared at the crude graves of their dead brothers. Sorrow and anger in equal measure flickered across their faces. Here and there, lady's handkerchiefs had been tied to weapons' hafts—the last gifts of lovers and wives before their men had left them. There was a mandolin much like Reggy's leaning against one cairn, and atop another, a set of reed pipes whistled hollowly in the chill breeze.

Marcus had known before how the 22nd Regiment had died. Seeing the place it had happened, he realized there was a difference between knowing and understanding. He saw the narrows where the Kydonians had established their chokepoints, the clusters of graves there where the Elessians had fallen in their desperate bid to escape. A glance overhead revealed rocky shelves, perfect for archers to rain death into the massed ranks below. The enemy had hemmed the whole regiment in, shot them full of arrows, and cut them down when they tried to retreat. Only once no Elessian stood had the enemy left their positions—and then, to cut the throats of the wounded and steal the fallen banner.

He knew murder when he saw it.

_Punish the wicked_.

He was glad of the opportunity. By the time this day ended, a whole army of Elessians would see these graves. In the north, an entire division of Royal Watch would pass the border villages Tsar Sidor had razed to start the first Kydona War. They would march by King Basil's humble grave and feel the same anger that Marcus did now.

By the time this day ended, a new generation of Elessians would be unleashed on the golden plains of Kydona—with a new king, and a new cause for retribution.

"They will pay!" shouted Captain Rowley. His finger pointed forward—east, toward the enemy. "By our swords, lads, we will take our due! Remember well what you see around you, and Kydona _will_ pay!"

Sword Company's bellow of affirmation echoed up and down the lonely pass, and the stones themselves trembled.

One by one, the cairns drifted past until they were all lost to sight, reduced once again to anonymous mounds along the mountain path. Free of them, the company marched on with a renewed sense of purpose.

It took some hours yet to reach the end of the Southern Pass. The frail sunlight dwindled still more in that time, until the men stumbled, swearing, over crags that even the sharpest eyes couldn't pick out. Eventually, though, a sliver of grey light became visible up ahead. It was all Marcus could do not to break into an overjoyed run. He satisfied himself with watching the light brighten, the breach widening with each passing yard.

At last, they reached it. Sword Company barreled into the open with speed a dragoon would envy, raising a cry of exultation.

The transition was as startling as it was wonderful. Marcus was no longer hemmed in by oppressive grey rock. There was grass beneath his feet—scrubby and brown, but alive nonetheless. He had never imagined he would be so grateful to see a plant in his life. The sun was all but gone, disappeared beyond the mountains—the wrong side of them. In its absence, Marcus couldn't make out much anything of the land he had just invaded. Ahead lay a flat horizon, silhouetted against a purple sky. Everything between it and him was blackness.

The order to halt finally came. Marcus had never been so happy to hear the call to make camp. The army compacted itself into a massive square, dug the fortifications, and set up tents. Marcus settled onto his mat beside Vernon, palms blistered from hacking into the tough Kydonian earth—hard grass compacted layer upon layer, then the mulchy soil beneath, still half-frozen from the recent winter.

He could hear the first watch moving along the ramparts. A whole regiment stood guard at each side of the square camp, and would be all night. Nonetheless, the prince sharpened his blade and tucked it under the rolled blanket that acted as his pillow. He would sleep with a hand around the grip—because he still remembered the fire burning in Andrei Pronin's eyes as the guards hauled him from the Sanctum. He was under no illusions; this was a dangerous place.

At long last, on a trail of quashed hearts and broken bodies, Marcus Audric de Pilars had arrived in Kydona.

_The war for the east rages in_ Kydona: From Ashes...

Acknowledgements

Mom and Dad, for instilling in me a love of reading and story-telling.

My fiancé Cait, for her constant support and her love, an inspiration to me always.

My brother Chris, for the fantastic critique and proofreading. Couldn't have done it without you.

Sam Carr, the awesome artist who drew up this cover, and hopefully many to come.

Thank you all!

### About the Author

Thomas K. Krug III lives in Skippack, Pennsylvania with his beautiful fiancé, Caitlin. When not whittling away at sequels, he'll either be glued to his Xbox or sipping bourbon—always on the rocks. He put the finishing touches on his first book in Afghanistan, where he served as a junior officer in the United States Army.

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