

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

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

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

Author's Note

About the Author

More Great Indie Fiction

Children of the Falls Vol. 1: Where Serpents Strike

Smashwords edition

Copyright © 2016 by C.W. Thomas

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any way or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.

Published in the United States by Lame Poet Books.

ISBN 978-1-5301479-1-5

Cover and book design by J.L.G. Designs

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

To that college professor

who wrote me nasty letters

criticizing my writing

while I worked for that newspaper.

You're in this book.

And you die very, very badly.

### Acknowledgments

Ridiculous and dumb. Those are the two words I would've used to describe this novel had it not been for the encouragement, praise, feedback, and support of a handful of individuals.

A tremendous thanks goes out to Tanya Sousa, writer and illustrator extraordinaire, and my biggest cheerleader. I couldn't ask for a better friend to encourage my creative endeavors. It always feels like you do so much for me and that the favors I give in return are like pittance from a peasant.

Thanks also to fellow indie author and Jedi Master John L. Monk. Were it not for his outstanding work, advice, and camaraderie I may never have found the inspiration to launch this series. You're a class act, bro!

I'd like to thank an awesome team of readers, including: sister-in-arms Jenny Allen; my photography pal Benita Clark; fellow medieval fantasy enthusiast Brennan Kidder; Marla Miller (is it wrong for me to be thankful that you were able to read my book because you were on crutches?); Peter Murray (thanks for being a totally "into it" fan); and J.C. Stockli whose writing never fails to inspire me. You are all awesome!

To my beautiful wife Danielle I'd like to say a deep and sincere thanks. I know this writing thing takes up a lot of time, but without it I'd probably go nuts and become even more difficult to live with than I already am. Thank you for allowing me the time to pursue this silly little hobby. I love you.

And thanks be to God for the abundance of blessings he provides.

Even though this book may still be considered ridiculous and dumb by some people it's finally something that I'm a wee bit proud of thanks to the support and input of all of you.

—Craig

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# MEREK

Darkness enveloped Merek Viator as he crept into the throne room. Something unsettling ruptured in his heart, an ominous feeling that he hoped he wouldn't regret ignoring.

Crouched on one of the bulky rafters high above the marble floor he took his time scanning the shadows below. He had never seen the inside of Perth's castle, but as a frequent purveyor of the rich pockets in Edhen's capital he had always longed to.

Merek sat hunched on the rafters for quite some time listening to the whistle of the warm wind outside and letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Before long the shadows opened, revealing a massive room long and narrow and empty. Its gray walls sequenced with carved granite pillars stretched up into a vaulted ceiling of dark timber beams and golden trim. He frowned at the crimson tapestries hanging on the walls bearing the golden viper emblem of High King Orkrash Mahl.

Much to Merek's dismay the faint scent of rot hung in the air. He wondered if a table of food had been left unattended for too long in one of the dark corners.

Now to find the gold.

With perfect balance the master thief moved along the rafters toward the throne. In his mind he raked through the memory of the note he had received, searching for clues as to the whereabouts of the loot. The note had guaranteed a reward of gold if he could successfully sneak into the throne room, but more interesting than that was the promise of a greater opportunity.

Normally he would've ignored such a note. In fact, he figured he probably should have, but unlike the man he used to be just a few short years ago Merek Viator was now a desperate man.

He paused atop the rafters when he heard footsteps in the hallway.

The footsteps grew louder, a pair of them, until two men stepped into the room. One of them, lean with oily black hair and a bony face, moved with the grace of a cat under a long velvet coat. He carried a torch and took his time lighting the ancient sconces that adorned the columns, filling the room with light and shadow.

His companion looked about in awe. "The throne of the high king," he said. "You honor me, Ustus." He ran a hand over his bald scalp, the open sleeve of his tunic trailing after his arm. Merek admired the way the gold stitching on his long green robe glittered in the torchlight. He wondered how many starving mouths could be fed for the cost of sparkly gold stitching.

"You _should_ feel honored," said Ustus. His voice carried with it a disarming charm, smooth and sweet. "High King Mahl invites few into his throne room these days. His majesty considers this a deeply personal space. He does not wish it marred by the tiresome ramblings of commoners."

"I hear his army is on the march for Aberdour."

"Indeed. Four years of war and finally all the kingdoms will be under one rule."

"About time, too. Those forested halfwits have caused this country enough undo stress. I trust The Raven leads the charge?"

"His majesty would have no other."

Merek felt a twinge of pain in his heart. Aberdour, the last free kingdom on Edhen, was about to fall prey to the Black King's tyranny. They would make a mighty stand, he knew, one worthy of their Aberdourian reputation.

"And will the high king be here soon?" asked the bald man, whose robe and long belted sash gave him the look of a wizard.

"His majesty will arrive when he is ready."

The wizard wandered into the center of the room. He sniffed a few times and wrinkled his nose, clearly as disgusted as Merek by the foul odor that hung in the air.

"Don't keep me waiting, Ustus," the wizard said. "I have many important things that demand my—"

"Other men have been killed for displaying such arrogance in the throne room of the high king," said Ustus. "Your important matters are of no consequence. You will give him your respect. When he enters you will—"

"The high king has none of my respect," the wizard shot back as calmly as though he were debating the weather. "He is a selfish brute of a king whose only pleasure, it seems, is to waste other people's valuable time."

With slow, but deliberate footsteps Ustus walked up to the wizard until he stood a hand's width from the man's nose. "This, I promise to you, Versch Leiern, if you speak to the high king in this manner you will not leave this room with your life."

This seemed to shock Versch into silence. Merek grinned. He always found it gratifying to see a wizard put in his place.

But as much as wizards made him leery, Merek found himself becoming equally distrustful of Ustus. The man had a sly way about him, mannerisms tinged with menace, and it made Merek's internal warning flags stand high.

"Now, as I was saying," Ustus began, "when his majesty enters you will bow your head and greet him with his customary title. You will remain standing with your hands in front of you at all times. You may only speak when spoken to. Do not stare at him. Only when his majesty leaves are you free to go. Do you understand?"

Versch nodded.

When the large double doors at the far end of the throne room groaned open, Merek pivoted on his rafter perch to get a better look at those entering. He saw four men. Two black vipers, soldiers of the high king, their dark metal chests embossed with the kingdom's serpentine emblem. They marched behind their captain, a brooding man in dark armor and a long red cape, a fierce-looking bear's head helmet tucked under his arm.

In front of them all was the high king himself, Orkrash Mahl.

Merek couldn't deny the excitement building within him at the sight of the infamous high king of Edhen. The Gold Viper, many called him. Orkrash the Ravenous. The Mauler of Edhen. But no title was more legendary than the one most despised by Orkrash himself—the Black King. As a result of the high king's widely known disdain for the name, naturally, Merek loved it.

Orkrash strode across the floor, his black metal armor and thick-soled boots composing a ruckus of clatters and groans that echoed around the room. A long heavy cape brushed the floor behind him. He breezed past Versch, ignoring the wizard's courteous bow. He stopped just long enough to whisper something into the ear of Ustus. Then he continued to the opposite end of the room where he stood at the bottom of a series of stone steps that led up to the platform holding his throne.

"His majesty wishes me to ask you a question," Ustus said with great calm. "Are you acquainted with any of the other wizards he has summoned here?"

Versch looked nervous. His eyes trailed the three soldiers as they took up their positions in front of the raised platform behind the Black King—two on either side of him, the captain in the middle.

"Um, I heard that Commodus Lagein, of Tranent, and Moinen Weathersky, from the northern regions, had both come, but I do not know all those that were summoned, or even how many—"

"Six," Ustus said. "There have been a total of six wizards summoned to the high king's castle. His majesty presented each with the same problem. None of them were able to fulfill the high king's request, which brings us to you."

"And what, may I ask, was the request?"

Ustus paused. He folded his hands in front of him and sauntered toward the raised dais where the Black King still stood, his back to the room, no skin save that of his pale bald dome visible amidst his deathly black attire.

For the first time since sneaking into the room, Merek noticed what appeared to be three black pillars standing off to the right side of the platform. Upon closer inspection he realized the pillars were not actually black, but rather covered in long drapes of deep blue. A moment later he noticed three other shrouded pillars mirroring the first three on the other side of the platform. Six total.

Merek covered his nose as a strong whiff of the foul odor swept by him.

"Before we get to that," Ustus said, "his majesty wishes to quell any desire within yourself to lie, cheat, or otherwise weasel your way out of solving this problem for him. If you cannot fix it, you cannot fix it. Simple as that. No need to waste the high king's time. So, to reinforce my point, allow me to provide a visual aid."

Ustus snapped his fingers and two of the guards sprang into action. One moved left. The other went right. They each took hold of one of the long dark drapes and gave it a yank. On the right stood the corpse of a bald-headed wizard in shredded brown robes. His back had been whipped to ribbons and his body impaled from anus to mouth on a long pole that now propped him up like a decorative statue on a stone base. Across from the corpse, a similar sight, only this wizard's stomach had been flayed with his innards left hanging in a pile on the floor.

The stench of the rot seemed amplified now and Merek felt a punishing blow to his stomach's constitution.

Versch had covered his mouth with one of his sparkly sleeves.

The black vipers yanked the drapes from the other four decorations, exposing four impaled corpses in various stages of decay. The oldest corpse was little more than a dried up skeleton, its crooked jaw hanging open in a silent ceaseless scream.

"The cost of failure," said Ustus.

Versch hurried to the nearest ceiling column and vomited on the floor. Merek didn't blame him. In fact, he believed he would've done the same thing were he not hiding over the head of the most violent high king Edhen had ever known.

The Black King seated himself on the large gold throne, the top of which fanned out like the folds of a serpent's head. He remained in the shadows, but Merek could still see his pale face glowering down from his position of ultimate power.

Orkrash nodded to Ustus who pulled something out of the pocket of his long tunic. He walked over to Versch and held it out to him.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked.

Versch wiped his mouth, cleared his throat, and straightened up. "Murdering wizards," he said, his throat hoarse. "You have no idea what you're bringing upon—"

"Do you know what this is?" Ustus asked again.

Finally Versch looked at the item, a milky white gem about the size of his palm, flat, with a colored center that sparkled even in the dark. The small item seized the wizard's full attention. He lifted and examined it, his eyes wide with fascination.

"A regenstern," he answered. "It is a powerful wizard's stone. This is... amazing. Where did you find this?"

"Can you empty it?" Ustus asked.

Versch looked stunned, like Ustus had just said something profoundly stupid. "Empty it? The value of a regenstern is in what it holds. Emptied, it is useless."

"And do you know what this holds?"

Versch examined the stone again. "Only the wizard who crafted it knows that answer."

"Precisely. Now, can you empty it?"

Merek watched, amused, as all at once it appeared to dawn on Versch the enormity of the problem he'd been challenged to solve. His enthusiasm melted, replaced with fear and confusion.

"Emptying a regenstern is–is impossible. To extract the power, without even knowing what it is, could be devastating. Why would you even want to—"

"It is no concern of yours why the high king has asked this of you," Ustus said. "Your choice now is simple. Do as your high king has commanded, or do it not, but I am compelled to remind you that there is a seventh lance waiting nearby."

Versch remained silent for a long moment before taking the regenstern between both his palms and lifting it to his lips. He whispered to it inaudibly then held his eyes shut tight as though listening for a response.

"I can extract the magic," he finally said. "B–but without knowing what it is I–I do not know what will happen. It may do nothing. It may kill everyone in this room."

Merek shivered. He glanced toward the window, itching to begin making his way back, but fear of being spotted held him in place. After all, the Black King had a lot of lances.

Versch kept the gem clamped between his palms as he knelt on the floor and began chanting some bizarre wizard's speech. Merek rolled his eyes. He had never thought of wizards as anything more than fancy showmen whose sleight-of-hand tricks impressed fools, and he had held to that belief his whole life.

Until now.

The gem between Versch's fingers started to emanate a bluish glow that throbbed like a heartbeat for several moments as the wizard's gibberish quickened. A low reverberation, like distant thunder, shook the room and then an ear-splitting crack rang out as an explosion of light burst from the wizard's hands. The torches went out, plunging the room into near darkness.

After his eyes had adjusted again, Merek saw Versch kneeling on the floor, the regenstern still clamped between his fingers, its blue light dimmed.

Orkrash descended the steps, the loud thuds of his heavy boots echoing throughout his throne room. He walked up to the wizard and held out his hand. With trembling fingers, Versch released the regenstern into the palm of the high king—all six shattered pieces of it.

Ustus gasped. "What did you do?"

"I–I did nothing, my lord," Versch said. "I told you I–I could not be certain what would happen. Regensterns a–are especially—"

The gloved fist of the Black King smashed across the wizard's face, knocking him back. Versch released a pitiful wail.

"My lord," he cried. "Wait!"

The black vipers went to him, lifting him up.

"Wait! Wait! No, no, no! Please!"

"You will suffer for this, wizard," Ustus said.

"No, please!" Versch said as the soldiers dragged him toward a seventh pillar where a long pointed lance lay across the floor. "Wait. I can fix it!"

"Stop!" The voice of the Black King cut through the night like ice. He carried his dark frame through the shadows of the throne room to Versch. Orkrash towered over the man by a good head's height. "How?"

"I–I–I can prepare the gem, my lord, to receive whatever magic you would like, but it would help, my lord, if I knew what you needed it for."

The Black King paced away from him, thinking. At last he handed the shattered pieces of the regenstern to Ustus, whispered something into his ear, and stepped away into the shadows.

"A mind," Ustus answered.

Versch acted as though he had been caught off guard. "A mind? The mind of a person?"

"Surely if a stone can hold such great mystical powers, it can carry the simple essence of an individual's mind."

"Perhaps," Versch said, "but I will need to return to my tower, but, I swear to you, great king, I will restore the gem."

The Black King gestured to his captain and strode out of the room, leaving the two vipers behind in the darkness and silence with Ustus and the quivering wizard.

"You better not be lying," Ustus said a moment later. "The high king has many resources and spies at his disposal. If you do not fulfill your promise, there is no place you can hide, no hole you can burrow deep enough to keep you from his majesty's reach. You will be ferreted out of wherever you are, skinned like any small game rodent, and roasted over a pit. And I will make it my personal effort to ensure that all of that happens before you take your last breath."

Versch nodded vigorously.

"I will send a group of soldiers to accompany you on your journey home to make certain that you do not neglect your task."

Ustus dropped the shards of the regenstern into Versch's hands.

"Now leave."

The wizard seemed more than happy to oblige. He breezed from the room with the two black vipers following after him.

Merek exhaled in silence. He couldn't deny that being so close to the Black King gave him the shivers, but to his surprise he found the presence of Ustus equally unsettling. Up in the shadows of the throne room's lofty rafters, Merek waited for the room to clear.

Merek started to adjust his footing in preparation to stand when Ustus' voice cut through the night. "Did you enjoy that?"

Merek froze, physically and mentally seized.

Ustus stood in the doorway, looking back into the throne room. For a moment Merek wondered if the man had spoken to another person that he had failed to notice, someone hiding in the shadows perhaps, but when Ustus' eyes began searching the rafters above Merek realized, with undeniable dread, that he was talking to him.

"It is good to meet you at last, Merek Viator," Ustus said. "I have heard many good things about you. Yes, your notoriety precedes you. Skilled thief. Assassin. And dare I say it—former gladiator?"

Malice lurked behind the man's wicked grin that made Merek's skin crawl.

"Surely you must be wondering who that note came from?" Ustus said. "I summoned you here so that you could witness this little meeting of ours, but I also wanted to see just how good you are. I do not know how you managed to get in here, but, I must say, I am impressed."

Ustus wandered about the floor, quiet while his eyes searched the darkness above.

"What do you want?" Merek finally ventured to say.

"He speaks! Wonderful." He withdrew a small leather pouch from his tunic and shook it so that Merek could hear the rattling coins inside. "Gold. As the note promised. Half now, and half when you return the regenstern." He dropped the pouch on the floor. "I do not trust Versch Leiern. You will follow him to his tower on Efferous, kill him, and bring the shards of the regenstern to me. Leave no witnesses, not even if they be the high king's soldiers."

Confused, Merek couldn't tell if Ustus was playing his hand behind the Black King's back or if this was all part of their elaborate scheme. Either way, he wanted no part in it.

"No," Merek said. He hurried along the rafters toward the window. He thought of the pouch of gold sitting on the floor far below and how nice it would feel in his empty pockets, but he pushed the idea away. As much as he needed it, he knew it wasn't worth it.

"Very well," Ustus said. "A more enticing reward then? Your sister perhaps."

Merek nearly tripped. He knelt to grab onto the beam. Swallowing first for control of his voice, he said, "What do you know about my sister?"

"I know where she is. I can help you get her back. In fact, if you do this for me, I will even punish those who took her from you. Punishment is my specialty."

Merek's chest thundered like a warhorse. He didn't trust Ustus at all, but the man claimed to have more knowledge of the disappearance of his sister than he had been able to dig up in the last two years. After weighing the cost of landing in the employ of a man such as this, Merek realized that although he couldn't deny the risk, he also couldn't pass up the chance.

"Prove it," Merek said. "Tell me where she is."

Ustus wagged his finger. "That is not the deal."

"And I should just trust you? Like the people of Edhen trusted the Black King? Like Aberdour trusted him?"

"You dare mock the high king with that fowl name?"

"I wonder if your king intends to show mercy to Aberdour? After all, the Falls have given nothing but mercy to the people suffering from the devastation your king has wrought. They don't deserve what he's sending their way." He paused. "I have no reason to trust him, or you. No proof? No deal."

Ustus drew a peeved breath. "I have no proof. I know she is on Efferous, and I know who holds her captive, but all of this is just words. Proof, I do not have. It is simply a choice you must make, and I suggest you make it soon."

Merek's feet were already moving toward the window, even though he hadn't made up his mind about whether he believed Ustus or not.

"Versch is likely in his carriage by now on his way back to the docks," Ustus said.

He slipped over the windowsill, the stone gritty beneath his pale hands. He worked his way down the latticework, knowing that for Awlin's sake he had no choice.

He hit the ground running, his heart beating faster, his mind swirling with renewed hope. If this adventure did bring his sister back to him he knew it would be a while yet. He figured it would take him three months to get to Efferous, another month to find the wizard and plan the theft of the gems, then another long trip back to Edhen. Surely though, within a year, he and Awlin would be reunited again.

And if Ustus was lying, or if he refused to help him rescue Awlin after the gems were returned, then Merek would kill him.

In the midst of his haste, rising above the pounding of his heart, were thoughts of the people of Aberdour. If Merek were a man of faith, he would've prayed for them. There wasn't a kingdom yet that had withstood the destructive force of High King Orkrash Mahl.

Aberdour was doomed.

# LIA

When Lia saw him, she froze, curiosity gripping her. She had never seen a man like him this far from Aberdour's castle. Typically those clad in torn shirts and muddy brown slacks, like this man, were vagabonds of the city's stone alleys or slaves to noblemen in their comfortable estates. Then she noticed the shackles on his ankles and the broken chain that once linked them dangling between his feet, and her curiosity melted into fear.

Lia gasped. The bucket of oats slipped from her small hand and spilled on the barn floor.

The man was distressed, his eyes wide and worried. He pressed a single dirty finger to his lips. "Quiet, little girl."

Lia's fear vanished. "I'm not a little girl," she snapped. "I'm ten, and I'm—"

"I said shut up!"

From somewhere outside, a woman called Lia's name. Her shape appeared, passing by the gaps in the barn boards.

The man pointed his finger at Lia. "Not a word!" he whispered, and then shuffled behind the hay bales.

The door creaked open and a lovely, wide-hipped woman with her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, poked her head inside. Lia spun around, startled, kicking the spilled oats at her feet.

"Is everything all right?" the woman asked.

"I'm sorry, Abigail. I, uh..." Lia looked down at the mess. Kneeling she started to clean it up. "It just... slipped."

Abigail made her way across the barn floor, her simple brown dress swaying around her ankles. She knelt next to Lia, holding her pregnant belly as she bent down.

"It's all right," she said. "Aggie won't mind." She looked up at a white and brown rouncey peering down at them from her stall. "Will you girl?"

The horse shook off a few flies.

Lia paid no mind to either Abigail or the horse. Her every thought was on the escaped prisoner hiding behind the hay bales. She considered grabbing Abigail and racing from the barn, but then her eyes fell on the woman's belly and Lia knew she couldn't do anything that would put the baby at risk.

Abigail looked up and exhaled in disappointment. "I hope this isn't your new tunic," she said. She brushed her hand along the front of Lia's shirt, peeling away the layer of hay and dirt that had affixed itself to the dark green fabric, marring the pattern of branches and maple leaves.

"Uh," was all Lia could say. She looked down at her baggy gray slacks, hoping she hadn't dirtied them as well, but she had.

"Oh!" Abigail said, and her hand went to her stomach. "Lia, feel. She's awake."

Abigail took Lia's tiny fingers and placed them over the spot where the baby was kicking. Even in the face of her fear, Lia couldn't help but smile as the little life pushed against her palm.

"How do you know it's a girl?" she asked.

Abigail smiled. "I don't, but it's fun to pretend that I do." She leaned in close and lowered her voice. "And it confuses Thomas, but don't tell him I said that."

Lia forced out a chuckle, trying to sound relaxed.

"Are you all right?" Abigail asked as Lia finished picking up the spilled oats.

"Yes," she answered. "Just, um, thinking about my school work." She took the bucket over to the stall and dumped it in Aggie's feed box. "I left without getting it done. Or my chores."

Abigail frowned. "Honey, we've talked about this. I don't want your mother getting mad at me."

"I'm sorry. Some days it's just nicer here. In fact, it's always nicer here. Things are peaceful and..." She stopped, her eyes darting toward the hay pile.

"And what?" Abigail asked.

Lia cast the woman a forced smile. "Plus Aggie is far smarter than my dumb horse."

"Aggie is also very old, but I'm glad you like it here." The woman walked up to her and gave her a motherly embrace, stroking the straight brown hair cascading like a silky sheet down Lia's back. "You've always been a good help to us, but it can't be at the expense of your responsibilities at home. Understand?"

Lia pulled away and agreed.

Abigail started for the barn door. "Send your mother and father our love."

"I will."

"And come inside and get some breakfast before you leave."

Lia watched Abigail exit the barn, her breath held in her chest.

The mysterious man emerged from behind the hay bales. He had a raw masculinity that enthralled and intimidated all at the same time.

Lia opened her mouth to speak, but he lifted his finger again and mouthed, "No." She closed her mouth, not because he had said so, but because of the two other men who slipped into the barn behind him, chains clinking at their feet. One of them, husky and tall, had a murderous look in his bloodshot eyes. The other looked sprightly, with a scrawny torso and protuberant eyes in his bony face. He ducked into a nimble squat and wiped the perspiration from his brow with a tattered sleeve.

"They got a ride," he said, pointing toward the packhorse, Aggie, as she peeked over her stall.

"One horse, moron," Fatty said. "And there's three of us, so don't even think about it."

"Shh!" said the first man to his companions.

The three men ignored Lia, their ears tilting up to the dusty brown rafters as though listening for some sound in the forest beyond.

Lia heard the gentle clomping of horse hooves on the rough road outside. The three men with their clinking chains hurried toward the barn wall to peer through the narrow slits between the clapboards.

"Is that 'im?" Sprightly asked in a gruff whisper.

No one answered.

Curiosity returned, and Lia drifted toward the barn wall where she pressed her eye up to a knothole. She imagined her mother scolding her for lingering in the presence of these three peculiar men. She half-smiled, knowing she would've ignored her mother anyway. She didn't like playing it safe. She much preferred to gallivant through the woods by day and scale the castle's bookshelves by night. A day in which she didn't earn a few new scuffs on her palms or knees was a boring day indeed.

Her eye took in a picturesque country scene where an opening in the forest canopy spilled a wide swath of sunlight onto a stone cottage. Chickens pecked at the dirt near a trickling brook sided by reeds and croaking frogs while a pasture, barely visible through the trees, sat at the rear of the home.

A massive armored horse stomped up next to the cottage, marring the otherwise charming scene. The dark animal bore a tall rider in sinister black plate armor, his metal chest displaying a silver viper—the emblem of the high king. His ferocious appearance made Lia's heart skip a beat. The large man swung his long leg over his ride's hindquarters and dismounted. She guessed his height to be nearly seven feet. When he turned, a tremendous broadsword, almost twice as tall as Lia, swayed behind his back.

She noticed a contingent of mounted soldiers coming up over the rise in the road to join the tall man. Clad in black armor and fierce helms, the army carried flags bearing the high king's crest. Lia's eyes went wide with fright.

"Black vipers?" said Sprightly, astonished. "Khile, what they doin' 'ere?"

The fat man shook his head. "Broods don't come this far north."

"They do now," Khile said.

For the last three years Lia had heard rumors that one day the black vipers, soldiers of the new high king, would invade this part of the country, but she had never allowed herself to believe it would happen.

Lia had a sudden urge to be home, safe within the protective walls of Aberdour. Mentally she kicked herself for having snuck off in the morning before doing her schoolwork, for leaving the city without the protection of one of her father's bodyguards.

The door to the cottage scraped open. Thomas appeared, a middle-aged man with graying brown hair and oafish arms defined from long days of axe wielding. He stepped outside while his wife, Abigail, remained in the doorway.

Lia sprang away from the peephole to run outside and warn Thomas when two strong hands clamped onto her shoulders and yanked her back. She tried to scream except one of the hands replanted itself across her mouth.

"Don't make a sound!" said the man called Khile. He had firm but gentle hands, like her father's.

"Why are broods coming after us for?" asked Fatty, his voice quivering.

"They're not after us," Khile answered.

Sprightly got up. "Well I'm not hanging around here."

"You step outside and you're a dead man," Khile said.

His companion froze.

"What do you think they're here to do, huh?" Khile moved toward the barn boards to peek outside. "This is an invasion."

Lia heard voices outside. She squirmed out of Khile's clutches and returned to the knothole. She saw Thomas inviting the big armored soldier to the water well. Abigail wiped remnants of the breakfast she was preparing on a mottled white apron and then stood silently in the doorway holding the bulge at her stomach. She looked as nervous as Lia felt.

Thomas raised a bucket of water from the well and offered a ladle to the soldier. The man drank, and said something to Thomas. Lia's ears perked as she heard mention of Aberdour.

Thomas pointed east in the direction of the city.

The tall man dropped the ladle, removed a thick black dagger from his belt, and plunged it into Thomas' stomach. Abigail screamed and rushed from the house, hurrying to her dying husband's prone body.

"No!" The word rushed from Lia's mouth so fast it surprised her. By the time she realized that she had screamed it loud enough for the soldiers to hear, she was halfway out of the barn. She sprinted up the narrow path to the house as fast as her little legs could move, tears on her cheeks, and hot rage in her stomach.

Abigail cried, cradling Thomas as the last bits of life quivered out of him.

Lia dropped to her knees next to Thomas, calling his name. Her hands reached for him, shaking as they cupped his paling face. He blinked, those beautiful sparkling blue pools, and smiled for one brief moment before death took him.

Lia heard a soldier stomping up next to them, but she ignored him, unable to pull her eyes from Thomas. Only when Abigail gasped did Lia glance up. The soldier yanked her head back and drew a silver blade across her throat, cutting a deep gash that spattered blood onto Lia's clothes.

A second soldier reached down to grab Lia, but her quick feet were far too clever. She sprang away from the man and sprinted toward the big knight, anger washing through her blood. Her hands slipped from a small leather sleeve the knife her father had given her for her tenth birthday. She had never used it to slice anything other than a dead quail, a piece of rope, and some fabric, but, still, she kept it sharp. It slipped into the armored soldier's thigh, right between the plates of his armor and deep into the skin. He growled, a sound wrought of pain and irritation. He spun and backhanded Lia across the face with his metal arm. She flew backward into the trampled leaves of the pockmarked road, the right side of her face exploding with pain.

Some of the soldiers laughed.

The armored man looked down at Lia, eyes steady and cool. Brown tangles of hair tumbled from his head, veiling his pale face, a stark contrast to his black uniform. He removed her dagger from his leg like a scholar withdraws a quill from an inkwell, and handed it back to her handle first.

"Would you care to try again?" he asked, his voice indifferent, cavernous and cold. "Go for the inside of the thigh this time. Twist the blade to open the wound."

"I think you should keep her, sir," one of the soldiers said. "Might make good sport later."

Bellows of laughter followed.

The large armored man smiled wolfishly. "Kill her," he said.

From the barn a horse neighed, beckoning the soldiers' attention. Lia scurried away from them on her hands and knees until she glimpsed Khile bounding toward the house atop Aggie. He arrived at her side in a matter of seconds and pivoted the horse's flanks to throw the closest soldiers off balance. He reached down and grabbed Lia by the arm. She gave an undignified yelp when he hoisted her onto his lap and urged the horse forward.

Aggie was afraid, Lia could tell, acting half on instinct and half at the commands of the stranger on her back. The horse rushed along the uneven road.

Lia watched the soldiers behind them ready their crossbows as Khile's two companions stood at the entrance to the barn, looking after him in confusion. Sprightly took a short arrow through the face. Fatty ducked back into the barn as the soldiers moved in to claim his life.

Before Aggie descended the next crest in the road, Lia glimpsed the massive man in the black armor staring after her, calm as an oak tree in a gathering storm.

Lia squirmed to right herself, but Khile shouted at her, "Keep still!"

"I'm slipping!"

He hooked an arm around her small waist and pulled her up in front of him to straddle the animal's bare back. The road ahead, with woods crowding up to both sides, rushed past in a blur before Lia's wet eyes.

"Why did he kill them?" she asked. "They didn't do anything." Then she thought of the baby in Abigail's stomach, that precious little girl, or boy. No one would ever know.

"That's Sir Komor Raven, one of the high king's marshals," Khile answered. "He is the very extension of the Black King's sword itself. He's led the siege of almost all—"

"I know who he is," Lia spat, her voice shaking with sorrow and rage. "Everyone knows The Raven."

"Then you know to fear him."

"I fear no one! And someday I'm going to kill him for what he did to them." Lia knew how absurd she sounded. She knew ten-year-old girls didn't kill soldiers clad in thick armor, but deep within her boiled a growing hate she had never felt before.

"That man will gut you like a fawn," Khile said.

"I don't care. I'm going to rip his heart out!"

Khile huffed. "You're a feisty little thing. What's your name?"

"Lia Falls."

Khile's body tensed. "Falls? Of Aberdour? You're a princess?" It sounded like less of a question and more an exclamation of disbelief. "What are you doing out here all alone with no protection? Are you crazy?"

Lia didn't answer. She only sobbed.

"You're lucky I found you," Khile said. "Those men would've killed you right along with that man and woman."

"They were my friends," Lia said, her voice cracking. She shut her eyes as images flooded her mind of Thomas teaching her how to ride, and Abigail helping her brush the coats of their mares. Years of memories flooded through her as tears washed down her cheeks.

"I don't understand," she cried. "Why did he kill them? They didn't do anything?"

"This is the back road to Aberdour, yes?" Khile said. "And you know who Komor is, then surely you know what he's doing."

Lia knew the answer, but she didn't want to say it. Maybe, if she didn't say it, it wouldn't be true. Maybe if she squeezed her eyes tight enough the nightmare would end and she would look up to see the post and beam ceiling of her bedroom in the castle, her violet drapes blowing in the crisp morning breeze, sunlight kissing her pale skin.

But this was no nightmare. The black vipers were real, and they were headed for Aberdour, which could only mean one thing: the invasion had finally arrived.

Aggie lurched over a log in the road, forcing Lia to latch onto Khile's arm. He must have felt her grip, because he brought his arms in closer to her. He smelled of wood and earth.

"Do yourself a favor and forget about Komor The Raven," Khile said. "Aberdour is about to fall, and that makes you and your brothers and sisters the most important people in the realm right now."

As Khile pushed the horse hard over the rough road, Lia thought of her home lying not too far ahead. Aberdour. The last free city on Edhen. She wondered if she and Khile would arrive in time to warn the people. Perhaps they already knew. Perhaps the western towers had already spotted the Black King's army on the crest of the Northern Road. The bells could be sounding throughout the city right now.

Lia longed for her father, Lord Kingsley. She longed for him to scoop her up in the safety of his arms, hold her tight against his barrel chest, and tell her everything was going to be all right. He was supposed to go hunting this morning with her brother Brayden. She wondered if they were out there now, creeping through the trees, bows at the ready, unaware that they were soon to be the prey.

# BRAYDEN

Brayden groaned, ignoring his mother's call. Burrowing deeper into the blankets, he pulled the pillow over his head, blocking out the piercing beams of sunlight.

"I don't want to go," he mumbled.

His mother called to him again, her voice echoing down the castle hallway, amplified and hollow.

Brayden tossed his pillow aside in annoyance. He lay there for a moment, listening to the spring breeze stealing through the open window and wishing sleep would come take him again.

A shadow passed his bed. Rolling over, the young prince watched in shock as an owl flew toward his window and perched on the sill, shaking out its brown and white-feathered wings. He'd never seen an owl this close before. The bird gazed at him, bright hazel eyes unblinking over a striking yellow beak.

Brayden sat up, heartbeat racing, for he knew owls were bad omens. In fact, a bird of any kind could be a sign of horrible things to come—if it looked you in the eye.

The metal latch on the thick maple door to his bedroom rattled, frightening the bird. The creature dove from his windowsill, wings spread, caught the wind and rode the breeze away.

Queen Lilyanna Falls swept into the room. A fine linen dress dyed navy and embroidered with golden flowers along the curving neckline dusted the floor beneath her.

Behind her trailed a middle-aged maidservant clutching a warm basin of water and a towel.

"I swear, sometimes I feel like I'm talking to the floor," Lilyanna said. She went to the wardrobe. "This past moon marked your twelfth year, Brayden. You are to be a man soon, and a man meets his commitments." She picked her way through the clothes, slinging over her arm a few fresh items for him to wear.

"But I hate hunting," Brayden said.

"And you think that means you don't have to go? We all have to do things we don't want to do. Besides, this is very important to your father."

Brayden threw back the bed sheets and walked to the table where the servant woman had set the water.

"I don't care." He splashed the water on his face and patted himself dry with the towel. "If he wants to hunt, let him hunt. Why do I have to go?"

His mother slammed the wardrobe shut with an exasperated huff. "Must you fight me on everything? For once it would be nice to..." Catching his eye, she softened. Lilyanna pushed a lock of reddish-brown hair behind her ear and tried to compose herself. She was getting old, the signs of her age appearing in the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, and in the faint blemishes on her thinning skin. No doubt being queen and having reared six children had advanced her years much sooner than she'd wanted.

In that moment, Brayden could see the irritation on her tired face—irritation, he noted, that he had put there.

"Your father has been looking forward to this. He just wants to spend some time with you. Please try to make the most of it."

She handed him the clothes she'd selected and left the room as gracefully as she had entered.

Brayden dressed—gray slacks, a linen shirt, a brown jacket traced with copper thread.

As he assessed himself in the wardrobe's full-length mirror, guilt washed over him. He didn't know why he had to be so difficult, or why he so often resented his father.

Before following his mother outside he glanced back to the windowsill, where the owl had dropped a solitary white feather.

He skipped down the narrow stone steps of the castle's southeastern turret that brought him into the lower vestibule where the air was dry and crisp. He could already smell fish and sizzling meat wafting in from the kitchen.

Before entering into the small dining room that his family used for breakfast, he noticed a lone figure sitting in the Great Hall just ahead of him. Judging from the mop of scraggly black hair spilling onto slouched shoulders it was his younger brother. Brayden hesitated a moment before going in.

The beauty of the Great Hall was lost on Brayden, being a sight he had long grown accustomed to. Over the years he had heard visitors from all corners of Edhen comment on the rare wooden architecture and vaulted ceiling, but he took little notice of it anymore. The last time he could remember even thinking about the castle's majestic hall was when his sister, Lia, dared him to climb to the topmost rafter, which he had declined to do out of fear of falling. Lia had called him a coward, but Brayden had always considered himself cautious.

He did notice, however, that after his grandfather's funeral the day before, the Great Hall seemed to carry the chill of unfriendliness. Lord William Falls, his grandfather, had been one of the most beloved kings on Aberdour. His death had rattled the realm for many feared it signaled the end of the era.

Brayden took a seat next to his brother, Broderick. "You all right?"

His brother nodded, sniffling.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

Brayden wanted to say more, but what were brothers supposed to say to each other in times like this? He fidgeted with his hands and looked about the room, hating how uncomfortable he felt. When the silence became more than he could bear, Brayden stood up.

"Listen, maybe mother would let us hike up to grandpa's cabin and visit his tomb," he said. "We could go fishing at his favorite spot."

Again, Broderick nodded.

"You should come get some breakfast."

In the dining room, Brayden ate in a rush, inhaling his fish and sausages in a few bites and chasing it all down with a cup of honeyed wine. He shoved an apple into the pocket of his brown jacket for later.

"You young ones have no respect for traditions," said Old Betha, one of the castle's cooks as she removed the unused white plate that she'd set for Brayden. "Eating out of the pots and pans like a pack of wolf pups." The woman had been old for as long as Brayden had known her, but, oddly enough, she never seemed to get any older.

"They take after their father," Lilyanna said.

"Why do we always eat off white plates?" asked Brayden's little sister, Brynlee.

He scrubbed the brown locks falling in waves off her tiny head. "You know the answer to that. It's in your history book."

"I don't remember that part," Brynlee said, scrunching her face.

"You don't remember something from your history book?" Lilyanna said.

"There's a first time for everything, they say," Betha said.

Brayden hurried out the door, but not before grabbing a chunk of white bread and stuffing it into his mouth.

A soldier waited for him outside the castle next to Brayden's lightly tacked horse, Arrow, a fine showy chestnut, well bred and supple in stride. Arrow pawed at the ground in excitement as the young prince neared.

"Up at the crack of noon today, Master Brayden," said the soldier, Moreland Fields, a member of an elite group of bodyguards that formed the King's Shield. Brayden had always found Moreland easy to get along with. The man had an even-tempered disposition and a dry sense of humor that usually emerged when mocking people, sometimes to their face, but mostly behind their backs. It had earned him the nickname Pick.

"It's not noon," Brayden said.

"My mistake, young master" He handed Brayden the reins. "This worn path here must have been made by another man such as myself, pacing back and fourth half the morning, with my exact boot size, and my vast degree of patience."

"All right, all right. Sorry," Brayden said, mounting Arrow.

"We best hurry," Pick said. He adjusted his black leather gloves. "Your father is waiting."

Moreland was a trim fellow of shorter than average height whose unassuming qualities often made others underestimate him. He was ambidextrous and quick, with a reputation among those who knew him as a reliable ally.

He swung himself up into the saddle, his long navy cloak swishing behind him.

Brayden followed at a swift trot down the main road, through the narrow streets of Aberdour, and out the southern gate. Pick quickened the pace and the two riders galloped across the expanse of field on the southern plains.

To his left sat acres upon acres of spring fields, recently tilled with most of the crops already planted, the furrows closed over. Soon there would be rows upon rows of barley, peas, oats, and beans.

Brayden refocused his attention ahead of him, and on the increasing pace of his horse. He always liked stretching Arrow's legs. She was fast. Even his father had said so. It was the very thing that had earned the horse her name.

He hunched over the mare's neck and stood in his stirrups, lightening his load on Arrow's back. She sped up, her hoofs thundering beneath him. She rushed past Pick and plowed through the tall grass, cutting a line across the plains as straight and trim as a sharp sword. Brayden rode her fast to the edge of the wood where the ground bristled with the stumps of trees felled.

"Good girl," Brayden said. He slowed the horse to wait for Pick.

The morning was bright and crisp with a pleasant spring sunshine flickering through the blooming tree boughs above. Somewhere, red-winged blackbirds traded tiny chirps and rattling whistles. Beneath his horse's hooves lay last year's leaves, damp and black with rot as they crumbled into the soil.

Brayden inhaled long and deep, relishing this brief moment of solitude. He liked being alone. There was nothing to fear when he was by himself, no standard to live up to, no one to impress.

Pick took the lead, weaving through the forest until Brayden heard voices echoing through the trees.

Brayden's spine stiffened. His moment of pleasant solitude was over. Ahead of him sat his father, the king, and a contingent of loud, annoying, and frightening men that Brayden normally tried to avoid. He exhaled long and slow, his hands tightening around the reigns in nervous anticipation.

The king sat high atop a regal brown stallion in the middle of a grassy glade. He was clad in a long blue and black gambeson embroidered with twining silver leaves. It was cinched at the waist with a sharp leather belt that would've matched his dark black boots had they not been caked in dust and mud. This was Lord Kingsley Falls, The King of Aberdour, Watchman of the East, Servant of the Northern Province, and a dozen other glorious sounding names that Brayden had never cared about.

Kingsley looked up when Brayden and Pick entered the glade, his bright tawny eyes narrowing to slits against the folds of his smile. His dark wavy hair, pulled back from his face, hung in a loose ponytail against the deep blue of his long cape. "The mighty warrior enters," he said.

"No, that's just Pick," quipped one of the men in Kingsley's entourage, Khalous Marloch, the captain of the King's Shield and a hard looking man if there ever was one.

A few of the other men in the group laughed.

"Khalous tells me that a pair of partridges are nesting to the west," Kingsley said, "an owl to the east, and a few deer in the fields south of us. Your choice, my boy."

Relieved his father wasn't upset with him for being late, Brayden rested his hands on the grip of his saddle and tried not to look as uneasy as he felt.

"An owl came to my room this morning," he said. "It perched on my window. Looked me right in the eye."

Khalous shook his head. "Bad omen having a bird look at you like that. Bad enough just to have one in your room." He scratched his iron colored hair that was drawn back from his retreating hairline into a mangled plait that hung just passed his neck.

"And an owl at that," said Fierdrick, another member of Kingsley's personal bodyguard.

"I'm not afraid of an owl," Brayden said, though, truthfully, the memory of the owl sitting in his window had haunted him since he woke up.

"That's a good lad," said Khalous, a smile cracking his otherwise gaunt visage. "Fearless. You'll be a mighty hunter some day."

Brayden had a sense that wasn't true. Deep down he had always felt like the stern captain was disappointed in him, like he saw the flaws in Brayden's character that his father overlooked.

Kingsley smiled. "Shall we hunt him down?"

Looking east, Brayden hesitated. "I don't like owls," he said, curling his lip as though the thought of owl meat repulsed him. "Partridge stew is better."

Khalous lifted a thick, worn hand to his stomach and closed his eyes. "Ah, the dreams I have about Lady Lilyanna's partridge stew." His fingers drummed on his small gut.

Kingsley lifted a questioning eyebrow. "I'm not sure I like you dreaming about my wife's stew."

"Oh, it's marvelous stew!" Khalous said. "I bet there's not another queen in the realm that can match her stew."

"I bet there's not another queen in the realm who can cook at all," Pick said.

The banter continued as the men steered their horses west, toward the nesting quail.

Brayden lingered behind, reluctant to follow.

Pick turned his horse around and sauntered up next to him. "What's the matter, young master? Still waking up?"

"I hate hunting," Brayden said. "It's servant's work."

"And who calls it servant's work?"

Brayden shrugged. He didn't actually believe what he'd said. He was just too afraid to admit the truth. "I just hate it."

Pick flopped his hands over each other on his saddle. "Did you know what your grandfather—may he slumber in peace—enjoyed doing most?"

"Using his bow. Everyone knows that. He had the best aim in the realm before the stiffness took his hands."

"And do you know what your father hated to do the most when he was your age?"

Brayden offered a guess, "Using his bow."

"Your father hated using a bow, but his father, your grandfather, loved it. And what does your father love doing that you hate?"

"Let me guess. Hunting."

"And do you know what makes your father such a good hunter?"

Brayden waited for the answer, even though he knew what it was.

"His skills with a bow." Pick paused. "Were it not for your grandfather's passion your father never would have learned how to enjoy his."

"But what am I ever going to learn from hunting?" Brayden argued.

"That's for you to find out, young master."

He was out of excuses. He could stall no further. With a reluctant sigh, Brayden urged Arrow forward.

The company of hunters moved through the woods, looking, listening. They all had their bows ready, arrows notched, but Brayden knew the only ones who would draw their strings were he and his father. This hunt belonged to them.

After a while the company stopped. Pick gestured for Brayden to trot ahead. "Your father wants you," he said, pointing toward the head of the line.

Kingsley sat atop his stallion on a gentle slope overlooking a descent of forest shrubbery. He cracked a smile when Brayden neared. "Down there. I'll go down around the west side of those bushes and flush them out. When they take flight, they'll be headed east, so track them first before you let go of your arrow."

"Yes, Sir," Brayden said quietly.

There was no avoiding it now. The moment he always feared had come.

He watched as his father, tall and regal in the saddle, meandered down the slope to the left. The young prince of Aberdour lifted his bow, fingers teasing the taut string, ready to set his arrow free at a moment's notice.

He wondered if he would hit his target this time, and if the others would rib him when he missed. He would miss, of that much he was certain. Broderick and Dana were better at archery than he was. The only thing Brayden ever got from using his bow was the look of disappointment on his father's face when he failed to hit his marks.

Behind him, Fierdrick made a noise as though he'd just been slugged in the stomach. Brayden turned around on the back of his horse to see the soldier tumble from his saddle. The impact of his body on the forest floor sounded like a single partridge wing beat, sudden and strong.

Brayden remembered the owl, the way it had perched on his windowsill, staring at him with those big haunting eyes.

But then he saw the arrow in Fierdrick's back.

The silence of the woods evaporated, and everything seemed to happen at once. Footsteps crashed through the leaves on the hill behind them. Soldiers shouted. An arrow flew past Brayden's head. Pick galloped forward, and Khalous called for his father. Black soldiers of the high king lined along the top of the ridge, yelling and drawing their weapons.

"Broods!" Khalous said.

Brayden saw Kingsley's horse come hurrying back up the slope, startling the pair of partridges at last. The birds shot up into the air in a panicked flurry of thumping drumbeats as more arrows whipped past.

"Brayden!" his father yelled. "Go back to the castle! Now!"

An arrow found its mark in the nape of Kingsley's neck. He fell forward on his horse, choking on the spurts of blood that showered from his throat.

Fear entered Brayden like a monster, invading every corner of his soul. "Father!" he shouted.

Pick grabbed Arrow's reins and yanked the horse around. "Move!"

"What? No! Father!"

More arrows careened past him.

He and Pick rushed their horses down the forest slope toward Aberdour. Brayden glanced back to see Khalous riding away with Lord Kingsley just as two other members of the king's company were brought down by arrows.

The hill at their backs, he saw, was crawling with black vipers. The brood poured over the ridge like ants out of an anthill.

"Come on," Pick said.

His fierce tone scared Brayden, sharpening his focus as the pair wove their way out of the forest. Once in the clear, their horses raced across the southern plain to the city's gate, where the navy and silver flags of Aberdour waved high.

Brayden charged into the southern gate, through the tunnel under the city's stout wall, to the brown and gray stone entry court beyond. Pick dismounted to inform the guards of the attack. His words were met with resounding surprise, voices that echoed in the portal's vaulting.

"Why didn't the scouts warn us?" a soldier said.

"What happened to the outpost?" asked another.

"Brayden?" came the tiny call of a little girl. He pivoted in his saddle to see his sister Brynlee running toward him, her silky hair springy with her steps. Their youngest sister Scarlett was with her, her tiny feet shuffling under the folds of a long ivory dress.

"What's happening?" Brynlee asked.

Brayden wasn't sure he could explain it—or even if he should. Brynlee had turned seven last fall, and Scarlett was only five. Could they even comprehend what was happening?

An image of their father covered in blood rushed into his mind, and tears welled in the young boy's eyes.

From atop the wall someone shouted, "Look!"

The surrounding commotion grew silent. When Brayden saw Pick make a dash for the gate, he jumped off his horse and followed.

"What is that?"

"There, coming over the hill!"

Brayden looked to the west where he saw a horsed scout approaching dressed in the colors of Aberdour. At least, it used to be a scout. The man's head had been severed and placed in his lap. His body was tied to his horse, and the symbol of Aberdour on his chest had been scribbled out with his own blood.

Soldiers hurried ahead to catch the man's horse and cut his body down.

Beyond the hills, visible against the pale blue sky, rose a column of smoke.

"The outpost burns," said one of the soldiers.

"And now we know why we had no warning," Pick said.

Khalous came barging up the southern slope. "Make way for the king!" he shouted, his voice edged with urgency and rage.

Kingsley's horse galloped alongside his own, faithfully bearing its lord upon its saddle. The moment the horses came to a stop within the city, however, the King of Aberdour plunged to the ground.

"Father," Brayden cried, running toward him with Brynlee and Scarlett on his heels.

Kingsley's eyes fluttered open, a gurgling sound emanating from deep in his throat.

"Get back!" Khalous said. He started to pull Brayden away when the king latched onto his son's shoulders and pulled him in close.

"Father?" Brayden said, fresh tears springing to his eyes.

Kingsley fought for breath, choking on the arrow shaft still lodged in his throat. "Fight hard," he whispered. "Love well. You're a man now... my son."

Kingsley's hand fell from the boy's shoulders, limp. Brayden felt a wave of cold wash over him, and then he lost control. He clutched his father's velvet shirt and begged him not to leave. He apologized. He pleaded. He cursed and fumed and told his father that he loved him, but Lord Kingsley Falls was dead. The king of the last free city on Edhen had been murdered.

To the west, the army of the high king marched up over the road.

# BRYNLEE

Aberdour became a city of panic when the brood of black vipers appeared on the southwestern hillside. Thousands of spears and halberds jutted up from the mob like the talons of a monster while the golden insignia of a viper flapped high in the breeze on crimson flags. The soldiers filed over the hillside step-by-step, unit-by-unit, until the green field sprawling before the city sat covered with a dark patchwork of enemy divisions and siege weapons.

The dirt and stone streets of Aberdour, soiled by remnants of winter's runoff, churned under the footsteps of thousands of citizens pushing and running, screaming and calling for loved ones, fleeing to whatever shelter they could find—barn lofts, crawl spaces, wooden homes with shingled roofs.

The chaos was sheer terror to the mind of seven-year-old Brynlee Falls.

Heralds of the high king's army blew their trumpets, a deep, bone-chilling reverberation that sent shivers down Brynlee's spine. Next to her, Scarlett, her baby sister, clutched her ears to quell the awful noise.

With tiny trembling fingers Brynlee Falls reached out and took her father's lifeless hand with a sense of dawning horror. "Papa? Papa!" She shook him, wanting him to wake up, wanting to gaze upon his beautiful tawny eyes one last time.

A contingent of Aberdourian soldiers in full regalia sprinted toward them down the main road. Captain Khalous Marloch ordered Brynlee and Scarlett out of the street. He shouted for Brayden too, but her brother was lost in his sorrow, crying in a manner that Brynlee had never seen from him before. It chilled her skin and frightened her.

"Secure the city!" a guard shouted.

Hundreds of soldiers ran to their defensive positions on the battlements, swords carried prudently at their sides. The great portcullis of the southern wall descended.

Brynlee pulled her sister in close to her, not noticing the blood on her fingers until her hands soiled the flowered patterning of Scarlett's ivory dress. It was their father's blood, and Brynlee shivered at the sight of it. She wiped her hands on the folds of her skirt and then swiveled Scarlett to face her. The girl looked more confused than afraid, her big brown eyes peeking out from behind a few loose strands of rich brown hair.

"It's going to be all right," Brynlee said, though more to calm herself than her sister.

A single horse galloped up the path toward the city carrying a man in ragged brown clothes. He stopped at the gate and held up his hand, begging the soldiers to let him in. Straddling the horse with him was a young girl in gray slacks and a long forest green tunic who Brynlee recognized.

"Lia!" she said, springing toward the entrance. "Someone raise the gate!"

Her tiny voice was lost in the rising din of the city. Soldiers trampled past her to ready the defensive weapons, massive wood and iron contraptions of varying sizes capable of launching rocks, flaming drums of oil, and massive spears. Citizens rushed arrows to the walls to aid the archers at the crenels while others hoisted pots of hot oil on pulleys.

Brynlee reached her hand through the bars of the portcullis, calling out for Lia. "Raise the gate!"

"My lady!" a soldier shouted as he came to pull Brynlee away. "We must seal the entrance. You can't—"

"But it's Lia!" she yelled.

When the soldier noticed the young princess on the other side of the gate, his eyes widened. "My lady! What are you doing out there?" His gaze tipped to the men above. "Raise the gate! Now!"

The massive portcullis lifted to allow the horsed stranger and the young princess of Aberdour to enter. Soldiers then rushed to seal the entrance behind a pair of massive double doors, which they reinforced with two thick iron bars.

Brynlee ran to her sister and threw her arms around her waist.

"The Black King's vipers," Lia said, breathless, "on the northern hills. They–they killed them. Thomas and Abigail. They're dead!"

Khalous strode up to her, unfastening his long blue cape from the metal shoulders of his armor. He left it on the ground in a heap. "Where are the vipers?"

The rough and ragged looking man who had ridden in with Lia, said, "A band of them are making their way through the forest path. Sir Komor Raven is leading the pack."

"The Raven?" Khalous said.

Brynlee wondered if that was fear she saw in his slate gray eyes.

After a brief pause for consideration, Khalous issued a slew of orders to the men of the King's Shield: "Get the king to the castle, and find the queen! Gather their children and take the eastern tunnels out of the city."

The secret tunnels, escape routes for the king. Brynlee had been fascinated when she'd read about them in her schoolbooks, but now, faced with the prospect of actually using them, she was far less enthused.

"The tunnels?" said Pick. "You intend to abandon Aberdour?"

"The protection of the city is not our job," Khalous said. "The protection of the king and his family is. Get them out! Brynlee, Scarlett, Lia, follow me. Brayden!"

Brynlee saw her brother still kneeling by their father's side. He looked startled when Khalous walked over to him and yanked him to his feet.

"Pull yourself together, lad!" Khalous demanded. "Your father is dead, and you will be too if you don't do as I say." He looked at the girls. "The men who are coming here will not show you mercy because you are children. If they get in here, and it is likely they will, they will rape you and slit your throats."

Most people liked the plain manner in which Khalous Marloch spoke, direct with no flowery words to coat his meanings. Brynlee did not.

"Now do as I say and stay close to me," Khalous said. "We're going back to the castle to—"

A thundering collision of rock and fire exploded above the portcullis. The impact sent a flaming mess of stone and wood showering onto the street. Khalous pulled Brynlee and Scarlett into him, covering them with his broad shoulders as the debris rained down upon them.

Screaming ensued, women's voices and men's.

"Trebuchets!" came a shout from the wall.

Trebuchets. At mention of the towering catapults, Brynlee's little body trembled with fear. She'd read about the war machines in her schoolbooks and knew full well the devastation they were capable of. They would demolish Aberdour, she was sure of it.

"Take cover!"

"Go!" Khalous ordered.

Brynlee grabbed Scarlett's hand and ran up the main street. Fear wrestled with courage inside her stomach, but her determination pushed her on. She heard more boulders slam into the city's defenses. People wailed all around her.

"There you are!" said a young woman.

Brynlee looked up and saw her older sister riding toward her atop a lithe brown horse. The animal skidded to a stone-spitting stop. Dana Falls dismounted in an elegant rush of green dress folds and fortitude. She hurried to Brynlee and Scarlett, wrapped them in a desperate hug, and said, "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Brynlee sobbed into her sister's velvet shoulder. "Papa. It's... he's gone. The soldiers killed him."

"What?"

Khalous put a firm hand on Dana's shoulder and said, "Dana, listen to me. I need you to—"

"Our father," Dana said, "is he really–did they really..." but Brynlee could tell that she didn't want to say the words.

"He is dead," Khalous said plainly. Then, before the adolescent girl could break down, he added, "I need you to help me get your sisters and your brother back to the castle. We need to get your mother and Broderick and—"

"Mama's gone."

Dana's words, sown together with unhidden grief, made Brynlee's stomach tighten like a knot.

The captain's shoulders slouched. "What happened?"

"Black vipers from the north, they came in so swift and quick." Dana's mouth clamped shut as tears welled in her eyes. "She's gone. They took her. They killed her. She's gone."

"No," Brynlee whimpered. She pressed herself into Dana.

Khalous' face paled. "And Broderick?"

A massive black boulder drew Brynlee's eyes to the sky. Arching its way into the city it struck a nearby watchtower in a spray of dust and mortar.

A huge fist latched onto Brynlee's shoulder and lifted her out of the way. It was Khalous, and he had Scarlett tucked under his other arm, her tiny legs kicking, cheeks covered in frightened tears. Brynlee glanced behind her and watched the tower fall across the road in a billowy haze of gray dust.

"All of you," Khalous said, "stay close to me." He sounded angry, unlike any tone Brynlee had ever heard him use before.

The alarm bells of the city were ringing again.

"They could not have breached the city already," said Pick in astonishment.

"Move!" ordered Khalous.

Brynlee hurried after her siblings, following the captain up the road. They passed by terrified commoners running for protection and more Aberdourian soldiers racing toward the gate to join the fight.

They passed the deserted wagons of the city's vendors, some spilled in haste, with horses, goats, sheep, and a lazy black pig left roped to their hitching posts. Stores had been left open and abandoned by their owners—the brick burner, the silversmith, the man who baked the tiny cakes. She saw Jonathan Mills, the potter who made the funny cups with the faces on them, furiously nailing boards over the door to his shop as if that would quell the invading brood.

Brynlee cringed at the thought of black vipers stampeding into Aberdour. Her tutors had described them as merciless men, driven to be cruel by the will of the Black King. Orkrash Mahl had begun his campaign three years ago when he conquered the capital city of Perth on the west coast. From there he made his way across the realm, giving rise to what had come to be called the Falls of Edhen as kingdom after kingdom succumbed to his rule.

Aberdour was the last of nine.

By the time Brynlee and her siblings were approaching the castle, so had the battle. Enemy soldiers clashed swords with Aberdour's finest in the muddy streets, slaughtering civilians, and setting fire to their homes. Soldiers from both sides were lying dead in mucky pools of blood, the reek of which made her gag.

"Those aren't vipers," Pick said.

Khalous led the Falls children down an alleyway. They stopped and crouched low.

Brynlee huddled behind a wooden barrel and peered out into the street. The enemy soldiers she saw were not adorned with the symbol of the high king. They didn't look like black vipers at all. They were bigger, feral, and covered in tattered animal skins.

"Jackdaws?" Pick asked.

The word made every muscle in Brynlee's tiny body tense with fright.

"No," Khalous said. "Not even Orkrash himself could tame a Jackdaw enough to fight for him. These are barbarians. Hired muscle from the north."

Brynlee watched one of the barbarian soldiers grapple with a young woman. He threw her to the ground and tore open her dress. His giant fingers, greased in blood and filth, clutched at her unblemished skin. He unfastened his belt, fussed with his pants for a moment, and then plunged his hips down into the woman. She screamed and beat his shoulders, but her fists were like gnats against stone.

A man, who looked old enough to be the woman's father, sprinted out of a small cottage, a short sword raised high. He charged the barbarian, shouting in rage, until a second soldier plunged a bone axe into the man's gut.

Brynlee fought down a wave of nausea as the barbarian proceeded to scalp the man.

Dana's hand slipped under Brynlee's chin and pull her head away from the awful sight. "Don't watch," she said, her voice quivering. "Stay down. Look at me." She brushed dirt and hair from Brynlee's cheeks. "We're almost there. We just need to be brave."

Brynlee withered, shrinking into herself. "I'm scared. I want mama."

Dana pulled her in for a quick hug. "I know. Me too, love."

Khalous wiped his forearm across his sweat-sheened face. "Down!" he whispered.

Everyone huddled low as a group of barbarian soldiers ran past the alleyway, their cold steel drenched in Aberdourian blood.

"You know what we do when we're scared, Bryn?" Dana asked.

Brynlee looked up at her sister, eagerly awaiting the answer.

"We pretend to be someone else. Someone stronger."

"Like papa?" Brynlee asked.

Dana smiled. "Yes, yes! Like papa. Can you do that?"

Brynlee nodded.

Khalous snapped his fingers at them, signaling them to follow him.

A moment later Brynlee ran out from the alleyway and into the streets of Aberdour once again. She wasn't herself though. She was her father, a mighty warrior in thick armor, with true grit and stone cold courage.

# DANA

The sight of blood had never troubled Dana. She was three when Lia was born and though her memory of the incident was vague she could still see the blood from her mother's open belly as the assistant stitched her closed. She had seen the wounds of a hunter mauled by a bear when she was six, fetched water and clean bandages for one of her family's tearmann when he was attacked by Jackdaws, and she had put stitches into Broderick's leg after he cut himself on a nail when he was eight.

Dana had stomached things that had made even her brothers curl their lips, but today was putting her mettle to the test.

She led Brayden, Lia, Brynlee, and Scarlett up the street to the castle, her careful eyes never ceasing their scan of the surroundings. She analyzed the corners as she ran and watched the body language of Khalous and Pick for hints of oncoming danger.

In the back of her mind Dana fought down thoughts of her father and mother, both now dead. Her eyes were hot, but dry, and she intended to keep them that way, at least for now. After the battle there would come a moment, she knew, when she could allow herself to process this nightmare. Then she could fall apart. Then she could mourn. But not now. Now she had to be strong.

The gray castle of Aberdour appeared just over the rise, broad and tall, strong and proud. The front entrance faced south, its outer columns and stonework decorated with elaborate carvings of plants and beasts and scenes from ancient tales. Since the Black King's arrival on Edhen, the castle of Aberdour had become a symbol of fortitude and hope for the entire realm, an immovable rock amidst the wash of the high king's flood. Not any more.

The streets before the castle bore a grisly scene. The guards stationed there had been slaughtered, their entrails strewn across the ground, giving rise to a foul odor akin to vomit and manure. Dana held her breath as she passed, hoping she wouldn't recognize any of the fallen men.

The doors to the castle had been smashed off their hinges. A thick wooden battering ram capped with a large metal boar's head had been tossed aside in the vestibule.

"They've sacked the castle already," Pick said in astonishment.

"Hired barbarians with a viper commander leading them," said Khalous shaking his head, "a force to be reckoned with."

"But where are they?" Pick asked. "Why aren't they fortifying their position?"

"They're not here to siege Aberdour," Khalous answered, gripping his sword. "They're here to destroy it."

"Why?" Dana asked.

"No one has opposed the Black King more than your father. If I had to wager I'd say this attack is pure vengeance."

Lying on the floor and speckled with dirt and shards of rock lay the navy blue flag of Aberdour. Its silver emblem of a white-beaked rook lay smeared and tattered from the stampeding feet of invading vipers.

Brayden ran ahead into the Great Hall and called for Broderick.

Khalous sprang after him, yanking him back into the hallway. "Foolish boy!" Khalous chided, trying to keep his voice down. "The enemy could have severed your head just then. Do not leave my side!"

Brayden hung his head. Dana could tell that the captain's brutish scolding had frightened and humbled her brother.

"Pick, check the bedrooms," Khalous said. "The five of you, into the kitchen. Quiet now."

Dana took Brynlee's hand and started for the kitchen.

In the doorway, she stopped. An armed barbarian, clad in black armor and a spiked helmet charged toward her. She dodged back as he swiped at her, narrowly missing her torso. Khalous descended upon him in an instant, plunging his sword so deep into the man's belly that it burst through his back. The enemy's arms went limp and he collapsed to the floor in a rattling mess of metal armor and chainmail.

Huddled with her arms around Brynlee and Scarlett, Dana blinked away her shock.

Pick returned, called back by the commotion. No sooner had he arrived then two black vipers ran into the castle. One of them rushed Khalous. The second charged Dana. She shrunk back with her sisters just as Pick sailed toward them to stop the attack.

The fight that ensued was full speed, none of the controlled swipes and thrusts she saw from the soldiers during practice. Sword strike met counter strike. Jabs were dodged and blows absorbed against arms, legs, and hips. There were no tricks. Nothing showy. Just speed and ferocity. Pick was blazingly fast. His arms and legs were covered in a flexible brown leather and fabric armor, slick with wear and dark with old sweat.

Dana had always admired Pick, his strong jaw and level brow that hovered over a pair of kind, trusting eyes. She had always known how likeable he was, but never had she witnessed how violent he could be. It frightened and reassured her all at the same time.

Brayden and Lia made a dash for the kitchen, but the battle between Khalous and his opponent forced Dana to retreat onto the front steps with Brynlee and Scarlett.

Two hands grabbed her from behind, lifted and tossed her down the stone steps of the entrance. She landed in a heap on the ground below as hot sparks of pain pierced her elbows and knees. The burly barbarian who had thrown her came stomping down after her. In his hands he clutched a long club that had been fitted with a dozen sharpened bones. They sprouted from the log like a lion's fangs.

Dana screamed at her sisters to run.

Brynlee and Scarlett dashed through the violence in the vestibule and disappeared into the castle.

The barbarian arrived at Dana's side, growling as he reached for her.

From out of nowhere came Broderick, his small body sailing off the steps onto the back of her husky assailant. He tore off the man's helmet and jabbed his fingers into his face. The attack threw the barbarian off balance and sent them both to the ground. Broderick tumbled away, his limbs slapping along the stone paving.

The savage righted himself, his face covered in scratches. He grabbed Broderick and lifted his boned club to strike when an arrow from a castle garrison impaled him. He reeled up, crying out, until his throat was torn away by the sword of Khalous.

"On your feet, both of you!" Khalous said.

An Aberdourian soldier galloped to the castle's entrance, his silver armor caked with blood and mud. "Captain, the southern gate has fallen. The northwestern gate is smashed. We must retreat."

Khalous didn't look surprised. "Gather as many men as you can find and surround this entrance. We must protect the children. Collapse the tunnels behind us. Give us as much time as you can." Khalous' eyes darted up toward a tall tower extending from the castle. "Send word to the rebellion that Aberdour has fallen."

A storm of flaming arrows streaked through the sky toward the castle, setting fire to bales of hay, wood carts, thatched roofs, and fleeing citizens.

"Down!" Khalous barked.

One of the arrows pierced the horsed soldier, knocking him off his steed.

As Dana ran for cover another black viper rushed from the castle's entrance and engaged the captain in combat.

Dana cowered behind a short stone barricade of flowers and small shrubs that edged the castle's entrance. She crouched there a moment, peeking over the top. She watched Khalous as he did battle with the enemy soldier amidst a second volley of fiery darts that soared through the air.

She noticed Broderick scurrying up the steps through the smashed castle doors.

"My lady?" came the voice of Alevious, one of Aberdour's tearmann. He was hurrying toward the castle's side entrance with a crowd of denizens from the school—plain clothed students, teachers, and servants. He hurried up to Dana in his long tan robe and brown leather belt, white wisps of hair dancing on his head. "Come with me, child!" He reached for her hand.

"We need to send out the broadwings!" Dana said. "The rebellion needs to know that Aberdour has fallen."

Dana thought that Alevious, of all people, would understand the significant impact the fall of Aberdour would have on the realm. Like all tearmann, he was a historian of great wisdom and intellect, well versed in the rise and fall of the realm's high kings, so it surprised her when he brushed her words away.

"There is no time for that, young miss," he said. "We must get you to the tunnels." He took her by the arm.

"No!" Dana said. "The rebellion must know."

Alevious paused, frustrated, but finally said, "I will send out the broadwings. You get to the tunnels. Come with me now!"

Without giving her a chance to respond, Alevious took her hand and left the cover of the rock barricade. He was quick for an old man, his feet easily picking their way over the mess of destruction accumulating around the castle.

Behind them the noise of war was growing louder as the army of the high king's black soldiers snaked their way through the streets of Aberdour.

Dana bounded up the steps toward the broken doors behind Alevious and plowed into him after he stopped in the middle of the entrance. A single crossbow bolt had pierced his chest. Dana yelped on reflex. She dodged around him as the old man fell to his knees.

"My lady, run," he wheezed.

The viper who had killed Alevious made a grab for Dana. She managed to slip by and duck into the dining room. Old Betha was there, one of the castle's cooks, her plump body slumped against the wall beneath the window, her skull split open.

Dana shivered and ran into the kitchen. She saw the open door leading to the cellar where she hoped her siblings were escaping into the tunnels.

She paused, her eyes flitting from the cellar to a set of plank steps that rose in a circle up the castle's northeastern turret. After a moment of consideration she sprang up the stairway, hands gripping the folds of her skirt. She noticed with a tiny shiver the stains of blood and dirt adorning the brocade fabric of her dress. It surprised her how dirty she had become in such a brief amount of time.

On the second floor she paused, trembling a bit as she glancing up and down the hallway.

Fear crept in, took hold, and wouldn't let her move. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, assuring herself that she could move on.

"Not now," she said to herself, fighting back the cold feeling that shivered up her spine. "Not yet."

Her eyes went to the statues lining the wide hallway, marble heroes of ancient lore, men who had faced much greater challenges than she. How would they act were they in her shoes?

Dana forced herself out into the hallway where she tiptoed to the southern end of the castle to the broadwing turret, the tallest tower in Aberdour.

Khalous wanted the realm to know that Aberdour had fallen, but the higher Dana climbed the more she wondered if that was the best idea. When word got out that Aberdour had been taken by the Black King the threads of the rebellion would fall apart. They were already low on numbers, weapons, organization, and the true zeal required for victory. Did they need to lose the last of their hope as well?

The muscles in Dana's thighs were burning by the time she finished racing up the circular steps of the narrow tower. The black broadwings within the tower's cote were screeching in their cages and jumping about, undoubtedly irritated by the clamor outside.

The broadwing was a robust bird, a little smaller than an eagle, and as smart as a crow. Each bird was trained to fly from Aberdour to one other kingdom or city on Edhen, which made them ideal for quick communication among cities.

Out of breath, her hands shaking, Dana scrawled _Aberdour has fallen_ on five pieces of small paper for each kingdom she knew that still supported the rebellion, even if in secret. She paused, thinking, then added, _The children of Kingsley and Lilyanna Falls are alive and will return!_ The rebellion would find hope in those words. The Black King wouldn't. She smirked.

Dana affixed the messages onto the feet of five birds before opening the doors to the tower and setting them free. The large inky black birds with their yellow beaks and beady eyes soared from the tower, cawing and screaming over the battle below.

When Dana caught the view, she felt her heart chill. She leaned toward the window, taking in the distant sight of the southwest corner of Aberdour from which rose a billowing column of smoke. She saw the soldiers of the high king pushing through the streets like the fingers of a black flood while commoners before them fled.

Dana shuffled back from the window. The moment she was dreading where the weight of her fear and grief overcame her ebbed closer.

"No," she whispered. "Not now. Not yet."

She opened the rest of the cages, freeing the remaining birds and sparring them from becoming messengers of the enemy.

Dana hurried back down the stairs, exiting on the second floor to avoid the combat in the castle's entryway one floor below.

She came to a quick halt, forcing herself to stifle a scream when an enemy soldier ran down the abutting hallway in close pursuit of a black haired boy. It took her only a moment to register that the boy was Broderick.

Dana gave chase, coming upon them at the top of the stairs. Broderick was on the floor, clutching his knee, with the black viper bearing down on top of him. Dana's protective instincts took over. She plowed into the man and shoved him forward over the banister. His body broke and cracked as it tumbled down the stone steps.

"Did he hurt you?" Dana asked.

She reached down to help her stepbrother, but Broderick, ever the independent one, ignored her outstretched hand. He pushed himself up and shook his head.

Dana led him down the northeastern turret, through the kitchen, and into the castle's dimly lit cellar. Khalous was there, funneling women and children into the narrow tunnel. The look on his face when he saw Dana and Broderick was nothing short of rage.

"Why in all the bloody hells are you two still here? By the gods, get your asses in the tunnel _now_!"

Dana and Broderick hurried into the dark tunnel. It was one of several that had been dug many centuries ago as an emergency exit for the king and queen. Each tunnel wove under Aberdour before emptying out in a discreet location far away from the city. The northern tunnel, she knew, led to a cave that zigzagged through dark mountainous crags until it emerged on the eastern slopes of a rocky hillside. The southern tunnel went to a cave in the low-lying woods, much like the eastern tunnel that they were in now.

The underground passageway was almost completely dark, with rocks and severed roots tugging at the tips of Dana's leather shoes. Khalous trailed behind them with a torch that battled with their shadows to properly light the way.

"Dana?" Broderick said. "Where are mama and papa?"

She couldn't answer. She didn't want to. She had already witnessed the hearts of her other siblings break at the news, and she didn't think she could stomach breaking another.

Choking back her grief, she said, "They are gone."

The tunnel shook, rattling dirt from the ceiling as a gust of air surged toward them from the castle.

"What was that?" Broderick asked.

"Soldiers have collapsed the entrance," she guessed.

Dana stopped and looked behind her. She saw Khalous standing motionless in the tunnel, his black and silver hair nearly scraping the roof, shoulders sagging, head bowed, chest heaving as he sobbed silently.

The moment Dana had been dreading finally came.

Reaching for her brother, she pulled Broderick in tight and wept into his shoulder. To her surprise, he didn't push her away like he usually did.

"We're never going back. Are we?" Broderick said.

Dana sniffled, wiping her eyes. "I don't know."

She looked at the captain. For as long as she'd known Khalous he had been committed to serving her family, honor bound to the kingdom of Aberdour and the family of Kingsley and Lilyanna Falls. In the cramped tunnel, under the weight of the siege above, she felt the split running through his soul.

"Khalous?" she asked.

The old captain opened his eyes and walked toward her. "Best keep moving." His deep voice echoed with an eerie calm through the dark passage. "There's no going back now."

# BRAYDEN

The tunnel emptied out into a copse of maples, its ingress discretely covered by a natural formation of mossy boulders, cool and damp under the forest canopy. With his sister Lia in tow Brayden wove his way from the cave's mouth down a widening slope to join a large group of refugees that had also escaped the attack on Aberdour. He counted about eighty people, peasants in patched leggings and tunics of brown and gray, faded reds and oranges. They clung to one another in scattered piles, children to their mothers, wives to their husbands, sobbing together and nursing teary eyes and minor wounds. He saw a couple of his family's servants, a baker he knew who lived a short walk from the castle, and other nameless faces he knew he'd seen before.

A handful of priests and nuns had fled Aberdour's chapel and were now moving from group to group inspecting wounds and offering comfort, though what comfort could possibly be found in this moment Brayden couldn't imagine.

Lia tugged on his shirt and whimpered something about mother and father, but Brayden's mind was too scattered to comprehend her words at first.

"Are they really..." she started asked.

He looked at her, confused. "What?"

"Mama and papa. Are they really gone?"

All words had deserted him. Even if he knew what to say, the hot coals in his throat wouldn't let him speak. After a perhaps too revealing hesitation, he saw fresh tears float to the lids under Lia's eyes.

Taking his ten-year-old sister by the hand, Brayden walked through the crowd, looking for his other siblings.

One of the nuns recognized him as he passed and exclaimed, "My Lord Brayden! Thank the Allgod you're alive!"

"Have you seen Brynlee or Scarlett?" he asked.

The nun's eyes became sympathetic. "I am sorry, my lord. I've not."

Another tear slid unbidden down the prince's cheek. He wiped it away with his fingers, trying not to imagine the horrible things that might have befallen his sisters.

"What about Dana?" Lia asked.

He paused, weakening against the fear hammering on the doors of his heart. The last he had seen of his older sister she was being attacked by a black viper.

"We got separated," he said.

Lia pressed herself into him, sobbing into his tan jacket. He held her for a moment, his eyes scanning the crowd for his siblings, but all he saw was disquiet and sorrow in a crowd of faces he didn't know.

The final words of Lord Kingsley echoed through Brayden's mind: "You're a man now, son."

The phrase made Brayden angry. How was he a man? How did this horrible situation make him any more of a man than he was when he woke up this morning? He hated the idea of becoming a man, the responsibility, the weight of purpose. In his final moment Kingsley had charged Brayden with becoming something he didn't want to be, something he didn't even know how to be.

A few moments later, Khalous Marloch emerged from the tunnel with Dana and Broderick in tow. Lia sprang toward her sister and dove into her, arms enveloping her. Dana squeezed her in reply and dropped a kiss atop her head. "It's all right, Little Bit."

"Hate it when you call me that," Lia said.

Brayden felt himself growing nervous when Khalous locked eyes with him. The veteran soldier of Aberdour strode toward him, his face speckled with dirt. The captain knelt and looked up into Brayden's eyes.

"The time has come to be brave, my lord," Khalous said. His words were loud enough for only Brayden to hear. "The time for being afraid is gone. I need you to be strong and do as I say and help me lead your siblings away from this place."

After a brief pause that Brayden realized revealed just how frightened he was, he forced a rapid nod.

"Where are we going?" asked Broderick.

Khalous stood, and walked forward to address the crowd. When he spoke, he sounded like a bear, authoritative and mad: "We need to move out of here, quickly! Black vipers will soon be scouring these woods."

"To the White Wood!" someone shouted, a voice in the crowd that Brayden could not see. "Hide behind the northern falls."

"We were flanked from the falls!" said another. "The enemy came in through the secret path. Wildmen from the deep north. They slaughtered–massacred my sons."

"Where do you expect us to run to?" asked a worried father from deep within the crowd. "We can't run south. That's Jackdaw territory."

Jackdaws. The word made Brayden's heart grow even colder. The cannibalistic barbarians hadn't ventured within sight of the city in many years, but they still occupied pockets of the southern woods.

"We have two ships in the harbor to take us to Efferous," Khalous said. "We need to get there as soon as possible."

"Black vipers took my wife," said another man. "We have to go back!" A few other men, two holding common short swords and a third with a pickaxe, met his words with guttural shouts.

"We can't go back," Khalous said.

"To all the hells with that!" spat the man with the pickaxe. "Those bastards murdered my son and are surely doing the unthinkable..." his voice cracked, "...to my daughter." He pushed through the crowd as he spoke, making his way back up the hill toward the city. "I'm going back. If anyone wishes to join me, so be it."

Brayden watched a handful of angry husbands and fathers go with him.

"Any man who goes back is as good as dead," Khalous said, pushing his voice above the rising commotion of the people. "We need to move east. Now!"

More protests followed, but Khalous ignored them. He gathered with Brayden and his siblings along with two other members of the King's Shield, Pick, and a muscled brawler named Connell Stone. Most people called him Stoneman, but Brayden knew it had less to do with his last name and more with his immoveable stature.

"You two," Khalous said, gesturing toward his soldiers. "Get them out. And if the vipers come, get bloody."

"Bloody, sir?" Pick said with a smirk.

"Bloody bloody," Khalous growled.

Stoneman faced the mob and in a guttural voice that boomed through the trees, he said, "Anybody who's not headed back into Aberdour to die, follow me! If we hurry we can reach the shore by nightfall." He started moving east through the trees with Pick and a confused, frightened, injured, and angry crowd of refugees.

Khalous' eyes went to Brayden, and then moved from Dana, to Lia, and then Broderick. "Where are Brynlee and Scarlett?"

Tears rolled down Dana's cheeks. "I–I lost them," she sobbed. "I'm sorry."

"Damn the stones!" Khalous said. He whipped around to face the direction of Aberdour. For a moment it looked like he was about to abandon his own advice and charge back into the city, sword drawn and hungry for blood.

When Brayden saw the weight of Dana's guilt settle upon her, he said, "It wasn't her fault. Black vipers attacked us. We all got separated."

Khalous faced them again. "No one is blaming anyone." He paused, his demeanor calming. "Listen to me, all of you. You all are more important to the realm than you realize. I need all of you to run. Stay with me, but if I fall behind, or if anything happens to me, you need to take your siblings and run. You four are all that remains of Edhen's rightful heirs. You need to run. You need to survive. Understand?"

Though he quivered when he did so, Brayden nodded.

Khalous started down the slope on the trail of the refugees of Aberdour.

"What about Brynlee and Scarlett?" Lia blurted. "We're not just going to leave them."

But Khalous kept walking.

"No. Stop!" Lia said, but the captain ignored her. "I said stop!"

Khalous whipped around, eyes fixed with anger. "To what end, your highness? To be thrown in their cages along with them? To be tortured and bled until you beg for death?"

"We have to go back!" Lia shouted, nearly cutting him off.

"You do and I'll kill you myself to spare you from the consequences of your own idiocy," he roared.

"Khalous!" snapped Dana.

The captain stopped, took a breath, and the red of his face began to diminish. The moment defused, and he walked away.

Brayden watched as one by one his siblings tore themselves from their home, away from their sisters, and followed after the mob of refugees. When Brayden followed suit he felt like he was abandoning Brynlee and Scarlett. Every footstep he took brought the weight of the guilt down upon him more and more.

When he glanced back he saw Lia still rooted to her place under the trees, alone on the patch of earth outside the tunnel's entrance. He went back and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Listen," he said, mustering the strength within him to speak, "we'll come back. I promise. Some day we'll come back and get them. But right now if we stay here, we die."

She frowned. After another look back at the walls of Aberdour, Lia stomped down the trail after her siblings. Brayden noticed her tiny hands had balled into fists.

Minus the ten or so men who returned to Aberdour to fight, there were about seventy people in all making their way through the woods behind the men of the King's Shield. There were forlorn men in patched leggings and haggard women in tattered peasant gowns, humble servants of the castle and a handful of priests, nuns, and orphans.

Later in the day, the group crossed a rocky hilltop from which they could see between the thinning trees a monumental swathe of dark blue ocean. The green light of the woods was growing somber as scudding dark clouds from out over the sea filled the sky above.

Behind him, to the west, Brayden saw the gray and brown city of Aberdour seated like a woodland king on the hills of Edhen. At its back rose a narrow four hundred foot waterfall while a broad expanse of green field stretched before it to the south—the vast acres of his father's majestic kingdom. Brayden knew much of it: from the vertical cliffs that hugged the Falls of Edhen to the hills of Berstane beyond; the forest of Kintore to the west, where Lia was so fond of absconding, and the Aviemore Wood to the south where he had hunted quail with his father earlier in the morning. Brayden thought the sight was magnificent, and felt a small part of himself die at the thought of never seeing it again.

Around mid-afternoon, Brayden heard voices at the front of the crowd. He jogged ahead through the trees until he saw Khalous conversing with a battle-worn soldier bearing the maroon crest of a mighty horse on his dirty breastplate.

"What is it?" Dana asked.

"Soldiers from Montrose," Brayden said.

"I thought Montrose fell moons ago."

Indeed it had. Aberdour's western kin in the kingdom of Montrose had experienced the onslaught of black vipers just before the start of winter. Many of its refugees had fled to the forests of Aberdour.

"We were going to make our way south to buy passage to Efferous," the soldier said, "but Lady Earline has fallen ill."

"The queen?" Khalous said, shocked. "She's alive? Why didn't you send word?"

"Rumors were that Aberdour had joined the Black King."

"Nonsense!"

With a newfound quickness in his steps Khalous forged ahead over a sudden rise in the forest floor. Brayden hurried after him, eager to see what lay ahead.

The rise overlooked a secluded crevice in the hillside below. Crowded within it and huddled against the wall of earth was a conglomerate of cream-colored tents, a couple wagons, and a central fire pit. A handful of dingy soldiers, and a dozen weary men, women, and children had taken refuge in the nook.

"We rest here!" Khalous shouted to the refugees.

Everyone formed up in tight groups to rest and tend to the wounded.

Brayden watched the captain make his way down the edge of the alcove to the queen who was reclining on a bed of sticks and leaves under a pile of blankets.

"Uh-oh," Broderick muttered. "It's Clint."

Brayden follow his brother's gaze to a lone figure hurrying up the hill in their direction. Clint Brackenrig, prince of Montrose.

"Sanctimonious swine," Lia muttered.

"You don't even know what that means," Broderick said.

"Well that's what Old Betha calls him."

"Quiet," Dana said.

When Clint neared, Brayden greeted him with a guarded, "Cousin."

The boy, merely a year older than Brayden, was tall for his age, and big, but not necessarily fat. He carried himself like a prince among ants with close-set dark eyes and a penchant for fine clothing. Today he wore a gray tunic decorated with lion silhouettes, black slacks, and high boots with shiny silver buckles. Brayden noted that although Clint looked sharply dressed, he appeared tired and distraught.

"What are you lot doing here?" Clint said, dislike painted over every inch of his face. "Bring the armies of the high king right to us, you will."

"We didn't know you were out here," Brayden said. "If we had we would have come to help a long time ago."

"Why didn't your mother send word?" Dana asked. "Lilyanna is her sister, she would have gladly sent someone."

"Can't trust anyone these days," Clint said with sneer. "Word was that the reason my kingdom fell was because Aberdour sided with the high king."

"That's a lie!" Broderick blurted.

"Your father bowed to the high king, they said. Chose to roll over like a dog instead of stand and fight like the rest of the realm."

Broderick flung himself at Clint, but Brayden restrained him.

"Our father was no traitor," Dana said. "He died defending Aberdour."

Brayden helped his sister wrestle Broderick away from their cousin. Then he turned back to Clint and said, "Mind how you talk about our father." To his surprise his words looked like they struck a chord of guilt in his cousin, if only for a moment.

"You need to go," Clint said. "This is our spot."

"We wouldn't stay even if you gave us an engraved invitation," Lia said as she sauntered past Clint on her way to Khalous.

Brayden followed his sister down into the camp. At the back of the steep nook he saw a cave that dipped under a sagging cluster of tangled roots and damp gray rocks. There were remnants of fish from a recent meal piled near the fire pit and a freshly skinned fawn strung up in a tree branch along the outer edge of the camp. It was clear that the people had been here for some time.

Lady Earline Brackenrig, the queen of Montrose, was well into her story by the time he was close enough to hear her words. "With my husband's health the way it had been, the city just wasn't ready when the soldiers came. Clint and I were already long gone though. I had prepared these supplies weeks in advance, and we were ready to leave at a moment's notice. We'd be on Efferous now, but..." She tapped her leg.

Khalous lifted a corner of the blanket and peeked underneath. Whatever he saw made him twist his head away, his nose wrinkling.

Earline noticed Brayden and his siblings and her eyes filled with tears of relief and sympathy. She beckoned them over with outstretched arms. "Oh, my darlings," she said, kissing Brayden with her thin, pale lips. "I heard about what happened. I am so, so sorry." She hugged them all, her limbs shaking with pain and weakness.

"Why did you not send word to Aberdour?" Khalous asked. "The king would have sent someone to help immediately."

"Word reached us through Clive's brother that Kingsley had betrayed the realm, bowed to the high king just like those cowards in Turnberry and Tranent had done. Fools, the lot of them. Bloody fools."

"That's not true," Brayden said. "Our father was faithful to the old kings to the very end."

"My lady," Khalous began, taking her hand, "we don't have much time. The high king's army will be swarming these hills before the day is over. You need to leave this place."

She lay back down. "We knew this was coming. For three years we've waited for the Black King's tide. What can we do but stand our ground and show them true courage, a courage that will never bow?" Earline closed her eyes and lay still, so still that, for a moment, it looked as though she had died. At last her mouth opened and she spoke in a soft, tearful tone, "Take Clint with you. Please."

Khalous stood and addressed the Montrosian soldier. "Can we move her?"

The soldier wagged his head in despair. "She's too weak. And the infection is..." He stopped.

Brayden could see the defeat on Khalous' face. He put a hand on Brayden's shoulder and said, "Take your sisters and your brother and go rest your legs for a moment."

Brayden would have much rather overheard the rest of their conversation, but now that the company had stopped he felt the weariness of their long journey creeping over him. When he sat down on a stump next to the empty fire pit he wasn't sure he would be able to get back up.

His siblings said nothing as they waited next to him. Lia's eyes were downcast, devoid of the passion and proclivity to mischief that usually twinkled behind her hazel gaze. Dana stared at her lap as she sat on her knees in the dirt, her pale beauty marred by old tears that had carved paths along her dusty cheeks.

"He's not really coming with us, is he?" asked Broderick as he sulked with his chin in his hands. "Clint. He's not coming, right?"

"If we leave him here the black vipers will get him," Brayden said.

"So?" said. Lia.

At first, none of them responded, but then Broderick sniggered. Not long after that Dana giggled, though Brayden could tell that she was trying her hardest to hide it. The moment of levity that followed as all four of them broke down into a fit of snickers felt out of place, almost rude, but Brayden couldn't help it.

Their amusement faded almost as quickly as it had come over them.

"Do you think Brynlee and Scarlett are all right?" Lia asked.

Dana put her arm around her and rubbed her shoulder. "I hope so, Little Bit."

Lia squirmed. "Stop calling me that."

"Why?" Dana asked, hugging her closer. "Because you're such a little bit of charm?"

"Stop."

"A little bit of pretty cute?"

"Dana!"

Broderick chortled. "Plus you're about as tall as the dog."

"Shut up!"

Broderick pointed to a sheathed knife tucked into Brayden's belt. "Hey, why do you have father's dagger?"

Brayden looked down at the weapon, having almost forgotten that he slipped it from Kingsley's corpse back in Aberdour. His mind went blank as he tried to think of a response to his brother's question.

He pulled the sheath out from his belt and withdrew the blade halfway as Broderick and his sisters watched.

"I don't know," he muttered.

Brayden saw Khalous walking over to them when Ariella, one of the nun's from Aberdour's orphanage, stepped in front of him. The petite nun had cast aside her linen head covering, exposing a tousled ponytail of gold, brown, and gray that hung midway down her back. Her brown and tan robes were covered with dark stains and muddy smears.

"The boy with the arrow wound," she said just loud enough that Brayden could hear. "He has lost too much blood. I'm afraid we can't take him any further."

Khalous frowned. "Are there any other injured who can't carry on?"

"Some," Ariella said. "Most will not survive the day even if we stopped to tend to them properly. Even then, I have nothing to care for them with."

A second nun, an older woman wearing a simple white coif over her salt and pepper hair, joined Khalous and Ariella. "I would like to stay with the wounded," she said.

"Out of the question," Khalous said. "No one stays behind."

"Don't be a fool. You can't carry them all. Someone needs to get these children to safety and it surely won't be me and these tired old feet."

Khalous started to protest again, but Ariella placed a calming hand on his elbow. "We have no choice."

Before Khalous could protest any further, the old nun ambled over to a group of injured refugees, most of whom were lying prostrate on the ground, motionless and bleeding. Others sat slumped against rocks nursing debilitating wounds.

"Are they really going to leave them behind?" Lia asked in disbelief.

"They have to, Lia," said Dana.

"They won't make it anyway," said Broderick without a tinge of sympathy in his tone. "They'll just slow us down."

Lia slapped him on the thigh.

"Owe!" he said. "What'd you do that for?"

Lia glared at him.

"Behave yourselves," said Khalous as he approached them. "I want all of you to stick close to me. We'll be at the harbor soon, so—"

"Captain!" said Pick as he sprinted into the camp, his dark blue cloak rolling in the wind behind him. "They're coming!"

"How far?"

Pick didn't have to answer because the distant echo of barking dogs did it for him.

The collective panic of the people began to rise. Nervous mutters circulated throughout the crowd. At Khalous' orders they mustered their strength and hurried out of the alcove, leaving the tents and carriages behind along with the wounded few.

Brayden saw a hysterical woman pleading for her husband to come with her. She tugged on the sleeves of his shirt as he lay on the ground holding his mangled leg. He ordered her to leave without him.

Not too far away a nun pried two small children from their crippled mother. The woman blew them kisses from shaking fingers as her other hand clutched a broken arrow shaft protruding from her ribs.

"Goodbye, my darlings," she said.

The children fought and cried.

"Aren't you coming mother?" Brayden heard Clint say. He watched his cousin standing over the paralyzed queen as she lay on her bed of forest brush.

"Clint, my baby boy, be strong now for me," she said.

One of the soldiers tried pulling Clint away, but he shoved the man back and threw himself down next to Earline. "No, mother, you're coming with us! Someone carry her. Now! I order you to carry her!"

The sounds of the dogs drew closer until the provoking shouts of their masters could be heard as well.

"Come on," Dana said, tugging at Brayden's sleeve.

Brayden and his siblings took off through the forest, hot on the heels of the soldiers of the King's Shield. In front of them the trees gave way to tall grass where the scent of sea salt hung heavy in the air.

"We're almost there," Brayden said.

"Faster!" someone shouted.

Echoing after them through the trees came the horrible wails of the wounded citizens they had left behind as an onslaught of vicious snarling assailed them.

When the sounds of his mother's agony reached his ears, Clint loosed a girlish scream that sent shivers down Brayden's spine. The boy cursed the gods and kicked against the Montrosian soldiers fighting to keep him moving toward the harbor.

Lia tried to look back, but Brayden told her not to.

"Just keep moving!" he shouted.

He pressed on as fast as he could go.

The ocean appeared between the trees in front of them, blue and beautiful, its color darkening under the gray clouds above. The waves were rising and starting to spin off white tails of spume.

"There it is," Brayden said. "Come on!"

Behind him a young boy screamed as a mangy dog plowed into him. The frenzied mastiff, big and hardy, latched onto the boy's leg with its powerful jaws and throttled him to the ground. The mastiff was a common war dog, bred for its aggression and strong fighting spirit. It tussled along the ground with the boy until his screaming stopped.

Brayden averted his eyes and forged ahead.

The harbor sat just up the beach to Brayden's left, a long row of simple pinewood shacks and businesses anchored to the rocks and extending out over the water. A long pier connected them all where fisherman met daily to barter and trade. Docked by the pier were two double-masted trade ships bearing the blue and silver colors of Aberdour. They rocked on the choppy waters, their ropes bending in the wind.

An increasing number of curious fishermen were standing on the rugged pier, watching the fleeing refugees pour from the forest.

Pick perched himself on a dock post with his bow drawn and ready. He released an arrow that flew over Brayden's head and landed in the shoulder of a large brown mutt. The dog yelped and fell to the ground, disappearing into the tall grass. More arrows sailed from the harbor as fishermen gathered together in a brave but futile attempt to stem the tide of black vipers flowing from the forest.

Brayden sprinted across the sand and up the steps onto the pier behind Khalous.

There he met a man he had not noticed before, a dirty man in torn rags with broken shackles on his feet.

"Give me your bow," he said to Khalous.

Brayden saw the captain's hesitation.

"It's all right," said Lia. "You can trust Khile."

As if her word wasn't enough, the mysterious man named Khile added, "For the west."

It was like he had spoken a secret code that broke through Khalous' reservations. To Brayden's surprise, the captain handed over his bow and quiver.

Khile spun around into a crouch and had let fly a single arrow before Brayden even noticed that he had drawn one back. By the time the arrow hit its mark, right below the helmet of a black viper, Khile had released another. It struck the neck of a second viper and sent him crashing into the sand. Khile loosed his arrows with the speed and agility of a top ranked archer.

When he had finished, he turned, almost stumbling into Brayden. He grabbed him and spun him around, shoving him in the direction of the closest ship, shouting, "Go!"

Brayden raced toward the ship and charged up onto the gangplank.

He turned to allow Dana and Broderick to slip past him, and that's when he noticed that Lia had fallen behind. She lay on the deck, trapped underneath Khile who was locked in combat with an enemy soldier.

Using his bow Khile wrestled against the enemy's sword. He slammed his shin into the soldier's crotch, and smacked him across the face with the bow.

More black vipers stomped onto the pier, cutting down the refugees as they fled.

"Lia!" Brayden called, but she was held back by combat.

Pick and Stoneman hurried up the gangplank, blue cloaks trailing at their backs. Pick grabbed Brayden and dragged him onto the ship. He protested, reaching for Lia, but everything was happening too fast. Stoneman kicked the gangplank away. Two sailors untethered the ship from the dock.

"Faster!" bellowed a bearded captain to his rowers. "Heave, heave, heave!"

Two black vipers ran to the end of the dock and jumped on board the ship, but their lives came to a devastating end when they ran headlong into Stoneman. The muscle bound soldier of the King's Shield plowed into them like a bull, stabbing each through the chest with a wide dagger. He lifted them off their feet and thrust their bodies overboard.

"Lia!" came the scream of Dana through desperate tears.

Brayden ran up onto the back of the ship to join his sister. She and Broderick were peering over the top of the wooden railing at Lia. She had made it safely aboard the second trade ship along with the mysterious bowman named Khile.

Brayden watched as long oars emerged from the ship's hull and pushed it out to sea.

"Lia!" Dana shouted.

Brayden put his hands on her shoulders. "She's safe. We'll meet up with her on Efferous."

After a quick headcount, Brayden estimated that roughly fifty of the seventy refugees who had fled Aberdour had made it onto one of the two ships.

Standing next to him, looking over the ship's railing, was Broderick. His eyes were glued to the massacre happening on the pier, where black vipers cut down the last of the fleeing citizens. Swords cut through flesh, arrows pierced chests, and legs, and necks. The fishermen put up a decent fight, but only until the forces of the enemy overwhelmed them.

"Don't watch," Brayden said. "There's nothing we can do." He tried to pry Broderick away, but he wouldn't move. His brother watched the slaughter, his eyes unblinking, until the scene was too far away to see.

Brayden looked over at the second vessel trailing behind them to the north. He saw Lia leaning on the railing, pinning after them. He lifted an open hand in her direction, trying to reassure her. They would be reunited soon. It wouldn't be long, he knew, a day or so.

He sat down next to Dana, shivering as the cold ocean wind blew over them.

Khalous stomped up onto the deck looking frayed and dour. "Best get below," he said. He gazed into the winds that blew his silver hair almost straight back. "There's a storm ahead."

# LIA

She tried not to think about the sounds of the dogs, their snarling and barking, but the awful wails of the children who were attacked kept echoing in Lia's head. Hugging her knees on the floor of the trade ship, she kept her head low so that no one would see her uncontrollable sobs of terror and grief.

In one day she had lost more than she ever knew she had. She could still smell the hay in the barn of Thomas and Abigail, feel the soft coats of their horses. She could still hear her father's laughter echoing through the halls of Aberdour's castle, and her mother's stew, seasoned with garlic and salt, so hot on her tongue. Brynlee's warm embrace. The patter of Scarlett's feet.

She flinched when Khile slid down next to her. He put one arm across her back. She would've shied away had she not been so cold. Instead she leaned into him, hoping he would put his other arm around her, which he did. She lay there for several moments, head buried out of sight, snuggled into the arms of a stranger who, at present, was her only friend.

Across from her came the whimpering of a little girl. She looked up to see a girl about Brynlee's age, nursing a bloody cut on her forehead while she cried next to a young woman.

"There, there," the woman cooed. "It's all right."

There were about twenty-five other people crowded onto the deck of the ship, Lia noticed, clinging to each other for warmth and security. Most of them were children, but there were a few adults, two nuns and two priests.

Khile nudged her with his elbow.

"How are you holding up, kid?" he asked.

"My name is Lia," she said. "And I'm not a kid."

"Fair enough."

She kept her head down, trying to seem calm as she picked at a fraying thread on the dark green sleeve of her tunic.

"Where did you learn to use a bow like that?" she asked.

Khile hesitated, thinking. "We all have to be good at something, I suppose."

His answer didn't satisfy her, but she could tell he wasn't going to say anything more about it. Not now anyway.

She pointed to the shackles on his feet, both of which bore one link from the chain that used to join them. "And those?"

He clicked them together like he found them amusing. "Those are for the things I'm not so good at."

She looked at him, irritated by his ambiguity. "Very well. Keep your secrets."

He raised an impenitent eyebrow at her. "If you wanted to get some sleep now would be a good time. We'll be on Efferous by morning."

His words were a clear dismissal of her questions, but she didn't care. Now that he mentioned it, she did feel exhausted, physically and emotionally, but she knew she'd find no rest right now. Every time she shut her eyes she saw wild dogs with scruffy fur coming after her. When she succeeded in pushing those thoughts away her mind conjured visions of Brynlee and Scarlett. What torment were they enduring at the hands of the black vipers?

A strong wave rocked the vessel. From the forward deck came some indiscernible shouts from the captain, which prompted crewmen to hurry about the ship, yanking on weather worn ropes and rickety pulleys. Lia understood none of it, but after a second wave hit the ship, sending a spray of water up over the side, she knew that something was wrong.

She stood with Khile and scanned their surroundings. Behind them lay nothing but dark blue water and a red sunset. Ahead of them, however, in the slate-colored air to the east, dazzling forks of lightning snaked through the sky, illuminating bleary sheets of oncoming rain.

The ship dipped low and rose up on a high wave. Lia lost her footing and tumbled back into the side rail. It struck her hard across the back, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

"Hang on to something!" came a shout, but from where she couldn't tell.

Khile grabbed her, pulled her down, and flatted them onto the deck.

The ship trembled. The sails lurched forward. Lia heard people screaming all around her, a sound that was soon overpowered by the deep groaning of the ship's massive wooden beams.

Her stomach hurt, and though she wasn't gasping anymore, it still felt as though she couldn't get her breath back, or that it had returned but badly out of rhythm.

Lia and Khile slid across the deck as the ship pitched to one side from the impact of a massive, immoveable object. Or was it another, even stronger wave? Crewmen fell over, one of the ropes snapped, and the ship moaned like a massive beast lamenting a fatal wound.

A sailor thumped down the steps next to Lia and shouted up toward the captain. "Caught us in the port side," he said. "She's taking on water."

A new fear flooded into Lia's gut. "Are we going to sink?" she asked.

Khile's reply was honest. "Maybe."

The violent waves continued to push the ship around while the ferocious winds pelted the sails and whipped the decks with rain.

They were sailing the Gulf of Black Rock, also known as The Shallow Sea. Living in Aberdour, a city that relied on the nearby fish supply for food, Lia had heard her share of stories about the shallow waters of the gulf. The voyage from Edhen to the neighboring continent of Efferous wasn't a long one, a couple of days tops, but travelers had to carefully plan the trip before setting out lest they get caught in hard winds and bashed against the rocks. For the refugees of Aberdour there had been no time for such planning.

"Stay close to me," Khile said, but he didn't need to tell her. When the ship pitched again Lia's fists clenched onto his shirt.

The howling winds grew in intensity. More ropes snapped, sending heavy blocks of rigging whipping over the heads of the huddling crowd. A sail tore in half, and when the ship struck its second rock one of the masts snapped at its halfway point. The massive beam crashed to the deck, crushing a man at the pelvis and striking several others.

Lia's entire body cringed as a rush of cold water swept over her.

"Stay down!" Khile shouted above the chaos. "Don't move until I say."

His hands grabbed at her calves, searching for her feet where he tore her shoes off. In one terrifying moment it occurred to Lia that he was preparing her for the water. The ship was going down.

Lia remembered that Khile still had broken shackles around his ankles. She wondered how much they would weigh him down.

"Abandon ship!" the captain yelled. "Abandon—"

Lia looked at him just as a swirling mess of rigging caught him in the face and flung him over the edge of the starboard bow.

The ship bellowed again. Wooden beams split. The railing on the port side broke in half and two children, a boy and a girl, tumbled overboard with their father, their screams lost in the savage wind.

Lia trembled with panic, but then came the low voice of Khile in her ear, calm and reassuring. "Steady." He sounded unfazed, almost serene, as if he knew exactly what was going to happen next. She could feel his strong arm around her torso, holding her in place on the deck of the ship. She felt safe with him, which was ironic, she thought, considering she knew next to nothing about him.

"When you hit the water, don't struggle," Khile said.

A few more tumultuous moments passed as the ship took a beating in a forest of jagged rocks and relentless ocean waves. The hull split in half with a sonorous crack. The bow and masts capsized. The aft section broke apart and was swallowed by the sea.

Lia felt her body shifting upside down before she fell free from the floorboards.

"Don't struggle," Khile said. "Deep breath now!"

And then she went under. Cold and silence enveloped her. At first Lia flailed, trying to right herself, but it was impossible to tell which way was up. Then she remembered what Khile had said, and when she felt his strong arm still clutching her around the waist she forced herself to relax.

A moment passed and Lia wondered why she had such faith in this man, this prisoner of somewhere. What awful deeds had he done? What more awful things had he done to escape? Right now, in this moment, she didn't care. This man, whoever he was or whoever he used to be, was her best chance of survival.

Lia broke through the surface of the water and gasped. The salt and wind stung her eyes. Through blurry lashes she caught glimpses of the stormy evening sky, flashes of lightning, wild waves spewing white foam, and pieces of the shattered vessel being tossed about on the sea.

She noticed Khile clinging to the lip of a broken section of flooring.

"Come here," he said.

She paddled her way to the wood where he helped her climb on top.

"Hang on tight!" he said.

Wind and rain lashed at them from all sides.

There were screams in the distance from those who couldn't swim, those who had suffered injuries, and those who had been separated from their loved ones. Lia wished she could shut her ears as easily as she could her eyes, but with her knuckles going white on the corners of the wood she had no choice but to listen to every unanswered plea for help.

Lia looked at Khile floating in the water next to her when she saw a huge wooden beam rush up from the ocean's depths and surge toward them.

"Khile look out!" she yelled.

He looked back and ducked just in time to avoid the worst of the blow, but the massive limb still struck them both, tipping Lia off the floor section and plunging her into the dark black depths.

Under the water Lia tossed and turned, her arms and legs knocking against pieces of the ship as she were thrashed about. When she resurfaced again she took a strike to the forehead from something large and heavy. It plunged her back down again.

Her head seemed to drain, throbbing unpleasantly. The world didn't quite go dark, but patterned shadows swarmed around her, and she was dimly aware of movement to her right. A strong hand, cold and wet and firm, latched onto her and lifted her up out of the nothingness below.

"Up you get!" Khile said.

Her fingers brushed something to her left—wooden boards—and she grabbed onto it and pulled herself up, her lungs heaving for air.

"T–thank y–you," she muttered, her lips shivering.

There was no response.

Lia glanced over her shoulder to find Khile. He was gone. Frantic, she looked around, calling, "Khile?" She saw nothing on the water's surface except large splinters of wood.

"Khile!" She paddled along the water, calling his name.

Feeling as though she had lost her one last friend, Lia screamed in anger and terror. She gripped the wooden board, riding the waves up and down and floating off to nowhere. Her scream, so loud it hurt her throat, could barely be heard above the rush of waves pounding down upon her.

Khile popped up behind her, shouting in agony to the sky above. He pounded the water with his open hands and fell under again.

"No!" Lia cried.

She paddled toward him, hands fishing around in the waves for something of his to grab onto. He surfaced again right in front of her and she latched onto the back of his shirt. For some reason he couldn't keep himself up and when he went under again he almost pulled her off the wood. Lia held on, not willing to let go of her best chance of surviving the storm. Mustering strength from deep within her already tired muscles, she pulled Khile up above the surface. He gasped, flailed, and grabbed onto the wood. His teeth were clenched and his eyes squeezed shut in an unmistakable mask of pain.

"What happened?" she asked, struggling to get her voice above the chaos.

"Leg's broke," he said. He gripped the wide wooden plank as he rested his head against the wood and spent a few moments catching his breath.

Not knowing what else to do, Lia simply held on. The rain pelted her. The winds brought down wave upon wave that buried her in cold again and again, chilling her skin and filling her ears. She tried pulling the back of her tunic up over her head, but every time she let go of the door the waves threatened to knock her off.

The red sunset was gone. They were alone now in the relentless darkness that abated only when the clouds lit up with lightning.

"Just hang on," came Khile's feeble voice through the darkness. "Talk. It will help keep us awake."

"Talk about w–what?"

"I don't know. Just... talk."

"Um. Well, it's really hard to chop someone's head off," she said. "Even if you cut between the pieces of the spine it–it takes a lot of p–power."

Her words were met with silence at first. Then he said, "How the bloody hells do you even know something like that?"

"I know lots of w–weird stuff. Basically if my mother ever told me not to read it, I'd read it. She always w–wanted me to be more like D–Dana, act like a good princess. But that's not for me." She paused to take a few breaths. "Your turn. You talk. You're a fighter aren't you?"

"W–what makes you s–say that?"

"I can tell by the way you move. And your hands, they're calloused like a soldier's. Did you fight in any of the wars against the Black King?"

"Some."

"P–papa always said it d–didn't matter how many times you l–lost, just that you kept fighting for what was right."

She waited for Khile to speak, but he never did.

Lia looked in his direction, searching for some sign of him in the darkness. When the next bolt of lightning cracked through the sky she saw his hand slipping under the surface.

She reached out and grabbed his limp fingers. She pulled and pulled until finally his hand came alive. He jolted to the surface once again, coughing.

"Don't do that!" she said. "Don't give up."

Khile was fading out of consciousness.

"Wake up!" she yelled, slapping him across the jaw.

He stirred and looked at her with half-open eyes. "I can't," he wheezed.

"Yes, you can."

Lia grabbed onto Khile's shoulders with both hands and pulled as hard as she could.

"What... what are you doing?" he asked.

"Get up here!" she said, trying to make her small girlish voice sound strong.

"It's not big enough to hold us both."

And he was right. By the time she had his torso onto the wood it sunk below the surface and they both toppled off. The waves roughed them up some more, but Lia managed to keep a hand on her life raft.

"Leave me," Khile said. "Ride out the storm. Keep your eyes open f–for land. You can make it."

"To all the hells with that," Lia said.

She swam around behind him. She pushed and shoved with all her might until most of his body was on the board. Lia floated in the water next to his head. She could practically feel her lips turning blue from the cold water that now embraced her.

"What are you doing?" he said.

She leaned into his ear. "I'm not leaving y–you. So don't–don't you leave me, t-too."

In the darkness, she couldn't tell whether Khile was looking at her or not, but a moment later she felt his hand stroking the back of her sopping wet head.

He conceded. "I'm here, kid." His voice was feeble and pained.

"I'm not a k–kid."

"Right. Forgot. Sorry."

Lia sucked up her courage, willing her muscles to move despite the cold.

"I'll get us to shore," she said. "You just don't leave me. All right?"

"Deal."

# MEREK

The boy entered the wizard's loft in almost total silence, carrying a tray containing an evening meal of two fish, grapes, and a piece of white bread all neatly arranged on a pale plate next to a goblet of wine.

In the doorway, he paused and cast a curious glance down the way he had come. He remained there for a moment, still as a tree on a calm night, his ear inclined toward the stairs. After a moment he shrugged his shoulders and nudged the door closed with his heel.

The door didn't latch, however. With a gloved hand, Merek Viator reached out and stopped it. He pushed the door open an inch or so and peered inside. He glimpsed the boy disappearing with the tray of food into an adjoining room.

Merek slipped inside. He wore an assassin's killing outfit—a tunic and slacks of mottled dark gray cotton, thin, and cut for easy movement. Under his dark cloak was a leather harness with a score of throwing weapons.

He crouched low in the shadows and let the door latch behind him.

The room was little more than an antechamber of sorts containing only a table full of candles and a massive painting of a nude woman who resembled the widely disliked governess of Malium. Most thought the painting had been destroyed years ago to protect the woman's dignity.

Merek smirked, knowing Romola would be furious if she knew this was here.

Looking through a doorway on his right Merek saw the makings of a library illuminated by cold white light drifting through dingy windows. To his left sat a small office that held a writing desk, a few books, papers, and other small practical items. Not that he cared. He was far more interested in the tray of food the boy was carrying, particularly the goblet of wine.

Merek stepped through the office in total silence until he could peek through a second doorway leading into the middle room of the tower. Flickering orange torchlight illuminated the circular chamber, staving off the chill presented by the gray stone of the suffocating walls. There he saw the wizard, Versch Leiern, in his long green and gold robe, pacing along creaky old floorboards. His gaze was affixed to the mirror-like surface of a black table upon which sat the six shards of the regenstern.

The wizard patted the sweat from his forehead, looking pale and nervous. He'd been up all night, locked in his tower, muttering various incantations and cursing when they didn't work. Merek had spent the night in the woods north of his tower, hearing the echoes of his trial and error. Nothing the wizard had tried so far could repair the shattered gem. He was getting desperate and angry.

"Over there!" Versch said to the boy with a voice of contempt. He waved a sinewy hand toward a small brown table against the wall. "And fetch my chair."

Merek slipped back into the anteroom as the boy retraced his steps to the office and grabbed the wooden chair in front of the desk. He placed it next to the tray of food in the central chamber.

Versch hurled a book across the room that slammed into the wall then fell to the floor with a heavy thud.

"Si dorum morientom!" Versch said. He threw himself down in his chair with a heavy breath and wiped the sweat from his shiny dome.

"Master, are you—"

Versch slapped the boy with such quickness that not even Merek saw it coming.

"How many times have I told you not to speak when I am thinking?" Versch said.

"Apologies, sir," the boy said, coloring up.

Versch ripped off a piece of the bread and popped it in his mouth. He glared at the pieces of the regenstern. "At one point this stone was made. Surely it can be remade." The room fell silent as Versch chewed, lost in thought. "Damn the Black King and all his demands."

He pivoted in his seat and took the cup of wine.

Merek tensed as the wizard brought it toward his lips.

"Go to the library and find a book called _Atenbrous Lapdiem_ ," Versch said to the boy. " _Darkness and Stones_. It will be small."

The boy scurried out of the room.

Versch lifted the goblet and drank. Merek watched, his muscles rigid, as he waited for the poison in the wine to take its toll. It started slowly, with Versch attempting to clear his throat as though a piece of bread had lodged in his windpipe. He coughed, trying to get a gulp of air, and Merek saw panic creeping over his face. The wizard stood up, eyes going wide with fear, while his hands clutched at his neck.

"Damn... you, boy," Versch wheezed.

His panic boiled over into rage. He started toward the library to visit vengeance upon his young attendant when the second phase of the poison kicked in. Versch's hands went limp, followed by his arms. He managed to take one more step before his legs gave way and he toppled to the floor, paralyzed.

Merek sighed in furtive relief and entered the room.

Versch's pallor was reddening from lack of oxygen as he lay prone on the floor. When he saw Merek, his eyes widened in rage and with the understanding that it had not been his young apprentice who had poisoned him.

Merek strode up to the black table and pocketed the six pieces of the regenstern.

A bloody splotch appeared through the fabric around the wizard's stomach. The third and final stage of the poison had begun. Versch trembled and his eyes watered as his mouth opened for a final gasp of air that never came. His face grew redder from the asphyxiation while his belly emptied out onto the floor through a hole that had burned through his flesh. A moment later, Versch Leiern was dead.

Merek started to leave when the slave boy returned holding a dusty old book. His frightened eyes went from Merek to the dead body of his master. He gasped, tears of sorrow forming in his eyes. This confused Merek. In the days he had spent spying on Versch he had seen him give nothing but abuse to the young lad. If anything, he thought the boy would be delighted to be out from under the wizard's cruelty. Instead, he looked genuinely horrified.

The boy dodged back into the library and circled around to the antechamber. Merek hurried through the office, hoping to cut him off, but the boy had already reached his prize: a gold tassel looped over a hook that went down through a hole in the floor to an alarm bell far below. Merek couldn't hear the sound from this high up in the tower, but he knew who would be meeting him on the stairs if he didn't hurry.

Ignoring the boy tugging away on the cord, Merek ripped open the door and took the descending steps three at time. Unless he wished to find himself cornered in the tower he had to reach the lowest window and slip out onto the roof of the adjoining building.

Ustus Rapere had sent half a dozen black vipers to monitor and protect the wizard as he did his work in Efferous. Merek had spent the last six months traveling from Edhen, watching them, avoiding them, and learning how they worked. He knew the soldiers by name.

In all that time, however, he had not been able to figure out why he had been hired to steal from and kill a wizard under the protection of the Black King. The soldiers had been sent by Ustus to protect Versch. Merek had been sent to kill him by the same man. The puzzle had stumped him from day one. There was a conspiracy brewing, and he was landing ass first in the middle of it.

Merek saw the light in the circular stairway growing brighter. The window was near. The sounds of raised voices and the clattering of steel drew closer. Merek quickened his pace, knowing his best defense at this moment was the element of surprise.

The first viper he saw sprinted up the steps, lightly armored and with no helmet. The man's name was Aengus Faolan. He was thirty-five and had a son with a whore on Edhen. Merek flung his body at Aengus, knocking him back into his companions. The soldiers growled and cursed as they tumbled in a disjointed mess of limbs and metal.

Merek hopped up on the stone windowsill, wetted by the afternoon rain, and ducked outside. He would have landed gracefully on the wood shingle roof ten feet below, but one of the soldiers snagged his cloak. Like a pendulum Merek swung back into the side of the tower before the soldier lost his grip. He fell to the rain-slicked roof, landed with a crash on his side, and slid toward the edge of the two-story barn house. Merek pulled out a dagger and drove it as hard as he could into the shingles. It didn't stop his slide, but it did give him something to hold onto when his body tipped over the eave.

A door on the ground level of the tower flew open. A tall viper with broad shoulders rushed out. Gall Shea. Late twenties. He grumbled about working for the Black King so much that Merek almost liked him.

"I've got him!" Gall said. He ran into the house and stomped up the stairs to the second floor.

Merek managed to get his feet on the sill below him. He kicked out the right side windowpane in a shower of glass, grabbed onto the mullion and pulled himself into a small bedroom.

He dashed for the corridor just as the towering Gall hunched through the doorway, sword drawn.

"I'm gunna carve your face," Gall said with a malicious grin.

He took a few vicious swipes, but in the tight confines of the bedroom his armor and height proved to be no match for the assassin's lightweight quickness.

Merek found a coil of rope sitting on the floor. He ducked the soldier's swipe, grabbed the rope, and then lashed it at Gall's unprotected face. The desperate swipe served to push the soldier just far enough out of the way for Merek to slip by and out into the hallway.

He sprinted down the empty corridor while fashioning one end of the rope into a crude lasso. He stepped through the last doorway on the right and into another bedroom. The chamber contained a chair and an old bed frame. He tossed the lasso over the bedpost and dove through the window as Gall charged into the room. He made a grasp for Merek, but missed. In a growl of frustration the black viper turned to sprint out of the room. The rope went taut. Merek's weight yanked the bed frame toward the window. Gall crumpled under the rush of wood that plowed him back into the wall, knocking him out, and slowing Merek's descent.

Once on the ground, Merek took off running west through the wet grass toward the forest of trees that occupied the majority of the valley.

The rest of the soldiers ran after him.

Merek vaulted over a fieldstone wall and into the woods. A thick fog was rolling in off the lake just ahead, washing out the distant trees. Merek veered north. The woods thinned, and soon he saw the distinctive silvery light reflecting from the water between shaggy boles. Descending upon the brown shore he saw a small white boat waiting there for him on the sand, its bow pointed toward the water. He jumped in.

Upon finding the arrows and bow that had been placed there for him he launched a single arrow through the fog over the water. The noisemaker on the arrow's shaft whistled like a bird as it soared through the air, into the mist, and out of sight.

Merek lay down in the boat and waited.

A few moments of anxious silence followed before he caught the voices of the soldiers drifting toward him through the trees. He heard Aengus and Dermot and the fat one he referred to as Snout. They were fanning out through the woods. They would find him soon enough.

Merek fidgeted with his bowstring. He peeked up over the rear of the small raft.

"Any time now," he muttered.

He had one other whistling arrow in the boat with him, but using it would surely draw the soldiers in his direction.

"Over here!" came a shout from down the beach. It was Dermot. "I've found him!"

Merek ducked down into the boat. He grabbed the second arrow, figuring he had two options—he could send it out over the lake as another signal, or he could use it as a weapon.

"Come on. Come on!" he whispered.

The coil of rope tied to the front of the boat began to race out onto the water.

"Finally!"

Merek heard the footsteps of the black viper drawing closer. He notched the arrow, jumped up, and aimed it at Dermot's face. A flash of terror flashed through the soldier's eyes before Merek set the projectile free. The man collapsed inches from Merek just as the rope went taut and yanked the boat out onto the lake. Merek hunkered down in the raft, hanging on as tightly as he could while the vessel raced across the water. He glanced back and saw the rest of the soldiers sprouting from the forest onto the shore, looking after him in wonderment. Then the white mist closed in around him and he was ensconced by fog.

Merek tried to brace himself in preparation for the inevitable impact, but there was no securing his body for what was to come. The boat launched out of the fog and collided with the adjacent shore, knocking Merek forward in a violent mess of scrunched legs and battered arms.

Bruised and disoriented, he got to his feet, relieved to be safe at last.

He stepped out of the boat onto a thick patch of brown forest floor where angular trees hugged the water's edge. Nursing a bump on the side of his head, Merek lifted a hand in greeting to the horsed rider who sauntered toward him.

"That worked well, I'd say," said Patryk Brennan. His smile dimpled in an "I-told-you-so" sort of way. He untied the long wet rope from his horse's saddle. "How was the ride?"

"Agreeable," Merek said. "Until it ended."

Patryk hopped off his horse. "Always a pleasure doing business with you." He held out his hand as if waiting to receive something.

"Right," Merek said. He fished a small leather pouch out of his tunic that he plopped into Patryk's hand.

"And at this rate I like to throw in supper." Patryk pointed to his horse's flanks where two dead rabbits hung by their hind feet. "Come. I've got a proposition to discuss with you."

Merek found a horse waiting not too far away, a grumpy brown spotted mare on loan to him from Patryk. They mounted their steeds and rode along the length of the lake until they were leagues away from the wizard's tower. Descending the gentle arch of a woodsy ridge to where the ground leveled, they emerged from beneath the leafy canopy into an unexpected well of foggy evening light.

Patryk had built a small camp near the lake's edge with two bedrolls under the cover of a curtaining willow tree.

While Patryk started a fire with some flint and a knife, Merek unsaddled the horses. He led them both to the lake's edge and let them drink while he knelt and washed his face and hands. The coolness of the water was refreshing.

A full moon hovered over the lake, veiled a bit by wisps of lingering rain clouds, and yet bigger and brighter than he had seen it in some time. It made him think, for a moment, of his home country of Edhen, which sat a half world away to the west.

Now that he had collected the six pieces of the regenstern, he was ready to put Efferous behind him and return home.

Merek unbuttoned one of the pockets on his tunic and slipped out a piece of the gem. It was about the size of his thumb, milky white like a quartz stone, yet with the glittering colors of a rainbow at its center. Merek had stolen a lot of gems in his life, but he had never seen one quite like this. He wondered, for a moment, what it was worth, and briefly entertained the notion of getting it appraised and selling it. He could probably live the rest of his life off whatever price a rarity like this would fetch.

However, he couldn't forget the matter of the sadistic Ustus Rapere, right hand man to the Black King. Ustus was famous for serving up the cruelest forms of punishment for nothing more than his own enjoyment. To cross him, Merek knew, would be sentencing himself to an excruciating fate.

Merek returned the mysterious gem to his pocket and joined Patryk by the campfire. His friend was seated on the ground with the two rabbits lying in front of him, freshly skinned. He skewered them both on a long spit and hung them over the fire on two forked sticks.

Patryk kicked his boots off and reclined onto his elbow, the slight bulge of his belly rolling over his belt. He hadn't aged well since Merek had seen him last, with many new lines and blemishes speckling a face covered with a thin blond beard. His teeth were yellower, and his eyes dimmer.

"You speak the language of Edhen much better now," Merek said. Patryk's Efferousian accent was still thick, but his enunciation of Merek's native tongue had improved much over the years.

"What is the name of your language again?" Patryk asked.

"The ancient form is known as Tangya, but few speak it today. The common language is a more simplified version of it."

"Is that what it's called? The 'common language?'"

"Tangmuta," Merek said.

"Tangmuta," Patryk repeated. "Tangya and Tangmuta." Patryk said the words several more times.

"Why so interested?"

A wide grin spread across his companion's face. "I know some local ladies who get all wet between the thighs when they hear me talking all smart about other languages and the like."

"Do they speak Tangmuta?"

"Not a word."

"Then why don't you just make stuff up?"

"I do. All the time. They eat it up. Dumb heifers. Say, how is your Efferousian?"

"I get by," Merek said, which wasn't exactly the entire truth. Merek spoke as fluently in the common language of Efferous as he did in Tangmuta. He also knew quite a bit of Edhen's ancient tongue.

Patryk shifted himself on his elbow to face Merek more directly, and said, "I don't know what kind of loot you took from that wizard's tower, and I don't want to know, but, the way I figure, it must be worth a lot. Those were black soldiers guarding that tower, and don't think I don't know that. Don't see many of them around here. And as for the wizard, that was Versch Leiern, and everybody knows he's one sullied bastard you don't mess with." He paused. "Mind if I ask if he's still alive."

"That depends," Merek said.

"On what?"

"Do you believe in resurrection?"

Patryk tipped his head back into a hoarse guffaw that made his belly jiggle. "So Versch finally got what he deserved, eh? It's about time, too. Anyway, where was I?"

"You were trying to ask me what I took without asking me what I took," Merek said.

Patryk lifted a hand. "Look, all I'm saying is, whatever we did over there tonight it was a big steal, and I'm guessing I didn't earn half of what I could have if I'd known what we were really doing."

"We've known each other a long time, Patryk. I wouldn't cut you out like that. If you want more money just ask."

"Not money. A favor."

Merek thought for a moment. He had never liked the business of doing favors, and if it were anyone else other than Patryk asking he would've stopped listening right then. Instead, and against his instincts, he said, "Go on."

"I..." but Patryk hesitated. "I've gotten myself in trouble with some bad folks. I owe them too much money."

Merek sighed, disappointed. "I should've known you were too stupid to quit."

"I needed the money, and it was an easy—"

Merek had heard enough already. "I've helped you out of too many binds, my friend. Remember this?" Merek pulled back his collar revealing a long scar just under his shirt. "Almost got my throat slit once for you and your debt."

"And a truer friend no man could ever have," Patryk said, "but do you remember this?" He pulled up his pant leg, exposing a long pink scar that ran down the side of his shin from the bottom of his kneecap to his ankle.

Merek looked away as the memories came sparking back into his mind, images that had haunted him for years. In an instant he saw the disappointment in his father's eyes as his family learned the truth of who and what he was. He saw their grief as they took the burden of his mistakes and suffered the loss of their daughter, Awlin. When Merek's enemies had taken her she was only nineteen, a quiet and beautiful girl who loved simple things like warm bread, music in the town square, and the colors on butterflies. Her fate was Merek's fault, and his family rejected him.

His only friend back then was Patryk. Together they discovered that Awlin had not been killed, but sold into slavery on Efferous. That was two years ago.

Patryk gazed at Merek with piercing regard. "I stood up for you when no one else would. You never told me why you were dishonored, why you lost your knighthood, and I never asked. I know it has something to do with Awlin, and I know you think that if you get her back you're going to be able to set things right, but, my friend, listen to me—"

"So I owe you? Is that it? I have to pay you for all your years of friendship?"

Patryk shook his head. "That's not what I'm saying at all. Damn, you've been touchy lately. Look, I've been there for you. That's all I'm saying. And I need you to be there for me. I'm in a tight spot right now. And..." Patryk's voice trailed off as his eyes drifted toward the fire in thought.

"What if I told you I know where she is?"

Patryk's words hit like lightning, words, Merek knew, that his clever gambling friend had waited for just the right moment to play. They cut through the slew of disjointed memories still swirling around in his mind and brought his attention into sharp focus.

"Awlin?" Merek whispered. "You know where she is?"

"I know more than that," Patryk said, his eyes seeping with genuine sympathy. "I can tell you where she'll be four days from now. I can promise to take you there, to do everything in my power to help you get her back."

"Providing I help you settle your debt," Merek concluded.

"There you go."

Merek took a breath, wondering why he suddenly felt so nervous. The gems in his pocket were burning a hole in the back of his mind. Returning them to Edhen in a timely fashion had to be his top priority, but there was no way in all the hells that he could pass up the chance to rescue his sister.

Returning the regenstern to Ustus, he decided, could wait a few more days.

# BRYNLEE

The gray light of dawn blurred through her lashes as Brynlee's eyes cracked open from a brief, but exhausted sleep. Dripping water from high branches pattered the ground and pinged the wagon bars. Nearby she could hear the gurgling of freshets running melodiously through the spring trees.

She sat up on the hard wooden floor of the wagon cage, hoping the sick feeling in her stomach wouldn't give way to vomiting. The metal cuffs on her wrists and ankles had chilled during the night and bit her skin like winter frost.

The black vipers of the traveling brood were already awake, yawning as they mucked about on the trampled grass of their temporary camp, starting fires for breakfast and packing up their armor and weapons. She watched them through the bars of the cell, half hoping they would ignore her while at the same time wishing they would bring her hot food to fill the days-old ache in her stomach.

Next to her, Brynlee's five-year-old sister Scarlett roused. She sat up, rubbed her tired brown eyes, and cuddled close to Brynlee.

The other girls in the wagon were beginning to stir. Brynlee had counted fourteen of them in all, fourteen frightened, cold and muddied girls ranging in age from as young as Scarlett to a few older adolescent girls well into womanhood. She recognized Cadha Rose, a blacksmith's daughter who lived near the castle in the northern part of Aberdour, and Maidie Larnach, daughter of a castle guard who she occasionally played games with. Maidie had just turned seven and was only six months younger than Brynlee. The rest of the girls she had never seen before. They were all crammed into a creaky wagon cage, shut behind black bars.

Othella, one of the older girls, jumped to her feet, taking great interest in something on the far side of the camp. "Oriana!" she exclaimed in a quieted breath.

Brynlee followed her gaze to see a raven-haired girl in a ratty blue dress who could not have been older than thirteen. Her posture looked despondent as she crawled out of a beige tent shivering against morning's chill.

Behind her, a bear of a man, with arms as thick as Brynlee's waist, emerged from the tent's opening. He tied the drawstring around his pants, yawned a massive yawn, and blinked his eyes against the morning light. He slapped a beefy hand on the young girl's shoulder and pushed her ahead of him.

He led her to the wagon cage where he rapped the bars with his knuckles. "Get back, you scrawny mutts." He unlocked the door and shoved Oriana inside.

The stocky soldier regarded Othella with bright blue eyes that were full of lust and madness. "And you're going to keep me warm tonight," he said with a crude grin. He made a kissing noise at her, then slammed and locked the door.

Oriana fell into her sister's embrace, burrowing her head into the dingy white sleeve of her dress where she unleashed a torrent of sobs.

"What happened?" asked one of the younger girls.

"What do you think happened, dummy?" Cadha answered.

Brynlee tried to conceal her shudder at the thought of any of the soldiers coming to take her or Scarlett away for the night. Her imagination conjured all sorts of torment involving spears and knives and ropes with pulleys, things she had read about in books that, according to her mother, were far too grown up for her to read. But as to what really happened between the girls and the vipers that took them, Brynlee couldn't say, and she was too timid to ask.

"Shh," Othella cooed as she stroked her sister's hair.

Of all the girls in the wagon cage, Othella's beauty stood out more than most. She had rich brown eyes typical of the women of Aberdour. Her long silky hair, almost as dark as her sister's, was pulled away from her elegant face into a swift plait down her back. The soldiers had already taken Othella into their tents many times since leaving Aberdour.

Cadha sat back against the bars of the cage and folded her arms. Narrow eyes glared out between auburn bangs and freckled cheeks. "That's it. I'm getting out of here. The next time they open that door, I'm running."

A couple of the other girls concurred with remarks like, "I'm not letting them take me again," and "The bastards can go to the hells if they touch me."

"They'll fill your back with darts," said another girl.

"You've got chains on your feet, remember? How far do you think you'd get?"

"I'll take short steps," Cadha said, her whisper growing louder. "I'm quick, you know. Faster than any of these dogs."

"Nobody's running anywhere," Othella said. Her calming voice brought a hush to the hot emotions brimming among the group. "She's right, they'll kill you if you try."

"So you want to be raped every night?" said Cadha. "Just let them take you again and again until one of them gets a little too rough and kills you?" She vented a huff of a laugh. "They're not touching me anymore." Cadha wrapped her arms around her knees before falling silent.

The company's cook, a slow-witted man named Efrem, lumbered up to the wagon cage with a pot of steaming porridge. His fists bore scars befitting a slave or a fighter, and Brynlee noticed that just under his mop of black hair his left ear looked like a piece of shriveled cauliflower.

Efrem dipped a ladle into the pot. "Some breakfast for you." His accent, combined with his dark eyes, skin, and hair, made him appear Efferousian.

The girls stretched their dirty hands through the bars of the cage for the hot food.

Captain Fess Rummick strode up to Efrem's side and swatted the ladle, spilling the lumpy oatmeal all over the ground. Fess looked more imposing than ever in his black angular armor, fine chain mail with gold links in the shape of a serpent on his chest. His black cloak edged with a blue stripe swayed behind him as he positioned himself between Efrem and the wagon of prisoners.

"What do you think you're doing?" Fess asked.

"Givin' food t-to the prisoners, Cap'n Fess," Efrem answered. "Mungo said we are to feed them p–porridge until we get to—"

Fess slapped Efrem across the cheek and took the pot from him. "Sard off, you useless halfwit. Give the whores some stale bread and save the hot stuff for the high king's men."

"B–but, my Lord—"

The captain made a quick gesture as though he were about to poor the entire pot of steaming slop over the halfwit's head.

Covering his face with his hands, Efrem blurted, "No, my lord!"

Fess tipped his head back and laughed. He walked off with the pot, scooping out gooey slops of porridge with his fingers and swallowing it down.

Efrem looked shamefaced at the wagon packed with disappointed girls. He sulked back to his cart with his head sagging between the collars of his brown leather coat.

He returned a few moments later with two loaves of stale bread, which he passed through the black bars to Othella.

"Thank you," she said.

Efrem's face reddened a trifle as he looked at her. Then he shied away and returned to his cart.

"At least he's nice," Maidie said.

"Don't let him fool you," replied Cadha. "He's a part of the high king's army."

Thunder rumbled over the distant snowcapped mountains by the time the inhospitable soldiers of the high king's company moved out. They were a mean-spirited bunch, Brynlee thought, even despite the celebratory feel they carried from their recent victory in Aberdour. About two hundred men occupied the unit, and Brynlee could only guess as to how many units made up the vast army. Each unit consisted of many separate divisions, each riding under a different colored banner. She had counted five so far.

The girls had spent their first night in the company of blue division, a rough-and-ready group of loud foot soldiers with too much looted wine and not enough dignity. After the soldiers had made camp, they came and took all but the youngest girls into their tents for the night.

From that point on the wagon of female captives was carted around to the various divisions like a buffet table. Some nights many girls were taken. Other nights, just one or two. Some of the soldiers were gentle, but many more were not—girls returned with bruised cheekbones and sore hips.

"Why doesn't she speak?" Cadha asked. She pointed at Scarlett who was curled up against Brynlee's chest as the wagon cage bumped down the road. "She hasn't said a word since we left Aberdour, and when she cries she doesn't make a sound. Something wrong with her?"

"Nothing's wrong with her," Brynlee said, quick to defend her baby sister. "She just doesn't speak."

"Sounds like you could learn a lot from her, Cadha," said Maidie.

"Shut your face," Cadha said.

Brynlee caught Maidie's glinting blue eyes and the two shared a private, unspoken laugh. She wished they were back in Aberdour playing games of chase outside the castle, braiding each other's hair, and passing secrets between themselves.

She felt Scarlett heaving gentle sobs against her chest. "Are you all right?" Brynlee asked, peering down at her sister's face.

Scarlett tapped her fingers against Brynlee's chest, near her heart—tap, pause... tap, tap.

Brynlee smiled at Scarlett's familiar gesture of affection.

"I love you, too," she whispered. "Come. Let's do our flags." She pulled her sister up so she could look her in the eyes.

Scarlett shook her head, no.

"Please do the flags with me," she pleaded. Brynlee loved reciting the flags of the nine kingdoms on Edhen. She knew them by heart, and had been trying to get Scarlett to learn them also. "Turnberry. A green banner embroidered with the shape of a bear, right?"

Scarlett said nothing. She played with the unraveling fringe on the lapel of Brynlee's dress.

"Right?"

After a moment, young Scarlett shook her head.

"No?" Brynlee feigned disappointment. "Is it green with a yellow fox head?"

Scarlett nodded and smiled.

"That's very good!" She ran her fingers through her sister's rich brown hair. "How about Tranent? Is it a orange flag with a pink falcon?"

Opening her mouth Scarlett jiggled as though she were laughing, except no sound emerged.

"A pink falcon is kind of silly, isn't it?" Brynlee said. "Um, is it white?"

Again, Scarlett nodded.

"I'm getting pretty good at these."

Her eyes fell to Scarlett's torso as she noticed how tattered and dingy her ivory dress had become since they were taken from Aberdour. "You've gotten so dirty." The hem was almost as brown as the boards they were huddled on, and the laced back and smooth front were smeared with dim stains. She brushed her hand along the fabric in a vain attempt to wipe some of the dirt free, but quickly gave up. "Oh, never mind."

Brynlee cleared her throat, and said, "How about Perth. Is it red with a golden viper?"

Scarlett's eyes looked out beyond the bars of the wagon, to the banner men carrying the red and gold colors of High King Orkrash Mahl.

"Hey, that's cheating," Brynlee said. "Oh well. I shouldn't have asked you that one. Silly me." She tickled Scarlett's tummy. "Do you remember the capital's old flag, the one before the new high king? Do you remember that one, little sister?"

Scarlett lifted up her hands like bear claws and made a snarling face.

"The enorbear, that's right," Brynlee said. "Did you know Papa used to say that the reason the Allgod chose the enorbear was because the enorbear is the strongest of all the land animals and at the same time the gentlest of all the animals?"

"You don't really believe that stuff, do you?" asked Cadha, who had been eavesdropping just a few feet away.

"Papa said the Allgod protects those who are faithful," Brynlee said.

"Some good it did him. And enorbears aren't that gentle. I saw one rip through a cow like butter once."

"They are gentle," said one of the other girls. "My grandpa used to keep two in his barn to help plow his field. Stronger than a couple of oxen, they are, and smart."

"And soft too," Brynlee added to ally Cadha's wide-eyed look.

"You've touched one?" she asked.

"My grandpa used to have one too," Brynlee said, "but it didn't do any work, just lived in the field outside the castle."

"You're such a liar," Cadha said.

"I am not!"

"Are too! And look at you now. _Princess_ Brynlee. Just like the rest of us, being carted off to—"

"That's enough," said Othella. She stood up from her position at the rear of the wagon. "We're all in a bad place right now. There's no point in getting angry with each other." She stepped over the girls to sit down next to Brynlee and Scarlett. "And if any of you calls either of these two by their proper names or titles again, I'll shut your mouths myself."

"Why?" Cadha said. "Who cares?"

"Just don't!"

Brynlee felt a small wave of comfort wash through her when Othella sat down and put a gentle arm around her shoulders. "He hates you the most, you know?"

"Who?" Brynlee asked.

"The Black King." Othella lowered her voice. "You're a Falls of Aberdour. Your father aided cities under siege, harbored refugees from all over the realm, and even helped rally a rebellion. Truly, the Black King hates your family most of all. That's why you need to keep who you are a secret. Can you do that? Don't tell anyone who you really are. All right?"

"My sister told me to pretend to be someone else. That's how you deal with hard things. You pretend to be someone stronger, and then it might not seem so bad."

Othella offered a half smile and tucked some loose strands of hair behind Brynlee's ear. "That sounds like a good idea."

The army continued its long march west, trudging down grassy hillsides that overlooked majestic mountain valleys, and through rich green forests alive with the chatter of birds and the flowery scents of spring.

Early in the afternoon, with the sun barely visible behind gathering clouds, Brynlee noticed a group of six girls huddled together at the back end of the wagon. They were talking in hushed voices, heads together.

After a while Maidie crawled over to Othella and sat down next to her. "Listen," she whispered, "some of us were thinking—"

"Don't do it," Othella said. "They'll kill you all, or find other ways to punish you that will make you wish you were dead."

Maidie's expression went from hardly contained enthusiasm to fearful disappointment. "We have to do something."

"There's nothing you can do," Othella said. "We are too far from anywhere. Just wait."

"Wait for what? Cadha's right. We can't just sit around."

But Othella had no answer.

The knot of fear in Brynlee's stomach had just started to subside when the wagon lurched to a stop. Throughout the company of soldiers there were murmurs of, "Can't go no further," and "Best wait until nightfall."

The girls pressed their faces to the sides of the cage, trying to look ahead.

"What is it?" Cadha asked.

Brynlee answered first, "The Divide."

Cadha and a couple of the other girls shot her a disbelieving look. "There's no such thing as The Divide," Cadha said. "That's a children's tale."

Brynlee was taken back by her disbelief. She had read about The Divide numerous times. Her tutors and the nuns of Aberdour's sanctuary, along with her father and Captain Khalous Morloch, had told her so many stories about it that she had never questioned its existence.

"It's a wasteland," Brynlee said. "It's real, and it's dangerous."

"They say the daylight in The Divide is so bright that it can blind you," added Maidie.

Cadha's certainty looked shaken. She swung her eyes westward as all the girls tried to see beyond the rows of soldiers that were gathering just ahead of them.

"I heard you can't even get close to it without it killing you," said one of the girls.

"It's so hot there the ground burns every day."

Brynlee looked up through the still blooming trees of spring. Their branches were mere brown silhouettes against the darkening blue of an incoming night. Her eyes wove between the limbs, searching the sky above. Finally, she saw it—a line of blackness and stars splitting the sky.

"There," she said, her voice a mere whisper.

The heads of the girls turned upward where, to the west, a long crack ran through the navy sky. It looked more beautiful and deathly ominous than Brynlee could have imagined, like a portion of the sky had been peeled away, revealing an inky black abyss of stars. Its width was no wider than her tiny finger, but its length ran for a thousand miles north to south, or so she had read.

One of the soldiers stomped past the wagon cage. He looked furious. "We've missed the passing," he said with a growl. "Bloody fools! You took us too far south."

"Calm down, you quibbling bastard," said another. "We can pass just as well right here."

Their arguing dissolved into a back and fourth match that Brynlee was content to ignore.

"It is said that a witch split the sky almost five hundred years ago," she said, gazing up in awe at the long rift. "A witch who had fallen in love with—"

"That's not what I heard," spouted Cadha. "I heard that the Northern Gods did battle with the Middies. Fuar, Cnatan, and Ishloch attacked Cuir and Cotch and tore up the land in all directions."

"Now _that's_ a bedtime story," Maidie said. "The real story is far more interesting. You know the story, Brynlee. You should tell it to them."

A couple of the other girls looked intrigued. "Yes, tell us."

The first image that sprang to Brynlee's mind was an old drawing a philosopher had once made of the battle between High King Vala Hull and the demon king Ahkidibis. She had always thought it was a sad illustration for caught between them was a woman who had loved them both, but could no longer serve either.

"There are many stories about The Divide," Brynlee began, "but the story of Vala Hull is the true one. He was a great king. He united the realm, brought Edhen out of poverty and starvation. Ahkidibis was—"

"Please," Cadha balked. "Don't bore us with religious nonsense."

"You're the one who was just talking about the gods of old," said Maidie.

"No one believes in Ahkidibis," Cadha said.

"Quiet," Othella said. "Just let her tell the story."

Brynlee ignored the interruption, but took a moment to collect her thoughts. "No one hated Vala Hull more than Ahkidibis, the God of Fire. He rose up from his throne in the Nine Hells to fight the high king of Edhen and rule the realm himself. He tried deceiving Vala Hull into giving up the throne. He tried tempting him with wealth and magic, but Vala Hull was pure. His soul could not be corrupted."

One of the black soldiers trotted by on his horse, the beast kicking up clops of wet black mud as it breezed past the wagon. "Hold!" he shouted to the men approaching from the rear. "Take rest. We'll cross at nightfall."

"They're not going to take us into The Divide, are they?" asked Maidie, a look of terror in her eyes.

"It's the only time it can be crossed," Brynlee answered.

"How do you know?" asked Cadha.

"My tutor said The Divide is too hot during the day. It can only be crossed at night, or under ground."

"Finish the story," said one of the younger girls.

Brynlee paused a moment to recall where she had left off. "High King Vala Hull was a good man. The only weakness Ahkidibis could find in his life was his wife, Daniellia. The demon king corrupted her, made her forget her love, and made her his servant. He gave her great power, the power to destroy the high king, but during a battle at the Tower of Metlaigh, Daniellia remembered her love for her husband, remembered who she really was. She was bound to Ahkidibis though and could not betray him. So she split the sky to divide the kingdom, to protect her husband, and drive the God of Fire away. She died doing so, because when the sky opened up the sun poured through like fire and destroyed the land and everything in it.

"The high king was devastated, but Ahkidibis had lost his power over him. Defeated, he returned to the Nine Hells."

Cadha shook her head. "No. See, right there, the story doesn't make sense. If the witch opened up the sky and got burned to death, how come Vala Hull didn't die?"

"Because of the blessing, stupid," Maidie said.

"What blessing?"

"Daniellia protected her husband against the sun that day," Brynlee answered. "The entire line of Hull is blessed as a result. None of them can be hurt by fire."

Cadha rolled her eyes back and shook her head. "A story. That's all it is. And a dumb one at that."

The stocky soldier who had molested Oriana sauntered by the wagon cage with two other men. He made kissing noises at Othella. "Looks like our time together will have to wait for tomorrow."

"You should leave them be," said one his comrades.

"Just because you're married doesn't mean the rest of us can't have fun."

"Mungo isn't going to be happy if he hears you've been sampling what he's purchased."

"That swine hasn't purchased anything yet, but when he does I'll be able to tell him what this lot is worth." He flapped his tongue at the girls.

Brynlee felt Othella's arm slip down over her shoulders. "Just stay with me."

After the soldiers left it became clear that there would be no rest tonight. The company was moving on through The Divide once the sun went down and the air cooled.

Efrem brought the prisoners some water in a leaky brown bucket, which he kindly served to them from a wooden ladle.

Brynlee noticed that he took his time when it came to Othella. His attentive eyes watching her as she tipped her head back and emptied the contents of the ladle.

"You like?" he asked.

She nodded and thanked him.

Cadha pushed her way toward Efrem. "Could we have some blankets? It's getting cold."

Brynlee knew that the girl was lying. None of the girls had complained about being cold that she knew of. Cadha was up to something.

Efrem politely dipped his head and walked away.

"What are you doing?" Othella asked.

"None of your business." She sat down to wait, her hard features scowling at the floor.

Efrem returned a short while later, waddling behind Captain Fess with a pile of blankets in his arms. "P–please, my lord. They won't be worth anythin' to Mungo if they sick when we get to Perth."

A third soldier walking with Efrem said, "He's got a point, my lord."

Fess waved a dismissive hand. "Do whatever you want. I don't care." Then he stomped off.

The soldier looked at Efrem and gestured with his head for him to follow.

Brynlee tensed when she heard Cadha whisper, "Get ready."

"Blankets," Efrem said, his eyes brightening when he looked at Othella.

The soldier escorting him, a man who didn't look like he cared at all about anything, chewed on his lower lip as he unlocked the door. Consequently, when Cadha kicked him in the chin his teeth drove through his lip, nearly biting it off. He fell on his back, clutching his bloody chin and bawling in shock and pain.

"Come on!" Cadha shouted. She jumped out of the cage.

Eleven of the fourteen girls poured out and scattered into the woods as fast as their chains would let them. Brynlee watched, terrified, as they shoved past a confused looking Efrem and dashed for the trees.

She felt Scarlett's tiny hands clutching her dress in panic.

Some of the soldiers took notice of the fleeing prisoners and gave chase.

"I've got this one!" said one of the men as he raised a crossbow.

"No!" Brynlee shouted.

But the bolt had already been set free. It found its mark in the middle of a girl's back, sending her face first into the ground in an explosion of dirt and old leaves.

"Follow me!" Efrem said. He motioned them out of the wagon. "Hurry! Hurry!"

Together, with Scarlett and Othella, Brynlee slipped out of the wagon. She followed Efrem along the backside of the cart and down an embankment, petrified that an arrow might pierce her from behind.

The four of them wove their way through the trees, putting more distance between them and the camp. The sounds of the shouting soldiers and the screams of the girls grew increasingly faint until Brynlee couldn't hear them anymore.

Efrem stopped on the downward side of a steep ridge and ushered them to take cover behind the towering root system of an overturned maple. Brynlee crowded back against the tree, heart exploding behind her ribs. She took Scarlett and pulled her in close.

"We should keep moving," Othella said.

Efrem waved his hand westward. "No more that way. The Divide too hot."

When Brynlee looked to the west, the sight made her jaw drop. The land open to her gaze looked as if it had suffered a week's worth of wildfires, but there wasn't a single tree trunk or barb of underbrush left. There was nothing but barren wasteland stretching as far as her eyes could see, brown and black and fading into mist.

A short fieldstone wall sat just ahead of them, running north and south—the border of The Divide.

Brynlee flinched when the sounds of footsteps rushed toward them. It was Cadha. She shuffled down the embankment, past the overturned tree, and toward the wall.

"No, Cadha!" Brynlee said. "Wait! Stop!"

The girl scampered over the wall. "Sard off, Brynlee!" She hopped down onto the grass on the other side of the wall and plunged forward into The Divide. Brynlee watched in horrified wonder as the girl's figure grew smaller and smaller in the expanse of black earth. The fog moved in, shrouding her behind a wall of gray. Soon, Cadha Rose had disappeared from view.

Efrem lifted a small hammer and nail and said, "For shackles."

Starting with Othella, he tapped out the bar holding the shackle in place on her right foot. Then he attended to her left.

"Thank you," she said, after he had pulled the restraints free. "You are very kind."

Othella held out her shackled wrists.

But Efrem just shook his head. "No. I am not kind man."

Efrem's demeanor had darkened. His mannerisms had become slower, methodical, almost menacing.

"What do you mean? You helped us escape. We are almost free. Thanks to you."

Efrem squeezed his eyes shut and wagged his head, like he was fighting conflicting principles in his mind.

He crawled up toward Othella and put his hand on her throat.

"I have love for you, my lady," he said, his voice shaking.

"What are you doing?" Othella asked. Her hand shook as she tried to push him away.

"You make my eyes happy." He made a move to kiss her, but Othella resisted.

Brynlee had seen her father kiss her mother on multiple occasions, but kissing, as gross as she considered it to be, never looked like this.

As Othella begun to fight even harder, Brynlee went over and grabbed Efrem by the arm. "Stop it!"

His fist sent spikes of lightning through her brain and the next thing Brynlee knew she was sprawled on her back with a pounding wail going off in her head. Struggling, she sat up, and realized that the wail was not between her ears. It was Othella. The girl thrashed about on the ground, powerless to break Efrem's grip. He had his pants around his ankles, and his boy parts were long and stiff, like a horse. He bunched Othella's dress around her waist and forced himself between her legs. She pounded his shoulders with her fists and screamed, a chilling sound that made Brynlee cover her head and shut her eyes.

"Please stop," she muttered, her stomach twisting. "Please stop. Please stop."

She curled into a ball on the ground and imagined her father crashing through the woods, grabbing Efrem and yanking him off of Othella. Her father would come. He was always there to protect her.

And then there were footsteps. Black vipers. They were drawn by Othella's screams. When they saw Efrem and the girl struggling on the ground they sheathed their weapons and laughed. Some of them whistled, chattering about Efrem's pale backside. Their other remarks didn't make any sense to Brynlee, crude encouragements filled with vulgarity and slang that she had never heard before.

Brynlee's head spun so violently from the pain in her face that she felt sick.

Efrem rose when he was finished. His face glazed with sweat and looking crazed and drunk. The soldiers slapped him on the back and congratulated him.

Relief filled Brynlee at first, relief that it was over.

And then the stocky soldier who had been leering at Othella for days took Efrem's place.

"I was going to wait until tomorrow night, lassy, but this seems as good a time as any." He climbed on top of her and then the thrashing began again.

One of the soldiers grabbed Brynlee and jerked her to her feet alongside Scarlett. "Back to the wagon you two!" he barked.

As he dragged them away, Brynlee looked back at Othella. The girl was hidden behind the fallen tree. A group of three soldiers closed in around her, unfastening their armor and leering down at the helpless girl who had long given up her protesting screams.

By the time the soldier shoved Brynlee back into the wagon cage, her right eye had almost swollen shut. Her lip felt puffy too. She pulled Scarlett close to her and held her tight, crying tears for Othella.

The sky darkened. The moon rose higher.

Captain Fess looked furious as his soldiers searched the area for the escaped prisoners.

"I want them back before midnight!" he shouted. "We must cross The Divide before sunup."

Seven more girls were found and returned, including Maidie, who climbed into the wagon cage on shaky legs, a large bruise on her cheek. She sat down in silence and curled herself into her maroon dress, which was filled with a dozen new tears and rips.

"Maidie, are you all right?" Brynlee whispered.

The girl didn't answer.

Brynlee hugged Scarlett close, fighting the horrifying images that lingered in her mind of Othella and Efrem. She hated Efrem now. Hated Captain Fess. Hated the Black King. Hated the wagon cage and the whole army of soldiers. She shut her eyes and wished for home, her mother's warm voice and her father's protective embrace.

The shuffling of tiny feet on the forest floor prompted Brynlee to open her eyes. She looked to the torch-lit darkness in the west and saw the shape of a small girl stumbling through the shadows. She walked like she was in pain, with slow, short steps, her shackled wrists held out away from her body.

"Cadha?" said Maidie.

The girl was burned from head to toe, her brown skirt and tunic in charred rags. Blood seeped from peeled rolls of burnt skin that hung from her face, neck, and arms like shreds of old fabric. She walked up to the cage, wheezing. She'd lost some of her hair and her eyebrows were gone.

"What in all the hells?" whispered one of the girls.

"H–h–help," Cadha said. "H–help."

One of the soldiers walked up behind her and spun her around. "There's the little instigator." His words came mumbling out through a white strip of fabric tapped across his split bottom lip. "Walked too far out into The Divide, did you? Serves you right, you filthy whore!"

Cadha yelped as he lifted her up over his shoulder.

"Rope!" he barked.

Soldiers gathered around, unrolling a long coil of rough brown cord. They fashioned a noose and fitted it around the girl's neck. After looping an end over a tree branch they lifted her body into the air. Cadha kicked and wheezed, but was already too far dead to put up much of a fight.

Brynlee's stomach lurched. She averted her eyes, fighting down the waves of panic and nausea that wafted through her little body.

"Behold the cost for trying to escape!" shouted a furious Captain Fes. He rode up next to the wagon cage on his regal black stallion. "This is what will happen if any of you try anything like that again." He clicked his horse's reigns and ordered the company to move out.

Brynlee pushed back the fearful lump in her throat, despising the hopelessness she felt burgeoning inside her chest. She sank to her knees, face pressed against the bars of the cage, desperately wanting to be someone else, someone stronger, someone, anyone, other than the terrified little girl she was.

# LIA

Just as the wild dog's sharp yellow fangs bit into her arm Lia's entire body jolted and she awoke with her face in the sand. She pushed herself up, coughing and gasping, her entire body sore and damp. She checked her right forearm for teeth marks, but no dog had bit her. Only a bad dream.

When Lia rolled over onto her back, shielding her eyes from the blinding sun overhead, she realized that she had woken to a whole new nightmare. It all came back to her in a sickening rush—the death of her father, the attack on Aberdour, the pursuit of dozens of refugees through the eastern woods by savage soldiers of the high king. She shivered as her mind recalled the echoes of attack dogs and the high-pitched screams of the young children they ripped to pieces.

Lia sat up and held her head with her hands. She licked her lips and groaned at the briny taste of the sea.

She stood up on stiff legs and saw Khile lying face down on the beach, eyes closed, unconscious. He still lay atop the section of broken boards from the trade ship, the faithful planks that had kept them afloat through a vicious storm that, as far as Lia could tell, had claimed the lives of everyone else on board.

She walked over to Khile and tried to wake him. He groaned, but wouldn't rise.

Lia plopped down on her rump in the sand as panic threatened to overcome her. Ahead of her she saw nothing but rippling ocean with the peaks of its waves glittering in the sun. A narrow strip of beach ran along each side of her, stretching endlessly to the south and rising up over a grassy hillside to the north. At her back a hill capped with leaning shade trees and shrubbery rose steeply.

Khile groaned again, and Lia noticed that below his right knee his leg bent at an unnatural angle. She lifted his pant leg and saw, about halfway down his shin, the broken bone pushing out against the inside of his flesh.

She found a couple pieces of wood and a bit of torn sail on the shore and made a splint. She knew little about making splints other than what she had seen done to a castle guard named Koal when he fell down the front steps last summer. A doctor had bound his leg between two boards and wrapped it tight with fabric to keep the broken part of the leg from bending.

By the time she finished the crude splint, Khile, to her relief, had not yet regained consciousness. He needed to be moved though because from the look of the wave patterns on the sand the tide would soon wash over them. It took a great deal of effort on her part, but she managed to drag him off the beach to the shade trees up the hill. She placed his head on a patch of grass and then sat down with her back to the tree to catch her breath.

Water and fire. That's what her father used to tell her. Were she ever lost in the woods the first two things she would need were water and fire, water to feed herself and fire to keep her warm. She had never liked starting fires, and without flint it would be almost impossible, but water, she knew, was essential.

She gathered some dried driftwood and put it in a pile next to the tree. Then she left Khile lying under the shade of the foliage and ventured east to the next ridge where she looked at the countryside. Without her boots, which Khile had removed before the ship went down, she had to tread carefully over the rough terrain.

Once she was beyond the reach of the ocean breeze, mosquitoes found her and began nipping at any exposed pieces of flesh they could find. She walked for some ways swatting at the air before she came across some purple and pink aster. Abigail had once shown her how to use it as a bug repellent and so Lia picked some and smeared it on her skin. She tucked some into her pockets for later use. It didn't keep all the bugs away, but it did seem to help.

She perused the inland hills for some time, scouring the earth for plants and herbs, including some thistles and winter savory.

She was drawn to the next hill by the sight of a massive chestnut tree. Its high sprawling branches and thick leaves made a crater of shade under which was an abundance of chestnuts, some still in their spiky pods. Lia couldn't believe her luck. She knelt and began gathering the ripest nuts.

Another sight caught her attention on the ground just two steps away, an imprint of a giant paw—or was it a hand? The ground around the tree, she noticed, was rife with imprints, some human like, others more akin to hooves, but all of them were big enough to swallow her whole. Troll? Dragon? She had no idea what sorts of creatures roamed this part of the land.

Abruptly, she stood, and glanced around. She hoped that whatever creature had stomped over this hillside was long gone. She wondered if it ate chestnuts, or, more importantly, ten-year-old girls.

Lia decided not to explore ahead any further. The giant paw prints had spooked her, and it was getting dark.

She gathered as many ripened nuts as she could fit into her pockets and left the hillside.

Then she caught a glimpse of something large and brown moving across a field in the distance. She studied it for a moment before concluding that it was a horse and wagon. There was a road out there beyond the forest. She estimated it would take a half-day to hike there, but it was there nonetheless. Civilization. Hope.

Lia returned to the beach and followed it north, picking through the various piles of scrap wood and debris she found along the shore. She unearthed a leather water satchel that was, unfortunately, empty, and found a leather belt and a torn shirt washed up in a trunk with a broken lid. The rest of its contents, she guessed, were strewn along the bottom of the ocean.

She froze when she noticed something floating in the surf just ahead of her, face down, limbs sprawled. A corpse. He was a sailor by the looks. She stood and approached the body as waves pushed it back and fourth on the cushy sand. The skin of the corpse had grayed and was beginning to bloat. Lia left the body on its face, too timid to roll it over and see the lifelessness in its eyes.

Holding her breath from the stench she patted down the pockets, finding nothing. She reached under the corpse, feeling along the belt, until her fingers touched hard metal. She yanked the belt around, tugging on what she hoped was a weapon casing.

"Please don't be empty. Please don't be empty," she muttered.

The handle of a small dagger protruded from a dull brown copper casing. She unfastened the belt and removed the sheath. When she pulled out the dagger she found a shiny silver blade sparkling in the sunlight. Whatever kind of man this corpse had once been, he had cared for the weapon well. She smiled, satisfied.

With her arms full of her trophies, Lia left the beach.

When she finally returned to Khile she found him awake and struggling to stand.

"What are you doing?" she asked, hurrying up to him.

He looked at her, appearing relieved. "There you are. I was afraid you'd run off and gotten captured."

"Captured? By who?"

"Black vipers will soon be all over these shores," he said. "We shouldn't stay here."

He sat back down with a great deal of effort and stretched his busted leg out in front of him.

"Thanks for this," he said, tapping the splint.

"How is it?"

"Unfortunately we have to take it off. The bone isn't aligned properly."

Lia didn't like the sound of that, but Khile appeared to know more about splints than she did. She followed his instructions, untied the fabric, and removed the two braces.

"See that," he said, pointing to the bump in his shin. "That needs to be pushed down." He showed her how to position her thumbs against the protruding piece of bone, and then braced himself against the back of the tree. "I'm going to count to three, and then I want you to push down as hard as you can until that bone snaps back. Understand? If I pass out, just put the splint back on like you did before, but make it as tight as you can."

She forced back the nervous lump in her throat.

Khile started counting. At two he took a deep breath. At three Lia pressed down with all her weight on the piece of bone. She felt it grind back into place as Khile's entire body tensed and he grit his teeth and growled.

"Sorry," she said. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

He shook his head, panting. "Well done. Now put the splint back on."

Again she followed his instructions, but this time he helped her tie the fabric around the splint much tighter. He collapsed against the tree, his face pale and covered in new sweat.

"I don't know your full name," Lia said, trying to get her mind to relax.

"Khile Alexander."

"Pleased to meet you, Khile Alexander." She emptied her pockets of the many herbs she had collected and offered him some of the chestnuts. She made a conscious decision not to tell him about the giant footprints. "I found some sage. It should help with the swelling. And I found some alfalfa. I've never tried it, but Abigail used to say it was good for you."

Khile smiled, impressed. "Aren't you the resourceful little scavenger. Who's Abigail, your tutor?"

Lia thought it offensive that he had already forgotten. "She's the pregnant woman that was killed by The Raven. Remember?"

Khile's smile faded. "Right. The man you're going to kill."

Lia looked at him, her eyes coming to life with hot fury. "I am going to kill him. Someday I will return to Edhen and I will find him and I will slit his throat just like he slit Abigail's."

Khile didn't look like he believed her. "Very well. But first I think we need to focus on getting off this beach." He took a moment to look around. "I'm guessing we're pretty far north, on the western coast of Advala. Have you heard of it?"

"It's the western most province of Efferous."

"We need to move inland, or find some place to hide until we can get help. We'll need water, and it'll get chilly at night so we'll need fire."

Lia pointed to the pile of driftwood she had collected earlier.

"Good work."

"I can't get a fire going without flint," she said.

"Leave that to me. Did you find any water while you were pillaging the countryside?"

She shook her head. "But I saw a road."

He looked at her skeptically. "Where?"

She pointed southeast. "About a half-day's walk that way. I should go there tomorrow and see if—"

"No. Stay away from the road."

"Why?"

Khile looked off toward the ocean. "The way the high king's men pursued us on Aberdour, it's not likely they'll give up the chase so easily. That wasn't a conquest back there. It was annihilation. And if they're dead set on finishing the job then they will come with ships of their own. We need to stay away from populated—" he winced as pain stabbed his leg, "—areas."

Lia looked him over and noticed for the first time how pale and weak he looked. His lips were chapped and his long blond hair lay strewn about his head like the tangled brambles of a tree after a storm.

"You need help," she said. "I can't move you anywhere on my own."

"Just stay away from the road. If anything happens to you—"

"I know how to be careful. I'm not stupid."

"Like you were careful when that brood came to the cottage?"

Lia's mind ignited with memories of Thomas and Abigail's murder, how she had ran out of the barn to their sides and tried to defend them to no avail. The memories made her face flush with anger and she jumped to her feet.

"I was trying to help them," she snapped.

"Some good it did. You'd be dead right beside them if it wasn't for me."

She glared at him, lips taut, wishing for something sharp to say. She came up with nothing, and kicked him in the splint. Khile bellowed and grabbed his leg, falling over onto his side as she stormed away. He called after her, but she ignored him, not wanting him to see the tears streaming down her reddened cheeks.

She wove her way east through the tall grass of the hillsides once again, wondering what someone like him could possibly understand about friendship.

"He's the one with the shackles on his feet," she blurted to no one in particular.

She walked until she saw the moon on the horizon, yellow and bulbous. The first stars were pricking through the darkening turquoise vault while the west was draining of its brilliant sunset colors.

Lia stopped, feeling bereft. She wondered how the sunset looked in Aberdour right now, if the sky was as beautiful as it was here. She wondered if her sisters were still there, or if they had been captured. Were they even still alive? Was anyone?

The gentle breeze that had been rustling the grass all day quieted for a moment, just long enough for the sound of trickling water to reach her ears. Newly distracted, Lia worked her way down a small gully of rock until she found a deep rill cutting its way through the hills. She filled the leather canteen and climbed back out.

By the time Lia returned to the shade tree, Khile had a small fire started. She moved toward it, welcoming the warmth that staved off the chill of the oncoming night.

She handed the water pouch to Khile, who slurped gratefully.

Lia sat down across from him. Taking the ripped shirt she had found on the beach, she began tearing it into long, thin strips of fabric with the aid of the dead sailor's dagger.

Khile set the canteen down and watched her for a moment. "I apologize for what I said. I was insensitive. You've been through a lot these last couple days, but you're strong despite all you've lost."

She didn't look at him at first, but she couldn't deny that his words had brought some measure of comfort. When she did look at him, she was struck by how closely he resembled her father. It wasn't so much a physical quality, though he did carry the same rugged handsomeness that her father did, but something in the way he looked at her. Respect, perhaps.

"I'm sorry I kicked you in the leg," she said.

He wagged his head. "I deserved it, I suppose."

"How does it feel?" she asked.

"Like hellfire in a bucket."

"What can I do?"

He reclined on his elbows, his breathing heavy. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth in pain. "I don't know. Talk or something."

"Talk?"

"Yeah, just keep me from thinking about this." He winced again, baring his teeth. "But, please, no more about how many hacks it takes to behead a man."

Lia thought for a moment, wondering what there was left that she could talk about.

After a moment, he said, "Tell me about your home. It's not every day that I get to talk with a princess."

"What's there to say? My home was a big piece of rock. Some people called it a castle. To me it was a place where I had to learn a bunch of stuff I didn't care about and act like someone I didn't want to be." She went back to tearing the fabric.

"That's a strange attitude to have toward a privileged life," he said.

"You sound like my mother."

Khile smiled. "I bet there was at least one thing you liked about living in Aberdour's castle."

Her mind drifted away as picture memories of Aberdour filled her thoughts—silver tapestries alongside a warm hearth; the smells of supper cooking in the kitchen; her mother's humming drifting down stone corridors.

"The waterfalls," she said at last. "I loved the waterfalls."

Khile sat up a bit, an obvious interest rising in his expression. "Ah, the Falls of Edhen? One of the most marvelous natural wonders in the realm."

"They towered over the castle. You could see them for leagues and leagues. I used to climb the rocks and go behind them."

"Caves?"

Lia's eyes lit up. "Lots of caves! And tunnels, filled with big bats and lizards."

"Sounds wonderful."

Lia began weaving some of the fabric pieces together.

Khile pointed to her neck. "What's that?" he asked.

Lia looked down and noticed that the lapel of her tunic had been torn. The fabric of her collar had pulled away, revealing a pinkish-brown smear along the left side of her collarbone. Reflexively, Lia covered it up. She'd always thought the mark was ugly.

"It's nothing," she said. "Just a–a birth mark." Hoping he wouldn't detect her evasiveness, she changed the subject. "So what are we going to do?"

Khile reclined onto his back and rubbed his eyes. "Let's figure that out tomorrow."

Lia continued tearing the shirt into long strips. "If I can get to the road, I can—"

"No," Khile said. He sat back up and gave her a quelling frown. "Listen, you are still a princess of Aberdour. Your life is worth more than you know. We'll get out of here, I know we will, but please stay away from the road. We'll figure it out in the morning."

He lay down and closed his eyes.

Inside, Lia fumed. Khile might have reminded her of her father, but, ultimately, her father he was not. He had no right to tell her what to do. She saved his life in the storm, paddled them to shore, set his leg, and found herbs to help with his injuries. She knew how to take care of herself, and, in fact, she had already done so, saving the life of another in the process.

As she finished tearing up the shirt, she became more and more determined to prove him wrong. She decided that she would wake before dawn and go and find help before he could protest. Then he'd have nothing to say about it.

Lia took one of the long strips of fabric and used it to secure a few of the thick leaves she'd discovered to the sole of her right foot. She added another strip, and then tied it off around her ankle. The shoe looked ridiculous, but Lia had to admit it was quite the invention. Birch bark worked better, she knew, but her leafy adaptation would have to suffice. Abigail would've been proud.

When Lia awoke at the crack of dawn, she winced from the root that had dug into her ribs during the night. Her hair felt matted and gross, and she could still taste salt on her lips. She stood quietly, added some small branches to the campfire, and pocketed some of the alfalfa and remaining strips of fabric.

She took one step away from the campsite to leave when Khile's voice broke the morning stillness, startling her, "Don't forget this."

When she looked at him, she saw his outstretched arm handing her the leather canteen. She took it, noticing that his face looked even whiter.

"Be careful," he said. "Look for wagons with families, women and children, but stay away from men traveling alone, and any soldiers, be they Efferousians or not."

Lia assured him she would be careful.

And like a gust of wind she took off, bounding through the grass, delighted to find that her makeshift shoes of fabric and leaves held up quiet well. She snaked her way down hillsides and up through shallow ravines, noticing that the terrain became more difficult the further away from the ocean she got.

Around midday she came across a stream running clear and chill. She followed its outward curve until it widened into a calm pool. There she waded out into its shallow depths and rinsed her glistening face. Above, a light brown morning dove gave a soft, drawn-out lament.

Lia caught her reflection in the water and noticed the torn lapel of her tunic that exposed the birthmark along her left collarbone. She took a strip of fabric out of her pocket and tied it around her neck like a scarf. She couldn't say the tattered brown strip looked any more attractive than her hideous birthmark, but it seemed to her to be the lesser of two evils.

She forged ahead through the woods, navigating like her father had taught her—pick a landmark straight ahead and walk toward it. Pick another and walk toward it. And so on. Eventually the forest emptied out into an emerald green field cut in half by a dusty dirt trail.

She thought little of encountering trolls or dragons or giant snakes and spiders. At least, she tried to.

For a while Lia stuck close to the perimeter of the forest as she followed the road south. Once the trees thinned and the earthy terrain gave way to steep rocks and sand, she was forced to stop. The road, however, continued south through a rocky pass.

Across the road, beyond a copse of squat, brambly trees, she noticed a trickle of smoke rising into the air. After checking to make sure no other travelers were near she sprinted across.

Lia wove her way through a narrow wood of thick trunked trees and crossed a rocky ford. On the other side, she hunkered herself down low and peered up over a mossy embankment. Stretching out before her was a flat valley of tilled fields occupied by a ramshackle barn. A solid stone farmhouse sat to the left, situated at the lip of a plateau that overlooked a wooded valley.

The trail of smoke she had seen lifted from a pig roasting on a spit. The sight of it suddenly made Lia aware of how painfully hungry she was.

She climbed up over the bank and hurried toward the dilapidated barn where she could smell the pig cooking, an aroma that made her stomach clench and her taste buds salivate. She worked her way toward the roasting meat, keeping a sharp eye on her surroundings. Apart from the crackling of the fire and a few distant birds, she heard nothing.

Lia withdrew the knife she'd taken from the dead sailor and ran up to the pig. She sliced off a handful of meat from a well-cooked portion of thigh and hurried back behind the barn to indulge herself. The pork was thick and juicy, a little overcooked on the outside, but she didn't care. She downed it in a few gulps, smiling with satisfaction.

It occurred to her just then that she had never stolen food before. She'd swiped a few pastries from the castle's kitchen once or twice, but never had she taken food that belonged to someone else. It probably would have bothered her more had she not been so desperate.

Lia figured she should slice off a hunk of meat for Khile. Unsheathing the knife, she peaked out around the corner of the barn.

Staring back at her was a crossbow held in the steady grip of an old man with short white hair. He eyed her with the certainty of a marksman and the steady hands of an avid hunter.

He spoke, but his language was that of Efferous, which Lia had never heard before.

He repeated his words, but this time made a motion with his crossbow for her to come out from behind the barn. She stepped forward, making no effort to hide her fear. She lifted her hands and dropped the knife.

The man looked her up and down, appearing puzzled. He relaxed a little, and then said something else while gesturing toward his pig. She gathered that he knew she had stolen some meat. His words, she figured, were a verbal scolding.

Behind him an elderly farmwife appeared from behind the cottage in a long brown dress and a funny white hat that fit snugly over her ears. She said something to the man to which he responded with a word that sounded like, "Bah!" They began to argue.

"I'm sorry," Lia finally said. "I didn't want to steal, but I–I was so..." Her voice trailed off when she noticed them staring at her like she had seaweed slipping out of her nose.

The man strode up to her, his expression now one of confusion and anger. "You Edhen?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm from Edhen."

"Edhen?" the woman repeated. She then burst into a rambling tattle of words that made no sense and appeared to have no end. She pointed at Lia, gestured with her arms to the rocky western hills, and grew redder in the face.

The old man looked to the old woman and lifted his hand, pleading with her in a different tongue to be quiet. Once she had calmed, he said to Lia, "You must go."

Lia shook her head. "Please, sir, I need your help. My friend is hurt. He is—"

"I said go!" the old man said again, but his voice had little conviction. "Edhen is trouble here. We cannot have you."

"But he'll die!" Lia said, and in an instant her story rushed out of her. Whether he understood all of her words or not, she didn't care. She unloaded everything on the old man, the attack on Aberdour, the shipwreck, and Khile's broken leg. Tears welled in her eyes as she spoke, which embarrassed her, but she ignored them and told the old man about Sir Komor Raven who had killed two people that she loved very much and how her life goal now was to find this man and kill him even if it takes her the rest of her life.

Having exhausted her words, Lia fell silent.

The old woman shook her head in continuing refusal, threw up her hands and stormed off, muttering to the old man in their strange language.

The old man put his hands in the pockets of his brown vest and sighed long and loud. His expression had grown sympathetic, but he still seemed resistant to the idea of helping her.

At last he said to her, "You go now."

Like a rock, her hope fell from her chest. Lia stood there gaping at him as he strolled away, wondering how anyone could be so cold. She guessed the old man would've been more sympathetic to her situation had it not been for his wife. Her disdain for the people of Edhen was evident.

Lia kicked at the ground as she walked away in defeat.

"Wait," came the voice of the old man.

Lia spun around, her eyes darting to him like hot coals.

He sauntered over to her, chewing his cud. "Your friend. How far?"

Lia's eyes softened a trifle, and she motioned northwest. "About a half day's walk that way."

The old man drew in a slow, pensive breath. When he spoke again, he said, "Follow me."

# BRAYDEN

"Dana!" Brayden called. "He's back."

Sliding out from under the shady covering of evergreen branches that he had woven together, Brayden crossed to the other side of the sun-dappled glade. The tall grass tugged at the fraying pant legs of his slacks, the hems of which were filthy and torn.

Seven days had passed since he had watched with horror as the ocean storm ripped Lia's ship apart, and four days since Khalous had sent Pick to search for survivors who may have washed ashore.

Pick plopped himself down on the grass. His face was sunburned and peeling, his cream colored tunic mottled with sweat stains and new smears of dirt.

"Water!" Khalous said.

Brayden came alongside Pick at the same time as Dana, Ariella, and a gregarious Efferousian priest named Placidous. He and Sister Ariella had helped several dozen children from Aberdour's orphanages escape during the high king's attack.

Stoneman brought some nearby stream water in a leather-drinking pouch. After Pick had downed several sizeable gulps he offered his short and disheartening report. "Nothing. There were pieces of the ship strewn up and down the sand, broken barrels and empty crates, but that was all."

And like a gust of wind his words extinguished the fire of hope Brayden had harbored in his heart. For days he had prayed to the Allgod that Pick might find Lia washed ashore on a piece of driftwood, or maybe see her footprints leading to a secluded cave where she had taken shelter. She was clever like that, tough, a practical thinker.

"How far did you travel?" Khalous asked.

"Two days fast walk south," Pick answered, unfastening his dingy green cloak to allow his damp tunic a chance to dry. "I came to a hilltop overlooking West Galori. I could see the harbor, but it was another day's walk to get there. Most of the wreckage I found was further north anyway, and I didn't want to risk going into the city."

"That was wise," Khalous said. "The Black King will be dispatching his soldiers to Efferous soon. They'll be searching the cities and towns for survivors." He gestured to Dana. "Our fearless princess here sent out broadwings before she left Aberdour declaring to the realm that the Falls' children were alive and would return."

Pick grinned. "I bet that will piss off His Royal Blackness."

"I'm sorry," Dana said. "I feared that with the fall of Aberdour the rebellion would grow discouraged. I wanted to give them hope."

"No need for apologies, my lady," Khalous said. "You did well. You kindled the flames of the rebellion, but you also stoked the ire of the high king. We all need to stay clear of places where his vipers might search."

"We can' stay 'ere neither," said Stoneman in his usual slurry drawl. "Vipers goin' be searchin' all up and down dem shores. They come 'ere. You wait and see."

Khalous agreed. "We need to move further inland."

"We have too many injured," said Ariella. "At least give them a few more days to heal and rest."

The captain's brows drew in and he scratched his iron colored beard. "Three days, but no more." He put a hand on Pick's shoulder. "Get some rest."

"Yes, sir."

Brayden turned to look at Dana, but she had already peeled herself away from the discussion. He saw her walking back toward her lean-to dabbing her cheeks with her fingers. Her green dress patterned with raised leaves and gold thread, once one of her favorites, hung in shambles off her pale shoulders. One sleeve bore several long tears, exposing her delicate arm, while there was little left of the once tightly braided hem.

He caught up to her under the shade of a giant sugar maple. "Khalous isn't mad at you about the broadwings, Dana. I hope you know that."

He caught her just as she fell into him in an explosion of quiet sobs.

Surprised, Brayden wrapped his arms around her and held her for several moments.

"How much more can we lose, Brayden?" she said. "Bryn, Scarlett, now Lia, too."

Brayden couldn't recall ever seeing his older sister so distraught. Dana was strong, logical, a lover of fine details with a mind as sharp as the best investigator. For as long as he could remember she had been there to take care of him. It felt strange taking care of her.

"If any of us could've found a way to survive a shipwreck like that, it would've been Lia," he said. "She may yet be alive."

To his right Brayden noticed Stoneman approaching Placidous. The muscled soldier tapped the small priest on back. "Do I know you from somewheres," he said, his voice deep and somewhat ominous.

Brayden thought he saw a look of nervousness flash across the priest's face.

"Oh? Well, I have been a member of the church for—"

"Ever been in front of the magistrate?" Stoneman asked.

Brayden saw the priest's throat force down a large lump. "I think you have me confused with someone else." He pushed past Stoneman and wandered over toward Ariella who was making rope out of willow bark. He sat down and began to help her.

"That was odd," Brayden whispered.

Dana picked her head up off his shoulder. "What?"

"Nothing."

With no survivors found from the wreckage of the second ship, the number of refugees stood at twenty-six, a pathetic figure, Brayden thought, when considering almost three times that many had fled Aberdour. There would have been twenty-eight, but two more had died in the storm. One, a six-year-old girl, had been washed out to sea, and the other, a young man, had split his head open against the forward mast.

A man named Alec Craigson had captained their ship. At the first sign of the incoming storm he veered south away from the rocks and into deeper waters, though he had been unable to avoid all of the storm's rage. Once they had reached the western shores of Efferous, Khalous ordered Captain Alec and his crew to take the ship south to keep it from being seen by black vipers.

In the days after hiking inland, Khalous dolled out tasks to everyone, sending some to search for fresh water, others to gather wood for shelters and fire, others to hunt for food. He had placed the orphaned and injured children in the care of Ariella and Placidous.

The survivors of Aberdour now occupied a small camp that had been constructed deep in a forest in northern Advala, the westernmost province in the empire of Efferous. The camp had been built in haste and was exceptionally unsophisticated. They had made a few coverings of forest branches to provide shelter from the sun and rain, and some sleeping mats of leaves for those with minor injuries.

"Make it tight, boy," said Stoneman as he grabbed Brayden's cluster of evergreens and crushed them together. "Now rope it off."

Using a strand of the willow bark rope that Ariella had made, Brayden tied a quick knot around the ends. The sleeping matt was almost complete. It just needed to be wider.

"You knot 'em tight. That's good," Stoneman said. Brayden took it as a sincere compliment, especially from a man whose massive fingers fashioned knots so strong they were immune to even the fiercest storms.

"My grandfather spent lots of time on a ship when he was a boy," Brayden said. He lashed a few more branches together. "He taught Broderick and I how to tie many knots."

"You ever think abou' sailin'?" Stoneman asked, pushing a lock of stringy black hair behind his ear.

Brayden shook his head. "Not really."

"What do yeh think 'bout?"

"My sisters, mostly. Lia, Brynlee, and Scarlett. I worry about her the most. She's only seen five winters, and she can't speak. Brynlee will be all right. She just needs a history book to read and she'll get by." He pictured his seven-year-old sister huddled by the fire pouring over the boring old books she loved so much. "As for Lia," Brayden started to say, but his throat locked. He didn't want to think about what had happened to her.

A little girl walked up to him. She was a tiny thing, around the age of ten, he guessed. She wore a dirty brown and cream-colored dress. He saw the points of maroon boots peeking out from under the hem.

"Lord Brayden," she began in a sweet sounding voice, "can I help you with your work?"

He looked down at the fir branch bedroll he was making. Roping together the branches required strong hands, hands even stronger than his. After a quick glance at the girl's tiny fingers, he knew she wasn't up for the task.

Finally, he said, "Umm, no." He paused, and then added, "But thank you."

The girl stood in front of him for an awkward moment, her hands clasped behind her back. "I'm sorry about your papa and your mama."

He looked up and was struck by how blue her eyes appeared. They were like lakes of sparkling water, piercingly blue, shinning out from a dirty face framed by thick locks of brown hair. When he realized he was staring, he blinked and looked away.

"Oh. Thank you."

She stood there for another moment or two, twisting at her hips. Finally she dipped her head to him and trotted away.

"Ain't tha' all sweet," Stoneman muttered with an amused grin on his chiseled face.

"What?" Brayden asked.

He heard a hushed giggle behind him. Turning, he saw Dana hanging some soiled clothes on a tree branch to dry.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Someone _likes_ you," she said.

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Nairnah Kholoch," Dana answered. "Her father builds..." but she caught herself. "Her father used to build wagons in the east corner of Aberdour. Her mother was a dressmaker. Nairnah said when her father saw Ariella and Placidous heading toward the tunnels with the other orphans he made her go with them."

Brayden tried to make it seem as though such information meant nothing to him, when, in actuality, he had already committed to memory everything Dana had told him. In all his twelve years of life he had never paid much attention to girls, but, for some reason, he suddenly found Nairnah Kholoch very interesting.

Stoneman sprang up from his seat. His heavy boots pounded along the ground as he charged toward Brother Placidous who was standing with Sister Ariella, his hand on her back. When their bodies connected the mountain of muscle sent the priest twisting through the air.

"What in all the hells?" Khalous shouted from across the camp.

Stoneman stood over the terrified priest, who lifted his nimble hands in surrender. "Please! Please don't hurt me."

"Keep 'em paws to yerself, priest," Stoneman growled.

"I–I don't know what you're talking about."

Khalous came between them, warding off the giant soldier who stood a good head above the captain, if not more.

"What's the meaning of this?" Khalous asked.

Stoneman thrust a finger at Placidous whose sprawled position on the ground amidst his brown robes made him look like a puddle of mud. "Keep 'im 'way from'a girls." Without another word he walked off.

"What was that all about?" Dana asked.

"I wish I knew," Brayden said.

He had little time to think about it because in the days ahead Khalous kept him and the older boys busy with a number of duties that afforded him little free time. They hunted for boar and quail. They sought fish in the river to the north and set traps for rabbits and other small forest critters. They lugged water from the river in buckets they had acquired from Alec's ship. They mended garments, built lean-tos, picked healing herbs, and scouted the surrounding hills for signs of civilization.

If Brayden had any time to miss home, his horse Arrow, or his soft bed, it was at night just before numb exhaustion whisked him off to a much-needed sleep. When he dreamed, he dreamed of Aberdour, of the wheat fields newly plowed, of forest streams running clear with spring runoff from the distant heights.

Dana's hand on his shoulder broke up the vision, which ran away like water through his hands. His heart begged to have the dream back.

"I can't find Broderick," Dana said. The worried tone in her voice brought Brayden's attention into a sharp and sudden focus.

He sat up, his squinting lids casting blobs of color before his gaze. Above him, leafy tree branches laced the paling blue of a new dawn.

"Clint's gone, too," Dana added.

Brayden's mind ticked through a dozen different excuses for his half-brother's absence—hunting, fishing, scavenging, exploring—but the fact that Clint was missing too worried him. His cousin was the spoiled child of a woman who had smothered him since birth and a self-absorbed father who went crazy in his last few years of life. Clint was, as Lilyanna had said, "a mischievous imp."

Brayden first went to investigate Broderick's lean-to, though he was unsure of what he could find that Dana hadn't already looked for. Father had always called her a good detective. Her sharp eyes and keen mind missed little.

He lifted Broderick's jacket off the ground. "Wherever he went he wasn't planning to go far," he said.

"Can't believe I missed that," Dana muttered.

Brayden walked to the next shelter where he saw Preston Stonefield squatting over a basin of water. The boy had suspended a leather jacket over a series of sticks he'd stabbed into the earth, forming a bowl in which he could wash his hands. Brayden had known Preston for years and was always impressed by his ingenuity, even if the young man was always a little too pristine and refined to ever be much fun.

"Have you seen Broderick?" he asked.

Preston stood, wetting his wavy brown hair back with his hands. "I saw him and Clint heading off into the woods around dawn."

Dana yelped when an upside down head swung past her ear. "Why didn't you say anything, you halfwit?" it said.

Dana scurried back.

Hanging by his knees from a branch, Preston's twin brother, Ashton, whom everybody simply called Nash, crossed his arms. He looked at his brother. "You saw them headed off and you didn't say anything?"

"They had Pick's bow with them," Preston said. "I thought they were going off to hunt."

"Broderick hates using a bow," Brayden said.

"And Clint couldn't hit a hay bale an arm's width away from him," Dana added.

Nash back flipped out of the tree and cast a curious look at Dana. "I hope you don't talk like that about me when I'm not around." He winked at her.

"You scare me like that again and I'll punch you in the nose," Dana said.

"Did you see where they went?" Brayden asked.

Preston pointed in the general direction of the glade's northern edge. Brayden hurried toward the trees with Dana and the twins in tow.

The four of them continued north, working their way up a gradual hillside packed with aromatic evergreens that, after a ways, spilled out into a sparse forest of maples and white birches.

"'I thought they were going off to hunt,'" Nash repeated. "I can't believe you actually thought those two would be doing something productive."

"Are they not allowed to hunt?" Preston asked.

"And why would they do that? Because they're such responsible, upstanding young men? Have you listened to more than five words out of Clint's mouth lately? That lug can _transna ort felin_!"

"Nash!" Dana scolded.

"Watch your tongue in front of the lady," his brother said.

"Bah!"

The twins had been polar opposites for as long as Brayden had known them. Where Preston liked to be clean and have his leather polished, Nash would roll in the mud and then give his brother a hug just to spite him. They shared little resemblance. Preston was taller, paler, with brighter eyes and wavy hair. Nash kept his hair short, which made it stand straight up on the top of his head. They bickered about everything and exchanged insults like most people swapped jokes.

Brayden continued to lead the way, circumventing a cold fresh-water brook where dragonflies buzzed until he found a narrow place to hop across.

Over the next rise he found Broderick and Clint hovering over a dead fox. The animal lay next to a crude wooden trap—presumably the trap that had caught it—with its head crushed, the evidence of its gruesome demise on a nearby bloody rock. Clint was in the process of gutting it with a short dagger.

"There you are," Dana said, relieved.

"What are you doing?" Brayden asked. He couldn't help but notice that Broderick seemed a little pale, almost nervous.

"Clint caught this yesterday," Broderick said. "He wanted a bow to shoot it with."

Brayden counted the three arrows that had been plunged into the dirt around the wooden trap.

Dana raised an amused eyebrow. "Looks like someone needs to work on their aim."

Clint Brackenrig shot her a dirty look over his husky shoulder, but said nothing.

"Breakfast?" asked Nash.

"This is mine," Clint said. "I caught it. I killed it."

"We have to share, Clint," Brayden said.

"Who says? Khalous? He's your Shield Captain, not mine." The boy's tone was tinged with contempt.

"He saved your life, too," Brayden said. "We all have to rely on each—"

An arrow whisked through the air and struck a white birch trunk near Dana's head. The arrow rattled to a sudden stop, bringing their conversation to an equally abrupt end. Brayden's eyes flitted from the arrow to its source atop an adjacent ridge where he saw Khalous standing, his bow in hand. The captain raised a single finger to his lips.

With obvious caution that made Brayden fearful, Khalous crept his way down into the gap between the hillsides followed by Moreland Fields and Connell Stone. He hiked up to where Brayden and the others were gathered.

"The lot of you bicker loud enough to be heard in Aberdour," he whispered through clenched teeth. He motioned back the way he had come. "There is a road over that ridge with a brood of black vipers riding by."

Khalous' voice carried just enough alarm and anger to make Brayden's heart pump just a little bit faster.

"Their ship probably landed north of us a few days ago," he continued. "They're taking the Merchant's Road to Galori and they'll be all over this province in a few days. We need to move out."

The captain led the way back to camp at a brisk jog. He extinguished the makings of an early fire that Placidous had started. He then informed the priest and Ariella of what he had seen.

"Where are we going to go?" Dana asked.

"The Chapel of Gis," Placidous suggested.

"The what?" asked Pick.

"What Efferousians call Halus Gis. It is where I hail from. It is a community of faithful followers of the Allgod. They will give us shelter."

"A monastery?" Pick asked. "Is it far?"

"Ten days. It is set on the northern cliffs far off the main road. The high king's soldiers are not likely to go there."

"Savages," said Sister Ariella, her tone infused with fear. "Dragon devils. Mountain trolls. That's what lies between us and Halus Gis. The wilds of Efferous are a dangerous—"

"There are no dragon devils this far north," Khalous said. "And most savages dwell inland closer to fresh water. We'll stay close to the shores and the northern cliffs."

"Can we risk moving the wounded?" Pick asked.

"We will have to," Khalous said.

He ordered Pick to scout ahead and ensure that the brood had moved on. He warned him to be careful, reminding him that to be caught by the enemy would mean interrogation, torture, and then death.

"The black vipers will try and get you to confess any information about the whereabouts of the remaining refugees," he said. "If they believe that the children of Kingsley and Lilyanna Falls are still alive there's no telling how far they'll go to find them."

Pick nodded. "For the west."

"For the west," the old captain responded.

Pick took off into the trees, his sinewy legs sailing over the tall grass.

Sister Ariella and Dana began rounding up the children.

Khalous sent Brayden, Broderick, Clint, and the twins to gather as many supplies as they could carry. They rolled blankets packed with roots and herbs and plants for remedies, extra clothes, bandages, and some bread and dried fruit that had been given to them by Captain Alec. They tied off the ends with the willow bark rope and slung the improvised satchels over their shoulders.

"This is so stupid," Clint grumbled as he rolled up his belongings. "We should head for one of the towns."

"Weren't you listening to Khalous," Nash said. "The more populated areas are filled with black vipers, or soon will be."

"Old churl. He was given one task, protect the king and queen, and he failed, so what does that tell you about—"

The beefy hands of Stoneman descended upon Clint like hot anvils. They grabbed him by his shirt collar, spun him around, and lifted him a few inches of the ground.

Clint looked at him like he was some poisonous snake that he had surprised in a place he'd been about to put his hand.

"Take a damn good look at me face, boy," he growled. "See 'at nasty scar 'ere?" He inclined his head to the light to better reveal his left eye where an old gash tore a jagged brown mark along the outside of its socket. "Jackdaws came at meh. Sprung on meh five summers ago in 'em hills south ah Aberdour. Killed two of me mates. Bastards ate one a 'em alive. I watched 'em suck the bones clean as I hid, too damn scared and too damn hurt to move."

Brayden watched with no small measure of delight as the blood drained from Clint's face. He trembled in Stoneman's clutches as the big soldier held him suspended off the floor.

"Jackdaws would'ah ate me up good, too, 'cept for that man out 'ere." He pointed with his chin toward Captain Khalous. Stoneman drew the squirming boy closer toward his ruddy face. "That man you call 'old churl' save' me life and he ain't through savin' yours so yeh best drop down to yer wobbly knees and thank whatever gods yeh pray to that it's him leadin' the ways and not me 'cause he won't think twice 'bout given his life for spoiled rats like yeh, but I would." He lowered Clint back down to the ground. "Next time I hear a disrespecting word come out yer mouth 'bout Khalous Marloch, I'm'a shove my boot in it."

Clint blinked in dumbfounded shock, then snatched up his bedroll and hurried away with a sour expression.

Nash grinned at Stoneman, who stood over all of them like a small tower. "You are my new favorite person," Nash said. "I mean it. Can we be friends?"

Brayden watched Stoneman saunter off, his massive shoulders passing under streams of light cascading through the forest boles. The man was intense, and he carried an obvious chip on his shoulder. First Placidous, then Clint. Brayden wondered whom he might attack next.

Over the next few days the refugees worked their way east, crossed the Merchant's Road, and continued north until they reached the coastal cliffs. The going was hard and uncomfortable with cold winds still churning winter air over the northern countryside.

Five days into their journey they made camp in a cleft of gray rock that sat high on the northern cliffs overlooking the ocean. The company broke up into small groups and huddled around scattered campfires. Exhausted, most of them went to sleep soon after rooting around for rare splotches of soft grass amidst the stony soil.

Lingering by one of the fires, Brayden pulled out his father's dagger. He turned it in the flickering orange light, his eyes roaming the silver blade.

"Where did you get that?" Nash asked. He sat an arm's length away, poking at a few stray embers with the point of a charred stick.

"It was my father's," Brayden said. "I took it from his belt after he died."

Nash looked away, his face growing sad.

"What happened to your parents?" Brayden asked.

"Vipers got them," he intoned. "Killed my brother Franklin, too. Father was inspecting the quarry up by the falls when the enemy flanked the city. The last thing he ever said to me was, 'Run.'" Nash looked down, a look of remorse upon his face. "I should have stayed though. I should've tried to help him, or Franklin, or somebody."

"And you'd be dead, too," Brayden said.

"Maybe, but at least I wouldn't have regrets."

"Regrets?"

Nash didn't look at him, only stared into the dying flames. "I regret being afraid. That's why I didn't do anything. I was too damn afraid."

Brayden hoped Nash hadn't noticed the shiver that ran up his chest and neck. He looked away, trying to hide the fear that lingered in his eyes, fear that had been there all his life.

"Goodnight, my lord," Nash said. He lay down on his back in the grass, flopped an arm over his eyes, and began snoring soon after.

Brayden pulled his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He wished that, for once, the fear in his heart would go away.

When he closed his eyes he found himself hunting partridge with his father in the Aviemore Wood south of the city. He had always hated hunting. For some reason it scared him, the woods, the darkness, the sounds of unseen forest critters. He saw his father creeping through the bushes just ahead, his bow in his hands, arrow notched and ready. Brayden was far behind him, too scared to move. He was always so scared.

Too damn scared.

Ashamed of his own memories, he opened his eyes in hopes of washing them away.

When he looked up he noticed Nairnah watching him. She was lying on the ground in the next group, her back to their campfire, her arm draped protectively over the chest of a young sleeping girl.

When their eyes met, he felt his muscles relax. For a moment, his fear slipped away.

Nairnah, on other hand, seemed terrified that he had caught her looking at him. She shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep.

The voice of Placidous came staggering through the night. "I was only—"

"Shut it!" growled Stoneman.

Brayden turned to see the priest stumbling through the dark, trying not to trip over their sleeping companions.

"What'd I tell yeh 'bout bein' wit' the women?" Stoneman said.

"And I'm telling you, you have me confused with another—"

Stoneman grabbed him by the collar and yanked him in until they were nose-to-nose. "I 'member when yeh stood 'fore the magistrate. Said yeh didn' do it, but we all know what yeh did."

"What's going on?" asked Khalous. "I thought I told you I'd handle this."

Stoneman released the priest. "He was sleepin' near the women, captain—Sister Ariella, Dana, and one of 'em orphans ain't more 'an thirteen."

Watching from his campfire, Brayden strained to hear all their words.

"I thought I made it clear to you that you were to have no interactions with any of the women or girls," Khalous said to the nervous priest.

"My lord, I am just—"

"You're just a womanizing fiend," Khalous said. "Now I don't have time for alleged rapists, so you'll do as I say or you can make your own path home."

"I told you," Placidous began, "and I told the magistrate, it wasn't rape. She turned on me when—"

Stoneman cuffed him in the side of the head just hard enough to shut him up. "Rape or no rape, what's a so-called priest a the Allgod doin' sleepin' wit' women anyway? Ain't 'at against them rules?"

Placidous lifted his hands in surrender. "I am seeking to make amends for my wicked ways. I truly am. I mean no harm to anyone."

"You can make amends all you want," Khalous said, "but you'll do it away from the womenfolk."

"It's cold," the priest said. "We all need to help each other keep warm."

"Stoneman?" Khalous said.

"Sir?"

"How would you like to keep our priestly friend here warm for the remainder of our journey?"

Stoneman flashed a wicked a grin. "Love to, sir." He grabbed Placidous by the nape of his neck and dragged him off to another campfire.

Brayden flinched when he noticed Khalous look his way. He spun around, but he knew he had been spotted. Behind him he heard the crunching of the captain's boots. He sauntered up to the fire where he stopped next to Brayden and sat down on the grass.

Khalous dropped another log on the flames and stoked it with the toe of his boot.

"I'm supposing you heard most of that," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Best to keep it to yourself for now. I don't know the whole story, and it's none of my business really. I just want to keep everyone calm and safe until we get to the monastery."

Brayden agreed.

"Sir, can I ask a question?"

"Yes."

"What's going to happen to us?"

Khalous inhaled long and deep and then exhaled just as slow. His gaze drifted upward toward the stars and he thought for a while before saying, "I'm still trying to figure that out. You and your brother will be men soon, and Dana, well, she's a woman now. It's time the lot of you learn to make your own lives. But there's a part of me that..." but he left his last sentence hanging.

"Sir?"

"I want to teach you to fight," Khalous said. "I made a promise once, and I've never broken a promise my whole life, but keeping this promise means doing some rather extraordinary things, and I'm just not sure that's the best thing to do right now."

"You made a promise to who?"

Khalous looked at him. "Your father. I promised him... well, it doesn't matter what I promised him. The point is, I need to take care of you, and the only way I know how to do that is teaching you how to defend yourself."

Brayden felt his stomach growing anxious at the mention of learning to fight. He knew how to swing a sword and aim a bow, but he had never seen combat, nor did he want to.

"What do you mean 'fight?'" he asked. "Fight who?"

"The Black King," the captain said matter-of-factly.

Brayden's stomach did a summersault up into his throat where it stayed for a moment or two.

Khalous patted him on the knee. "Don't worry about it now, my prince. Rest. We've a long journey ahead of us tomorrow."

The captain's retreating footsteps failed to overpower the nervous thumping of Brayden's own pulse. Like most boys throughout the realm he had long admired the valiant knights of Aberdour and the famous soldiers of history, but he had never imagined what it would be like to become one, and he didn't want to.

He let his eyes wander to the sky above, a dark navy blanket rupturing with thousands of gleaming stars. For a moment he imagined he was back in Aberdour, reclining in the grass of the castle's courtyard, or perched in the window of one of its many turrets, gazing up at the sky. He imagined there was no Black King, and that there had been no invasion.

And for a moment he didn't feel afraid.

# MEREK

Malium. Merek hated this part of the empire. The entire region was a sandy wasteland of mostly barren soil occupied by a diverse range of strange natives.

Unlike the other ten provinces of Efferous, Malium, a southeastern bubble of the continent, had nothing to offer anyone except sand, miserable heat, illegal games, ugly people, and slavery.

The locals of Malium disgusted him even more. They were an immodest and superstitious lot, adorning their bodies with obscene amounts of piercings and jewelry while covering themselves in fabrics that wouldn't be considered clothing anywhere else in the world. Most of the locals lived in villages on the southern outskirts of the region, but they often conglomerated around larger cities where they would mooch off travelers and slave traders.

Merek looked down from his horse at the disgusting rabble of native Efferousians crowding the road.

"If Efferous were a donkey, Malium would be its ass," he quipped.

Riding next to him in a long cloak and hood, his head shielded from the sun, Patryk chuckled. "So what does that make us?"

Merek kept a tight watch on his purse as he and Patryk meandered their horses into a city called Slavigo, which sat on Malium's western border. Crude in its design, Slavigo was a sprawling place built in a rush by greedy men so eager to turn a profit that they never considered how to erect a proper city. The streets were narrow and dizzying, the buildings were lopsided and short—nothing was taller than two stories.

Merek followed Patryk deep into the heart of Slavigo, the hooves of their horses scything the sand and stone road. After some time the closely-knit buildings gave way to a broad fighting arena that overlooked a two-story hole in the ground. Men fought men. Men fought beasts. Beasts fought each other. And no event was more popular than the enorbear fights. The massive, bear-like animals were imported from Edhen. After their gentle spirits had been crushed, they were turned into vicious fighting machines, an exotic spectacle for bloodthirsty tourists.

"Tell me we're not meeting here," Merek said as he dismounted his ill-tempered horse. Patryk had loaned him the beast, which hadn't proven to be the best-trained or most intelligent animal, although it was certainly well aged.

"What's wrong with The Pit?" Patryk asked.

"Is that what they call it?"

Cages filled with exotic animals lined the front of the arena. There was a large cat with brown spots that looked malnourished and afraid. It growled at Merek as he passed. The cage next to it contained a wingless dragon, about the size of a large dog, with an iguana's head encased in a leather and metal muzzle.

"What's that for?" asked a man perusing the cages.

"So he don' spit at yeh," said the beast master. "Burn right through yer flesh, it will."

"See that?" Patryk said, pointing over Merek's shoulder to a white tower in the distance. To his amazement, it stood higher than two stories. The whitewashed stone gleaned in the sun brighter than any of the beige buildings around it. "That's where we're headed."

Patryk greeted a large brown-skinned man at the entrance to the arena. He wore a slim leather vest that exposed his muscled arms and chest. They embraced, hand-to-hand, shoulder-to-shoulder, and Merek saw the brown man whisper something into Patryk's ear. His friend then motioned for Merek to follow.

A two-story wood and sandstone arcade encircled The Pitt through which spectators gazed down at the dirt battlefield below. The arcade itself was stifling, uncomfortably dark, and crowded with a mob of gamblers and crooks.

Merek found himself reaching for his purse just to ensure it was still there.

A monstrous roar ripped through the arena. The sound startled Merek and excited the throng of onlookers who crowded toward the open archways of the arcade. Through a gap in the crowd Merek saw a massive brown animal, twice the height of a man, walking on its hind legs toward its opponent. It had the head of a bear, only it was several times larger.

Curious, Merek inched closer to the balcony to get a better look. In the arena below he saw two enorbears circling each other like titans of ancient lore. The oversized bears growled through angry teeth, glared through narrow black eyes, and swiped at each other with thick claws.

Merek turned away, disgusted by the spectacle. On Edhen, the enorbear was considered a sacred animal, and though Merek had never been one to subscribe to the religions of his homeland, an engrained sense of respect for the enorbear had been passed on to him nonetheless. Enorbear fights were illegal on Edhen, and for the first time Merek found himself wishing they were illegal on Efferous as well.

"This way," Patryk said.

He led Merek down a narrow flight of stairs lit only by stark shafts of sunlight that pierced through the cracks in the wooden walls.

Patryk stopped him on the landing where they were as far away from listening ears as they could be in the cramped pit. "Now listen. I know you're excited, but there's something you've got to understand."

"I'm not going to like what you have to say, am I?" Merek said.

"The man who owns Awlin is a nobleman by the name of Adairous Dolar. He's the, uh, same man that I owe money to. He's here today betting on the fights and then he's going to the slave auction. This is our best chance of sneaking into his place and plundering his vault."

Merek held up his hands. "Wait. You want to rob the very man you owe money to? Are you off your feed?"

"You don't understand. This man has so much gold he won't know that the money I'm paying him with came from his own vault."

Merek shook his head in disapproval. Then he shrugged. "What do I care? So what are we doing here?"

"I wanted to make sure that Adairous was, in fact, really here, and I also wanted to prove to you that I wasn't lying about Awlin."

Merek's interested piqued. "You mean she's here?"

"We don't have much time," Patryk said. "So I'll let you say hi to your long lost sis, but then we need to leave. I swear to you we'll come back and get Awlin. Understand?"

"Where is she?" Merek asked.

"Do you understand?" Patryk said with careful enunciation.

Merek stepped back and regarded him through a taut visage. "Yes. Now where is she?"

Merek followed Patryk's instructions and descended deeper into The Pit, relived to find the first underground arcade significantly cooler, although no less crowded.

The enorbears were tall enough that their heads floated level with the feet of the second story spectators. The two beasts continued roaring and swatting at each other, tearing out tufts of fur and flesh in bloody streaks.

Merek walked down a long row of cages that lined the outer walls of the arcade. The first cage contained two copper-skinned male slaves in loin clothes and shackles. The second cell contained a much larger group of male slaves, some lying down on the rock floor, others seated on metal cots. They looked like good stock for wealthy landowners in need of farmers and woodsmen.

Merek wasn't surprised to find the third cage filled with scantily clad young women. Once those who had made bets on the fights had claimed their money, they'd be ready to purchase a slave, if not for business than for pleasure. He moved his eyes from one frightened feminine face to the next, dreading the moment when he recognized Awlin among them. Fortunately, such a moment never came. He exhaled with relief.

With clammy hands he moved onto the fourth cell. What stared back at him from the far wall was a face he remembered more vividly than any other. Her green eyes hadn't changed, neither had her tiny frame or dirty blonde hair, although it was a bit longer than he'd seen it last, and far more unkempt. She was clad in a dirty brown shift, roped at the waist and tattered at the hem.

When he said her name, her eyes shot upwards and pierced him like daggers.

She rose to her feet, eyes welling with tears of disbelief and joy. "Merek?"

He nodded, a single dip of his head that brought the girl sprinting toward him. She plunged her arms through the bars of the cell and wrapped him in the sweetest embrace he had ever known. For a moment, Merek could do nothing but hold her.

"I can't believe I finally found you," he whispered. "I've been looking for so long."

"I thought you were dead," she said. "After the match, back in Turnberry, they said you had been dishonored. They said the blood march had killed you."

Merek shook his head. "We'll talk about that later. I'm here to get you out."

"Thank the Allgod," Awlin breathed.

"I just need you to wait a little bit longer," he said. "I have a job I have to do, but I'll return before dark. I swear it."

Awlin's hands clutched his shirt through the bars of the cell, holding him in place. "You can't go."

Merek touched her face, cupping her smooth cheek, wishing he had the strength to rip the cell door off its hinges. "I won't be gone long."

"No. You don't understand," Awlin said. "If you don't get me out of here now you won't find me again."

"What do you mean?"

"Adairous is selling me after the fight. He says I betrayed him. He's going to tell the crowd that–that I'm a..." Her words become lost in her hesitancy.

"You're a what?"

"It doesn't matter. There's no telling where I'll be carted off to."

All at once Merek's world came crashing down. On one side of a wall of dark metal bars he saw his sister; on the other side was a friend who was desperate for his help. He clenched the bars in his hands, battling with the choices that lay before him.

"Please," Awlin said. "Don't leave me."

Merek pictured Patryk waiting for him outside, anxiously digging at the ground with the toe of his boot. He hated to let him down, but Awlin couldn't wait.

"All right," Merek said. "Where is your master?"

"Adairous? Probably on the ground floor. He likes to watch the fights up close."

"Let me go talk to him. I'll—"

"No!" Awlin blurted. "It's impolite to interrupt him during a match. He'll have you thrown out."

And yet another reason Merek hated Malium. It seemed to be where the pompous and the wealthy gathered to waste their riches on gambling and whores.

A hand latched onto Merek's arm and pulled him away from the cell. "All right, time to go," said Patryk. "The fight's almost over."

Right then half the crowd booed as the other half cheered. Merek could only assume that one of the bears had finally been killed. A moment later the arcades of The Pit became a hub of greedy joy and despair as some men collected their winnings and others gave away their fortunes.

"We need to leave," Patryk said.

"No. I'm sorry. We'll have to do it later."

"Haha. You're funny. Let's go."

Merek grabbed Patryk by the arm. "Adairous is going to sell Awlin. If I don't get her out of here now I may not have a second chance."

Patryk grit his teeth and stamped his foot. "I knew it!" He stepped toward Merek, shoving a single finger in his face. "I knew you'd back out."

"I'm not backing out. I will help you. We'll do it—"

Patryk threw his hands up in the air. "I'm a dead man. Thanks to you I am now a walking dead man."

"I said I would help you, and I will, but I—"

"If I don't get that pig-nosed bastard his money today then he's going to take in flesh what I owe him." Patryk was sweating, and far too frazzled to think clearly.

"Relax. He will get his money," Merek said. "You just need to get out of here. Find a place to lie low and wait. Meet me at the—"

"Never mind. I'll do it myself." Patryk wheeled around and began pushing his way through the crowd. "Thanks for nothing," he called over his shoulder.

"Patryk!" Merek shouted. "Just wait!"

But his friend didn't stop, and before long he disappeared in the dark, cramped mob of the stifling arcade.

A hefty brute with thick arms and an even thicker neck shoved Merek aside. In his hand rattled a ring of black keys, one of which he applied to Awlin's cell door.

"I want to buy her," Merek said, pushing his voice above the commotion in The Pit.

Customarily bidding wasn't open until the slaves were presented to the crowd, but Merek knew it wasn't unheard of for deals to be struck behind the scenes.

"Did you hear me?" he pressed. "I said I want to buy—"

The brute pushed Merek aside with the cell door as he swung it open. "Biddin' starts in the arena," he said in lazy Efferousian.

Entering the cell, the brute clamped a pair of wrist cuffs on Awlin and escorted her below to the arena floor.

Wrist cuffs. The appearance of them at this juncture was not a good sign, Merek knew. At an auction such as this slaves wore shackles at all times unless they were one of two things: highly valued or prostitutes. In these cases their masters didn't want their skin damaged by the chaffing of metal bands and so shackles often weren't applied until they were brought out for bidding. Awlin, he feared, was not about to be sold cheap.

The arena floor had been cleaned of the enorbear carcass, its spilled blood raked into the dirt. The battle's champion had been escorted away to some secluded chamber to lick its wounds.

Over the next several moments The Pit was transformed from a barren dirt floor ring to a showcase for slaves complete with a wooden presentation platform.

The most able bodied of the male slaves were stripped to the waist, lean muscles showing under clean-scrubbed flesh. The women were draped in long white shifts and nothing else, hair pulled back, beautiful faces exposed.

A male caller in a vested red and gold tunic hiked up onto the platform, his generous belly limping over his thighs as he climbed the steps.

Merek pushed his way through the crowd gathering on the arena floor. He tallied in his head the amount of gold and silver pieces in his purse, but he knew it wasn't enough. With deft fingers he lifted a leather moneybag from under the purple cloak of a rich looking citizen, and then took a velvet pouch from the belt of a well-dressed man. Both purses contained a mixture of silver and gold with some copper, but it didn't look like enough to buy a female pleasure slave.

The crowd started jeering and Merek's eyes darted toward the stage where a quivering man in peasant's clothes was escorted up onto the platform by a local enforcer of the law.

"Make it quick," said the caller in the red tunic.

The lawman pushed the peasant in front of a waist-high wooden box. He then shoved the man's hands through two round holes in the top and chained them in place. The front of the box was open, exposing the peasant's vulnerable fingers as they dangled below.

"No! No! Please, n–n–no!"

The lawman turned a crank that activated two barbed wooden rollers within the box that rose up and consumed the twitching fingers. Wails of agony exploded from the peasant's mouth as his hands were crushed in the mutilating device.

Black money. That was the name given to silver and gold pieces that had been debased by men hoping to outsmart the system. The peasant had likely been caught trimming silver coins or trying to pass off various other ores as the real deal. When he lifted his broken, bloody fingers from the box it was clear that he would never be able to do such careful work again.

"Get him off my stage!" the caller said, and the lawman dragged the peasant away.

"Nice to see justice served," said a man to Merek's right.

He looked and saw a tall, well-groomed nobleman in a red cloak and a gold shirt with silk brocade sleeves.

"People like him waste their lives shaving such little bits of gold and silver off coins. It hardly amounts to, what, an extra rosi or two?" He spoke in perfect Efferousian, the product of a refined and expensive education.

"They should hang the dog," Merek said in the best Efferousian accent he could muster, which was all but flawless.

The auction started and moved at a good pace, beginning with the male slaves and finishing with the women. Each man was asked to face front, turn around, lift his arms, and squat to ensure that he was more than just a handsome specimen. Meanwhile the caller would shout out information regarding the slave's age, physical abilities, health, looks, skills, and education. The women were put through a similar display, but not always with their clothing on.

Merek felt his heartbeat growing faster as Awlin's turn came up. If they stripped her naked before the crowd he doubted he could resist rushing up onto the stage and carrying her off. He'd be a dead man if he tried.

Even more disturbing was the high price of slaves in Slavigo. The male slaves sold for the equivalent of a commoner's yearly wages, which wasn't a stretch for the wealthy bidders in the crowd. Women, on the other hand, were going for two-to-four times that amount depending on their skills, and, more importantly, their beauty.

"There's a lovely one, isn't it," remarked the nobleman as Awlin stepped up onto the stage.

Merek wanted to punch him.

Awlin looked nervous, her eyes scanning the crowd for Merek, but he made no move to catch her attention. He didn't want her noticing him and becoming even more agitated than she already was.

"We have here a foreign woman, as is evident by her lovely blonde hair. A rarity, gentlemen," the caller said with a grin, deriving a few approving sounds from the crowd. "Brown eyes. Don't see many like those around here. She speaks Tangmuta and Efferousian. A gifted cook and nursemaid."

Merek liked what he was hearing. The announcer's description of Awlin painted her as a simple girl, someone who was being sold as a homemaker or a caretaker of children. Perhaps she would sell for cheaper than he was expecting.

"Her name is Awlin," the caller continued. "She was educated in the kingdom of Turnberry in the realm of Edhen. And her previous owner wishes me to point out the fact that," he paused for effect, "she is a virgin."

And just like that the tables turned. The red-blooded lust of the male bidders rose high while Merek's hopes plummeted. If any kind of slave could raise the stakes at an auction it was a beautiful virgin woman.

The nobleman to Merek's right raised his hand and doubled the current bid.

Merek couldn't wait any longer. He raised his hand and shouted, "Four rosdium." That was four year's worth of wages for the average commoner, and Merek knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he didn't have that much money with him.

Without missing a beat the handsome nobleman upped the price by half.

Merek's eyes locked with Awlin's. She looked at him, her expression frozen in silent plea.

"Let's see her!" came a shout from somewhere in the audience. "Take her clothes off!"

The caller chuckled. "Someone doesn't know the rules." A few others in the crowd laughed with him. "Such a virgin as this foreign beauty cannot be exposed to you disgusting lot," he joked. "No, her gifts are all for her buyer alone."

A man up in the second level of the arcade called down a price that made Merek's skin go cold.

The rich nobleman raised it.

Merek threw up his hand and said, "Three pupium." It was a price worthy of twelve rosdiums, three times more than Merek's last bid.

The man in the second level arcade outbid him again, but not by much. Merek took it as a sign that he had reached his limit.

The nobleman bid again. "Sorry, my friend," he said to Merek. "I do love those foreign virgin ladies."

Merek wanted to offer a higher price, but he knew it was pointless. Even if he did win the bid for Awlin he would find nothing but trouble when he attempted to collect her without enough money.

The bidding ended and Awlin was escorted off the stage. The nobleman moved forward to collect his prize, his satisfied smirk still planted across his face.

Merek followed him, half wanting to kill him, but knowing there would be no escaping that kind of crime in a crowded place like The Pit.

The nobleman ordered Awlin's shackles removed and then kissed her hand. "Such precious skin should never be calloused by chains," he said.

With so few options before him, Merek decided to play the only card he could think of.

"Sir?" he said, reaching out for the man's golden sleeve.

The nobleman whipped around and regarded Merek with a sly grin. "Ah, yes, the man I outbid. Don't tell me you're a sore loser."

"I implore you, please, she is my sister. I beg you to let her go." Merek didn't believe that sentimentality would work on the nobleman, but he figured it was worth a shot.

For a moment the man looked at Merek with a kind of curious sympathy. He looked touched, even, but not for long. He pulled Awlin close to his side and pushed past Merek, his sly grin returning.

"So sorry for you," he said, his voice flat. "But I want what I bought. You may go away now."

"Merek?" Awlin whimpered as the nobleman led her away.

"You do not speak to him," the man scolded.

For a moment Merek could do nothing but gape after them, unwilling to accept that he had come so close to his sister only to be stopped by a selfish, unreasonable man. No, this couldn't end here. He wouldn't let it.

Merek's hand went to the pocket of his tunic that contained the six broken shards of the regenstern. Before he had completely processed what he was considering, he followed after the nobleman once again. He caught up with him in the bottom level of the arcade. Scooting in front of him, he blocked his path.

"Will you take one of these?" he said, offering the man the gem.

When the nobleman's eyes fell upon the milky white stone he became transfixed. His eyes moved from the gem to Merek, where he held his gaze for an uncomfortably long time. "Is that what I think it is?"

"A regenstern," Merek said. "From Edhen."

The nobleman reached out and took the gem as gently as if it were an infant. He turned it in his hands, devouring the sparkling rainbow in its core with his eyes. In case it wasn't enough, Merek offered him another.

"How many do you have?" the nobleman said, taking the second gem.

"I cannot part with them all," Merek said. "Two is the most I can give you."

The man thought for a moment as he held Merek's gaze. He seemed to be looking beyond his expression for an answer hidden in his mind.

"I require four," the nobleman said. "Four, and your sister is yours once more."

Without hesitation Merek reached into his pocket and withdrew two other pieces of the gem. He handed them to the nobleman whose eyes and smile widened. The man turned and walked away without another word.

And then Merek and Awlin were left standing alone in the dark, stuffy arcade. Merek looked at his sister, finally free after so many years. When she threw herself into him, he scooped her up into his arms and held her tight.

"Thank you! Thank you!" she cried, kissing his cheek and squeezing him even tighter.

"I'm so sorry I didn't come sooner," Merek said. "I tried, Awlin. For years, I tried. I looked for you—"

But she shushed him. "It wasn't your fault, brother. You don't need to be sorry for what was beyond your control. It's over now. And we're together again."

Merek realized that perhaps Awlin didn't know why she had been kidnapped. Perhaps her captors never explained to her that she was taken because of him. For years he had longed to have many conversations with his sister, but revealing the truth about his crimes, his selfishness, and how they had led to her imprisonment, wasn't one of them.

She beamed at him, her eyes crinkling. "We will go home now?"

He took Awlin by the hand and said, "Right now I need to get you somewhere safe."

Merek felt relieved when, at last, they exited the bleak enclosure of The Pit. Awlin was a pleasure to look at in the midday sun, the play of light and shadow across her features, the shine and spring of her hair, the gleam of her bright green eyes.

He led her to the grumpy old mare, thankful that Patryk had at least left the horse. He mounted and pulled Awlin up behind him and then set off toward the white tower that Patryk had pointed out earlier.

A tremendous rush of urgency surged through his chest. He hoped he could stop Patryk before his friend did anything too stupid.

On the corner of the next intersection, Merek saw a large wooden board building with a sign that read _Wanderer's Rest_ , an inn that sat diagonally to the crossing streets. Slowing his horse he approached the building's front and handed Awlin a purse of coins. He helped her down off the horse and started to give her instructions to rent a room and wait for him, but she shook her head.

"No. I don't want to leave you."

"I'll be back soon. You'll be safe here. Just stay inside the room."

"Merek!"

"I'm sorry, Awlin, but I have to do this."

In his head, Merek cursed Patryk for putting him in this position. Leaving Awlin alone was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn't take her back to the estate of the very same man who had just sold her. She would have to wait while he attempted to talk his friend out of doing something incredibly stupid—if it wasn't already too late.

He swung his horse around and galloped north. It took less time to reach the estate than Merek expected.

Like all other structures in Slavigo, the buildings of Adairous Dolar's extravagant and portentous villa stood only two stories high, with the exception of the tower, which appeared to be little more than a decorative lookout.

Large and luxurious, the property consisted of a main mansion built of white brick capped with shallow pitched roofs, a barn, servants' lodgings, and a few other outbuildings all centered around a well-groomed courtyard of palm trees and lush vegetation. Merek left his horse under the shade of a cluster of trees, then made his way down the street toward the villa.

With expert eyes he took it all in, noting with ease the location of several guards. He was pleasantly surprised to find that there weren't more. The front gate was closed and guarded, but the walls were low enough that with a few quick steps up the rough surface he managed to hoist himself over.

In Merek's years of experience he had come to find that the well-lit palaces and mansions of Efferous, with their bright stonewalls and open roofs, were much more difficult to hide in than the cramped, shadowy corridors of Edhen's castles. Still, no Efferousian mansion was impossible to sneak into.

Merek stole past a gardener watering flowers in their tubs. He hopped over a stone barricade and into the main house.

In the right wing of the mansion, from a room toward the back, he heard raised voices. He made his way through a shaded corridor that took him to a second floor balcony overlooking a white cobbled courtyard. In the center of the massive, open-roofed room was a deep blue pool surrounded by native stone and green vegetation. The smell of salt water hung in the air.

There were four men below, including Adairous Dolar, a trim man with a square jaw and hair as dark as night. He wore a long white tunic fringed with gold that dusted the floor at his feet. In front of him were two armored bodyguards, their beefy fists clasped onto a bloodied Patryk Brennan.

Merek's head sagged. He grit his teeth in frustration and whispered, "Why couldn't you just wait? Damn you!"

The sound of a body falling lured Merek's gaze back to the scene. Patryk had just slumped to his knees.

"Say another word and I shall have him strike you again," Adairous said coolly.

"My lord," Patryk blubbered, "I have your money, I just need to—"

Adarious gestured with a nod of his head, which prompted one of the bodyguards to deliver another punishing blow to Patryk's ribs.

"Maybe we should invite a doctor to examine his hearing?" Adairous asked, looking from one bodyguard to another. The two men only half smiled as though they had heard the sarcastic remark before.

Adairous clasped his hands behind his back and paced over to the pool of saltwater. "I want to introduce you to a fish," he said.

"What?" Patryk moaned.

"It is a very small salt water creature native to Efferous' shores. I had never heard of it until one afternoon I was swimming in a bay not far from here when something bit my ankle. The natives call it _pienne_ , which means 'little teeth.'"

A feeling of dread began to creep over Merek as he watched from the balcony, hidden from view by a dark wooden railing and a large indoor fern.

"Why are you telling me this?" Patryk said. His voice sounded distant and weak.

"Hold him!" Adairous shouted.

The bodyguards clamped onto Patryk as Adairous sailed across the floor and kneed him in the chin. A spray of blood and teeth arched through the air. While Patryk coughed and cursed, Adairous dragged out a pair of large gold leg irons that he clamped onto Patryk's ankles.

"What are you doing?" Patryk croaked as he attempted to get off his knees.

Adairous grabbed him by the hair and snarled into his face, "Taking what you owe me."

He pulled out a knife and made an incision all around Patryk's neck, starting on the right side and carving down around his throat, up the left side, and around his spine. The cut wasn't deep enough to kill him, but it did draw from Patryk a fair amount of blood and a slew of pained screams.

Merek looked around for some way to distract Adairous or call him and his bodyguards out of the room. He wagered he could best one of them in a fight, maybe two, but certainly not all three.

And then there was Awlin. He pictured her waiting for him back at the inn. She needed him now more than ever. He couldn't risk getting hurt and never seeing her again.

"Damn you, Patryk," Merek muttered. "Damn you. Damn you!"

The bodyguards dragged Patryk forward and tossed him into the saltwater pool. His shackled feet plunged to the bottom like stones and for a moment he vanished beneath a blue and white spray of water. His face remerged, punching through the surface by only a couple of inches. The saltwater slopped back and fourth over his eyes and nose, making him cough and spit as he struggled to stay up for air.

"Adairous, please!" he begged. "Wait!"

"The pienne is attracted to blood," Adairous continued in a bored voice. "By itself, it will nip at you, taking a piece of skin perhaps." He knelt by the edge of the pool, watching Patryk flail to keep his nose above the water. "But if you get ten of them together, or fifty, or, say, in the case of this place, a hundred, they will tear through a man like butter."

Patryk flinched as something swam up close to his neck.

"Bloody hells, what is that?" he yelled.

After it bit him, he screamed and began to thrash, but that only seemed to further provoke the feeding frenzy that ensued.

Merek watched, horrified, as the water around Patryk's head came alive with the wild flapping tails of a hundred tiny hungry fish. The water turned a disgusting shade of red and Patryk's screams filled the mansion. After several horrific moments, his head popped free of his body and bobbed in the water before it was pulled under and eviscerated.

Merek's blood had turned to ice. He left his hiding spot and fled the mansion in a hurry. He managed to weave back through the mansion's right wing, narrowly avoiding a guard passing through the garden. After a few moments he was back at the wall where he climbed up, over, and out onto the street.

Shivering with shame and regret, Merek tried to convince himself that he didn't just let his friend die. He had tried to help him, tried to convince him not to go through with his plan, but Patryk had insisted. Surely, then, it was his fault he was captured and murdered. Merek had done all he could.

Besides, he had Awlin to care for now.

Though he tried to shun it, Merek's shame lingered. He couldn't shake the feeling that Patryk's death was on him.

Before he reached Wanderer's Rest his regret had become so heavy in his gut that he ducked down a narrow alleyway and spewed the contents of his stomach.

# LIA

Thunder cracked through the darkness outside, jolting Lia awake. Her head bobbed and her forehead smacked against the glazed window where the rain tapped its own rhythm on the other side of the glass. For a moment, disorientation seized her as the memories of her nightmare dissolved—barking dogs, screaming children, violent waves and death and choking for air. She'd dreamed it a dozen times before.

From her seat in front of the cottage window, Lia looked over her shoulder to the candlelit room at her back. Warm colors of brown and orange reflected back at her. The accommodations were humble, all that simple farming peasants could afford, but there was a bed, a chair, and a chest of drawers, which gave a homey feel. A wooden tray on the bureau held a bowl of soup that had once been hot. Lia remembered the old woman bringing it into the room, but she had been too lost in her own depressing thoughts to bother eating any of it.

She picked up her silver dagger from the windowsill. She inspected the blade in the candlelight, huffed on an oily finger smear, and wiped it clean with the sleeve of her tunic. Not a day went by that she didn't spend some time polishing the blade or running her fingernail through the etched pattern on the hilt. The cold steel was a comfort to hold.

On the bed, a man groaned in pain.

Lia Falls wiped the sleepiness from her tired eyes and went to the side of Khile Alexander. He had been lying unconscious for almost two weeks. His fever had broke earlier in the morning, but he had yet to regain consciousness.

Lia had a question to ask him, and her patience was running thin.

He opened his eyes, big and blue even in the candlelight. He looked up at her as she brushed the hair from his brow. "Where am I?" he asked.

"Some cottage," she said. "The people won't give me their names, but the old man says he's from Edhen. The old woman doesn't speak our language."

Khile put his hands at his sides and pressed down as if to sit up.

"No, be careful!" The moment the words left her mouth Khile's face contorted into a frightening display of agony. "Your leg," she said, after he had calmed a bit, "it broke in the storm, remember? The old man put a new splint on it, but he said it will be a while before you can walk again."

Khile sighed in obvious disappointment and relaxed. "Lovely."

"Are you hungry?"

"Very."

She helped prop him up with some pillows before retrieving the bowl of soup. Khile didn't care that it was cold. She fed him a couple spoonfuls, which he seemed all too eager to swallow. He wiped the back of his hand across his thin lips, which were now lined by a light brown beard.

"I think I can manage," he said.

He took the bowl and spoon into his own hands.

Lia opened her mouth to ask a question, one of the many that had been sitting on her tongue for the last week, but she changed her mind. She figured it was best to let Khile get some of his strength back before she inundated him with all that was on her mind.

He slurped another mouthful. "So what happened?"

"What happened to what?"

"How did we get here?"

Lia cocked an amused eyebrow. "Shipwreck, remember?"

"Vaguely."

As they spoke a bit more, Lia was surprised to learn that Khile's memory stopped before they had washed ashore. Even though he had awoken many times over the last two weeks, always appearing cognizant of what was going on, it seemed as though his fever had ultimately plundered his memory.

She recounted for him their journey to Efferous, how rocks had sunk their ship. She had used those rocks to orient herself in between the flashes of lightning. She had kicked and kicked for so long that her legs felt like worn leather by the time they finally reached land. She told him of her journey through the hills of Advala to the farmhouse where she met the elderly couple. They had been leery of her at first, unwilling to trust anyone from Edhen. If not for the old man softening to Lia's plight it's likely Khile would never have survived.

"Why don't they like people from Edhen?" he asked.

"The old man says it's because there's too much evil there."

Khile's brows drew down. "'Too much evil?'"

Lia shrugged.

"Have you seen any black vipers?"

"No, but a farmer came by and delivered a pig yesterday, and I overheard him telling the old man that black vipers were in West Galori."

Khile took another sip of his soup.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Mm–hmm," he said, in between slurps.

"Could you, I mean, would you, if you don't mind, um, where did you, you know, um..."

"Spit it out, kid."

She sighed, irritated by her own hesitation. "Who trained you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where did you learn to fight?"

He thought for a moment as he scraped the sides of his bowl. "Lots of places, I suppose. Why?"

"Because I want to learn to fight, and I was wondering—"

The door to the bedroom thumped open, startling Khile and Lia. In the doorway stood an imposing elderly fellow with short white hair that stood straight up on his head. His face, haggard and stern, bore many lines of age, but his eyes were alert and sharp. He regarded Khile with a scrutinizing gaze for several long moments.

"Sorry if we woke you," Lia said.

The man stepped into the room, a beeswax candle in a clay holder out in front of him. He walked toward the window in patched leggings and a tunic of faded gray. He yanked the drapes across the panes.

"I told you, you are to not leave this open," he grumbled, his voice heavy with accent.

Lia winced. She hated being confined to such a small room. She liked to look out the window because it soothed her adventuresome spirit. Seeing the closed curtains gave her a sense of claustrophobia.

"Black vipers find you here and we all in trouble," the old man said. "Understand?"

"I understand," Lia said, though she didn't like it.

The old man walked to the foot of the bed and eyed Khile once again. "You fever break, yes? This is good."

"Thank you for all that you've done," Khile said. "If not for you, we'd be—"

The old man waved his hand, his ratty sleeve trailing threads through the air. "Yes, yes. You stay here until you can walk, but you not go outside. No one must know you are here. And you," he said, pointing at Lia, "keep away from window."

Reluctant, she promised to obey, though she knew full well that she couldn't stay cooped up in this room for months waiting for Khile to heal. She just couldn't. She would have to go outside at some point. Maybe at night when no one was looking.

The old man stomped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Through the door came the muffled voice of a woman who sounded irritated. The old man responded to her in a soothing way and after a short while their voices faded.

"His wife?" Khile asked.

"And she's a crotchety old gal."

When Khile finished his soup Lia took the bowl and spoon and returned it to the dresser.

Khile gingerly removed the pillows he'd been reclining against and let his body lay prone once again.

"Where do you sleep?" he asked.

Lia motioned to a spot on the floor at the foot of the bed. "Down here."

Khile looked mortified. "My lady, I will not have you sleeping at my feet."

Lia snickered. His comment struck her as odd because there were times when he spoke to her like a typical commoner, with plain words and an almost cold disregard for her former position as a princess. Then there were other times, such as now, where he pretended to revere her.

"Did I say something funny?" he asked.

"Yes, actually you did."

"What did I say?"

She thought for a moment before replying, and then remembered some words that she had overheard Khile say to Khalous as they were boarding the ships in Aberdour. It was a phrase familiar to anyone who opposed the Black King, but one Lia wasn't convinced Khile clung to with any conviction.

"What does 'For the west' mean to you?" she asked.

After a moment of thought, he said, "It's the rallying cry of all those who oppose the Black King."

"So, were my father alive today, you would stand with him? You would oppose the high king?"

Again, Khile hesitated, but she couldn't tell if it was because he was lying or just confused about her odd line of questioning. "Yes, I would."

"So you have much respect for the old kings," she said. "Then why do you talk to me like I'm a common citizen one moment and a princess the next?"

"Ah. So that's what this is about." He crossed his arms. "Because I disapprove of spoiled children who don't know their place in life."

His words knocked Lia hard. "Excuse me?"

"It's clear you've been raised by nursemaids and servants and others waiting on you hand and foot," he said. "You're smart, don't get me wrong. I respect your wits, but you've been sheltered emotionally and that makes you a danger to yourself when you get all riled up."

Lia began pacing at the foot of the bed, trying to remain level despite the burning ire she felt deep in her stomach.

Khile continued, "Like you are right now. Like the way you attacked Komor Raven. He would have split you in half, you know."

"But he didn't," she said, biting back her venom. "And he wouldn't have. I'm too quick for him."

"Right. You're going to kill him. Sorry, I forgot." His sarcasm was evident.

"Yes!" she yelled, her fury spiking.

Khile snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "That's it right there. You can't be reasoned with right now because there's steam pouring from your ears."

Her mouth fell open and she considered kicking him in the splint once again. He seemed to be attacking her from out of nowhere, unprovoked even.

"You need to learn not to let your emotions get the best of you."

In a huff, Lia went down behind the foot of the bed where Khile couldn't see her and stretched herself out on her bedroll. She folded her arms and glared at the ceiling. Deep down, she knew he was right.

Then she peeled herself up off the floor and shoved a finger toward Khile's face, but when she realized she didn't actually have something to say she lay back down again in a hot mess. She couldn't believe he had the audacity to talk to her like that—her, a spoiled child. Who did he think he was?

Khile's voice drifted down over the foot of the bed. "You know I'm only trying to provoke you, right?"

A bit of her temper evaporated. "Huh?"

"I provoked you to see where your head is at. You want to learn how to fight? I'm not sure you're ready."

She jumped to her feet. "I'm ready. Believe me, I'm ready."

Khile lifted a quelling hand. "Maybe." He shifted uncomfortably. "Let's discuss it in the morning." He relaxed into the bed and shut his eyes.

Though she was still disappointed, she began to feel the bruising from his previous insults subsiding. With her heart a mite calmer, she lay back down on the floor and rolled over onto her side.

She wondered about what Khile had said, if she was too naïve to know what she was getting into, too hotheaded to be teachable. She didn't think so. If anything she was determined, and that made her even more teachable than anyone else.

Sleep came over her early in the morning, a light and uncomfortable sleep. She awoke to the sound of clops against stone, a horse's gentle amble. She heard the front door to the cottage scrape open and slam closed, followed by the sound of the old man as he addressed visitors outside.

Lia stood, groggy, and approached the window when Khile's hushed voice startled her. "Black vipers."

She didn't ask him how he knew this, but his fearful expression convinced her that he believed it.

The door to the bedroom opened and the old woman shuffled inside. She said nothing, but motioned for Lia and Khile to follow her.

Lia helped Khile off the bed. He pressed his teeth together from the pain in his leg.

"Wait," he said, "your bedding. Hide it."

Without hesitating Lia grabbed her blankets up off the floor.

"Drape them over the foot of the bed," he said. She obeyed.

Lia returned to his side and helped him out of the room. They followed the old woman into a small, but cozy home decorated with animal skins, antlers, and scented with woodsmoke. On the floor lay a small timeworn rug that, when flipped aside, exposed a hidden door. The woman frowned and jabbed her finger at it.

Lia made sure Khile had a stable grip on the rough-hewn kitchen table before hurrying forward to flip open the door.

"No. Wait!" Khile whispered.

When Lia looked back at him, she noticed his eyes were turned upward toward the exposed rafters of the cottage.

"What are you doing?" she asked in an irritated whisper.

"If you want to live, we hide up there," he said, pointing.

"Are you stupid? Do you want to—"

Khile shushed her and pulled a rickety wooden chair out from the table. On his good leg he hopped up onto the seat, wincing at the pain throbbing in his broken shinbone. He took hold of the rafter, sending down tiny spindrifts of gray dust. With some effort he pulled himself up. When he got into place among the deep shadows of the ceiling he extended a hand down to Lia.

"Come up," he whispered.

Lia looked at the trap door, then to the old woman who was shaking her head.

"Trust me," Khile said.

If it hadn't been for the fact that he had saved her life twice since she had known him, Lia might not have climbed up onto the chair and grabbed his hand. As he pulled her up and she hunkered down atop the rafter across from him, her limbs were trembling.

The old woman flipped the rug over the hiding place just before the cottage door scraped open sending a widening band of daylight across the hardwood floor. The sound of heavy boots stomped into the house.

"Ale," demanded a soldier out of Lia's field of view.

From her position in the shadowy loft of the building's bones, Lia could only make out the soldier's dusty black boots. She watched them stomp into the bedroom where she and Khile had been just moments ago. Lia was thankful that Khile had thought to have her move her bedding off the floor. If the soldier had seen it laid out like a bedroll he would've known that someone else was in the house.

The old man entered the cottage and went and stood next to his wife. He kissed the woman on the forehead and whispered to her in Efferousian. Whatever he'd said, it seemed to calm the old woman. She went to a creaky wooden rocking chair by the fireplace and sat down.

The soldier stomped back out into the main room.

"I said ale!" he repeated louder.

"Oh, she does not speak your language," the old man said. "I will get it for you, my lord."

The old man moved into the kitchen and began preparing a drink.

The soldier walked further into the house with slow and deliberate steps. At first Lia could only see his boots, but now she saw his black armored legs and the hem of his long cloak trailing at his heels. He had a black belt with a silver buckle that encircled a leather chest piece fitted with black metal plates; everything clean and meticulously cared for.

He stepped up toward the old woman, bringing his pale face and dark-haired head into Lia's view. His cloak was edged with a thick blue stripe, signifying his position of captain.

"You do not speak my language?" he asked the woman, glowering at her with dark brown eyes set deep under bushy brows.

The old woman looked to her husband. He repeated the question in Efferousian.

Looking back to the captain, the old woman shook her head.

"What's under there?" the captain asked, pointing toward the small rug.

Lia's jaw fell open in shock. Her eyes darted toward Khile who pressed a finger to his lips. She wanted to ask him right then how he had known the black viper would find the hidden door so easily.

The viper flipped back the rug and stomped on the square hatch.

"That is nothing," the old man said from the kitchen. "An old cellar for meat and wine."

The captain lifted the door and inspected the small compartment below. From what Lia could see of it the room beneath was barely big enough for three adults.

With the toe of his boot the captain knocked the door closed.

He stood for a moment directly under Lia. She tensed. If he so much as lifted his gaze to the ceiling he would likely notice the sleeve of her tunic or the hem of her pant leg peeking out from behind the rafter.

The captain finished searching the house, drank his ale, and stomped toward the door, the blue edge of his cloak swirling behind him.

"Criminals from Edhen have fled to this country," he said. "Anyone caught helping them will be considered an enemy of High King Orkrash Mahl."

"Seems lots of criminals come from Edhen these days," the old man said.

"Do you know of any in this area?"

"No, my lord."

"We have men stationed in Galori. See to it that you report to them if you do."

"I will, sir. Good day."

Lia listened to the sound of the door close, followed by the shouting of the soldiers outside. Their horses snorted and neighed and tore up the ground as they rode away.

Lia affixed her eyes on Khile and asked, "How did you know?"

He shrugged. "Lucky guess."

Lia shook her head. "No. You're one of them, aren't you? A black viper."

"Let's get down from here first."

He lowered himself onto the chair. The old man helped him to the floor.

"A clever hiding place," the old man remarked. "Thank the gods you weren't down below."

The old woman rocked in her chair, her head in her hands, mumbling something incoherent.

Lia and the old man helped Khile back into the bedroom where he lay down on the bed. She elevated his broken leg with a pillow.

The old man left the room, closing the door behind him.

"So?" she asked, waiting.

"You can stop looking at me like that. I'm not a black viper, but I almost was."

She smiled. "I knew it. I knew you were one of them."

"I'm _not_ one of them," he said again. "They recruited me, but after just three days in their training camp I decided Orkrash was not a high king I could serve. What he does to them–the training..." Khile paused. "Those soldiers, they aren't men. Their minds have been damaged to serve the will of the high king. These people on Efferous talk about Edhen being a place of evil? Well, they're right. Orkrash Mahl is a man unlike any I have ever seen." His voice grew soft toward the end, and his eyes distant, almost scared. "I left the camp before they could rearrange my mind into blindly serving him."

"Is that why they arrested you?"

"No," he said.

"Then why were you—"

"I'm not going to talk about why."

"But that's where you learned to fight, isn't it? In their camp?"

He shook his head. "I learned to fight in many different places."

Lia started pacing next to the bed with growing excitement. "Very well. Then here is what I propose."

Khile huffed. "Oh, this should be good."

"You owe me."

He clapped. "Yep. That was good. That was very good. Better than I was expecting actually."

"I saved your life. You'd be drowned or rotting on a beach with a broken leg if it weren't for me. So here's what I want. I want you to—"

"Hold on. You saved _my_ life? Let's not forget about the time I rescued you from Komor Raven, or the time I saved you on the pier. You'd be a prisoner of the Black King's army if it weren't for me."

Lia crossed her arms and set her jaw, refusing to allow him to believe that he had done more for her than she had for him. "I paddled you to shore. You're a grown man. I'm ten. I found herbs to feed us, set your broken leg, went and got help. I've saved your life about twenty times already."

"Yes, and had we hid in the floor, like you wanted to, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

Inwardly she winced. He had her there. She huffed in aggravation and put her hands on her hips.

Khile waved his hand dismissively. "All right. It doesn't matter. Just–what do you propose?"

"You're going to teach me how to kill The Raven."

Khile chortled.

"He took everything from me," Lia fumed. "He took everything from everyone I know. He needs to pay for what he's done. Even if it takes me the rest of my life I'm going to kill him, and you're going to show me how."

Khile rubbed his eyes with his hands and sighed. "You don't know what you're asking," he said. "And you don't know who Komor Raven is. He is a man who likes violence like most people like food. You know why he always insists on attacking with the flanking army during a siege? He gets more opportunity to kill innocent citizens, which guarantees him more bloodshed. Komor will cut you in a thousand different places just to watch you bleed and scream."

"I don't care," Lia blurted.

"I do!" Khile shot back. "I'm not teaching Lia Falls, a lady of Aberdour, how to kill the most dangerous man on Edhen."

"So I'm a princess again?"

"You're a spoiled little kid who doesn't like to be told no."

Infuriated, Lia smacked him in the splint, then pivoted on her heels and stomped out of the room, cutting off the sound of his agonized groans with a slam of the bedroom door.

She knew it was against the old man's wishes to go outside, but she didn't care. The house had suddenly become too stifling to contain her.

She ripped open the cottage door and stormed across the yard where she kicked a red and brown chicken and started pacing. With her head in her hands she seethed with anger, hating Khile for his insults and yet knowing deep down that he was right.

But inside of her clawed a beast aching for vengeance. The animal had awoken the day Aberdour was attacked, the moment she saw Komor Raven butcher Thomas and Abigail Blackwater. The beast was hungry for the Raven's blood. Lia knew that killing him was all that would satisfy it.

From somewhere deep in the forest, a creature roared.

Lia's furious pacing came to an abrupt halt and her blood went cold. She'd never heard such a sound before, like a bear, except scratchy and hollow, and much bigger.

"Yup, that be Kette," the old man said from behind Lia.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A mountain troll. Don't worry your knickers. She won't leave the woods. Kette rather likes the shades."

"You've named it?"

"Mm-hmm. That's what they call it around here." He put an arm around Lia and steered her back toward the cottage. "You must stay inside, little lady."

In her mind Lia recalled the strange footprints she'd seen on the hills near the coast, massive prints, some like stubby hands and others like cloven hooves. She wondered if those were the markings of old Kette.

Lia returned to the bedroom where Khile was rubbing the knee of his broken leg.

"What was that sound?" he asked.

"Never mind," she said, strolling up to the bed. "If you won't teach me then I'll do it myself." She crossed her arms. "I'll find my own way back to Edhen, and I'll hunt Komor any way I can find, and if anything happens to me my blood will be on your hands because I asked for your help and you said no."

Khile shook his head in disapproval. "What about your family? What about your brothers and your sisters. Don't you want to find them?"

And just like that she felt the rock she'd been standing on crumble out from underneath her. The fire that had been burning in her chest went dim and a new want began to ache in her heart. Of course she wanted to see her siblings again. She missed her family. When she considered this, all of her feelings became a jumbled mess heaped in a pile of revenge and loneliness, hate and longing, fear and anger.

But the beast was still hungry.

"Very much," she said. Then she locked here eyes on Khile, "but I want Komor dead even more."

Khile sighed and closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Very well. Come here."

Stifling her conflicted emotions, Lia walked up to Khile's bedside.

"Hold out your hands. Palms down," he instructed.

She obeyed.

Quicker than a cat's reflexes Khile slapped both of her hands on the back of the wrists.

"Ouch!" she cried.

"Your hands are soft," he said. "Girl hands, refined by your gentle castle life. You want me to train you? You'll need tougher hands. Starting today you will help the old man and the old woman bring in water. You will chop wood. You will shovel their stables. No gloves. This is the only way I can help you right now. When my leg heals, I'll teach you more, but until then this is your job." He pointed to her hands. "Got it?"

Lia nodded, and she was delighted.

# BRODERICK

He lifted his bow, trailing the tip of his arrow just ahead of the partridge. He listened to its wings pounding against its chest in a maddening attempt to escape its doom.

In his mind's eye, Broderick Falls pictured, not a beautiful brown and cream speckled stone partridge like the one drifting skyward before his gaze, but a soldier of the Black King. When he let go the string, the arrow found its mark. The bird spiraled to the ground, an arrow lodged in its chest below the fold of its right wing.

Broderick didn't know why, but visualizing his prey as his enemy improved his accuracy.

"Good aim!" Brayden said, as he stood up from his hiding spot. "I thought you hated bow hunting."

Broderick shrugged. He feared admitting that it was growing on him would mean confessing why. He preferred to keep his darker fantasies to himself for now.

He retrieved his trophy from a soft ground of old pine needles and moss. The dead bird looked different from the partridges they had back in Aberdour, smaller, browner, and with a short crest on the top of its chicken-like head.

"Well, you've certainly helped give us a feast tonight, little brother."

Broderick hated the way Brayden had become so optimistic. Ever since their arrival on Efferous he had become more assertive, more task oriented than he had ever been before. Broderick knew it wouldn't last. He knew that after a few weeks his quiet, introverted older brother would draw back into himself and remain the coward he had always been.

"Do you think it will taste much different?" Brayden asked.

"I don't know why it would," Broderick answered.

"Probably not nearly as good as mother's stew."

This drew a small smile from Broderick. "I liked it when she made it real thick, with some honey."

Through the trees at Brayden's back, Broderick saw the tiny shape of Nairnah Kholoch moving toward them. Her once cream-colored dress had become so dirty from weeks of living in the wild that she looked almost like a part of her surroundings.

Broderick groaned to himself as Nairnah stepped out and greeted them, her tiny voice like the summer chirp of a songbird.

Nairnah had taken an inexplicable interest in Brayden over the last few weeks, and Broderick couldn't figure out why. She was ten years old, but small, looking closer to age seven. He had asked Dana once why the young girl spent so much time with Brayden, but his sister only smiled and looked away. Girls. They were such odd creatures, puzzling to the mind of a ten-year-old boy and not worth trying to figure out.

"Did you catch all those?" Nairnah asked, looking in amazement at the collection of dead fowl hanging from Brayden's grasp.

"Three of them are mine. Two of them are Broderick's," he answered.

"Do you need any help?"

Brayden handed Nairnah two of the dead birds for her to carry. "Thank you, Nairnah."

Broderick rolled his eyes, not caring if they noticed. "I'm going to find Clint." He hurried off.

Broderick sprinted over the uprising roots of a dead tree and descended a crumbling slope of dirt and leaves where he took off up a wooded ravine. He had always been a graceful runner with a keen, almost innate sense of his surroundings. He never tripped and he never got lost. His stepfather, Lord Kingsley Falls, had once said that Broderick's mind knew instinctively north from south and east from west, which was the only compliment Broderick could recall ever getting from the man.

He came upon his cousin, Clint Brackenrig, whose once refined appearance had become soiled in recent weeks by hard living. Clint didn't seem to care, however, taking the dirt and grime of life in the wild with a kind of recklessness that he seemed all too comfortable with.

He stood with the point of a sword aimed at the ground pressed into the nape of a rabbit's neck. Broderick slowed as he approached his cousin, noticing Clint's sick grin, and wondering what he found so fascinating about inflicting pain upon animals.

"What are you doing?" Broderick asked.

"Look how it moves," Clint said, not taking his eyes from the animal.

The rabbit was still alive, but only just. It appeared as though Clint had broken its rear legs, though how he had even managed to catch it in the first place was a mystery.

"That's gross," Broderick said. "Just kill it, Clint."

Clint pushed a lock of oily black hair behind his ear. "Watch its mouth when I press down." He put a little more weight on the blade, which made the rabbit's eyes tremble shut and its mouth open, like a yawn, except its tongue went straight out, stiff as an arrow—disgusting. "I wonder if I'm fast enough to cut its tongue off before it closes its mouth again."

Broderick forced out a laugh to hide his discomfort. "Who cares? Just kill it and get it over with so we can go back to camp and eat supper."

Clint applied more weight to the blade, driving it through the rabbit's neck and into the ground.

"Where did you get the sword from anyway?" Broderick asked.

"I took it from Pick."

"I thought he told you to take his bow."

"What are you, the weapon master? I'm older than you by two years. You don't tell me what to do."

Broderick lifted his hands in mock surrender. "I wasn't."

"Besides, your sister had his bow. What does she need a bow for anyway?"

"She's good. Got better aim than me or Brayden."

Clint huffed. "She's a girl. How good could she be?" He continued poking his sword through the dead rabbit's corpse, making Broderick's stomach knot up.

Kneeling, he tried not to watch.

"What's with you?" Clint asked.

"Nothing."

"What? You going to sob over a stupid rabbit?" Clint twisted the blade in the rabbit's neck.

"No, I don't care about that," Broderick said a mite too quick.

"Didn't your father ever take you hunting?"

"Ha! Let me put it this way. When he took Brayden hunting he'd actually teach him how to hunt. When he took me hunting, he'd let me watch."

"So how did you get to be so good with a bow?" Clint twisted the sword again and almost pulled the rabbit's head off.

"I taught myself."

"I bet that impressed your father."

Broderick shook his head. "Not one bit."

"Well, I hated my father."

"Why?"

"Didn't you know? He was a madman. Half the realm knew that he was nothing but a useless codger. It was embarrassing."

At that moment Broderick felt a strange connection to his cousin, strange because he couldn't recall them ever relating over anything before. Yet he and Clint had both grown up with distant father's who all but ignored them, Clint's due to poor mental health, and Kingsley Falls because of nothing other than disdain, or so Broderick assumed. He had never been sure why his stepfather had resented him so much.

"Gross!" came Nairnah's high-pitched squeal when she saw the bloodied rabbit with the sword through its neck.

"Clint!" Brayden scolded. "What are you doing?"

"None of your business."

"It is my business," Brayden said. "We're all in this together. I've told you that."

Clint snorted. "And now that you've said it again you've become even more annoying." He jerked his chin toward Nairnah, his lip curling in disgust. "What's _she_ doing here?"

"She followed us," Broderick said.

"Don't you know hunting is for men?" Clint looked her up and down. "Stupid girl."

Brayden stepped up to Clint, his fists tightening. "Don't talk to her like that."

Broderick was surprised to see such confidence in his brother.

"What, do you like her or something?" Clint's lip curled at the notion. "I'm telling Khalous. She shouldn't even be here. She's too young."

"I just wanted to help," Nairnah said.

Clint waved them off with his hand and knelt down to pick up his rabbit. He swung its bloodied corpse toward Nairnah's head, eliciting a horrified scream from her, before he started back for camp, laughing.

Broderick stayed with Brayden and Nairnah this time as they made their way back to camp.

According to Khalous it would be their last night in the wild before they reached the temple, or Halus Gis, as Placidous called it. He said it was a church where people like him went to study, but as for what they studied Broderick didn't know—nor did he want to know. Halus Gis had food and warm beds, and that was all he cared about.

They found the others camped within a circle of fir trees near the edge of the northern cliff. Khalous nursed a growing campfire while Pick and Stoneman entertained some of the children with music. Pick kept rhythm with the rapid slapping of a knife between his palm and leg while Stoneman's deep voice provided the bass. The children in front of them were spinning and dancing, falling over and giggling whenever Pick sang, " _Boom, boom, doom_!" The tune was an old children's song popular among the folk of Aberdour.

Sister Ariella saw Nairnah walking out of the woods with Brayden and Broderick and hurried over to the girl, shaking her head in disapproval. She took her by the hand and led her away. "It's not appropriate for you to be with boys," she said. "And I had told you to stay near me."

"I'm sorry," Nairnah said.

Ariella led her way.

Broderick looked at his brother. "So? Do you like her?"

"Maybe."

Broderick just rolled his eyes.

Preston and Ashton Stonefield came sprinting toward them through the grass, whirlwinds of youthful energy. Nash jumped toward Broderick as though he were going to tackle him, but turned at the last minute and ran by.

"Made you flinch!" he teased.

"What is that?" Preston asked, taking one of the birds from Brayden's hand and inspecting it.

"A stone partridge," he said. "We don't have them on Edhen."

"Looks like a chicken."

The boys neared the campfire where Khalous was waiting to prepare their catch for stew.

"Good work, boys," Pick said. "Thanks for getting ours. Where's yours?"

Stoneman feigned a wince. "Uh-oh. They gunna have to get more."

"Not funny," Broderick said.

Khalous, Pick, and Stoneman proceeded to prepare the pheasants for supper.

Placidous joined them a short while later. The slender priest looking ragged in his brown and beige alb stained with dirt and the blood of refugees that he'd helped. His once clean-shaven head and face sported two weeks' worth of a stubby growth. Dark patches from many nights of uncomfortable sleep underscored his eyes.

He sat down, Brayden noticed, as far away from Stoneman as he could get.

"Do they eat this well at Halus Gis?" Khalous asked as he seasoned the soup with some herbs.

"I'm afraid you will find the eating customs of my people quite different from what you are used to," Placidous said.

"I hear the Efferousians eat raw snakes and lizard eyes and stuff like that," Clint said, horrifying a couple of the younger children seated by the campfire.

"That's nonsense," Nash said.

"Like you know," Clint spat.

Placidous laughed. Brayden thought it was a kind, pleasant sounding laugh, one that made it hard to believe that this priest of the Allgod was an alleged rapist.

"I suspect some of the primitive tribes probably do eat those things," he said. "But, no, not those of us in the church."

"What do you eat?" Broderick asked.

"I think we eat pretty much the same things you eat on Edhen," Placidous answered, "but we do not place such a high value on the manner in which it is served. On Edhen there is much effort put into preparing a meal. The way a meal is served can say a lot about how the host family reveres, or doesn't revere, the guests. I must admit your perceptions on food bewildered me the first time I visited."

"We like our traditions," Stoneman said.

"Oh, yes, I know. Please don't misunderstand me. I am fascinated by the myriad differences between our cultures. I just don't want some of the young people in our company to be offended when they are served food in a manner inconsistent with what they were raised with. I assure you it will not be a reflection upon how we feel about you."

"How far is the church?" asked Broderick.

"We should be there by tomorrow afternoon," Khalous said.

"Will they have enough room for everyone?" Brayden asked.

"It will be tight quarters," Placidous answered, "but they will manage. Servants of the Allgod are not known to reject those in need."

Stoneman humphed. "I seen otherwise." His deep gravelly tone was stitched with contempt. "I seen a church filled wi' yer so-called servants shut its doors up good to a whole town burnin' to the ground. Men, women, li'l children, bangin' on 'em doors, beggin' for mercy, and those servants of the Allgod never let 'em in." Stoneman's brief but haunting speech sucked out whatever cheer was left in the air.

For a moment, no one said a word.

"I cannot presume to know their motives," Placidous said, "but in my fifty years of walking the lands of this world I've learned one thing: no one is perfect."

"Least of all priests," Stoneman said, holding Placidous' gaze.

"Let us change the subject, shall we?" said Ariella as she came and sat down around the fire. Her feminine voice, such a stark contrast to the gruff qualities of the male-dominated company, rang like a song over a battlefield. The mood changed the instant she arrived.

"My lady, your gentle voice never fails to soothe our hard-bitten souls," Khalous said, stirring the soup.

"How come you don't wear your hat anymore?" Broderick asked, noticing for the hundredth time since they left the western shores of Efferous that the middle-aged nun no longer wore her head covering.

"It's called a wimple," she answered with a half-hidden grin. "And it was, um, damaged in..." she paused, looking ashamed. Her eyes went to Placidous who smiled as though he knew something the rest of them didn't. "No," Ariella continued. "That is a lie. High Lord, forgive me. I have left the church, and so I do not need to wear the head covering anymore."

"Does it feel strange?" Khalous asked.

"Yes, but I wouldn't trade it for anything," she said, and Broderick noticed that she had the same distant look in her eyes when she looked at Khalous that Brayden had when he stared at Nairnah.

"We all have our journeys to undertake," Placidous said. "The Allgod will get us there one way or another. We just have to be brave enough to take the steps."

Night had settled in around the group by the time the stew was ready. Khalous scooped it into what few bowls they had brought with them from the ship. The bowls were then given to groups of four and five where each was passed around so that everyone could take a sip.

Broderick ate by the campfire in a small huddle with Brayden, Dana, Preston, and Nash wondering, as he often did when the night closed in, about Lia, Brynlee, and Scarlett. Three nights ago he had asked Brayden about them, if he thought they were alive, or if he thought they had been taken captive, but the question seemed to upset Dana too much. As a result, Brayden hadn't answered and Broderick didn't bother to ask again. The answers that he conjured in his mind were too disturbing to contemplate on his own, and so he made great effort not to think about it despite how much he missed his sisters.

His dreams, however, had other plans.

Later that night he woke on a portion of earth dampened by his own sweat, haunted by images of his sisters being whipped and abused. He saw Lia in a dungeon with chains on her feet, being driven mad by the tight confines of her cell. He saw visions of Brynlee being put to work in a field next to a long line of other shackled slaves. When one of them fell, Brynlee stooped to help her, and was whipped for her compassion.

When Broderick saw Scarlett, his heart broke in half. The poor mute girl had been tied to a wagon wheel and forced underwater. She opened her mouth and screamed, releasing a flurry of bubbles that choked Broderick and shook him awake.

The campsite was quiet, offering no comfort. Everyone was asleep. The stars were out, and he could hear the faint sound of waves crashing against the cliff far below.

Broderick took a deep breath to calm himself and lay back down. He remembered a time not too long ago when he could visit his mother's bedroom after he'd had a nightmare and she would walk with him to the family's fireplace and tell him tales of pixies and talking dragons to ease his mind. He could never count on Kingsley for comfort, but his mother never once withheld a tender hug, never once missed a chance to speak a kind word.

He saw Lilyanna's face just then, smiling at him as it flitted through his mind. Broderick slammed his eyes shut as tears gushed forward. He tried his hardest to hold them back, but nothing could sway the avalanche of grief that erupted within him. He missed her. More than anything else in Aberdour, he missed her. Lilyanna. His mother. Everything else that he had loved could be replaced—his horse, his bow and arrow, his favorite shirt, his home—but the one thing he had loved the most was the one thing he could never get back.

Morning came with the bitter breeze of an incoming ocean storm. Khalous roused everyone, hurrying them through breakfast and out of the campsite before the worst of the storm drifted their way. By midmorning they had cleared the forest and were traipsing over long, broad swathes of emerald hills that permitted a view to the south where a bright green forest faded into a distant fog.

Cold gray clouds had closed in around them by the time the group came within sight of the monastery. Sitting atop a hillside on the northern cliffs of Efferous, the stone of the tiny village rose from the surrounding greenery like a gray oasis. Among the many buildings visible from within the abbey's stonewalls was a church towering twice as high as any of them.

Khalous Marloch flopped his arm around Broderick's shoulders and sighed with satisfaction. "There it is, lad. Halus Gis."

"Why do they call it that?" Broderick asked.

"Halus means chapel in Efferousian," Khalous answered. "Gis is the name of the holy man who built it many centuries ago."

The refugees behind them began expressing joy and relief when they saw the sanctuary standing on the next rise before them.

"How does it feel to be home?" Khalous asked Placidous as the weary priest looked upon the monastery.

"Very well indeed," he answered. "When we arrive, allow me to go inside ahead of you. I will speak to the duktori alone and explain your situation."

"Duktori?" Khalous asked.

"Our leader. What you call an abbot. His name is Bendrosi. He is wise and kind. He will help you, but I should speak to him first."

The monastery matched nothing that Broderick had pictured in his mind. The grounds were far bigger, containing more than he had expected, including a dormitory, a school, a hospital, a library, barns, storerooms, workshops and acres upon acres of gardens, orchards, and grain fields.

"How many people live here?" Broderick asked, as they wandered through the western gate.

"That depends," Placidous answered. "During war times Halus Gis can be filled to the brim with the wounded and the displaced. The servants here welcome any and all in need."

"Servants?"

"That's what we are," he said. "All those who follow the Allgod are his servants. We serve him by serving others. It is our mission in life."

While they strolled up the main road to the church, Broderick noticed a couple of male lay servants fixing a wooden fence surrounding a pigpen. The two men stopped their work and eyed the group of passing strangers.

They approached the church, a tall structure of solid gray stone with a steep angular roof from which hang long tapestries of tan and brown. The symbol of Omneesah adorned the drapes, a yellow circle presiding over a wave. Placidous had explained that this signified the presence of the Allgod as he transcended the world above and the world below.

The front door to the weathered narthex opened sending out a group of five nuns in garb similar to Ariella's. Leading them was an abbot, followed by another priest who wore a spotless belted alb that made the filthy robe Placidous wore look even more horrific. The nuns went like mother hens to the young children.

The two men greeted Placidous. They chatted in Efferousian for a short while before retreating back inside with Ariella.

The nuns brought out bread and water, which the refugees eagerly consumed, including Broderick, who had not been able to quell the ache in his stomach since their first night on Efferous.

He sat down on the grass alongside Preston and Nash. They were soon joined by Clint who had a look of contempt on his brooding face.

"Religious freaks," he mumbled. "You know why they're so nice, don't you? They want to lure you in so they can shove their putrid beliefs down your throat, meaningless speeches you'll be asked to cough up coin for."

"Clint, you're such a moron," Nash said.

"What did you say to me?"

"Knock it off," Brayden said. "Both of you. At least we've got food to eat and shelter tonight, which is more than we've had in almost three weeks."

"I vote that Clint sleeps in the barn," Nash said.

Clint jumped up. "I'm going to shove my fist in your mouth!"

"Hey!" Brayden shouted.

The door to the monastery creaked open and Placidous stepped outside once again. He was with the same two men as before, along with a grim looking priest and a man Broderick assumed was the duktori. He stood apart from the other two with his silvery hair and brown robe that was adorned with a gold sash. He had a look of compassion on his aged face as he looked over the mob of shabby refugees gathered before the doors of his church.

"Look at Ariella," Preston whispered.

Broderick had to peer around Clint before he spotted the former nun, who had been stripped of the rest of her habit and given a plain cream-colored shift to wear. The most startling change, however, was her shaved head. Broderick recalled hearing how this was often done as a sign of shame. Ariella was smiling though, despite the tears in her eyes.

Khalous walked up to her and gave her a hug that lasted for several long moments.

"Uh, what's going on here?" Nash asked.

"Not very observant, are we?" Pick said, standing behind the boys. "She gave up her life in the church for Khalous."

"Why?" Broderick asked.

"Why do you think, dummy?" said Nash.

Clint rolled his eyes and sighed in disgust.

Broderick watched alongside Brayden, Clint, Preston, Nash and Pick as the nuns ushered Dana, Nairnah, and the other refugees into the church, leaving the older boys outside with the men, including the dark-robed duktori and his serious-faced advisor.

The duktori shook Khalous' hand and said, "My name is Bendrosi. I am the duktori of this chapel." He gestured toward the other robed man over his right shoulder. "This is Brother Gravis. Welcome." He spoke the language of Edhen, but his words were broken and thick with the Efferousian accent.

"Khalous Marloch." The captain pointed to Pick and Stoneman, and ticked off their names. "Thank you for having us."

"I apologize, but I'm afraid we have run out of room," Bendrosi said. "Our orphanage is overflowing as it is. We can accommodate the youngest among you, but all we have left for your men and the older boys is the loft in the barn, which you are more than welcome to."

Clint sighed in disgust, unashamed to express his displeasure.

"Actually," Khalous began, casting a brief glance toward the brown clapboard barn, "that's preferable." He took Bendrosi by the shoulder and led him and Gravis a short distance away from the group where the three of them spoke together at some length.

"What are they talking about?" Nash asked.

"Probably you," Preston said.

"What did I do?"

"You mean apart from being annoying?"

"Hold your tongues, boys," Pick said.

Broderick noticed Pick and Stoneman exchanging nervous glances, like they knew what the captain was up to.

"Is he sure about this?" asked Pick.

"Cap'ain's always sure," Stoneman replied.

"Does that mean I have to like it?"

"Nope."

Whatever Khalous and the abbot were talking about it didn't sit well with the stern-faced Prior Gravis. He argued with them at some length. Bendrosi remained calm while Khalous stood firm with crossed arms.

Bendrosi and Gravis retreated into the monastery.

"Stand up," Khalous said to the boys after he had returned to the group. He eyed each and every one of them for a moment, his thick fingers stroking the grizzled beard on his chin.

"What did they think of your master plan?" Pick asked.

"Don't worry about it," Khalous said. "The duktori is a reasonable man, but we can't expect everyone under him to welcome us so warmly."

"Gravis didn't look too pleased."

"Forget about him for now."

The door to the church opened and a boy jogged over to the group. He looked about twelve, an Efferousian judging by his tanned skin and black locks. He had a quick looking physique and square brow that gave him a constant air of seriousness.

"Are you the one Bendrosi told me about?" Khalous asked.

The boy nodded.

"What's your name, son?"

"Taighfinn Torinfinn Deelyous," the boy said. "Son of Torinfinn and Sorcha Deelyous."

"Gunna give me a headache tryin' say all 'at," Stoneman grumbled.

"I vote we call him, Boy," Pick said, raising his hand. "All in favor?"

The boy's serious expression made it difficult to tell if he was offended or not. "Some calls me Ty," he said.

"Even better," Pick said. "Two letters instead of three. I like it."

Stoneman shrugged his heavy shoulders. "He can stay."

"Ty is too old to live among the women and children," Khalous said. "The lodgings here are almost full, so he's going to stay with us." He looked at Ty and put a hand on his shoulder. "They're a rough bunch, so I apologize in advance."

"Don't be having worries for me, sir," the boy said.

Khalous looked at the ground. "Listen up now." His tone had darkened, like a veteran warrior to his unit on the eve of battle. All at once Broderick knew that something was about to change. "Some of us have to learn to grow up a little faster than we'd like," he began. "A few weeks ago you were all ten, eleven, twelve years old, well on your way to becoming men, but today I tell you that you are men." His eyes moved from one boy to the next, a gaze that imbued confidence and hope. "Your training begins tomorrow. The duktori doesn't condone violence, so we'll train off the grounds, but we'll live here in the barn and earn our keep. You will learn to fight. You will learn to survive."

An excitement had risen within Broderick that thrilled and terrified him, told him that something was beginning, a tidal wave of retribution, right here among this group of eleven.

Slowly he raised his hand to speak.

Khalous looked at him. "Yes?"

"Does this mean we're going back to Aberdour?" he asked.

"Do you want to?"

Broderick looked to Brayden, then Nash and Preston. When none of them responded, his eyes went to Khalous and he nodded.

"Why?" Khalous said.

"I want to help my sisters. I want to help Edhen, and kill the bloody Black King."

Khalous smiled. "And do you think you have the means to do that?"

Sighing in shame that bordered on embarrassment, Broderick said, "No. Not yet."

Khalous put a hand on his shoulder. "Good lad. You will." His eyes drifted over the bunch. "Listen to me and you will."

"We're really going back?" Nash said.

"We are. It will take time, but yes. We are."

A few murmurs of approval whispered through the group.

"To all the hells with the Black King," Pick said.

"How long?" Broderick asked.

Khalous' smile faded. "Some of that depends on you. But give me time, and I promise I'll turn you all into the most deadly fighting force the world has ever seen."

# BRYNLEE

The door to the back of the wagon cage swung open on creaky hinges and the sore, exhausted female prisoners of Aberdour filed out. Brynlee held Scarlett close as they were led single file to a cobblestone plaza where they were chained four to a post in a busy market section of Edhen's capital. Some of the girls dropped to their knees, too weak from months of cramped travel to even stand.

The crowded market streets of Perth gave off a suffocating feel. Busy consumers browsed carts loaded with goods while merchants hocked jewelry, perfume, weapons, pottery, dried foods and more. High stone buildings eclipsed the late summer sun, plunging the market district into a shadowy epicenter of commerce that stunk of small animals and fish.

Brynlee began to notice a large number of wealthy looking men and women lining up on the street in front of her. Their probing eyes made her feel self-conscious. She huddled on the ground with Scarlett who trembled as she observed the gathering spectators.

"Look at me," Brynlee said. "Remember our home? Remember Aberdour?"

Scarlett seemed confused for a moment, but then nodded her head.

"Do you remember Broderick and Lia trying to climb the banister up the spiral staircase? Lia could do it easy, and none of us thought Broderick could do it, but he did."

Scarlett smiled a little, which encouraged Brynlee to go on.

"I was always trying to get Lia to play dolls with us, but she never wanted to. One day mama made her play with us, so Lia took the dolls, all of them, every single doll, and hid them all throughout the castle, and then she had a contest to see who could find the most." She forced a giggle. "Such a silly way to play dolls, isn't it?"

Scarlett nodded.

"Brayden on the other hand, his idea of playing dolls was to put them on trial for black magic and behead them. He used to—"

"My lovelies!" came the joyous shout of a short, pot-bellied man. He sauntered up to the row of prisoners in a long velvety red tunic, arms open wide, fingers adorned with gold rings. Adjusting the wreath of tiny green leaves and white flowers that sat atop his balding head, he said, "Welcome, welcome, welcome! Stand, please, all of you. Let me look at you."

One by one the girls rose to their feet, heads down, eyes worried and nervous.

"My name is Morogh Slagenach," the man said, "but you'll soon learn that most people call me Mungo. It's an unusual name, I know, but—" he thrust a finger into the air, "—unusual is what folks remember best." He smiled. "And that's good for business."

Mungo waved his hand at Captain Fess Rummick, inviting him to join them. The mean-spirited captain, who had escorted the prisoners from Aberdour along with several hundred black soldiers, looked as irritated as he did exhausted.

"Captain, you have done well," Mungo said. "They are lovely. They look a little chubby though. What have you been feeding them?"

"Porridge," the captain answered. "Just like you asked."

A lie, Brynlee knew. The company's cook, Efrem, had tried to feed the girls porridge, but Fess had told him not to on more than one occasion.

"Uh-huh."

Mungo walked up to the line of chained girls. He eyed them for a moment before singling out Oriana, the thirteen-year-old sister of the now deceased Othella. Mungo cupped her chin and lifted her eyes to his. He gasped and pressed a hand to his heart. "Oh, what breathtaking eyes. Tell me, my beauty, what have they been feeding you?"

Oriana looked too terrified to answer. Her eyes went to Fess whose grim, rough shaven face had found a way to look even more menacing.

"Please, child, you can tell me. It's all right."

When the words, "Bread and cheese," slipped out of her mouth, Mungo's jaw went tight with rage, his fists clenched and he staggered back. He grit his teeth as he walked up to the captain.

"Bread and cheese," he repeated. And then, in a voice that made the air explode, he roared, "BREAD AND CHEESE!"

Fess winced, like a dog receiving a scolding.

"Bread and cheese makes whores fat," Mungo fumed. "I told you to feed them oats and rice. Oats and rice." He stormed away from the captain, kicking at the ground. "Bread and cheese," he muttered. "Of all the incompetent, stupid..." He looked at the captain. "Get out of my sight!"

Fess left in a storm of rage.

Brynlee smirked, as did the other girls.

Their smiles were short lived, however, when the eccentric Mungo turned his attention back onto them.

He walked up to Brynlee and Scarlett. "How old are you, child?"

"Seven, sir."

"And that one?" he pointed to Scarlett.

"Um, she doesn't speak. She is five."

"She doesn't speak?" Mungo said, perplexed. "Is she a halfwit?"

"No, sir. She is not a halfwit. She just can't speak."

"I see. And how long have you been locked in that abysmal wagon?"

"About three and a half moons, sir."

Mungo clamped a hand over his face in disgust. "Three and a half moons. Gods take that man's life. Tell me, child, are you tired of being locked away in there?"

Brynlee hesitated a moment before nodding.

"Are you hungry?"

With a little more urgency, she nodded again.

"Come work for me and you will know rest, food, and a soft place to sleep." Mungo turned to address the rest of the girls. "That goes for all of you. You are my property now. Serve me well and you shall never know cold or hunger ever again."

A few murmurs of relief and even joy emerged from the girls.

Brynlee wondered what kind of work the fat Mungo had in mind.

Six horsemen came thundering down the street, interrupting Mungo's speech. They skidded to a halt in front of the prisoners. One of the horsemen, a beast of soldier, wore black armor from neck to toe and a long black cape fringed with a white stripe. He landed with a crash on his feet upon dismount.

Behind him rode three guards who were gathered around a woman in a long dark purple robe. Her bright green eyes scanned the row of girls and came to rest upon Brynlee. The woman's vivid eyes were unnerving, Brynlee thought, and cold despite their emerald glow.

The sixth rider was a man whose physique was lean and fit. He had oily black hair brushed back snuggly over his scalp. He dismounted and approached the green-eyed woman, took her hand like a gentleman, and helped her down. Then the two of them walked up to Mungo hand-in-hand.

Mungo bowed. "My Lord Ustus Rapere," he said. "Your presence brings me honor." He reached for the hand of the cloaked woman. "I do not believe I have had the pleasure, my lady."

"Demulier Congrave," she said in beautiful lilting voice.

"And I believe you know our illustrious lord marshal," Ustus said, motioning toward the massive man in black armor. "Sir Komor Raven. Back from another victory for our high king."

Komor approached Mungo, towering over his already short stature by a good two feet.

"Ah, yes," Mungo said with a broad grin. "Your reputation precedes you, lord marshal. Congratulations on your victory."

Komor dipped his head in thanks, but his face remained expressionless.

"Please, accept from me a token of appreciation on behalf of all the good citizens of Perth." Mungo waved his hand to the row of new slave girls. "Whichever one you like."

Komor looked over the row of terrified young women. He pointed to a girl around the age of fifteen whose name Brynlee did not know. Mungo snapped his fingers, and a nearby guard unlocked the girl's bonds and brought her to Komor. The towering man stood like a mountain over the small girl. He grabbed her chin and tilted her head from side to side, examining her.

"She'll do," he said.

Mungo clapped his hands. "Marvelous!"

"A worthy prize for the realm's fiercest warrior," Demulier said.

Komor walked off with his heavy arm around the small girl.

Brynlee stifled her tears when Demulier walked toward her. The woman moved like a goddess, exquisite and smooth, with long legs that revealed a lithe frame under her gown with every step she took. Her eyes went back and fourth between Brynlee and another young girl named Nessah.

"I like this one," she said, and she pointed toward Nessah.

Brynlee exhaled a sigh of relief.

But then the woman's finger pivoted back toward her. "And this one," she added. "Bring them both just in case."

"Of course, madam," Mungo said. He snapped his fingers and a guard came forward to undo their chains.

Brynlee fought the panic rising within her as Scarlett latched onto her shirt.

"It's all right," Brynlee said. "It's all right. It's all right." But her own tears exposed her lie as they streamed down her cheeks unbidden.

The moment Brynlee had been dreading arrived, the moment where she was torn away from the last of her family forever. Scarlett's mouth opened wide in a silent scream of protest that cleaved Brynlee's heart in two.

The guard lifted her up off the ground, tearing her from her baby sister's clutches.

He muscled her and Neesah over toward Demulier. The woman gestured a hand to the open doorway of a nearby building.

"You said this won't take long, correct?" Mungo said.

"It will take as long as the lady needs," Ustus answered. "You have been paid well enough. Conduct your business out here until we are finished."

Mungo closed his mouth and bowed low.

A guard nudged Brynlee in the back with a grunted, "Move." She stumbled ahead, casting repeated glances over her shoulder at Scarlett.

Brynlee and Neesah were escorted through a door into the dark, narrow hallway of a lavish home. At least, Brynlee thought it looked like a home, though she would've feared to meet the owner. A heavy pallor of perfume and alcohol hung in the air. The red walls were adorned with paintings of nude figures hugging and kissing each other. Ahead of the entryway, at the other end of the hall, lounged two half-naked women in wispy strips of clothing, perched on a sofa like lionesses awaiting their prey.

A disgruntled looking man in a long dark robe stood apart from them. He pulled a hood down off his bald head. Brynlee thought he looked like one of the wizards she'd seen in her books.

The man named Ustus strode up to him and shook his hand. "Verraten Suden? Did you not find the women of this kingdom to your liking?" He motioned to the two prostitutes on the sofa.

Verraten made no effort to even acknowledge the women. He snapped his hand away from Ustus, irritation emanating from every inch of his face. In a raspy voice he said, "I traveled all the way from Tranent to be left waiting here all morning? I do not wish to waste another moment more than necessary in this filthy place."

Ustus sighed. "You wizards sure do rile easily enough. Follow me."

Behind Brynlee and Neesah, the same mirthless guard who had ushered them inside nudged them to follow the two men. Brynlee went first, through a door in the main hallway and down a narrow set of stairs. Ustus took a torch from its place on the wall to light the way into a chilly dark abyss far under the city. The stone steps seemed to descend forever down a square shaft.

Once at the bottom, Brynlee watched Ustus push open a thick door made of wood and metal, its aged groan echoed into the deep dark around her. A large room appeared through the doorway occupied by nothing except a long wooden table that looked old and dusty. A hundred candles cast shiny reflections on the greasy black walls that imbued the room with a sinister energy.

Demulier snapped her fingers and pointed to the table. Ustus and the guard removed the top exposing an iron tub filled almost to the brim with a dark liquid.

"You, child," Demulier said, pointing to Neesah. "Come here."

Trembling, the girl stepped forward.

"In the tub."

When Neesah didn't move, the guard took matters into his own hands and lifted her with a quick jerk, eliciting a sharp wail from the child's lips. She squealed again when she landed in the water where she started shivering.

Demulier walked up to the tub and set her palm against the girl's head. She uttered something in a strange language, and after a moment the girl calmed, her eyes closed, and she appeared to have fallen asleep. Demulier pushed her down, submerging her.

Brynlee realized with a shudder in her heart that Demulier was a witch.

"Verraten," Demulier said in a breathy voice filled with excitement and anticipation, "come here and look. The glimpse will not last long."

"What are you talking about?" Verraten said. "What madness is this?"

Brynlee slunk back against the frigid black wall of the room, shivering from cold and fright. Something evil lingered in the air, turning the room cold and her breath white. She wanted to shut her eyes to avoid seeing whatever she was about to see, but she couldn't take her gaze off the tub, or her mind off wondering whether Neesah would be all right.

"You are about to glimpse beyond our world," Demulier said, "a show of power that I hope will draw you to place of understanding."

"What are you talking—"

From behind him the guard grabbed the wizard's head and thrust it down into the water. Verraten fought and flailed against the thick arms of the guard, but he was powerless to break free.

Demulier began muttering a strange spell that further chilled the air until a massive explosion of fiery light burst from the tub and illuminated the room. In that instant Brynlee glimpsed three silhouettes projected onto the ceiling above: she saw Neesah's tiny body lying motionless in the water, the head and shoulders of Verraten leaning over the tub, and, thirdly, a dark shape with a horned head rising up toward the surface. It's appearance sent a terrifying wave of cold through her body that pimpled her skin.

The light went out and the shadows vanished.

Verraten reeled back, eyes wide as saucers, mouth spitting and coughing tub water. He dropped to his knees before Demulier, heaving.

"What have you done?" he managed to say.

The witch stepped away from the tub, her face as beautiful and serene as it was the moment Brynlee had first laid eyes on her. She stood over the wizard, eyeing him with an icy stare that seemed to calm and frighten him.

"By the gods, you are the harbinger," he whispered. "The herald of the Adarc, of Ahkidibis himself. How—"

"You dare say his name?" Demulier snapped.

Verraten bowed. "Forgive me, great one. I do not understand how–how is this possible?"

"I was reborn many years ago with the help of your high king," Demulier said. "In exchange I promised to help him begin his conquest of Edhen, but he is little more than a puppet to me. The armies of the nine hells are ready. We need only pave the way. I brought you here to show you a glimpse, to convince you that the time was near. Are you with us?"

"Of course. Yes. Yes! Of course I am."

Ustus strode toward the kneeling wizard with slow, careful steps, his hands clasped behind his back. "Have you ever heard of a regenstern?" he asked.

"Of course."

"We sent a man to steal one from a wizard on Efferous. Word has reached us that the wizard is dead, and the stone is missing, along with our thief."

"I want a bounty put on the head of this man," Demulier said, looking to Ustus. "Merek Viator. Get the word out as soon as you can."

"Merek Viator?" Verraten said.

"You know his name?"

"There once was a Merek Viator of Turnberry," Verraten answered, "but he left after he dishonored his family's name. He was supposed to take the blood march, but he refused. He left and was never seen again."

"Turnberrians and their foolish notions of honor," Demulier moaned.

"You will keep your ears open," Ustus said, "and if you hear anything about this gem, or Merek Viator, you will promptly send word."

"Yes. Yes. Anything. But, please, tell me, is the time near?"

Demulier frowned. "Not near enough, but soon."

"We must have the gem," Ustus said.

Brynlee understood little of what they were talking about, but their words terrified her almost as much as the image of the haunting horned shadow on the ceiling.

Her thoughts returned to Neesah and she looked back at the tub. Brynlee wondered if the girl had drowned.

Demulier dismissed Verraten and then, as if for the first time, noticed Brynlee cowering in the corner.

"A second sacrifice won't be necessary," she said, waving her hand. "Get her out of here. Let the dimwitted bawd do what he wishes with her."

The guard huffed over, picked Brynlee up off the floor, and hoisted her over his shoulder. From her vantage point high above the floor she looked down into the tub of still, clear water as the guard carried her from the room. Other than water, the tub was empty. Neesah, it seemed, had disappeared.

The light outside blinded Brynlee as the guard dropped her back in place among the row of shackled girls. They were all soaking wet now, having been christened with buckets upon buckets of cold bath water.

As Brynlee's feet were being locked back in place to the stone pillar, Scarlett jumped up and wrapped her in a tight hug. Relief washed through Brynlee like sunshine and she returned the embrace.

Mungo was talking with a trio of handsome men adorned in fancy attire. The men were youthful, with polished leather jerkins and regal-looking white capes. She recognized the gold leopard crest on their sleeves. They were men from the kingdom of Tay, a province known throughout Edhen as immoral and quarrelsome.

They were pointing to Scarlett as they talked.

"What's happening?" Brynlee asked. "What are they talking about?"

Sitting to her right was Maidie. The girl had gotten sick twice since leaving Aberdour and even now looked pallid and emaciated. "He's a prince, that man in the middle there. He wants to buy her."

Brynlee looked at Scarlett, horrified. "What? No. She's not for sale."

"We're all for sale," Maidie said, "and we don't have much choice."

Scarlett started crying into Brynlee's dress.

The man in the middle shook hands with Mungo, finishing their deal. He turned and started walking toward the girls. He looked at Scarlett, smiling a mouth full of gorgeous white teeth.

Brynlee's grip on her sister tightened. "No," she whispered, and then louder, "No. No!"

The prince grabbed Scarlett by the chin, forcing her face to look up to his. His eyes examined her with a wide-eyed amazement that Brynlee found perplexing.

"The resemblance is uncanny," he said.

"Indeed," said one of his companions.

A guard unlocked Scarlett from the post.

"No," Brynlee said. "She's not for sale. What are you—"

The prince tugged the five-year-old girl away, ignoring Brynlee's protests.

"No, no, no!" she said in a rising scream.

Mungo swatted her in the face, a moderate slap, but one she didn't see coming. The shock of it knocked her to the ground and out of reach of Scarlett. The prince hoisted the little girl up into his arms and carried her away. Scarlett reached over his shoulder toward Brynlee, mouth open in silent wail.

Brynlee lost control. Sprinting after her sister she took two steps before the chains bit into her feet and pulled her down. She screamed and thrashed against her bonds. She beat on the metal links and tugged at the shackles until bloody cuts developed on her skin, the pain of which lost all significance when measured against the agonized cry in her chest.

She felt Maidie's hands embracing her and pulling her out of the street.

Brynlee called her sister's name again and again. Eventually the sight of Scarlett being carted off into the market crowed evaporated into a blur by the tears in Brynlee's eyes.

# SCARLETT

Scarlett Falls flinched when Rab dropped a white plate on the ground in front of her, which bounced, sending the few pieces of roasted ferret scattering onto the forest floor.

"Give her a break, will you?" said Paden as he lounged against a mossy log.

"She won't eat it anyway," Rab said. "Stupid kid."

As predicted, Scarlett ignored the food, just as she had done for the past two nights. She was too tired to eat, too angry, and, more than anything, too heartbroken. Not a moment went by that she didn't long for the comfort of Brynlee's embrace or the look in her compassionate brown eyes reassuring her that everything was going to be all right.

Now the property of Prince Taggart Elle, of the western kingdom of Tay, Scarlett had become the object of torment for his traveling companions, Rab and Paden, both of whom were young men with too much money and not enough wit.

"How would you like it if you were tied up, helpless, and at the whim of a man three times bigger than you?" Paden asked. He at least had a sensitive side, even though his mannerisms were strangely feminine.

Rab smiled a stupid, playful grin. "Mmm, I might actually like that very much."

"Oh really?"

"Uh-huh. Really." Rab winked.

Paden sat back against the log, rubbing his face. "By the gods, what I would give to be back at the castle right now, in a room somewhere with you. Oh, what I would do."

"We'll be there soon enough," said a third man as he trudged up the slope and reentered the campsite. Taggart Elle. Prince of Tay. He was a dignified and handsome man, clean-shaven with a strong jaw and dimpled chin framed by a head of dirty blond locks. He walked past Scarlett as he retied his breeches, and then sat down in front of a small campfire.

"Is the princess not eating again?" he asked, casting a glance at Scarlett.

At the word princess, Scarlett felt her heart shudder. Othella and Brynlee had told her to keep her identity a secret, but it appeared Taggart already knew who she was, but how?

"I think she means to starve herself," Rab said. He sat down on the ground next to Paden.

"Speaking of princesses," Paden began, "I heard in Perth that the children of Kingsley and Lilyanna Falls are still alive. Word reached the rebellion that they escaped the attack on Aberdour and there's this big secret campaign to try and find them."

"Who cares?" Rab said, stretching his hefty legs out and yawning. "A bunch of children. Not much of a threat."

Scarlett felt her nerves calming. Maybe they didn't know who she was after all.

"Eat up, child," Taggart said. "I don't want you to go wasting away on me." He sat down cross-legged in front of her. He scooped up the pieces of ferret meat and offered her some. "Go ahead. It's tasty. Cooked it myself, you know."

"That's hardly selling her on it," Paden joked.

Taggart leaned toward Scarlett. "Look, we have a long journey ahead of us and I need you healthy and fit for my brother." A mischievous glint flitted across his face. "You see, we want to plan a little surprise for him."

"You should tell her," Paden said.

"No, don't tell her," said Rab, groaning. "Just make her do it."

"Will you two stop being unhelpful?" Taggart said over his shoulder. He shifted his attention back on Scarlett and tore off a nibble of the roasted ferret meat. "My brother is... oh, how should I put this?"

"A moron?" Paden said with a smirk.

"He is not the sharpest sword in the family," Taggart finally concluded. "A bit of a clumsy fool, quiet, like you. Doesn't have many friends."

"Did the doctors really break his foot when he was little, or is that just some sob story his mother tells?" Paden asked.

"It's true. My brother was born deformed—a curved back, a weak left arm, and a leg, his left leg, grew backwards."

Rab hobbled in a straight line behind Taggart, hunched over, clutching his left arm, and dragging a twisted foot. He scrunched up his face and made gagging noises as he performed an imitation of what was, apparently, Taggart's brother.

"When he was a little younger than you, doctors tried to correct his leg by breaking the ankle and twisting it back around," the prince exclaimed. "Well, I'm sure you can imagine just how painful that was. And it didn't help."

"It actually made things worse," Paden said. He tossed a bit of meat into the air and caught it in his mouth.

"Show off," Rab said.

"I called him my pet," Taggart said. "He was like the family dog, except he looked like a boy. Sort of."

"Looked like a freak," added Rab.

"The only one who ever made him smile was our little sister." At the mention of his sister, Taggart's eyes grew sad. Whatever enjoyment he had been receiving from telling his tale faded away. He cleared his throat, and then continued. "She was, uh, about your age, a little younger maybe. One day my brother was supervising her as she was taking a bath. They got to playing some game where he would dunk her head under the water and she'd pop up spitting a stream of water at his face. She would laugh and laugh and laugh. Then, one time, he dunked her and WHAM!" Taggart slapped his hands together so loud it made Scarlett flinch. "Slammed her head against the side of the porcelain washtub. She slipped under the water and never came back up."

"That's where you come in," Rab said, pointing to Scarlett and lifting his eyebrows in rapid succession.

"Quiet, you halfwit," Taggart said.

"Or what?" Rab goaded.

"I'll tell you what!" Taggart jumped up and tackled the man. They fell to the ground and wrestled around, with Rab giggling as Taggart dominated him.

Ignoring them, Scarlett found herself haunted by Taggart's story. She didn't wish to meet a deformed halfwit. She quivered at the thought of seeing him dragging his crooked foot down the corridors of a strange castle, his gnarled hand at his side, leering at her through an evil gaze.

Scarlett winced at the hunger pang that swept through her. For the first time she caught herself eyeing the food they had given her, now strewn in the dirt in front of her. On Edhen, it was considered a huge insult to be forced to eat food off the ground. Only the lowest of the low ever did so. Still, Scarlett could not longer ignore the ache in her stomach. With an unsteady hand, she picked a piece of the roasted meat off the dirt and brushed it with her tiny fingers. She spent the next few moments nibbling at it until the savory meat ignited her desire for food, at which point she popped the whole thing into her mouth and reached for another.

"That a girl," Taggart said once he'd finished tormenting Rab. "We've got another thirty days on this road, and I want to see you eat something every day."

Like she had done for the past two nights, Scarlett slept little. Without Brynlee's lap to curl up in she felt cold and exposed. In her mind every forest sound became a hungry creature sneaking up to devour her, and every creaking limb a hiding predator. She didn't sleep much the following night either and her weariness made her feel sick all through the next day. After about a week, however, she surrendered to a sleep so heavy that it took a physical shake by Taggart to rouse her the next morning. He smiled, amused, his blue eyes appearing kind and friendly for a moment behind a few strands of blond locks.

Scarlett continued traveling north with the prince and his two companions for another three weeks, enduring more restless nights and further mocking from Rab. Her legs and buttocks grew sore from riding on the back of Taggart's saddle. Thankfully, the young prince had been kind enough to remove her tiny shackles, though only after he'd made it clear that if she tried to run she should would be eaten by a forest monster.

When the city of Tay came into view, Rab and Padden shared moans of relief.

"A warm bath," Paden said, "some oil for my rough feet."

"And a bed," Rab said. Then, with a wink toward Taggart, he added, "Right, m'lord?"

Taggart smiled.

Scarlett's eyes swept over the city before them. Tay looked much different from her home. Its walls were almost twice as tall and built of clean bright stone, none of that dark gray rock from Aberdour.

"Tay," Taggart said, pointing. "Have you ever heard of it?"

Scarlett nodded, wondering if he thought she was a moron.

"Many are put off by its ferocious symbol of a leopard," he said, "but do you know why the leopard was chosen to represent the city?"

Actually, Scarlett did know, but she had no way of communicating it to the prince, so she remained quiet and waited for him to continue.

"The leopard is considered to be the strongest and most sensual of all the big cats," he said. "Likewise, Tay is the strongest and most sensual of all the kingdoms on Edhen."

"Is that so?" Rab asked with a sly grin at the prince.

But Scarlett already knew this. She had learned much about Tay, thanks to Brynlee verbally repeating everything she learned. But Scarlett learned things differently than her sister did. Where Brynlee memorized information by repeating it, Scarlett memorized things simply because she could. She often heard something only once and never forgot it. In fact, she knew more about Tay's flag than the prince did, like the fact that it wasn't technically a leopard featured on the flag, but a close cousin of the big cat, a cougar. There weren't any leopards on Edhen, but cougars were known to roam the wilds of the north.

Scarlett knew enough about Tay to know that she never wanted to go there, and after entering through the city's main gate she saw first hand all the decadence and excess she had heard of. A large tavern sat to the right of the entrance, and not just any tavern, but an impressive three-story building with balconies on every floor occupied by loitering drunkards and whores. Nearly nude women lounged on a water fountain in the square, while hagglers bartered for pricey gems and jewelry in loud voices.

To the left of the city's entrance, across from the bar, stood a row of crosses used for execution. All of them were barren, except one, which bore a man who had been stripped of all his clothes along with some of his flesh. A sign hung around his neck declaring, "Krebber vermin." Scarlett had never heard of a Krebber before, but she wondered if it had something to do with the realm of Krebberfall, a continent that sat across the sea to the west of Tay.

And then she saw the legendary Russell Basin, a gold-plated bowl roughly the size of a wagon cart sitting on a stone pedestal in a large stone court. The basin, named for the sailing captain who had built it from the gold he'd plundered elsewhere, was filled daily with a mixture of brandy, wine, sugar, limes, lemons, and nutmeg. The intoxicating drink was available for anyone with a cup to scoop some.

But the thing that gave Tay the most renown, the reason it was beloved by male travelers everywhere, was its broad assortment of prostitutes. Tay boasted women from all corners of the known world, of every language and skin tone, versed in the sexual practices of so many cultures that not even a lifetime in Tay could exhaust the wealth of pleasures the city contained.

Though Scarlett knew some of this because she had heard it, she understood little. She knew that men liked women with no clothes on, knew they often acted like fools around them, but she had never given much thought as to why, nor did she really care.

She rode through the city on the back of Taggart's horse, watching the women on the streets toss him flowers and praises as he entered. He kissed some hands, blew kisses up into balconies, smiled and waved like a returning champion. His demeanor, Scarlett noticed, was quite different from the prince that she had spent the last month traveling with. He looked, to her, like an actor playing a role as he strutted through town. The real Taggart Elle was a very different man, one who, by her estimation, didn't enjoy the company of women nearly as much as he did men.

At long last their horses stopped in front of the entryway to the Elle family castle, a tall light gray structure fronted by a wide series of stone steps ascending to a white portico at the entrance. The castle walls looked nothing like the rugged stone of Aberdour. These walls were bright, almost white, pristine, majestic, and huge.

Taggart dismounted, groaned at the stiffness in his legs, and then picked Scarlett up off the back of the horse and set her down.

Rab clamped a hand on her shoulder and spun her around. "Now remember," he said, "this is a surprise, so be quiet. Oh, wait. I'm sorry, I forgot who I was talking to." He walked away, chuckling at his own cleverness.

A stable boy came out to collect the horses. Scarlett caught him eyeing her curiously, but she had little time to eye him back as Taggart picked her up and sprinted up the castle steps.

Inside, Scarlett's jaw fell open in awe. The castle was far more splendid and massive than anything she had ever seen. Taggart carried her up a flight of wide marble stairs onto the second floor. He took her down a broad hallway containing many displays of armored suits sequenced by tall paintings of mighty sailing ships. She peaked into a couple of the adjoining rooms to see ornately decorated bedchambers with four-post beds and long heavy curtains.

Taggart was himself again, giggling as he veered into the last bedroom on the right. Though wide and tall in size, the room contained none of the fancy decorations that permeated the rest of the castle. The bed in this room had no posts. The wood floor was scuffed and warped, and the furniture looked old. The room carried the faint aroma of mint leaves.

Taggart set her down on a hard surface, and Scarlett flinched when he began to remove her clothes. Paden and Rab came in, each carrying two buckets of water and snickering like schoolboys about to prank their teacher. When they approached her, Scarlett cringed, fearing they were going to dump the water over her head, but then she realized what she was standing in—a porcelain washtub. The two men drained the buckets into the tub and hurried out of the room, snickering.

"Get down in there," Taggart said, tossing Scarlett's ratty dress aside. "Sit!"

She did as she instructed and lowered herself into the lukewarm water.

"Stay there," Taggart said. "Do not come out until I say. Understand?"

Scarlett was too afraid to move. She watched Taggart skip out of the room, laughing in hushed tones with his companions. Whatever they were up to, she didn't understand what they thought was so funny.

She waited, her body still, too afraid to move. Her eyes roamed the high walls with their dark wood panels and antique tapestries. A nearly extinct fire crackled in its hearth across from the bed.

Behind Scarlett was a trio of huge windows half covered by blue drapes, through which she watched the afternoon sun begin to set.

Still, she waited.

The water turned cold, but out of fear of Prince Taggart she refused to move. The blue sky outside changed to purple and the room began to get dark. She started to wonder if they had forgotten about her, or if maybe their intention was to leave her there in the cold water until she drowned, just like that little girl Taggart had told her about.

Scarlett looked like her, Taggart had said. On the day he bought her from Mungo back in Perth, he marveled at how much she resembled his baby sister, a girl he had called Priscilla, the girl his deformed brother had allegedly drowned.

Night came. The bath water was freezing, but, still, Scarlett waited.

She was shivering uncontrollably when the door to the bedroom opened. A man slunk into the room, limping as if hurt. He carried a candle over to the bed and used it to ignite a three-branched candlestick. As the light in the room grew, and Scarlett saw more of him, she concluded that this must be Taggart's brother, a man whose name she had not yet heard.

He had begun to undress when he noticed Scarlett sitting naked in the porcelain tub. When their eyes locked, he screamed, which startled her and made her start to cry. He ran from the room as fast as his gimpy leg would allow.

And then Scarlett was left in the silence and cold once more. She sobbed, shivering, wishing she could get out of the tub, but doubting she could even move.

A few moments later a young woman shuffled into the room. She was small, like Dana, with a tiny waist and compassionate eyes that looked upon Scarlett with a certain horrified shock.

"Oh, of all the cruel..." her voice trailed off as she ran toward the tub. She grabbed a towel from a shelf next to the window and hurried over to Scarlett. "Come," she said. "Up you get. Come now, it's all right."

It almost hurt to move, but once she got to her feet Scarlett indulged in the soft embrace of the towel and the young woman's warm arms. She rubbed Scarlett up and down, her eyes sad.

"By the gods, you're frozen," she said. "Let me look at you. Purple lips. Wrinkled hands. Damn those fools. Damn those proud fools."

Taggart's deformed brother limped back into the room. His unnatural profile was haunting. He moved toward her, and she pressed herself into the young woman who shot the man a contemptuous glare.

"This is all your brother's foolishness," she said.

"I know," he replied. His voice was smooth, like water, kind and genuine. His stooped back made him look short, and his hair was much darker than his brother's. He had haunting eyes encroached with dark circles that frightened Scarlett at first, but she couldn't deny that despite his horrible appearance he had a gentleness she found calming.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you," he continued. "You–you look... unbelievable. You look just like her." His good hand went to his mouth as he gazed at Scarlett, stunned.

"My lord?" said the young woman. "She looks like who?"

"My sister," he said in a heartbroken whisper. "Priscilla."

The woman looked appalled. "Is that why they did this? How long were you in there, love?"

Scarlett just looked from the woman to the man, helpless to explain anything.

"Aamor, why don't you go fetch her some clean clothes," the man said.

"Right away, my lord." The woman hurried out of the room, much to Scarlett's dismay.

The strange looking man sat down on the bed, grunting as though it took great effort to do so. He gestured in the direction of the young woman. "Aamor," he began, "one of the gentlest souls I have ever known. Beautiful. Smart. Worthy of so much more than a life serving a crippled, crotchety curmudgeon like myself." He paused as though waiting for a laugh that never came. "My name is Tristian. Tristian Elle. What is your name child?"

Scarlett reverted to the universal symbol for voice by patting her throat. Everyone in Aberdour knew of her disability, and so it had been a long time since she'd had to communicate with someone who knew nothing about her.

"You can't speak?" Tristian guessed.

She nodded.

"Well, it seems we have two things in common," he said. "We both are broken, and we've both been humiliated by my idiot brother." He adjusted himself on the bed, pained by something in his left hip. "Regardless, there must be a way to learn your name. Perhaps I should guess it?"

Scarlett felt the beginnings of smile forming at the corners of her mouth. She always enjoyed a good guessing game.

"Is it Dingo?" Tristian asked.

Scarlett huffed out a laugh, a stupid-sounding laugh she had always hated. No voice. Just air passing through her mouth. It had always embarrassed her, until now. In the face of Tristian's deformities, her shortcomings didn't seem so bad.

"No? Well, how about Spotty? No? Shorty? Beanpole? Wait, wait. I've got it. Dandelion!"

She shook her head, huffing her strange, stupid-sounding laugh with no reservations.

"I think perhaps you should give me a hint," Tristian said. "I'm not very good at these sorts of games."

Scarlett looked about the room for something to use as a clue. She noticed a bookshelf and shuffled over to it. While still snuggled in her towel she scanned the spines of the many books. She did not find the word Scarlett, but she did, however, find a book with a red binding. She pulled it off the shelf and brought it over to Tristian. She ran her index finger up and down the length of the color.

He looked at the book perplexed. " _Night Tales of Old_." He looked up from the book cover. "I doubt that is your name. Is your name in this book? No."

She pointed to the color of the book again.

"The color?"

A voice from the doorway said, "Scarlett." It was Aamor. The petite young woman walked over to them with an armful of clean clothes.

"Scarlett," Tristian repeated.

But the moment he said her name, she flinched. Othella had told her and Brynlee not to use their real names. Keep it a secret, she had said. Though the reasons behind the young woman's warning were a mystery to Scarlett, it was one she intuitively felt she had to obey.

Slowly she shook her head.

"No?" Tristian said. "Your name isn't Scarlett?"

Again, she shook her head.

"How about Red? Do you mind if I call you Red?"

She nodded.

"Now tell me..." He paused. "Sorry. Poor choice of words." He thought for a moment. "What are you good at, Red?"

Scarlett scrunched her face as she thought about what few things she could do, but all that came to mind were the things she wasn't good at. She wasn't pretty and brave like her oldest sister, Dana, who could loose her arrows better than any of them. She couldn't fight like her brother Brayden, or run fast like Broderick. Even Lia and Brynlee had more wit and wisdom than little Scarlett. If there was anything she was good at, she hadn't discovered it yet.

She responded to Tristian with a shrug and a frown.

He patted her shoulder. "We'll learn about you soon enough, I suppose," he said. "For now, I think it's time for bed."

Tristian had Aamor make up a temporary mattress for Scarlett of thick blankets, bearskins, and pillows on the floor near the fireplace. She donned a linen shift and burrowed under the warmth of the blankets. Aamor lowered herself to her knees and helped tuck her in.

"I'm so sorry, love," she said, stroking Scarlett's hair. "What they did to you today, they... they had no right to—"

"Aamor," Tristian said, "a hand please."

"My lord."

Aamor rose and went over to Tristian who was sitting on the bed, his weak left hand caught in the tangles of his shirt. Scarlett watched as Aamor gently untied the knotted strings and helped him remove the garment. Tristian thanked her and dismissed her.

With a slight bow, the girl left.

"Well, Miss Red," Tristian started to say, "I hope you can sleep well tonight."

And sleep well she did. All at once the exhaustion from months of travel, of physical pain, and heartache, washed over her, buried her in her cushy mountain of blankets and pillows and drowned her in an ocean of rest. She dreamed wild and crazy carefree dreams, and woke to the sun as it caressed her cheek.

# MEREK

Awlin returned to the campsite half-dressed and dripping with water. She giggled at herself as she stumbled over the low-hanging folds of her dress, and backed up to Merek where he sat on a log by the campfire munching on a piece of bread.

"Can you button this up, please?" she asked.

He stood, amused by her clumsiness. "Did you fall in?"

"No, I wanted to wash," she said. "The river was cold, but I needed to bathe."

"I'm sorry," Merek said as he reached for the buttons on the back of her dress, "I thought we'd be safe by now, but, I promise, in another day or two we'll—"

When he saw the scars on her back he stopped. A feeling like ice trembled through his body as he examined the whip marks. His mind conjured horrible images of a cruel slave master abusing his sister, Awlin screaming in pain as she tugged against her bonds. The thoughts drained the blood from Merek's face because he knew that regardless of who put the scars on Awlin's back that he, Merek Viator, was ultimately at fault.

"Brother?" Awlin asked.

He cleared his throat. "Oh, sorry." He continued fastening up the back of her beige dress, a far too simple gown for someone worthy of so much more.

Merek sat back down on the moldy log, fearing he would soon lose control of his own shame and burst into tears. For months now he had been hiding it. Ever since he had freed Awlin, he had been ignoring the nagging feeling inside him to tell her the truth. He knew that at some point he would have to admit his guilt, bear her hate, and have it over with, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Having already been shunned by the rest of his family, losing Awlin was a thought too difficult to bear.

"What were you saying?" Awlin asked as she sat down next to him in front of the fire. "Something about a couple more days."

Her words yanked Merek from his inner misery. He found himself lost for a moment in her delicate eyes that still retained so much of the innocence that he remembered.

"Um, yes," he said. "We should be at the cabin late tomorrow."

"A cabin?"

"I inherited it from a friend who also used to do my kind of work."

"You mean stealing stuff?" Her voice, the way she said it, so naive and unassuming, almost fascinated in a way.

"But much more successful than I've ever been," he said, which wasn't entirely true. Anyone who knew him would attest that Merek was one of the best thieves in the business, but he lacked the one attribute that made the best thieves notorious: greed. "I have a stash of gold at the cabin that should be enough to buy passage."

"Oh, I can't wait to see mama and papa again." Awlin's eyes crinkled when she smiled and looked toward the sky at the stars visible through the gaps in the cozy forest canopy. "Some nights I can still smell papa's pipe, or mama's hands, like oil and flour. Mmm, frosting!" She closed her eyes, licking her lips. "Father always said she should open a bakery." Awlin reclined on her hip, propping herself up with her elbow. "How are things at home? Is Edhen still at war?"

"The Black King conquered Aberdour several moons ago."

Awlin's cheerful disposition began to recede. "So is it over?"

"Hardly. There are pockets of resistance, but I doubt they will survive long."

Awlin counted out four of her fingers. "Four years. He landed in the kingdom of Perth four years ago, and in that time he conquered the entire realm. Amazing. Where did he come from?"

"No one knows. They say he is an Edhenite, but he speaks Efferousian, Fellian, and other languages that few have ever heard. Some call him a demon, others say he is doing the work of a demon."

Awlin curled her lip. "I'm not so certain I want to go home now."

"The realm is not as bad off as some claim. Orkrash is a bastard after his own agenda, that much is for sure, but those kingdoms loyal to him are getting on just fine."

"And the ones that don't?"

Merek didn't say anything, but his mind went immediately to Aberdour. Rumor was the Black King's army had completely destroyed it. Regardless, it wasn't anything Merek wanted to talk about.

"Awlin?" he asked. "Who gave you those scars on your back?" As soon as he asked, he regretted it. He wanted to know, but at the same time he knew where the conversation might lead.

Awlin's smile faded. "Oh, you saw those? I almost forgot they were there."

"Was it Adairous?" he asked.

"He only ever whipped me that one time," she said.

"What did you do?"

Awlin started to say something, but then her lips broke into a wide grin. Her eyes glinted like she was about to tell a good joke. "On Efferous the word for mop sounds very much like the word _catchyamish_ , which is what they call a street cat, an undesirable cat that smells bad and is mean and nobody wants. In fact, young boys are often paid a rosi or two by businessmen who want the catchyamishi in their area killed off." She waved her hand as though shoeing away a fly. "Anyway, so one night Adairous was hosting an extravagant banquet in honor of the visiting matrona, a vile woman named—"

"Romola Duplicara," Merek said. "I know of her." He smirked. "There's a rather risqué painting of her I've seen in a wizard's tower in Malium. She'd love it."

"I can't stand the woman," Awlin said. "The other servants were terrified of her as well. One girl was so nervous that during the serving of the meal she spilled the serving dish all over the matrona's lap. The girl would have been whipped had it not been for me." Awlin looked sheepish, her smile appearing again as though the punch line was coming. "I went to the matrona and tried to ask her if she wanted a mop to clean up with. Apparently, I called her a smelly, undesirable cat instead."

Merek laughed. "I take it nobody thought that was funny."

Awlin's eyes widened. "You don't make jokes about Romola, even if they are accidental. Adairous didn't want to whip me. I always thought he had a soft spot for me, actually. But he had to make an example lest he risk losing favor in the eyes of the matrona."

Awlin's story amused him, and she told it with a noticeable degree of understanding born of humility and kind-heartedness. Awlin had never been one to hold a grudge.

Still, Merek found the humor of her story overshadowed by his guilt. His sister may have found a way to laugh it off, but she had yet to confront the man who was truly responsible.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking.

Awlin's eyebrows cinched together. "It's all right, brother. The scars have long healed. I'm just so happy to be here with you now and to be going home to see mama and—"

"You don't understand," Merek said, as his grief muscled his confession to the surface. "It's my fault this happened to you."

"What do you mean?"

"It's my fault you were sent away, Awlin. You were taken from our home and sold into slavery because of me."

She huffed. "You're exaggerating."

"No. I've been meaning to tell you this for a while."

He closed his eyes and took a breath. Here it goes.

"I tried to steal some coins from what I thought was an old man, but he was actually Brutas Cathal, one the most famous knights in all of Edhen. Instead of turning me in he offered to train me. Mother and father were thrilled, of course. A member of the Viator family, a knight. How exceptional."

Awlin smiled. "I remember. I didn't know that Sir Brutas had caught you trying to steal, but I remember the day he honored you before our family. Mother and father were so proud."

"Have you ever heard the name of Kruach?" Merek asked. "Do you remember hearing about him?"

"The gladiator?" she asked.

"That was me."

Awlin's face was blank at first. Her head cocked to one side, pondering, examining his eyes as though trying to catch him in a lie. "I didn't think it was honorable for a knight to fight in the arenas."

"It's not. When mother and father found out what I was doing with the skills Sir Brutas had taught me, father shunned me. I brought dishonor upon the whole family. He made me leave."

She gasped. "He can't do that. Only a patriarch has the right to strip someone of their namesake."

"Father didn't care. And I didn't know any better at the time. I was too angry, too eager to prove that I wasn't worthy of their rejection. I thought if I won enough glory in the ring, that maybe... I don't know. Maybe somehow I could win them as well, but in the end I just ended up losing more."

Awlin's full attention was fixed upon him now, her eyes unblinking.

"I became a drunkard. I found pleasure in the deepest circles of the morally deprived. One day, during a jousting match, I, um..." An ember formed in his throat that took his words for a moment. Merek fought down the tears edging at his eyes before he continued. "I was too drunk to fight. A man who doesn't show up for a match is a worthless man. I would have lost all the credit I had earned for the name of Kruach were it not for my squire, a boy by the name of Quinn, barely fourteen years old." The tears were coming now whether Merek liked it or not. "Quinn pretended to be me. He put on my armor, took up my shield, and fought in my stead. I was passed out at the time or I would've stopped him. There I was, a grown man shamed by a lad who knew more about the meaning of honor than I ever did. The next morning I found out that his opponent had skewered him through the neck with his lance."

Awlin's silence could've shattered Merek's eardrums. His mind filled with memories of that awful day, of waking up to fists seizing him, guards beating him, and the heart-broken family of young Quinn demanding his execution.

"Father was going to give me to the authorities, but not before I took the blood march," Merek said. "Father wanted our family name absolved of the sins of his rebellious son before they had me executed for Quinn's death."

Awlin's eyes shut and a single tear trickled down her cheek. "Men have died taking the blood march."

"I know. I was too afraid to take it. And so I ran away." Merek's head dropped as he sobbed. His stomach knotted because at last he had come to the part of his story that he feared the most. He collected himself and looked up at his sister, thinking of those horrible scars on her back. "Quinn had three older brothers, and they wanted revenge. When they couldn't find me they went after you."

Merek kept talking, but at this point his words didn't matter. He could see in Awlin's eyes that she already knew the rest of the story—taken from her home in the middle of the night by three men, whisked away to one of Turnberry's harbors, and sold like a cheap whore to the first slave ship bound for Efferous. Her expression changed from shock, to horror, than sadness and tears.

"I'm so sorry, dear sister," Merek said. He slid off the log and fell to his knees, intent on begging her for forgiveness, but her hands caught him by the shoulders before he could kneel. She pushed him up and threw her arms around him, hugging him in an embrace he didn't deserve. "I'm so sorry," he said again, crying into her chest. "I will never forgive myself for what happened to you."

Awlin stroked the back of his head and said, "Then I will do it for you."

He looked up at her. "What?"

"You've punished yourself enough," she said. "The scars on my back are no more your fault than they are mine."

"How can you say that?" he asked. "How can you forgive all that I've done?"

"Because you're my brother. I love you."

With Awlin's arms around him, Merek felt a peace envelop him that he never expected to find. His mistakes became a memory, and his crimes insignificant in the face of Awlin's willingness to look past what he had done.

The atmosphere around the campfire changed over the next several moments and Merek and Awlin talked until the embers of the fire were a calm red. He tossed a couple more logs on the coals and lay down on his blanket to look up at the stars. Awlin was quiet for a long time, and Merek began to wonder if she had drifted off to sleep.

Then she said, "Merek, did you ever marry?"

"Why of all questions to ask me would you think of that?"

"A good sister wants the best for her big brother."

"No. I never married. Don't suspect I ever will."

"Can't find many brown haired, brown eyed girls on Efferous can you?" She giggled, eyes crinkling in the firelight.

He smiled, a mental picture of such a woman forming in his mind. He did like the brunettes.

Merek lay awake for a while afterward, listening to the crackling of the campfire and the scampering of distant nighttime critters through the forest. He still couldn't believe Awlin's response to his admission of guilt. Though she had looked appalled during his story, and though she cried with him as he confessed, her response was the one thing that he never saw coming.

After a while his thoughts went to the cabin, one of only a few safe houses he had left. If he couldn't get in there and retrieve his gold, he and Awlin would not be able to afford a ship ride back to Edhen.

He did have one option, however, and it was tucked in the pocket of his tunic in the form of two milky white gems. He had already used four of them to buy Awlin's freedom, an act that had startled him when he thought about it a couple days later. He was now in debt in the worst way possible to the most ruthless high king ever to rule Edhen. Even if he and Awlin were able to afford passage home, Merek doubted he would be able to return. He was a wanted man now. He could take Awlin home, but, in the end, he would have to leave.

Eventually Merek slipped into a light sleep, waking many times to the forest sounds and the jarring thoughts of his own bleak imagination.

After dawn, he and Awlin ate a few bites of what little provisions they had, watered their horses by a nearby brook, and set off north toward the town of Faltonia.

A quiet place, Faltonia was rich with jungle greenery and strong stone homes occupied by craftsmen, seamstresses, carpenters, masons, and other talented tradesmen. The town had little to offer passersby. Other than the resources produced by its inhabitants—resources that were almost always carried away and sold elsewhere—the town had nothing that attracted visitors

Merek led Awlin along the outskirts of the town and into the jungle woods. He steered north through many fertile farmlands sectioned off by rows of emerald shrubs, flowery trees, and trickling brooks.

Leaving his horse in the woods for a few moments, Merek crept through the jungle underbrush and peered out into a small clearing where a simple single-level cabin sat, a dark square box in the midst of a rich verdant utopia.

He knew right away that something was wrong. A path of tall green grass to the right of the single-level structure was bent in the wrong direction as though a horse or a man had traipsed over it. The front door wasn't shut and the native birds were far too quiet.

"What is it?" Awlin whispered, as she sat on her knees behind him.

The door to the cabin scraped open and a black viper stepped outside onto the warped wooden deck. He stood there a moment in black leather and chain mail, examining his surroundings as he munched a piece of dried meat.

Merek's gut twisted. His safe haven was gone, his gold out of reach. His return journey to Edhen with Awlin had stalled yet again. Merek's mind ticked through the possible ways the soldier had tracked him to this location, but there was a number of possibilities. Patryk might have told them, or another one of Merek's collaborators, though there were few who knew about the cabin. Merek wondered if he had slipped up. Perhaps over the last two years of sneaking around Efferous and making the rich a wee-bit poorer had resulted in a few loose threads that he had failed to cut off.

However the cabin had been found, it didn't matter now.

The soldier squinted in the late afternoon sun, his eyes searching the field. He looked like he was following a routine, one he had already done many times, which made Merek wonder just how long the soldier had been there. He probably wasn't alone either, which made it even more possible that the cutaway in the floor under the table had been found, the gold pillaged.

Merek waited for the man to wander back into the cabin before moving away from his perch. He took Awlin by the hand and, staying low, led her back through the underbrush to where they had left the horses.

After Patryk's death in Slavigo, Merek had abandoned the grumpy old horse his friend had loaned him and purchased two new horses with the money he had collected from the stolen purses at The Pit. The problem now was he needed money. He spent a moment debating in his mind about going after the gold anyway, wondering if he was skilled enough to take on the black viper and anyone else hiding inside. Without knowing for certain if his gold remained where he'd hidden it, however, he couldn't justify the risk.

With the presence of the black vipers having put some fear into him, Merek led Awlin back toward Faltonia. Once they were in town Awlin ventured to break the silence and asked him where they were going.

"Just follow me," he said.

Merek sauntered his horse up to a storefront with a broad window made of small square glass panes set in a bowed-out wooden frame to make a larger view. The shop belonged to a jeweler whose wares were on display through the glass.

He dismounted, tied his horse to a hitching rail, on the street, and instructed Awlin to wait with the horses. She must have sensed his souring mood because she said nothing to indicate that she heard him or that she would obey. Merek stepped up onto the raised wooden walkway that fronted the clapboard shop and went inside.

He shut the door behind him and looked around. The store was empty of people, but crowded with waist-high cabinets featuring pottery, brass, silver goblets, forks, spoons, and knives, and jewelry enclosed in protective glass cases.

An oversized man with a double chin hobbled out to the front desk to greet his customer. Unlike the humble, working man vibes the town of Faltonia exuded, Nheto Stult reeked of prosperity. His clothing was spotless, richly embroidered, and made of only the finest fabrics. The man had more money than anyone knew, and if Merek and he didn't have a long history together, Merek would've hit him up years ago.

When he saw Merek, he stopped, sighed and shook his head. "Been worried," he said. "Lots of talk going around about you."

"Like what?" Merek asked.

"I've heard different things. It always seems to be about black vipers though. They're looking for you everywhere. They were even in here asking questions about you two moons ago." Before Merek could ask, the jeweler lifted his hands. "Don't worry. I told them nothing. They were asking about your cabin though."

Merek tried not to look as worried as he felt. "What can I say? I've hit a rough patch."

The man gestured with his massive chin out the window where Awlin sat stroking the front shoulder of her horse. "Can't be too rough. That's a mighty pretty girl."

Hoping to keep his sister out of the discussion altogether, Merek reached into his tunic and withdrew the two pieces of the regenstern. He set them on the counter in front of the jeweler and watched his eyes sparkle with awe. Few men on Efferous were as gifted in recognizing the quality and value of rare gems than Nheto Stult.

When Nheto saw the gems, he whistled. "I got one question. Are these from Edhen?"

"Why?"

"Cause if they are I'm not touching them."

"My question remains. Why?"

Nheto sighed again, a heavy wheeze that sounded painful. He leaned forward over his generous girth, resting his elbows on the counter, and glancing out the window like he didn't want anyone else to hear what he was about to say. "A man got murdered in Slavigo a few moons ago for having one of these gems," Nheto said.

"What man?" But Merek had a strange feeling that he already knew.

Nheto shrugged. "Some rich nobleman. Was showing it off to a bunch of folks one night when black vipers started roughing him up, asking him where he got it. Some people say the man got real nasty and started fighting and that's why they killed him, others tell it like the poor soul pissed himself in fear as they wrestled the stone from his grasp and then stuck him right then there."

Merek remembered the obnoxious nobleman from the slave auction who had fallen in lust with Awlin the moment he heard that she was a virgin. It had cost Merek four pieces of the regenstern to buy her back from him. If black vipers were so eager to kill a wealthy man such as he to get the gems back, then surely Merek and Awlin stood no chance at all.

"Do you know why they want this so badly?" Merek asked, pointing to the gems on the counter.

Nheto sighed again, as though every question Merek asked was a huge burden for him to answer, and for a man as big as Nheto it probably was. "These are wizard stones, some call them. These two have something magical inside of them. You can tell by the rainbow colors in the center. You see?"

"What kind of magic?"

Nheto shrugged. "Could be anything. If you hold it enough it might make you into a genius. If you have the right words it might enable you to spit fire. If you twirl it around your head it might make you dance the jaunty and bark like a dog. If you—"

"I get it," Merek said.

"A regenstern can even act like a spyglass. They say if one is broken apart you can see what the others are seeing when you cast a certain spell over it, or something crazy like that.

"Whatever this has inside of it, the Black King wants it bad. He's a bastard, that one. He isn't even king of Efferous and yet the people here talk about him like he's a creature from all the hells. He isn't anyone you want on your bad side, Merek. So my advice to you is give these back to whoever or wherever you got them from."

"There's a problem with that," Merek said. "I need money. What can you give me for these?"

"Ha! I'm not buying those, my friend. No way."

"Please, one last sale for old time's sake. And I do mean that. This is it for me, Nheto. I'm done. I need a ship to get me home, and then I'm never coming here again."

Nheto sat back on a stool much too small for his wide posterior. He folded his arms and regarded Merek thoughtfully before saying, "I have a friend who runs a ship called the Choir Girl to Thalmia every day. He owes me a favor. He can get you as far as the west coast first thing tomorrow. You can stay here for the night, but in the morning you have to go. That's the best I can do."

"You sure the wife won't mind?" Merek said.

"That walking pair of shackles is at our home in Velia. Spends most of her time there actually. I hardly see her anymore."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you kidding? It's been great!"

Merek returned to Awlin, delighted to give her news that didn't involve disappointment for once. In the four months they had spent traveling from Slavigo, they had encountered one problem after another that delayed their return to Edhen, but now home felt like a possibility once again.

What Merek didn't tell her, however, was that something still felt wrong.

Above Nheto's shop was a practical two-bedroom home where the jeweler lived with his mother and his wife—whenever she came to visit, that is. The place was small, but its furnishings were quite extravagant, a clear sign of Nheto's successful business savvy.

Merek let Awlin have the padded sofa, in spite of how comfortable it looked, while he slept on the floor. By the time the light of the sun had woken them the next morning, Nheto had prepared some hot tea and some buttered muffins akin to Edhen's cornbread.

Nheto handed Merek a note to give to the captain of the Choir Girl while a stable boy fetched their horses, which had been saddled with supplies for their journey home.

Awlin's spirits were high, but as delightful as it was to see his sister happy, Merek shared none of her jubilation.

"What's wrong?" Awlin asked him while their horses carried them down a wide dirt road that tunneled through a thick jungle canopy.

Merek shrugged. "Nothing," he lied. "I'm just... just happy to be putting this place behind us."

"I know what you mean," she said.

Awlin started to talk at length about her life as a servant to Adairous Dolar, but Merek wasn't listening. His mind kept returning to his cabin and the black viper he had seen standing on the front deck, occupying one of the most secret parts of his life. If they could find him there, then surely they would find him anywhere.

Merek kept a close eye on the surrounding foliage of the woodsy tunnel, looking for signs of watchful eyes, though he tried not to make a show of it for Awlin's sake. By the time they reached the harbor she was well into her fifth anecdote—or was it her sixth? Merek couldn't remember. He glanced behind them to see if they were being followed, but aside from fishermen wandering to and from the harbor, a woman carrying a basket of greens, and a couple peasant children playing a chasing game, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Emerging from the green tunnel of jungle, Merek saw that the road split. The main path continued straight along a line of storefronts that included an inn and a small tavern, while the left branch of the road sunk down a dirt hill into Faltonia's harbor. The waterfront looked busy with many small fishing boats floating out over the ocean inlet, and several large flat-bottom cargo ships loading up for voyages to various shores.

From his vantage point high upon the main road, Merek looked along the docks examining the ships for signs of danger. He saw the Choir Girl on the far right and noted the six men lugging cargo up onto the deck.

"Are you coming?" Awlin asked. She had drifted down the road leading toward the boats, no doubt driven by eagerness unencumbered by no sense of caution.

Merek smirked, wondering if he was being too paranoid. He led his horse down the road to the Choir Girl, a wide brown ship roped to a rickety wooden pier on its starboard side, its name scrawled across the back in a decorative Efferousian text.

A man standing on the pier next to the Choir Girl noticed Merek and Awlin looking over the ship. He asked in sloppy Efferousian, "Can I help you?"

"Are you the captain of this vessel?" Merek asked.

He must've detected a hint of Merek's accent because his expression became suspicious. "What's it to you?"

Merek sidled his horse close enough to hand the man Nheto's handwritten note. The captain unfurled the parchment and read it silently to himself.

"You're a friend of Nheto's?" he asked.

Merek dipped his head.

"Pleased to meet you." The man took out a bright green rag and wiped his forehead. "Uh, if you want to dismount I'll bring your horses on board for you. Let's go, miss. Off you get." He reached up to Awlin to help her down.

"Wait," Merek said.

There was something about the captain's green rag that wasn't right. It was too bright and clean for a hard working sea captain, and not a color common to the region. Merek guessed it was given to the man for the express purpose of signaling someone else.

"Shall I load your horse, sir?" the captain asked.

Merek looked at him, studied him, saw the sweat on his brow and the nervous twitch of his upper lip as he reached for the reins of Awlin's horse.

"No," Merek said. "Awlin, follow me."

"Well, hold on now," the captain said. "Uh, any friend of Nheto's is a friend of mine."

"What's wrong?" Awlin asked.

"I'll explain later," Merek said. To the captain he added, "Let her go." The man released the reins.

Shouts from up on the main road beckoned Merek's attention away from his sister where he saw a contingent of black vipers charging along the line of storefronts. They were galloping toward the split in the road and would soon be charging down the slope into the harbor.

"Move!" Merek shouted, and he kicked his horse into a furious gallop. He tried to gauge the speed at which the black vipers were moving and guessed that he and Awlin could reach the fork in the road before they did, but then what? They had no place to go but straight, and that would take them back into town, back toward Nheto's shop, where escape would be almost impossible.

Merek glanced behind him to see Awlin just over his right shoulder, hands on the reins, head low, galloping her horse like an experienced rider. He smiled, proud.

Their horses pounded the ground as they made their way up the slope, narrowly beating the soldiers to the split.

"Go!" Merek shouted. "Faster!"

They galloped back through the tunnel of jungle trees with the company of black vipers close behind. Merek could hear their excited shouts echoing after them.

How had they found him? Merek refused to believe that Nheto had sold them out. If he had, the soldiers would've come for him during the night. No, it wasn't Nheto, Merek concluded. The black vipers had been waiting at the harbor just like they had been waiting at the cabin. They knew he might come this way. They knew he might try to board a ship and flee the area. He had foolishly walked right into their trap.

Merek took a sharp corner down a side street with a row of cramped buildings on the right and jungle foliage on the left. He knew such a maneuver wouldn't throw the soldiers off their trail, but it would force them to slow and cause those in the back to fall behind. It wasn't the entire company he needed to outmaneuver, just the rider in the lead.

"Stay close!" he shouted to Awlin. "Left, then left, then left."

"Right!"

They came upon another sharp left turn and Merek used the position to ready his right hand and hurl a dagger at the black viper closest to them. The blade landed flat against the side of the soldier's head, causing the man to almost lose control of his steed.

The distraction gave Merek the precious seconds he needed to make a second sharp left, followed by a third that wheeled him and Awlin through the doors of a large gray barn. Merek had picked out the structure last summer as a prime hiding spot in Faltonia. It's large stable bays provided easy access and its high lofts were a honeycomb of nooks and crannies.

Merek jumped off his horse, at the same time ordering Awlin to do the same.

"Up the ladder!" he whispered.

While Awlin went for the ladder, Merek led the two horses into one of the stalls.

A black viper went charging by the barn's entrance, shouting to his comrades.

Merek raced up the ladder and pulled Awlin into a corner of the loft packed with hay. He ripped apart one of the hay bales and buried them both in golden straw. From the loft he peeked through the space between the clapboards at the street outside. Two horsed soldiers were congregating below, muttering to each other just quiet enough that he couldn't hear.

"I'm sorry," Merek whispered. "I'm so sorry, Awlin."

She put a comforting hand on his back, but said nothing.

"I just don't know if we can get home," he said.

They watched the soldiers for several moments before the men split up and searched in different directions.

After some time had passed, the black vipers found their horses in the stall below and confiscated them. Their rides, food, blankets, extra clothes, and traveling provisions were now gone. The soldiers did a brief search of the barn's ground floor, but concluded that the murderous fugitive Merek Viator had escaped, much to their chagrin. The soldiers knew he couldn't get far without a horse, and so they sent out riders in all directions to watch the roads.

"What now?" Awlin asked.

Merek's head fell onto his forearm as he lay on his stomach in the high loft of the barn. He shook his head. "I don't know. I just don't know."

"Just get us safe," Awlin said.

"I'm trying," Merek replied, agitated that his sister didn't sound appreciative of his efforts. "Edhen is just too far out of reach at the—"

"No," Awlin said. "Not Edhen. I would love to see mama and papa again, truly, but being with you is enough, dear brother. If we have to make a life on Efferous, so be it. I don't care where we go, just as long as we're safe."

He lifted his hay-covered head and looked at her. He hated that he couldn't get her home to their family, but was relieved to hear that she could settle for the next best thing. A life on Efferous wasn't ideal, but it also wasn't impossible either. He knew his way around the country well enough to get them to safety, and in time the black vipers would give up their pursuit. In time, Merek and Awlin could start a life deep in the woods of Efferous. In time, he knew, they could find some peace.

# BRAYDEN

He pulled the door open. In the shaft of light that cut through the darkness he looked down the stone stairwell beyond. The smell that greeted him was damp and old. He noticed the flickering of torchlight on the basement wall below and, feeling curious, ventured in to investigate.

In the few months Brayden had spent at Halus Gis with the other refugees of Aberdour he'd found little about the monastery that surprised or intrigued him. The buildings were drab and plain, and the priests and nuns who lived there were meek and quiet. They lived simple lives far removed from civilization, and spent their time praying, studying, or working in their gardens, orchards, and workshops.

The only thing that kept Brayden and the other boys entertained was their daily training with Khalous, Pick, and Stoneman. The fierce regiment was exhausting, but had already strengthened Brayden's muscles far beyond what they were before.

Apart from that, life at the monastery of Halus Gis was a bore.

The bottom of the stairs swiveled ninety degrees and continued down another flight before spilling out into a large torch lit cellar built of ancient gray bricks. The room branched into three dark passages to the left, right, and center, and was empty apart from two water basins standing on either side of a broad circular archway.

In front of him stood a sight that chilled his blood.

Brayden walked past the basins through the center passageway, his eyes transfixed on the ossuary beyond and the macabre sight within.

Upon the far wall hung a morbid display of old skeletons, a tapestry of bones arranged in intricate patterns. On either side of the display was a single skeleton clad in a brown robe. Their gnarled white hands were outstretched, tiny candles flickering in their palms, fingers lathered in ages of wax.

With wide eyes Brayden's gaze drifted up and down the display, which didn't end at the ceiling. More bones, nailed above, loomed over him like scavenger birds. The large room, with its vaulted ceiling of death, made Brayden feel small.

He twitched when the voice behind him spoke. "What do you see?"

He whipped around, his eyes settling upon Gravis, the monastery's prior. He stood under the dark of the archway, his hands clasped in front of him. The man would not have been so intimidating if it weren't for his perpetual scowl.

Brayden swallowed, trying to clear the dryness that had formed in his mouth. "Um, bones, sir. Who are... I mean, who were these people?"

Gravis stepped into the room with a subtle reverence as his eyes drifted up the wall of bones. "Brothers of old. Men of the Allgod. Artisans and scholars and writers from throughout the centuries. These brothers built Halus Gis."

The prior's explanation didn't make the room feel any less imposing. Brayden cleared his throat and straightened his back, wishing the shrinking feeling in his stomach would go away.

"What is this room for?" he asked.

To his surprise, Gravis said, "No one really knows what the intention was of the priest who started this. Today we use it to reflect on our own mortality."

Brayden's brows ruffled. "Sir?"

"It is why I posed the question to you, 'What do you see?'" Gravis stepped closer to the mural, his eyes tracing an arch of spines that soared up and over a centerpiece made of dozens of human skulls and femora. "Every priest is required to spend time down here, contemplating his life before these old bones. Only here can we truly feel ourselves mortal. Here we are to be reminded that what we are now will soon be gone, and that what they are—" he waved an open hand around the room, "—we will also one day be."

Brayden regarded Gravis skeptically. Despite the prior's explanation he believed the giant wall of death still made little sense or had any purpose. He even wondered, for a moment, if Gravis was just trying to unnerve him.

Brayden wouldn't have been surprised if that had been the case. Of all the priests and nuns at Halus Gis, Prior Gravis was the only one who opposed showing charity to the refugees of Aberdour. He argued about it with the abbot many times. He said it was too dangerous to house fugitives from Aberdour. He argued that it was more practical for the refugees to seek jobs throughout Efferous, that it was too expensive for the monastery to give them sanctuary, and that the brutal training the boys were enduring at the hands of Captain Khalous Marloch should not be allowed on the sacred grounds.

Thankfully he had yet to convince the abbot to send them away.

Gravis paced over to Brayden. "So, young lord, what do you see?"

"I watched my father die in front of me, along with most of the people I've ever known," Brayden said. "I don't need old bones to remind me of mortality."

The voice of Moreland Fields echoed down the stairs. Brayden excused himself and offered a bow, but only out of courtesy. He was more than relieved to exit the crypt and leave Gravis behind.

He trotted up the steps and back into the massive stone chapel. His footsteps echoed off the empty sanctuary's ceiling of vaulted timber. Through the tall stained glass windows drifted blobs of colored daylight that decorated the many cheerless rows of old maple pews.

Brayden veered left and exited the front door of the chapel, which spilled out onto a dirt road that cut a southwardly line through the middle of the monastery grounds.

The sky was a single tone of gray, a somber presage of incoming storms.

To his delight, the air smelled of hot bread, and Brayden could tell the kitchen staff was busy preparing for the morning meal. He wished for a taste, something to remind him of the comforts of home and to take his mind off the memory of that awful underground crypt.

He saw Pick waiting for him next to a pair of gray horses that were burdened with traveling supplies. "I like that you're up on time," Pick said with a wry grin.

Brayden went to the horse, but Pick stopped him. The young soldier leaned in to more closely examine his pale complexion. "Are you feeling ill, young master?"

Brayden shook his head, but he knew right away that Pick wasn't buying his lie.

"Let me guess," Pick began, "the Ossartes?"

"You've seen it?"

"A bunch of bones arranged to look like a piece of art? No thank you. The dead aren't meant to be hung on display." He put his arm around Brayden's shoulders and steered him toward his horse.

"Brayden!" Broderick called.

His eleven-year-old stepbrother ran up to him, his feet skidding to a dusty stop on the road in front of the chapel. He pushed a few tangled locks of dark hair out of his eyes and huffed as he spoke, "Khalous just said you were leaving?"

Brayden was surprised at Broderick's level of concern. "Yes."

"Are you... I mean, will I see you again... when are you—" Broderick stammered.

"We'll be back in a few days, young master," Pick said. "Don't worry, you can go on pretending like you hate each other. We'll return soon enough."

"Be careful," Broderick said.

Pick slung himself up onto his steed, a perhaps too well fed animal that was little more than a packhorse. He checked to make sure the satchels were secure upon the horse's flanks and then urged it forward with a few clicks of his tongue.

When he noticed that Brayden wasn't following, he stopped and swung his horse around. "You coming, young master?"

Brayden had yet to even mount his steed. He stroked its neck, running his fingers through its bristly hair. "I miss Arrow."

"I know, but we have a job to do right now. So put your missing away."

With his heart still heavy and his stomach empty, Brayden mounted the horse and followed Pick. The trim soldier of the King's Shield looked comfortable atop his foreign horse, his shoulders lazily rolling with the animal's uneven steps as they headed south down the road. Pick never seemed to care where he ate or slept or how he spent his time. He was as flexible as a bowstring, and yet as strong and unwavering as a tree branch in a storm.

"Whoa," Pick said, and he reined his horse to a stop.

Brayden ambled up alongside him and looked ahead. On the road leading through the tall open gate stood a line of solemn priests in drab brown robes. Their heads were bowed, and their hands were clasped in front of them.

Standing at the end of the line was Placidous. He was no longer dressed in the traditional alb of his order, but rather the simple slacks, tunic, and cloak of a humble peasant. He had a chestnut gunnysack slung over his shoulder and a long walking staff in his hand.

"What's happening?" Brayden asked.

"He's being exiled."

Placidous moped down the line of priests. Each of them raised his hand in blessing as he passed, muttering indiscernible words of prayer. Placidous received a kiss on the forehead from Duktori Bendrosi and then continued on through the gate and onto the southern road.

"Why?" Brayden asked.

"I don't rightly know," Pick answered, "but it seems there is some truth to the rumors that Placidous very much enjoys the company of women, too much for the church's taste, I suppose."

"It doesn't seem right," Brayden said.

"What about it doesn't sit well with you, young master?"

"Placidous isn't perfect. Nobody is. They've all done wrong. What makes them any better than him?"

"Some wrongs are viewed as worse than others, it seems," Pick said.

Once Placidous had left the monastery, the line of priests dissolved.

Pick and Brayden continued out the southern gate, a tall stone and wood beam structure that could have fortified a small village. They trod over the crude timber bridge, short and low, wide enough for both their horses to cross abreast, and caught up with Placidous on the hills overlooking Halus Gis.

"If you wish to travel with us, you're more than welcome to," Pick said from atop his horse.

Placidous lifted his head. His face looked tired and sorrowful. "Thank you, Moreland, but no. I must take this journey alone."

"What journey?" Brayden asked.

He gestured toward the road ahead. "This one."

Brayden noticed Pick calling him ahead with a discretionary jerk of his chin. He bid the priest farewell and then urged his horse to quicken its pace.

"May the Allgod bless you and keep you safe, young prince," Placidous said.

Brayden felt bad leaving the broken man behind them, but Pick later explained that they had no choice. Placidous' journey was one of atonement, he said. If a morally compromised priest wished to remain a part of the order he would travel what they called The Temple Road seeking mercy from his brothers and forgiveness from the Allgod. If, on his journey, he failed to conquer his demons he would not be allowed to return.

The whole thing didn't make much sense to Brayden.

For a good part of the morning he followed Pick south over hills of tall grass and valleys of slate rock. They munched on hunks of dried beef and drank mead and water from leather canteens.

"I want you to remember something," Pick said, as the sun began its westerly arch. "If we come across any black vipers you are to say nothing. If they detect your accent, they'll know you're from Aberdour. If they absolutely insist that you give them your name, call yourself Nab."

"Why Nab?" Brayden asked.

"It's a common name of Edhen, and one not typically associated with Aberdour."

"What should I call you?"

"The Great Moreland Fields. Master Pick. Your Grace. Any of those will do. Oh, and if I tell you to run, I want you to run. Understand?"

"But I can fight if I have to," Brayden said, trying to sound brave.

"Of that I have no doubt, young master, but this isn't about proving how well you can fight. This is about staying alive, which, in your case, is more important than you know. Let me do the fighting. You just run."

"Do you think we'll come across any black vipers?" Brayden asked.

Pick's shoulders rose and fell. "Hopefully not, but Khalous wants us to see how active the enemy is in some of the southern towns, so that's what we're going to do."

"Sir, do you know why Khalous wanted me to go with you?"

"He trusts you," Pick answered. "He believes in you. You may not know it, but you've got a strong mind, Brayden, and when you set your will on something you're not easily deterred. Khalous sees this in you and he admires it."

Brayden thought the idea of an old war veteran like Khalous Marloch admiring him sounded ludicrous. "Khalous sees all that in me?"

"He does indeed. Says there's the makings of a leader in you somewhere."

Brayden supposed Pick's words should've encouraged him, but instead they weighted him with the fear of responsibility. He didn't want to be a leader. For some reason the idea carried with it images of his father lying prostrate on the ground, his life blood fleeing from the arrow wound in his neck to the filthy street.

They dismounted their horses just before the sun dropped below the graceful tree covered hills. Pick led the way off the beaten trail to a grove of softwoods. There they gathered wood for a small fire and withdrew some food from their satchels while the horses took water from a nearby stream.

Pick reclined on the ground with his back against his saddle and started gnawing on a piece of days old bread. "Khalous sees something else you, young master, if you don't mind my sharing."

Brayden shrugged. "You can say it."

"He says he sees fear."

Brayden felt his insides twist in embarrassment. He hated the way he always felt afraid, and had always been afraid of others noticing it. He glanced down at his feet as he sat in front of the fire, hoping Pick wouldn't see the red flush on his cheeks.

"It's all right," Pick said. "You'd be a fool if you weren't afraid of something."

"Do you feel fear?" Brayden asked.

"All the time. And Connell, he feels fear. We all do."

"What about Khalous?"

Pick thought for a moment and then shrugged. "I'm not sure the captain feels anything." He looked at Brayden, a joking glint in his eyes. "Honestly, when he was leading you and your siblings out of Aberdour, there wasn't a single step he took that he didn't feel fear."

Brayden wasn't sure he believed that. Khalous was strong, brave, a man who could stare down a dragon and not blink. He had fought in many battles and earned a number of scars. He never flinched and he never complained. A man like that, Brayden presumed, didn't wrestle with childish issues like fear.

"Khalous is courageous," Brayden said. "I–I don't have courage like he does."

"Wrong," Pick said, almost cutting Brayden off. "You don't _choose_ to have courage like him. In the same way that fear is a choice, having courage is also a choice."

"I don't understand."

"Having courage doesn't mean you don't have fear. It's doing what you know is right in spite of fear." Pick stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth and shifted onto his elbow. "Let me ask you this," he began, spitting crumbs. "Do you think the Black King is afraid?"

"What would he possibly have to be afraid of?"

Pick thrust a finger at him. "You."

"The Black King fears me?"

"He fears the power in your name, fears that you will rally the people to rise against him. Oh, yes. He absolutely fears you."

Brayden had never considered the power of his name before. Thanks to his father and grandfather, the family name of Falls was regarded quiet well throughout the realm. People far and wide knew the Falls to be honorable, trustworthy, and fair.

He had also never considered the power this gave him over the Black King, a power, he had to admit, that made him feel good.

Pick sat up and leaned toward Brayden. "You make this decision now. If you choose to be afraid you'll be afraid for the rest of your life."

Pick's words sat at the forefront of Brayden's mind long into the night.

When sleep finally took him, he dreamed of being surrounded by pale skeletons. His saw his siblings lying dead in a field of bones, and his father's corpse, white and cold, hung like a piece of art in the crypts of Aberdour. He saw the Black King, tall and powerful, covered in jagged armor as black as a starless night. The high king pursued him through the tunnels of Aberdour until he cornered him in the cave of bones beneath Halus Gis. Courage sat on the edge of his soul, but fell as fear overcame him.

Brayden awoke with a start to a clap of thunder, feeling like he'd just been hollowed out.

Scattered raindrops filtered down through the leaves above and pattered the dampening forest floor. Pick was already up, swishing eggs around in a frying skillet held over an open flame.

"Bad dreams, master Brayden?"

"You don't have to call me that anymore," Brayden moaned. He rubbed his head, hoping to scrub the lingering images of his nightmare out of his mind. "In fact, you probably shouldn't, especially if we come across any black vipers."

"You're right. Sorry. Old habits."

They ate quickly and in silence. Then Pick dressed the horses in their tack while Brayden disassembled their campsite.

He threw on an old dingy cloak that had been given to him by one of the priests of Halus Gis. The garment clearly hadn't been worn in many years for it rank of old wood and dust.

They continued south on The Border Road, following a winding river that connected many towns up and down the northeastern edge of Advala.

Their hope of avoiding black vipers was dashed the moment their eyes fell upon the town of Pelnon. Even through the light rain that veiled the distant buildings Brayden could see the soldiers of the high king on the bridge that crossed the river into Pelnon.

Pick brought his horse to a stop on the downward slope of a gentle hill. "Bloody bloody," he whispered as he surveyed the cluster of guards.

"Blood bloody?"

Pick looked at him, seemingly unaware that he'd spoken his thoughts out loud. "It's what the men of the King's Shield say to rouse themselves for battle. It's habit, I suppose."

"Bloody bloody," Brayden muttered as though test-fitting the words on his tongue. "So what do we do now?"

"Get something to eat." Pick looked at Brayden. "I'm hungry. Aren't you?"

With a click of his tongue, he urged his horse to continue down the road. Brayden followed close behind, his eyes nervously watching the black soldiers through the mist.

The road dipped and rose again around a bend of forest that had previously hidden a crowd of merchants. Farmers selling produce from two-wheeled carts had gathered around the bridge to take advantage of passing travelers.

Brayden followed Pick's lead and dismounted his horse. They meandered up the line of merchants until Pick found a fruit stand. He grabbed two apples, tossed the farmer a coin, and handed one of the red orbs to Brayden.

"Wait here," Pick said as he passed Brayden the reins of his horse.

The young soldier wandered up the street, munching on his apple and pretending to scour the hanging rugs put on display by a local artisan. Brayden watched him draw near to the guards that were mucking about at the bridge entrance.

"What were you doing?" Brayden asked, when Pick finally returned.

"I needed to be close enough to hear them," he said. "They're scrutinizing everyone passing into Pelnon. They've got the seal of the Efferousian emperor on their cloaks, which means they not only have the highest approval in the realm to be doing what they're doing, but they're planning to be here for a long time." He appeared disappointed. "With this many men stationed outside a town as small as this, it's clear the Black King is sending a lot of resources over here to find you and your siblings. This isn't good." He took the reins of his horse back from Brayden. "We should go. One of them seemed a little too interested in me."

They continued south until the rain thickened and the road became sloppy. Veering for the shelter of the trees, they made a small camp out of sight of any travelers.

"I don't think we'll venture any further south," Pick said as he warmed his hands over a small campfire. "The soldiers at the gate were talking about a contingent of black vipers that were to be returning from Krossous. If we keep on this road we're likely to run into them, and I'd rather not."

"Are they going to find us?" Brayden asked. "I mean, what if they come to Halus Gis?"

"That's a possibility we need to prepare for, yes," Pick said, which did little to comfort Brayden's fears.

"Maybe we should leave. We could take a ship to—"

Pick's hand flew up, a gesture that demanded immediate silence. His head jerked to the side, listening.

Brayden peered around through the fog-veiled trees in the dim evening light. He strained his ears to listen, but he heard nothing except the soft splashing of rogue raindrops slipping through the forest canopy.

Then, from somewhere beyond his gaze, a tree branch snapped.

Pick shot up straight like a deer about to sprint. His left hand went to his sword.

Brayden saw the first black viper creep toward them through the trees behind Pick. The man's sword was visible, a shiny line of silver cutting a sharp edge against the backdrop of dark forest.

Pick turned around to face the man as two others drifted out of the fog to the north, then a third to the south. Six in all surrounded their camp, swords and cudgels at the ready, rain pinging off the angles of their sharp black armor.

"Greetings gentlemen," Pick said. He lifted his hands in a sign of peace. "Gave us a fright, you did."

"Might we have the pleasure of your name, stranger?" said one of the vipers. He was a thickset man with a long tear on the outer hem of his dark cloak. He had a broad forehead, a thick jaw, and massive fists that clutched the hilt of a long sword.

"My name is Moreland Fields. This is my son, Nab."

"Your son, is he? Where you from?"

"The Thanadousi Mountains. We've grown tired of the wind and cold and we've come seeking work. We mean no harm."

The viper considered his response. "Your words have the taint of an Edhenite."

"So do yours."

"You're going to have to come with us."

"Is it a crime for a traveler to rest on the side of the road?" Pick asked, gesturing toward the campfire. "We were merely trying to keep warm."

"We have orders to detain and question everyone from Edhen. You're coming with us."

Pick frowned, exhaling a long breath as he cast his gaze to the ground in thought. "No. No, I don't think we are. You see, I'm under orders too."

Brayden caught a glimmer of the knife as it slipped from Pick's sleeve, spiraled through the air, and impaled the eye socket of the nearest soldier. By the time he had refocused his gaze back on Pick, the young warrior had already sliced his sword through the throat of the viper at his back. He plunged his blade into the belly of the large leader, yanked it up and to the side, ripping a massive hole in the man's gut that emptied his bowels onto the forest floor.

"Run!" Pick barked.

Brayden ran for cover, his eyes as round as dinner plates and his chest heaving in panic. He cowered behind a tree stump, shivered, and watched.

Pick flipped a second sword up with the toe of his boot and caught it in his right hand. Brandishing two blades he dispatched two of the three remaining soldiers in a bloody display of severed limbs and cut throats.

The final black viper rushed at Pick with teeth bared. He was a huge man. He grabbed the young soldier from behind with arms as thick as tree boughs. The two wrestled on their feet before falling to the damp ground and tussling through the underbrush.

When they rolled back toward the campfire, Brayden could tell that the fight was not going in Pick's favor. The big man had a death grip on his throat and Pick's face was turning purple.

He managed to turn his eyes to Brayden and choke out, "Run!"

Brayden backed away in shock, unwilling to believe that Pick was about to die. He turned and started sprinting through the trees. Fear washed over him like a dark cloud. He wondered how he would get away, if he would be able to escape the clutches of the high king's men. He wondered how he would survive, how he would stay warm, how he would find food, and if he would ever make it back to Halus Gis.

He tripped and crashed to the ground. His mind spun. He scrambled to his feet, panic rising. Pressing himself against the trunk of a large tree he felt his chest tightening, his thoughts clouding over with fear.

He heard the shouts of combat, heard Pick scream in pain.

Brayden clutched his head and shook it back and fourth.

"No," he said. "No, no, no."

He felt like he was swirling around the lip of a dark pit, falling deeper and deeper into a void of debilitating fear.

"No," he said, trying to shut it out. "No. No more!"

He was tired of feeling fear. He was tired of being a coward.

Pick shouted again.

Lurching to his feet Brayden tore through the woods. His adrenaline surged, drowning his fear. He wasn't sure if he was acting of his own accord or if instinct had taken over.

He sprinted back to the campsite.

When he saw Pick still struggling with the massive soldier he reacted instinctively. Brayden grabbed a blackened branch from among the red-hot embers of the campfire. When the big viper turned at the sound Brayden shoved it into his face. Sparks erupted from the impact, searing one of the man's eyes. He reeled back, screaming. Pick jumped to his feet, sword in hand. With one wild horizontal swing he cut halfway through the viper's neck. After a moment the corpse toppled to the ground.

Pick stuck his sword into the dirt and leaned on it, panting while the color in his face returned.

"What did I tell you?" he rasped. "What did I tell you to do if I told you to run? Damn it, Brayden. You need to listen to me."

Brayden dipped his head. "I'm sorry. I tried. I remembered what you said, but I couldn't let him, I mean, he was going to kill you."

Pick moved toward him, anger apparent in his eyes. He shoved a finger at Braydne's nose. "And that is what we call courage." He paused, and then smirked. "Disobedient, and rather stupid, but courage."

# BRYNLEE

Korah was throwing up into a white basin in her bedroom when Brynlee passed by her door. The awful sounds of the girl's gagging and spitting beckoned Brynlee to stop and approach the doorway. Poking her head inside she saw a magnificent red and white room with high ceilings and ornate gold crown molding. The extravagantly decorated room contained a wardrobe, a standing mirror, and a massive four-post bed—the essential necessities of a prostitute.

Korah panted over the basin in a see-through linen shift, her eyes dark and puffy.

"Miss?" Brynlee said. "Can I get you anything?" It was the most common question she was supposed to ask of people in the brothel, be they clients or working girls. Whether the answer was "fresh linens," "more wine," "a hot bath," or "another whore," it was Brynlee's job to fulfill the request.

Korah looked at her through squinty eyes. She had seen the look before on intoxicated soldiers and local drunks, but never on a woman, and certainly not on a woman as beautiful as Korah.

"Help me, please?" the young woman asked, holding out her hand.

Brynlee went to her side and steadied her as she ambled to the bed.

She had heard rumors about the nineteen-year-old prostitute. People said her beauty was held in high regard all throughout Perth, but Brynlee doubted few would find her beautiful today.

"Are you all right?" Brynlee asked.

Korah sat down holding her head, looking like she might fall over. "I imagine I look worse than I feel. I don't normally drink, but my charge insisted. He sells perfume out of West Corloch. He gave me a bottle. Said I could have more if I ever wanted to stop by." She poked Brynlee in the arm and offered a sly grin. "That's one thing you'll learn in this profession, little one. Men will lavish you with two things: gifts and secrets. I prefer gifts."

Brynlee smiled.

Korah stroked her cheek. "The others were right. You are a very kind girl. How did you wind up in a place like this?"

The question caught Brynlee off guard because no one had yet to ask her anything about herself. Not even her name. Throughout the house people had taken to calling her Girl.

"The Black King," Brynlee began, "he sacked my—"

Korah stopped her with a quick finger against her lips. "Never call him that," she blurted. "You are in the capital city of Edhen. He is the High King Orkrash Mahl. Understand?"

Mungo stomped into the room. He looked as freshly powdered and proper as most of the girls did, with a wreath of tiny fresh flowers encircling his balding dome.

"What is this?" he demanded, glaring at Korah. "I hear from Madeline that you were drunk last night? Are you mad? We have charges today. Many of them. I need you downstairs."

Korah rose on shaky feet and bowed her head. "Forgive me, my lord. My charge insisted I drink with him last night. Besides, he tipped well." She motioned toward a small stand on the side of the bed where a pile of coins formed a tiny mountain.

Mungo strode over to the table, his long brown and gold overcoat sweeping the floor at his feet. He pocketed his share of the money, which was most of it. He then approached Korah and examined her reddened eyes with disgust.

"Powder yourself up," he said. "Then get down the stairs."

"Please," Korah began, "I can't. I need a day. Please, just one day."

Sighing in reluctance, Mungo sat down on the bed, encouraging Korah to do the same with a gentle pat of the mattress. He put his arm around her and hugged her close. "Oh, what is wrong, my lovely?"

"My head won't stop pounding," Korah said, cupping her brow with her hand.

"The next time a charge wants you to drink like that, you mix yours with water," Mungo said. "You know this."

"I'm sorry. I'll try to do better next time. Please don't make me work today. One day, sir. I just–I just need one day to feel better."

Mungo's other hand drifted up Korah's chest to her neck. "Do you know why you're head hurts?" His fingers wrapped around her throat. "Your heart is pumping more blood into your brain, but you may notice that as you cut off the circulation the throbbing fades away. Like this." He began to squeeze. "It intensifies at first, but after a moment or two you should begin to feel something almost euphoric." Korah had begun to squirm. Mungo reclined her onto the mattress, pressing his hand harder against her throat as he squeezed. Her legs kicked, and she grabbed at his hand, but Mungo was in control now, and whenever he was in control struggling only made things worse. "Do you feel it?" he whispered. "Everything just... fading away?" He held her there for a long moment until she started to relax.

Korah's eyes flittered closed.

Mungo released his hand and the young woman gasped for air. She rolled over onto her side, clutching her neck and coughing.

"Did that feel good?" he asked.

Korah rapidly shook her head.

"No? Then remember that. I'll make everything fade permanently if you don't get your perfect round ass down the stairs."

"Yes, my lord," she rasped.

Mungo pointed at Brynlee who stood terrified in the middle of the room. "You, Girl, get her some tea and sugar, some water to wash up with." He got off the bed and said to Korah, "Come see me when you're presentable."

"Yes, my lord," she wheezed.

Mungo strode out of the room, leaving a menacing chill in his wake.

Korah sat up, brushing her rich black hair out of her face.

"Girl?" Korah said before she'd had a chance to exit the room.

Brynlee turned. "Yes?"

"Is that your real name?"

Brynlee nodded. Then, upon seeing pity in Korah's eyes, she shook her head.

"That's good. You should never give them your real name. Still, I think a new name might be worth considering."

"Yes, miss."

"Call me Korah."

Brynlee smiled, and from that moment on she knew she had made a friend.

She prepared some tea and sugar for Korah just as Mungo had instructed, but by the time she had delivered it to her room on a white tray, the young woman had left.

Brynlee found her downstairs in the brothel's common room, where men guffawed and drank themselves into a stupor on both wine and the sensual women dandling in their laps. Korah worked the room like a seasoned pro, sipping on watered down wine, flirting and teasing, until a young nobleman, half drunk, stumbled up the stairs with her into her bedroom.

The party continued downstairs. The pretty young girls of Mungo's brothel gradually lost more of their clothing as the rambunctious men lost more of their self-restraint. Wine flowed. Money changed hands. Women and men mingled and teased and flirted.

Mungo's brothel was the largest in Perth, with Mungo himself the largest procurer of prostitutes on Edhen. Though perhaps not up to the diverse selection in Tay, Mungo's house featured women from many corners of the known world, not the least of which was Korah, a native of Krebberfall. She had been a prostitute for six years, working throughout the west coast of Edhen until Mungo decided to add her to his collection of exotic women. With her raven black hair, strong jaw and broad shoulders, the young woman had proven unique among his girls and was often in high demand.

Madeline was dancing near the hearth, a white lace skirt low-slung around her waist, a gold chain encircling her curvaceous hips. From her bare toes to the tips of her elegant fingers, she created an endless series of inviting curves, soft and provocative and unending.

No one noticed the small, seven-year-old servant girl moving like a mouse along the outskirts of the festivities. As always, Brynlee tried to make herself small as she moved around the crowd, refilling empty goblets and cleaning up messes.

Such parties were held in Mungo's house about three or four times per moon, and Brynlee hated them every time. The shock of seeing the women in little to no clothing, carousing with bawdy men, wore off soon in the face of all her duties. The one thing she still wasn't used to, however, was the sounds that came from the bedrooms when the girls were with their charges. Sometimes the screaming and the banging sounded so horrible that Brynlee feared for the girls. She didn't fully understand what the men did to them, but she hated it, and hoped that it would never happen to her.

"She has nice skin," said a tall, thin fellow sipping wine from a silver goblet. "Is she working yet?"

Brynlee was on her knees soaking up some spilled wine with a rag when she realized the man had been talking about her. She looked up at him, noticing Cordelia, another one of Mungo's more popular girls, pressed up against him with a come-hither smile. When she was caught staring, Brynlee snapped her attention back to her task.

"I'm not ready to let this little bird free of the nest just yet," Mungo said. "She is quiet special." His possessiveness made her feel several sizes smaller, and yet bright, like a diamond trapped in the setting of his grip.

"You never want to start them too young, I suppose," said the thin man. "It kills the luster in their eyes.

Brynlee finished soaking up the spill and then took her bucket and rag to the kitchen.

She pretended not to have overheard anything that Mungo or the other man had said, when in fact she had heard it all so well that it give her the trembles. She feared it had something to do with the screaming and banging that permeated the brothel. Whatever it was, she wanted no part in it.

Maidie stood at the kitchen's smooth wooden counter assembling goblets of wine onto a square white tray. The girl had been brought to Mungo's from Aberdour in the same wagon cage as Brynlee. She had spent much of the journey sick, and even now looked weak and afraid, her blue eyes awash with worry.

"Wait," Brynlee said.

Maidie flinched, almost dropping her tray.

"Use the round one," Brynlee said.

"Huh?"

"Here."

She went to the girl and tenderly, almost motherly, took the square platter from her hands and set it down. She grabbed a large oval tray and quickly populated it with four wooden goblets with outward sloping rims.

"It's very important to serve the guests correctly," she said. "A square tray signifies sides, division, but a round tray is like a union, you know, like friendship. And the goblets with the edges that curve outward are provided as a favor to the guests on behalf of the host. They're easier to drink out of. It's just a courtesy."

Maidie dropped her head and covered her eyes. After a moment she began to sob.

Brynlee pulled her into a hug.

"I can't do this, Bryn. I'm scared. Every day I'm–I'm so scared."

"I know. Me too."

"What's going to happen to us?"

The girls flinched in unison when Mungo spoke. "You're both here to work, not moan and sob."

The girls pulled away, with Maidie quickly wiping her eyes. Brynlee spun around to see the brothel master standing in the doorway of the kitchen, the light from the hallway shining on his gut. She forced a large knot free from her throat down to the pit of her queasy core.

"Bring those drinks to my guests, child," Mungo said.

Maidie scooped up the tray and pattered out of the kitchen.

Mungo waved a finger at Brynlee. "There's something about you."

Her brows narrowed. "My lord?"

"See, that right there. 'My lord.' 'Yes, sir.' 'Yes, ma'am.' How did you know to use the round tray instead of the square one? You know far too much to be a peasant girl, and you speak far too eloquently. Tell me, Girl, who taught you these things?"

Brynlee hesitated, wondering just what she should tell him. "My mother."

"Ah, and what a dear, sweet mother she must've been to teach her daughter such good etiquette. Do you read, Girl?"

"History."

Mungo's tyrant smile stretched to the edges of his fat cheeks. "History," he whispered. He strolled up to her and stood over her, cornering her against the L-shaped countertop. He caressed her chin. "Such a delicate face. Some men would pay a lot of money for a girl like you, did you know that?"

Brynlee shook her head. She wanted to run, but she was too afraid to move.

"I want you to begin learning," Mungo said. "Watch the other girls. See how they interact with our customers. I want you to learn to dress like them, to paint your face like them, pluck your eyebrows and move like them. Some day, if you do well enough, this pretty face could earn us both a small fortune."

A great gang of laughter erupted from the common room, calling Mungo's attention. He kissed Brynlee on the forehead and left the kitchen, leaving her quivering on her skinny legs and gripping the counter for support.

Later in the evening she wandered upstairs just as one of Korah's charges came staggering out of her bedroom, grinning like a fool and sweating through his disheveled clothes. Brynlee shuffled inside and saw Korah sitting naked on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked.

Korah sniffled and asked her to bring some warm water and a washcloth, which Brynlee did as quickly as she could. She watched Korah dab her face, neck, and chest. When she pressed it between her legs, she winced.

"Are you all right, Korah?" Brynlee asked.

The young woman stood and limped to the wardrobe where she donned a yellow linen robe. "Just part of the job," she said, in a tone that sounded like she might have been talking to herself.

"Have you thought of a name yet?" Korah asked as she fastened the robe around her waist. She went to the bed and sat back down, nursing a pain in her left hip.

Brynlee shook her head. Not only had she not thought of a name, but the ensuing party had helped her to forget all about it. Besides, Brynlee rather liked her name and she wasn't sure she wanted to be called anything else.

"I've got a perfect name for you," Korah said. "Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes!"

"Emma. It's an honorable name that means strong and brave in my country. It..." Her head sagged. When she looked up again, she offered a sad smile and said, "It was the name of my baby sister. She died just a few days after she was born. It would honor me if you took her name."

Although touched by the suggestion, it still bothered her that no one would call her Brynlee anymore. "What about my real name?" she asked.

Korah put her hand over Brynlee's heart. "Keep it in here. Remember it always, but give it to no one."

"Is Korah your real name?"

The young whore smiled. "I wish it was. In my country, the name Korah means brave, a quality I'm afraid I don't have."

"My sister once told me that sometimes to help us be brave we can pretend to be someone else," Brynlee said. "Someone braver."

"And is that how you got to be so brave?"

Brynlee just shrugged. She didn't think she was all that brave.

"What was your sister's name?" Korah asked.

"Dana Falls. She was the oldest princess of—"

Korah shushed her. She stood up and hurried to the bedroom door. She closed it and came back to the bed. "Listen to me very carefully, my dear," she whispered. "You must never ever tell anyone where you're from or who you really are. Do you understand me?"

Brynlee ruffled her brows. She didn't understand. It was no secret that there was much disdain in Perth for the kingdom of Aberdour, but Brynlee couldn't figure out why she should be ashamed of where she came from. She loved her home, and she knew that half of what the people believed about Aberdour was wrong. Someone just had to tell them.

"Aberdour fell to the Black King many moons ago," Korah continued, "but there is a rebellion growing. Some say that the children of Kingsley and Lilyanna Falls have escaped, that the rightful heir to the throne of Aberdour is still out there. Someone like him could unit the rebels. There are people here who fear you, Bryn... Emma. If they found out who you really are, they would hurt you very, very badly."

Korah pressed her hand against Brynlee's heart again, as if shutting the last bits of Brynlee Falls away for good. "You must keep yourself in there. All right? Promise me you won't tell anyone who you really are?"

Brynlee nodded, and Korah pulled her in for a hug.

"Mungo wants me to learn to be like you," Brynlee said.

Korah sighed as if disappointed. "He does, does he?" She pulled away and looked at Brynlee with great sympathy. "When did he tell you that?"

"Just a little while ago. Downstairs. He said he wants me to learn to dress like you and look like you."

"Then that is what you will do," she said. "But not tonight. It's very late, and you should get to bed."

The echoes of the party downstairs had passed their peak by the time Brynlee left Korah's bedroom. She walked down the hallway to the balcony that circled the common room below and peeked over the railing. About half the guests had left, some with women and some without, while a few remained behind by the large fireplace to keep drinking and talking.

Brynlee circled around the left side of the balcony and down an adjoining hallway that contained two bedrooms. The door to the first room was closed, but she could hear the bumping and scraping of furniture within along with the muffled sounds of aggressive grunting.

She continued on to the second door that led into a simple bedroom filled with narrow cots where she slept with three other girls—Maidie, Vika, and Murron. All of them had survived the attack on Aberdour and the subsequent journey to the capital city. They were huddled together when Brynlee entered the room with Murron sobbing in Vika's arms.

"What's wrong?" Brynlee asked.

Vika looked up, her freckled face pink with grief and glistening with wiped tears. She was eleven years old, the soft-spoken daughter of a tailor and a seamstress, both of whom had been murdered during the high king's attack.

"Mungo's going to put her to work after she turns fourteen next month," Vika said, as she rubbed Murron's back.

Murron was the oldest among them, hardheaded and strong. It unsettled Brynlee to see her crying so freely.

"Doing what?" Brynlee asked, though, deep down, she knew exactly what.

"Brynlee, you're so stupid," said Murron pulling away from Vika, her face a distraught wreck. "What do you think we're doing here? What do you think this place is? Mungo's turning us all into whores." She buried her face into Vika's dress once more, the back of her auburn head bobbing up and down as she cried.

Murron's words frightened her, and yet confirmed what she had suspected all along.

There had been fourteen girls taken prisoner from Aberdour. Three had died on the road to Perth. The witch, Demulier Congave, had murdered a fourth on the day a rich prince from Tay purchased Scarlett. Three others had been sold as slaves.

Mungo sent the two oldest girls to work at his other brothels in the various corners of the kingdom, while keeping Brynlee, Maidie, Vika, and Murron at his main house in southern Perth. The four of them spent most of their time serving guests, cleaning the brothel, and learning the trade of prostitution from Mungo's whores.

Murron pushed away from Vika and jumped to her feet. "I'm leaving," she said breathlessly. "I can't do this. I can't stay here."

"What?" Vika said, rising to stop her. "No. They'll kill you if they catch you trying to escape."

"Close the door!" Murron snapped to Brynlee who immediately obeyed.

Murron grabbed a pillowcase and began stuffing it with a blanket and a few extra clothes that she had been given.

"Where are you going to go, huh?" Vika argued. "At least here you've got a place to sleep, warm food—"

"My father told me that a respectable woman always keeps her honor," Murron said. "I can't let them take that from me."

"Remember what Cordelia told us? It's only our bodies," Vika said. "If we make it our choice, they have no power over us."

"And you believe that?"

Murron went to the window where she fought for several moments to crank open the glass panel. Brynlee cringed as she watched the girl flop a leg over the sill.

"It's a long drop. You'll break your legs," Vika said.

"I can climb down," Murron insisted. "And you'd be smart to come—"

The door to the bedroom opened and Mungo stepped inside. Murron froze, one leg out the window, her eyes locked upon him in terror. Mungo clasped his hands in front of his round belly and smiled. "And where are we running off to at such a late hour?"

Murron stepped back into the room. "N–n–nowhere, my lord. Just... needed to smell the night air."

He sauntered over to her. "Needed to smell the night air," he repeated, enunciating each word carefully. "What was your name again?"

"M–Murron, my lord."

"Yes, that's right. And are you excited to start working for me, Murron?"

Even from across the room, Brynlee could see the shiver trickle down Murron's body. She didn't answer him and kept her eyes locked on the floor.

"I can tell that you are quite nervous," Mungo said. "But can I tell you a secret?" He leaned down close to the girl's ear. "They all are at first. But that will not do." He began to unfasten his belt. "I didn't make my reputation as the best brothel owner in all of Perth by selling men nervous, unwilling girls. Now turn around."

Murron was shaking violently now. "P–p–please, m–my lord. I'm sorry. I w–won't try to run again."

"I hope not, but you see what you've done? You've put the very idea of running into the heads of three other girls. I need to beat it out of them by beating it out of you. Now turn around."

Tears slid down the girl's cheeks. "My lord, please—"

Mungo lunged at her and flipped her around as she screamed. He bent her over his knee and swatted her bottom with a quick lash of his belt. Murron kicked and flailed, but he continued beating her. Though she slid off his knee and lay flat on the floor he continued beating her. When he finally stopped, he was sweating and panting, and the exposed parts of Murron's arms and legs were riddled with welts.

Mungo looked at Vika, Maidie, and Brynlee who were standing against the far wall in shocked silence.

"I trust I've made myself clear," Mungo said, refastening his belt.

"Y-y-yes," stammered Maidie.

Vika nodded, but Brynlee was too afraid to move. Slowly the whore master walked over to her, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"And you?" he said. "You won't try to run from me, will you?"

Shaking, Brynlee said, "N–no, sir."

"That's a beautiful girl." He caressed her face with gentle fingers and then left the room.

As Brynlee watched him stroll down the hallway, she felt a drafty chill sweep toward her. Then she heard the front door shut. She thought it odd that more guests would be arriving at this time of night.

She looked back into the room at Murron who was being comforted once again by Vika.

Leaving them behind, Brynlee trotted down the hallway to the balcony overlooking the common room and peered over the railing. There were two cloaked figures walking in from the entrance, dark against the shadows of the entry corridor. They stopped midway down the hall and used a key to open a doorway that led far beneath the house.

Brynlee felt her pulse quicken as it dawned on her who the two figures were.

She tiptoed down the stairs, past the few guests left in the common room, and down the entry hall.

The side door that led to the underground chamber was usually locked. Brynlee had been down there once already to watch Neesah vanish in a tub of black water. The idea of returning to the dark crypt made her shiver, but she found her curiosity stronger than her fear.

"Pretend to be someone else," she whispered to herself. "Someone braver."

Brynlee tiptoed down the stairs into the darkness of the cavern beneath Mungo's house. She stopped every so often to listen, but she heard nothing except for her own breathing.

When she neared the bottom she saw light coming from the large black room where she and Neesah had been taken after they had arrived in Perth almost four months ago. A part of her wondered if the poor young girl was still in there, soaking in the cold water of the mysterious tub.

Hundreds of candles illuminated the room, casting a flickering light on the two figures within, Ustus Rapere, servant of the high king, and Demulier Congrave, the smooth-skinned witch with the bright green eyes.

"How many?" Demulier asked. She pulled a wide hood away from her face and laid it across the vibrant copper shoulders of her silk gown. Her face looked deathly pale in the dark shadows, framed by shiny locks of black hair.

"They found just one of the gems on the man," Ustus said, "but we hear that he may have been given up to four by Merek."

The witch looked furious. "The ways I will burn him if I ever get my hands on him," she muttered.

Ustus folded his cloaked arms across the green chest of his patterned tunic. He looked just as he did the last time Brynlee had seen him—treacherous and vile. "He sold the gems to buy back his sister, even though I already told him that I could get her back for him."

"And could you?"

Ustus shook his head. "I was just telling him what he wanted to hear."

"Then his decision to splurge the gems on his sister was a wise one."

"For him," Ustus said. "How can we complete the ritual without the gems?"

"We cannot," Demulier said, pacing. "And by now they are scattered into the populace of Efferous." She walked about the room in deep contemplation. She unbuttoned her cloak and set it on the table, revealing a deep gold brocade neckline and the sides of two impressive breasts.

Ustus seemed distracted for a moment. "Orkrash does not suspect anything, not yet anyway. I am not sure how many more lies I can conjure to convince him to be patient."

"Tell him the truth, that the wizard was assassinated by a thief who took the gems. Then advocate for sending soldiers throughout the empire of Efferous to hunt down the pieces."

Ustus looked stunned. "Hunting down six shards would take—"

"We need that gem!" Demulier shouted. She calmed, tapped her fingers together, and added, "I could always use the high king himself as the vessel. That would not be preferable, but it would be possible."

"Dangerous?"

"That is hard to say. My master has plans for Orkrash that are beyond my sight."

Ustus became giddy with excitement. "You–you speak to the master often?"

Demulier shot him a look of pure disdain. "No one speaks to him, you fool. He speaks to those he deems worthy."

Ustus bowed. "Of course, my lady."

The witch continued pacing, drawing her nails over the surface of the large table that sat in the center of the room.

"Are there no other gems that will serve our purpose?" Ustus asked.

"Another regenstern? Ustus, I thought you were smarter than that. The regenstern is a rare gift. It was not plucked from a mountainside, but forged by a great wizard many centuries ago. It is one of an exceptionally rare few, and likely the last of its kind. No. There is no other." She flicked her hand through the air. "But that doesn't matter right now. The dragon's blood is still collecting and will take many more years before it is even ready for The Red Awakening. Time and patience. That is all we have right now. In the meantime, find the gem!"

When Demulier started moving toward the door, Brynlee sprinted up the stairs. Forgoing silence for speed, she raced to get out of the cavern before anyone discovered she had been there.

In her mind she replayed the pieces of the conversation she remembered, trying to make sense of it. She understood nothing except that Ustus and Demulier were plotting something against the high king—something involving a dragon perhaps.

At the top of the stairs Brynlee bumped into a woman in a silky copper dress. She bounced back from the woman's hip and would've tumbled backward down the stairs had Demulier not reached out and caught her by the arm.

Brynlee's eyes were wide as saucers as the witch drew her out into the hallway.

"You must be careful," Demulier cooed, brushing some dirt off of Brynlee's shoulders. "Always watch your feet, my love. You don't want to step where you're not welcome."

Brynlee was too terrified, too confused, to say anything in response to the woman.

Ustus emerged from the stairway and locked the door behind him. He passed by Brynlee without even looking at her and opened the door to leave the brothel. Demulier followed him, but not before casting one final look over her shoulder at Brynlee who stood quivering in the dark, musky corridor of Mungo's house.

# LIA

Lia Falls sniffed the late evening air of West Galori. It smelled of sea salt and fish. From the alleyway she looked behind her at the ocean, to the distant horizon alive with a brilliant orange sunset. Somewhere beyond sat Aberdour. It would be late autumn there now, the cooler winds from the north bringing in the first frosts of winter.

If Efferous had an autumn, she hadn't seen it yet. The summer had been plenty hot enough, with one dry day rolling into the next.

Lia missed home, missed the changing seasons. This moon marked her eleventh year. Mother would have baked her something sweet. Father would've given her a boyish gift, as he always did, but he would've done so discretely, out of sight of Lilyanna. One year ago he had given her a dagger. Though not a gift most girls would jump up and down over, it became Lia's most prized possession. She had lost the knife after stabbing Sir Komor Raven in the leg.

Her thoughts of home now soured by the memory of that awful day, Lia turned back to face the busy fishing community of West Galori.

She pulled her hood tight around her face, always aware of patrolling black vipers. It was unlikely any of them would ever recognize her, but she figured it wiser to be safe than sorry.

There were two city guards across the road standing watch at the base of a round stone tower. Their cloaks hung almost to the ground, the heavy fabric dyed a dark blue. They hadn't noticed Lia yet, and she hoped it stayed that way. Just to be sure she slunk back into the alleyway a tad further.

The crowded streets were thinning. Fishermen were headed home for a hot meal. Merchants and traders were packing up and counting their earnings. Lia had spent many days watching them all, learning their routines, studying their behaviors. In recent months she had become intently focused on the way people interacted with each other, knowing that the best way to blend in was to know how to behave. She could now tell a real smile from a fake one that often gave away a liar. She knew the look in a woman's eye when she was truly in love, and could tell the ones who weren't by the way they cut short the kisses they gave to their men, and the lonely expressions on their faces as they walked away.

Lia's attention was currently fixed on the workingmen of West Galori with their sun-bleached hair coming and going from a popular tavern across the street. She had spent several days watching the place, looking for someone—or rather a certain type of someone.

A scuffle broke out among three men who were standing outside the tavern, two fishermen versus a dark skinned traveler in a long leather coat. One of the fishermen had struck the traveler in the jaw, sending him spinning to the dusty earth.

They were shouting in Efferousian. Lia couldn't speak the language very well, but she had picked up enough from Khile, the old man, and the townspeople to understand that the dispute involved money. The traveler owed, and the fishermen were out to collect.

A few townsfolk were gathering to watch the fight.

One of the fishermen rushed in to kick the traveler.

What happened in the next few blazing seconds confirmed for Lia that she had found the man she was looking for.

The traveler caught the fisherman's leg, broke his ankle with his forearm, and threw him to the ground where he caved in his nose. He deflected a blow from the second man, shattered his nose with his palm and kneed him in the crotch. The fight ended as swiftly as it had begun.

Lia watched the traveler walk away as though he had done nothing but swat at a couple of bugs. After a moment, she emerged from the alleyway and went after him. She followed him for a little while, watching him move, his dark head and black hair low between his broad shoulders, his long coat tussling in the breeze behind him.

When she finally found the nerve to approach him, she sprinted up to him on his ride side and whipped around to face him. "Teach me," she said.

He stopped, puzzled, and looked her up and down. "Teach you what?" he said with a baritone voice.

"To fight." She pointed down the street in the direction of the tavern. "Like that. Like you."

The man smirked. "Go home, little girl." He pushed past her.

Lia skipped ahead of him. "I can pay you."

He stopped again, looking annoyed. "Pay me how?"

"I can cook. I can clean. I can shovel barns. I'm good with my hands. Let me be your apprentice. I can—"

"Apprenticing is boys work," he said. "Get out of my way."

Lia reached out to stop him. "Please. I want to learn how to fight."

He stepped back, sighed, and studied her again. "How old are you?" he asked.

"I'm fourteen," she lied, hoping she wasn't pushing her luck.

"Women are good for one thing," the man said. "Are you prepared to pay like that?"

Lia's stomach knotted. She had never considered paying with her body, a revolting concept, and yet, in her desperation, she found herself considering it.

"What do you mean?" she asked, buying time to think.

The man lifted his left hand, making an O shape with his thumb and fingers. "You." With his other hand he thrust his index finger through the hole. "Me."

Lia felt her palms growing clammy. For months now she had thought of nothing but returning home and killing The Raven. Blinded by an unquenchable thirst for revenge, she reluctantly agreed to the man's terms.

He grabbed her dragged her down behind a tall stone building where the narrow back alley reeked of sewage and wet dog. Panic filled her as he thrust her face first against the side of the building. His hands pawed at her, touching her in ways she had never imagined being touched.

"You don't have much woman on you yet," he said snidely, pawing her chest.

Her heartbeat quickened as his hands did their fondling.

"Off with your slacks," he demanded in a low, vibratory tone.

Regret slapped her. Lia started to twist and squirm, her panic rising.

"Hey!" the man said. "You agreed to—"

"I changed my mind," she said, straining against his hands.

"Too late for that, little honey," he growled. He slid a greedy hand down the front of her pants.

The months of strength training and stretching paid off when Lia lifted her leg and shoved off the side of the building with a powerful kick. The traveler slammed into the building behind them, giving Lia a chance to break free. In the process, her cloak tore off, exposing her neck and the birthmark she kept hidden on her collarbone. She drew her fist back to strike the man in the face, but stopped when she saw his terrified eyes.

"Witch!" he said, pointing to the mark on her neck. "You're cursed!"

She thrust her fist at him, but his massive hand swatted her forearm away. He grabbed her throat with both his hands and started to squeeze.

"How dare you lure me into one of your spells!"

Lia saw a long slim blade hanging from his belt. She yanked it out of his trousers and plunged it deep into his belly. The man bellowed until Lia twisted the blade and yanked it left, than up, carving a deep wound. His eyes flared open wide—the shock of death. He slipped to the ground and lay still.

All at once she was overcome with a rush of excitement. For one brief moment her thirst for vengeance felt quenched, the beast inside of her was appeased. Instead of some dark skinned stranger, she imagined it was Komor lying at her feet.

She looked down at the man, almost unable to believe what she had done. Her heart was racing. Her hands were shaking. She looked at the short, narrow sword now covered with blood and felt powerful.

"Someone call out here?" came a shout.

A guard.

Another in the distance called back. "You say something?"

"Someone's hurt over here."

Lia grabbed her cloak and took off down the narrow street back onto the main road. She stopped, flung her cloak over her shoulders, and stuffed the bloody sword in the belt at her back. She strolled down the street, calm, like any commoner headed home for the night. She could hear the commotion of guards discovering the dead traveler's body, but knew they would never find her. Hiding was easy, especially for one as small, clever, and agile as Lia.

She didn't realize it, but she was smiling.

"Promise me something."

The voice was so close to her back that Lia let out an audible yelp. She had been so enthralled with her own performance that she didn't hear Khile walking up behind her. She spun around to face him, almost tripping over her still shaking feet.

"You scared me," she said, gasping to catch her breath.

"Promise me something," he said again.

"What? Promise you what?"

Khile stepped up to her, limping on his right leg. "Don't ever agree to sell yourself like that again." His tone was surprisingly sharp and threatening.

"You saw?"

"I saw a child giving in to blind ambition. I saw a fool buying dirt with gold." He paused, looking sad. "I saw a friend about to make a big mistake."

His words jarred her. They were unexpected and made her feel judged. She responded in the only way she knew how: with hardness. "I'll pay any price to see Komor's head on a stick."

"I don't believe that," Khile hit back.

"He killed my family," she said, choking on the lump in her throat. "He ruined my life. The realm is in chaos because he's leading the Black King's army all over Edhen, conquering everyone that opposes him. He deserves to die. So does the king. They all do!"

"You can't stop them."

"Well I'm damn well going to try!" she shouted. "And if you're not going to help me then you can get out of my life!"

He stepped closer. "You just killed a man."

"I know."

And that's when it hit her.

"I know," she said again, this time less defiantly. "I... I know."

The tears that followed came quick, like vengeance for Lia's crime. She had just killed a man. All of a sudden the thought made her sick.

When Khile's arms encircled her she lost control and wept. He held her until Lia had cried herself out, until she stopped shaking from her adrenaline high.

"That's how it's going to feel," Khile said. "Only worse."

Lia pulled away, sniffling, embarrassed by the tears that made her look so weak. "I don't care. I have to find Komor Raven and kill him. I—"

"You don't mean that."

"I do!"

He sighed, his jaw clenching. "Listen, I said I would teach you to fight and I will, but you need to be patient. It will take time and dedication and—"

"I'm ready."

"Are you? Did you not get enough of a taste today, or shall we go find the body of the man you killed so you can reconsider."

Lia shook her head, refusing to let Khile use her guilt against her. "He was a scoundrel. He deserved to die, just like Komor Raven."

"I wish the world were as black and white as you make it seem."

"I'm ready," she said again. "Trust me."

Khile didn't look convinced. He regarded her, she thought, like someone with a sickness he didn't understand.

"I'll teach you what I can, but how much you learn is up to you."

She clenched her fists and straightened her back. "I'll learn it all," she declared. "I'll be the best."

Khile regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "We'll see."

He led her to the outskirts of town where he had left his horse next to hers. They mounted and journeyed by moonlight back to the cottage of the old man and the old woman.

Over the months the elderly couple had developed a bit of a fondness for them, Lia believed. At first she helped the old woman tend to the house, and once she convinced the old man to let her outside she began to help with chores around the property. The old woman still didn't talk much, but Lia could tell that she had come to appreciate the help.

Lia had worked with her hands until they developed thick calluses, just like Khile had said. She had carried buckets of water up and down hills until her legs and arms grew stronger, and practiced running further and further every day to build her stamina. The weeks and months had flown by as Lia wore herself ragged every day learning to grow stronger, quicker, and more flexible.

Lia awoke the next morning and bounced off the floor, eager to start the day. She ran outside where she saw Khile roping together a trio of logs. One of them, about five feet tall and as thick as his torso, still crusted with bark, stood upright, supported at the back by two others.

"What's that for?" Lia asked.

Khile responded with a question. "How was breakfast?"

"I didn't eat any," she said, and, now that she thought about it, she didn't recall even noticing if the old woman had prepared anything, though she was certain she had.

"You'll wish you did," Khile said.

He stepped back and looked over his creation. He picked up an old short sword that he had borrowed from the old man and stood in front of the vertical log. With his right hand he took three swipes at it, hitting it in precisely the same spot each time and carving a small notch.

"Right hand," he said.

He tossed the blade into his other hand, switched up his footing, and repeated the three strikes, carving out a chunk of wood on the other side of the log.

"Left hand."

He handed the sword to her. "Do that until you cut the log in half."

Lia took the sword, stifling her disappointment. She thought they were going to start sparring today.

Khile motioned toward the wooden practice doll. Lia lifted the sword in her hand, feeling its weight, and took three clumsy strikes, hitting the post in three completely different locations.

Before her discouragement could set in, Khile said, "Again."

She took three more swings, moving faster the second time, but still failing with her aim.

"Again."

Three more strikes, steel against wood—clunk, clunk, clunk—and three more marks appeared in the bark, but nowhere near close to each other.

"Other hand," Khile said. "Three on the right side. Three on the left."

If her dominant hand was this bad, Lia dreaded to see how she fared with her left. As expected the sword felt heavier, her swings clumsier. Her strikes hit the wood with less force and were wildly inaccurate.

"Keep going," he said.

She sighed and tried her right hand again. Clunk, clunk, clunk.

"The sword master who taught me how to use a blade once said, 'You have to think of the sword as an extension of your arm. It's a part of you. Use it like a part of you. If you don't—'"

The sword clanged against the wood and kicked out of Lia's grasp.

"'—you'll drop it.'"

Lia picked up her sword. "Make it a part of me," she muttered. "A part of my arm." She attacked the wood again. "Who was your sword master?" she asked.

"A man named Decorus Ferrum, and you'd be hard pressed to find a soldier on Efferous who hasn't heard his name."

"He lives here?"

"In Thalmia."

"Does he still teach?"

"You're stalling."

"I am not."

"Again."

She let the tip of the sword fall into the dirt. "I thought we were going to start fighting today."

"Again."

Pushing away the tempest brewing inside, she took three more clumsy swings—clunk, clunk, clunk.

"Again."

Clunk, clunk, clunk.

And so it went well into the morning. Three strikes on the right side, followed by three strikes on the left. By noon the log was covered in sword marks and Lia could barely lift her arms. When the web of Lia's right hand started bleeding from the repetitive motion of the handle in her palm, she expected Khile to let her stop, but he didn't. He let her wrap it in a bandage, but then said, "Again."

The blue sky was darkening when the old woman called them in for dinner.

Lia dropped the sword, her arms feeling like strips of fabric. She looked down at her filthy, bleeding hands and frowned. She hated herself for not doing better, hated that the log wasn't chopped in two. She ate dinner in silence, hating even Khile, and said nothing to him the rest of the night. When she stretched out on the floor to go to sleep, she did so fuming.

She awoke the next morning with far less enthusiasm.

Khile was in the barn. He had taken three blocks of wood that were about half her height and arranged them on the ground. He demonstrated what he wanted her to do by placing his hands on two of the wooden blocks and propping his feet up on the third. Then he balanced there, horizontally across the floor, his legs, torso, and shoulders as straight as a board.

He hopped down and picked up a short sword. "Your turn. Up!"

It took some maneuvering, but Lia got herself up onto the tall blocks and held herself stiff like Khile had done. The position was harder to maintain than it looked, and it required her to hold her stomach muscles tight.

"Decorus used to say that every motion comes from the core," Khile began, as he walked a circle around Lia. "Every pivot, every twist, every step, every strike, everything you do comes from here." He tapped her stomach with the sword, which made her abdomen clench and her hips rise. "Strong core. Strong everything."

Khile got down on the ground under her and lay on his back He pointed the short sword toward her belly.

"Keep your back straight," he said. "Don't sag."

After a few moments Lia felt the poke of the sword on her waist. She lifted her hips, her abdomen shaking.

"This is hard," she said, feeling the muscle in her arms starting to quiver.

"Be glad I'm not Decorus. He used to weight my hips with buckets of water."

The sword poked her again, harder this time.

"He could do this all day, then get down and kill a dozen men."

"He was that good?" she said, straining.

"Let me put it this way, if the bravest young warrior on Efferous found himself in a dual against Decorus Ferrum, he would surrender his sword before the match even began."

Lia felt her muscles giving out. "I can't."

"Don't let go," Khile said.

Lia's muscles trembled from head to toe. Khile moved the sword just as her body gave in, and he caught her as she landed on top of him.

Lia scrambled to her feet. "This is foolish," she shouted. She started pacing, her hands on her hips, her temper rising. "How is this teaching me anything? I want to fight."

Khile got to his feet, and shrugged. "Very well. Let's fight." He lifted his fists.

"What?"

"Come on, little girl."

His words fanned the fire inside of her and made her lunge at him.

She didn't even see his hand coming until it slapped her across the face and pushed her aside. She stopped, shaken, caught her breath and attacked him again. This time she thought she was ready for the blow, but she didn't see his foot hooking around her ankle, yanking it forward, and sending her sprawling backward onto her rump. She growled, jumped up, and attacked him again. Her third attempt ended with her sprawled on her chest, her mouth full of hay and dirt and... she didn't want to think about what else.

Four more times she tried to hit him, and every time he threw her down.

"I'm not trying to humiliate you, Lia," Khile said. "I'm trying to make you understand something."

She got to her feet, not bothering to brush herself off. "And what is that?"

Lia tossed another punch at him. He swatted it away.

"Take a guess," he said.

"That you're better than me?"

"That much is obvious, but no."

She attacked him again, hating his smugness. "Then what?"

"Guess."

"Tell me!"

"If I were to take you to Aberdour tomorrow and put you in front of Komor Raven, do you think you could beat him?"

She hesitated, wanting so badly to believe that her passion was enough.

"Do you?" Khile pressed.

It took her a moment, but finally she admitted, "No."

"Why not?"

"I'm not strong enough," she admitted.

To her surprise, Khile retorted with, "Wrong."

"Am I not fast enough?"

He shook his head. "Your physical capabilities have got nothing to do with it. Physically you're capable. You proved that a couple days ago with that man in the alleyway."

"Then what?"

Khile sighed. "You need to learn to let go."

His ambiguous answer infuriated her almost as much as his smugness.

"Your body can't keep up with what your head is thinking," he continued. "And your head can't detach itself from what your heart wants. You are a beautiful mess of desire and cunning and skill, but you don't know how to make all that work together."

Lia shrugged, hoping the insecurity he'd just exposed wasn't as obvious as it felt.

Khile's expression softened. "What are you feeling right now?"

Her bottom lip quivered as her voice squeaked out, "All I feel—all I ever feel—is hate. And I can't—I don't know how to feel anything else." She wiped her nose. Her insides were burning.

"Let me teach you."

After a deep breath, Lia wiped her eyes and calmed. She nodded.

Khile walked up to her and reached for the scarf she kept tied around her neck. Slowly his hands unwrapped the scarf and pulled it off. As nervous as she felt about him exposing the blemish on her collarbone, she felt powerless to stop him. When he took the scarf away, she felt naked and embarrassed.

"That's not a birthmark, is it?" he asked.

Lia shrugged. "I don't know what it is."

"The man from the alleyway, he called you a witch. Why would he say that?"

Again, she just shrugged. "Once a woman was arrested in Aberdour who claimed to be a witch. She had a spot that looked like this on her arm. She saw mine and told me I was marked, but I never knew why."

"Your parents never told you?"

Lia shook her head. "My mother said I've had it since I was born."

She reached for her scarf in Khile's hands, but he tossed it away. "You can hate all you want. Just don't hate yourself. Embrace who you are, flaws and all."

Lia knew what he was trying to say, but she still didn't like the feeling of her birthmark being exposed. She felt like she was not in control, vulnerable and unprotected.

"Come," Khile said, waving an open hand toward the wooden blocks. "Up you go." He lay back down on the ground with the sword.

Lia climbed back up onto the blocks and suspended herself over the floor, tightening her core, and holding her hips over the point of his sword.

"You like this, don't you?" she said.

"Maybe a little."

He poked her, and she chuckled.

"If you make me fall I'll make sure I land on your face with my fists."

"That's the spirit!"

# BRODERICK

Broderick worked his way down the rock ledge to a small white flag. It's ragged edges waved in the wind off the tip of a stick wedged into a tight crevice. He reached for it, unconcerned by the rocky shore hundreds of feet below. He yanked the flag free and climbed back up to the grassy ledge where he took off running through the forest.

He considered pacing himself for the eleven furlongs he had to travel, but after doing the math he knew he could cover the distance. The length of the city of Aberdour at its longest point was eleven furlongs, or half a league, and Broderick had once ran the entire distance at a full sprint with energy to spare.

He raced through the sparse forest of tall pines and cedars before emerging into an emerald glade deep in the hills east of Halus Gis. The autumn air was refreshing and cool.

Ty and Preston were already waiting for him, both of them dressed down in old tunics and tight fitting slacks made for running. They both looked tired, sweaty, and ready for lunch.

"We're running out of time," Broderick said, slowing to a stop. "Sun's almost at its peak."

Nash sprinted into the glade from the south, sweat glistening off his muscled torso. He stopped in front of Broderick and rested his hands on his knees.

"What are you having?" Ty asked, pointing to the flag in Broderick's hand.

He showed it to the three boys, a rather unremarkable little brown stick with a tattered rag attached. "Does this mean anything to any of you?"

Ty took it, grinning. "I'm thinking this clue is being for me. This is being a piece of the broken sailboat I found on the cliffs western of the monastery."

Nash slapped him on the back. "Good job, Tai... Ty-guh... Ty-guh... How do you say your full name again?"

Ty seemed irritated. Broderick didn't blame him. He had lost count of the number of times they had to question him about the correct pronunciation of his Efferousian name.

"Taighfinn Torinfinn Deelyous," he answered. "Me father gives this name to me, and me middle name belongs to me mother. I's carries these names proudly."

"Taighfinn Torinfinn Deelyous," Nash repeated.

"And if you are being a true Efferousian you say the _ah_ at the end: Deelyous– _ah_."

Nash pointed to the crude wooden slingshot sticking out of Ty's back pocket. "I think that clue is for me. Stoneman helped me make a slingshot like that from a piece of driftwood we found in the ravine."

"So you need to go to the ravine then?" Preston asked, running a hand through his long sweat-drenched locks.

Nash shrugged. "Apparently."

Brayden hurried into the glade, a horse's leather bridal swinging about in his hands.

"This is what I found," he said, skidding to a stop next to the others. "I have no idea what it means."

"You're not supposed to," Broderick said. "Remember what Khalous told us? Only the first clue was for us. The next clue is for someone else."

Brayden examined the bridle once again. "I think this is the bridle for that gray speckled mare, Shini."

"I just helped Brother Cassius shoe her two days ago," Preston said.

Brayden passed the brown leather bridal over to him. "This must be for you then. I just hope you're right. We'll get penalized if you're not."

In Preston's hands was a necklace that belonged to Ariella. She had lost it two moons ago and Brayden had been the one to find it.

"She probably has your last clue," Preston said, handing the necklace to Brayden.

Nash had found a whetstone, which no one knew what to do with until Clint stumbled into the glade, limping and out of breath.

"I sharpened kitchen knives on that thing all afternoon with Lorne, remember?" Clint said, taking the whetstone. "Bloody nightmare, that was."

"Clint, your clue must be for me," Broderick said.

"How do you know?"

"Everyone else has theirs. You're the only one left."

Clint shrugged. "I, uh, I didn't really find anything. Well, just a, uh, a note. Yeah, a note."

"A note?"

"Yeah, it said, 'The Whispering Cave.'"

Broderick swallowed nervously and hoped none of the boys noticed his hesitancy. "Where is it?"

"How am I supposed to know? I've never heard of a whispering cave."

"No. The note, dumbass."

"Oh. Uh, it blew away with the wind. Sorry."

Nash spun toward Broderick. "I know! That cave north of the road. Remember when we explored it and the wind sounded like hissing or whispering inside." He looked at Clint. "You were with us, weren't you?"

"Oh, right. Forgot."

Broderick knew what cave they were talking about all right. He just hoped they were mistaken. Perhaps the clue was really intended for someone else.

"That could be a clue for any of us," he said.

"It has to be for you," said Nash. "The slingshot is definitely mine, and the whetstone isn't for anyone except Clint."

Broderick felt a chill run down his back.

"We better hurry," Brayden said. "Khalous wanted us all back before the noon bell."

Broderick turned south. He sprinted through the trees, bounding over rocks and logs and plowing his way through underbrush, ignoring the brambles that raked across his skin and tugged at his clothes. He turned west toward the trail that connected Halus Gis to the Border Road.

He followed the ridge along the road until it sloped down into a wide gully that ended at the rocky opening of a hidden cave.

Broderick slowed to rest and regarded the entrance for several moments. He hoped he wouldn't have to venture too far inside.

"This is stupid," he muttered. "Figures that Khalous would give this task to me."

He moved down the slope toward the cave's opening. After a brief search around the entrance that yielded no obvious clues, he stooped down and took a few steps into the darkness. The air was damp and cold, and carried the faint whiff of cucumbers. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the light.

He wondered if perhaps he could decipher the clue without having to find it. Why had Khalous left a note that directed him to come to the Whispering Cave? What was the significance of this location? The others had known instantly what their clues had meant, but no matter how hard he thought about it he couldn't figure out why Khalous had sent him here.

He looked down, noticing the ground was smooth as though something large had been dragged through the area.

The cave widened and dipped downward, plunging into an oblivion of darkness.

Broderick stopped and exhaled in defeat. Whatever Khalous expected him to find it wouldn't happen without torchlight.

"Damn the stones," he muttered. He knew he didn't have the time to go find a torch. He would have to return empty handed. Consequently, the boys would fail their test.

Broderick turned to leave. Then he paused. He despised the thought of losing.

He glanced over his shoulder, wondering what lay deeper in the dark.

Frustrated over his own indecision, he growled, turned in a huff, and started further into the cave. With careful footing he worked his way down the slope. The ground was steeper than he realized. He moved slow at first, but soon found the loose gravel sliding out from under him. He leaned back to catch himself with his hands, but his feet slipped forward. He lost his balance and tumbled down the incline. Darkness surrounded him. Rocks cut into his knees and elbows as his body twisted and rolled.

He landed on his chest, his face bouncing off something warm and leathery.

Then the object moved.

Startled, Broderick yelped and scurried backward.

Something hissed, a hoarse wheezing sound that filled the rocky chamber. In the blackness he saw nothing except a few glimmers of the distant light shining off an animal unfurling in the dark.

Broderick scampered up the slope, hands clawing at the dirt, toes churning on the gravel in a mad dash to reach the top. He heard the creature behind him shifting its weight on the ground. He could only imagine its size, which sounded immense.

Halfway up the slope he heard the creature inhale an aggressive rasp as though it had finally caught sight of him. He figured his surprise entrance into its lair had startled the beast, but now, having overcome its initial shock, it was preparing to strike.

Panic filled him as he continued his frenzied escape.

He heard the creature crawling out of the cave behind him—the drag of its belly along the ground, and the metallic scrape of its back on the stony ceiling. It's sheer size filled the rock tube. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed a pair of large serpentine eyes glinting in the dim light.

A surge of adrenaline pushed Broderick up the slope. He crested the rise and raced toward the mouth of the cave.

The creature roared again, husky and angry.

Broderick exploded from the darkness into the hazy white light of the forest. He dashed through the underbrush, taking several sharp lashes to the face by leafless brambles. He ignored their sting, ignored the pain from the cuts on his knees and elbows, and surged through the woods.

When the creature roared again its sound was distant, but no less angry.

He risked another glance over his shoulder. To his relief, he saw nothing but trees and brush.

Still, he refused to stop. His fear wouldn't let him.

He sprinted until he was heaving uncontrollable breaths that made his lungs burn. A pulled muscle in his stomach forced him to slow his pace. He ran north toward Halus Gis until exhaustion began to creep over him. He became aware of a pain in his left ankle that made him limp. By the time he passed through the southeastern gate of the monastery he was moving at a slow jog.

Khalous was waiting in front of the barn with Brayden, Nash, Preston, Clint, and Ty. They were laughing and talking, showing off the items they had claimed. When Khalous noticed Broderick his expression filled with concern and he hurried toward him.

"What happened?" he yelled.

Broderick dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

"Are you all right?" Khalous asked. He took a knee next to Broderick, his barrel-like torso leaning in close to him. "Where were you?"

"The cave," Broderick breathed, "I was in the cave. Something." He shook his head, not knowing how to explain what had come after him. "Something big. Basilisk. I don't know. I didn't want to look at it."

"Basilisk," Ty said, his voice filled with awe. "To even look at a basilisk is to die."

"That's pig's slop," Clint said.

"What cave?" Khalous said. "Why were you in a cave?"

Broderick pointed to Clint. "The note. He said the note said to go to the Whispering Cave."

Khalous looked at Clint. "What note? You should have given him the broken hinge to the dormitory door that he helped me repair."

Clint shrugged. "It was just a joke man."

A new surge of adrenaline swept over Broderick, one of rage and vengeance. "What?"

"You've won too many of these games," Clint said. "I wanted to throw you—"

Clint went down the moment Broderick's knuckles connected with his face. He dropped down on top of him and tried to hit him again, but Clint's arms were up over his head.

"Get off me you motherless sow," Clint said. "It was just a joke!"

Clint managed to shove Broderick away and kick him in the shoulder.

"All right," Khalous said. "That's enough."

Clint's fist caught Broderick in the eye, sending fireflies through his brain. A moment later Clint jumped on him and delivered a hail of blows that cut Broderick's lip, made his nose explode with a thousand needles, and his head lash back against the dirt.

"Stop it!" Khalous shouted, reaching for Clint. He yanked him to his feet. Clint twisted out of his grasp, lost his balance and fell on his side.

Broderick took advantage of Clint's prone position and slammed both feet into the right side of his head, tearing off the bottom of his earlobe with the heal of his boot. Clint wailed.

"What is going on here?" shouted an all-too-familiar voice

Pale hands pushed between Brayden and Nash, revealing Prior Gravis in his brown robe. He took one look at Clint's bloodied ear and his eyes went wide with horror. He knelt to calm the screaming Clint.

"Khalous, I'll have none of this violence within these walls!" Gravis yelled.

Broderick jumped to his feet and thrust a finger at Clint. "Serves you right, you idiot! I almost got killed because of you!"

Gravis helped Clint to his feet. He pointed the young man in the direction of the chapel and told him to go see Ariella. Then he turned to face the captain, disdain etched upon his pale face. "Khalous, I tolerate your violent training so near to our monastery, but I will not allow this kind of enraged bloodshed on these holy grounds. Now I must insist—"

Khalous lifted his hand toward the prior. "If you're going to reprimand me I ask that you not do it in front of the boys."

Gravis looked peeved, but collected himself, and said, "May I speak with you privately then?"

"No." Khalous pointed to Broderick. "You. Follow me." He turned and stomped toward the barn, his shoulders hunched like some miserly creature.

Broderick followed him, limping on his twisted ankle and clutching the sore muscles in his stomach.

In the barn, Khalous patted a squat milking stool and told Broderick to sit. He obeyed without protest, relieved to finally be able to rest his aching legs.

The large three-story barn had been their home since arriving at the abbey. With the dormitories full of women and children, the duktori had allowed them to take refuge in the barn's loft.

"You'll get extra chores for that," Khalous said.

"What? What did I do?"

Khalous went to a leather satchel and removed a small glass bottle of ointment and a rag.

"You're brash and foolish and too much like your sister Lia."

Lia. Broderick hadn't even heard her name in months. The memory of her pinched his heart.

"She thinks with her emotions, too." Khalous pulled up a second stool and seated himself next to Broderick. He uncorked the small bottle, which contained a rancid smelling liquid. He poured some of it onto the rag. "Emotions aren't a bad thing. But when we don't keep them in check, they sting."

The rag felt like fire when Khalous touched it to the cuts on his arm. Broderick tried to pull away, but the captain held him in place. The burn only lasted a moment.

Khalous continued treating his cuts.

"I have a hard enough time convincing the leaders of this place to let me train you here. I don't need you flying off the saddle every time someone makes you angry."

"Clint sent me into the cave on purpose," Broderick said. "He tried to get me killed."

"Your cousin is a moron, not a murderer. He'll be reprimanded strongly, don't you worry about that. I'm trying to get you boys to work together as a team, to trust one another, but you just keep acting like a bunch of buffoons."

He handed Broderick the bottle and told him to finish covering all his cuts with the antibiotic.

"I need to go have a chat with your cousin, and then that insufferable Gravis." He walked from the barn in an irritated huff.

Both Broderick and Clint were banished from the dining hall that night, a punishment neither of them cared about anyway. Eating with the solemn priests and strict nuns was becoming a chore all in itself. For those like Broderick who much preferred the freedom to fidget and talk and make rude bodily noises, the barn was a much more fitting place to eat.

As angry as he was with his cousin, by the time they were halfway through their meal they were joking together like nothing had ever happened.

"Did you really see a basilisk?" Clint asked as he sat on a hay bale gnawing on a chicken leg.

"I think so," Broderick answered, "but it was dark. Whatever it was, it was big."

"How did you get away?"

"The cave was small. I don't think it could move very fast." He shrugged. "But I don't really know. I just ran as fast as I could."

"How many times did I hit you anyway?"

Broderick counted his bruises. "Eight."

"Ha! Well you only hit me three times. I win."

"I took a chunk out of your ear though," Broderick said. He pointed to the white bandage wrapped around Clint's head.

"I wonder if we went outside if we could find it," Clint said. "Drop it in the abbot's soup."

The two boys nearly killed themselves with laughter.

They were indeed given extra chores the following morning. They were sent to clean fallen branches and leaves from the monastery's garden courtyard, as well as the surrounding stone cloister. They assisted the nuns with dinner preparation and cleaned the chapel's sanctuary after the evening meal.

Life in Halus Gis was a far cry from the cushy castle living they had enjoyed with their royal families on Edhen. At the monastery, life was hard. Everyone earned their stay through hard work, and there were no servants to pick up the slack.

It all served to remind Broderick just how much he missed home.

In the mornings he and the others learned about science, history, and medicine from the nuns, followed by classes on math, language, and culture from the priests. The classroom teachings offered little of interest to Broderick, though he was learning to speak Efferousian, which he only took seriously because Khalous said he wouldn't continue to train him unless he did.

Slightly more interesting was the survival classes taught by Pick and Stoneman that came after lunch. Broderick learned how to fashion traps for small animals, how to think like a forest predator, and what plants held medicinal qualities.

But where Broderick's true passion lay was in combat training.

Throughout the afternoons and evenings he and the other boys belonged to Khalous, a merciless taskmaster who tortured their bodies with melee practice, sword fighting, archery, and other physical exercises that left them exhausted. As their scars accumulated, their bodies and minds were tempered into instruments made for war.

As the weeks passed, Broderick's body grew leaner, and his muscles more taut. His hands became tough and firm, and his endurance strengthened, as did his tolerance to pain. Scrapes and bruises that would've sent him running for the castle nurse back in Aberdour were no longer worth acknowledging in the midst of all he had to get done in a single day.

Autumn came and went. Winter blanketed the landscape. Though the cold and frost was not nearly as bitter as it was in the highlands of Aberdour, the seasonal changes were a welcome reminder of the splendor of home.

"I could do without the snow," Brayden remarked one afternoon while he and Broderick were checking their traps in the woods south of the monastery. He tightened his fur cloak around his collar.

"I love the snow," Broderick said, watching his leather boots make dirty indentations on the pristine white ground.

"Of course you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you always take the position opposite of me."

"It's what brothers are for."

From atop a large boulder came the voice of Nash, who said, "You're dead. And you're dead, too. I just killed you both."

Broderick looked up and saw their friend aiming at them with his bow. He was clad from head to toe in brown furry hides that kept him silent as well as warm.

"It's almost too easy," Nash said, sliding down the edge of the rock to the ground. "Or maybe I'm just that good." He touched a hand to his chin in thought. "Yup, I'm just that good."

Ty emerged from behind the boulder, shirtless, his toned copper skin on proud display. The Efferousian orphan had lived at the monastery for three months before the refugees from Aberdour had arrived. He was the same age as Brayden, tall and lean, with thick black hair that he had grown into a long ponytail.

"Aren't you cold?" Broderick said, gesturing to Ty's half naked body.

The Efferousian just shrugged.

"Watch this," Nash said, drawing an arrow from the quiver at his hip. "Ty!"

Ty grabbed a short log from the ground about the size of his forearm and sent it spinning into the air. Nash's arrow picked it out of sky in an instant.

Nash bowed to his audience. "Thank you."

"I's teaching him this," Ty said.

Nash shot him an offended look. "Wait, you're supposed to make me look good, remember?"

"You said to be agreeing with you when there are them girls around."

"What girls?" Broderick asked.

"We agreed that if there are ever any girls around we'll help each other look good." He slapped Ty on the arm. "But someone needs to practice a bit more."

Ty smirked. "He's just worrying too much because he's the only one of us who is being without a girl." He winked.

"Oh?" Brayden said. "You've got a girl?"

Nash scoffed. "Senona? Wait, I'm sorry, I must have missed the part where she realized you're alive."

"Who is Senona?" Broderick asked.

"She was brought to here same time as me," Ty said. "Her village raided by wildfolk."

"Do you know her well?"

"Not as well as I would be liking, sir, but I'm hoping to—"

He stopped. Broderick watched the slight red flush on his cheeks drain. He followed his gaze to the ridge behind them where two black vipers stood observing their discussion. The men descended the hillside, eyes locked on the four boys.

"It has been a long time since I have heard anyone other than my comrades speak my native tongue," said one of soldiers, a bearded fellow with dark eyes and a long scar running across the top of his shaved head. "Naturally, when I hear it spoken in a foreign land, especially by children, I become intrigued."

The boys were silent as the two soldiers sized them up.

"Would you mind coming with us?" the bearded soldier asked. "Our camp is just over this hillside. Our commanding officer would like to ask you a few questions. Then you may be on your way."

"We are orphans from the monastery, Halus Gis," Brayden said, surprising Broderick with his calm and even tone. "We must be getting back."

"Ah, yes, I am sure," the soldier said. "It is never wise to upset the delicate routine of a duktori. Still, surely you can spare just a moment or two."

The other soldier grabbed Nash by the arm and ripped his bow from his hands.

"Follow me," he said.

Brayden back-kicked the soldier holding Nash hard enough to knock him down. "Run!" he shouted.

The bearded soldier lunged at Brayden, sending an armored elbow into the side of his head. Broderick sprang upon the man, knocking him down and striking him in the face. Nash and Ty ran forward to help when the second soldier got to his feet and attacked them both. In his heavy armor he plowed into them like an avalanche. Ty tried stabbing him in the collar with his knife, but the soldier blocked the attack and grabbed the boy by the throat. He lifted him into the air and slammed him on the ground.

"Look out!" Brayden shouted, but by the time Broderick heard his shout his legs had already been ripped out from under him. The world spun. He fell to the ground face first and ate a mouthful of snow, dirt, and pine needles.

Broderick rolled over to see the soldier looming over him with a dagger raised high.

Pick descended from atop the boulder like a mountain lion, thrusting a pair of knives into the man's neck, right at the edges of his armor.

Khalous plowed like a bull into the second soldier, driving his sword through his face and neck.

"Get up," Khalous said to Nash. "There is an entire camp of black vipers just beyond that ridge. Now be quiet and get back to the monastery before any others notice you."

"It might be too late for that, captain," Pick said. He readied his sword as three more vipers descended the hillside.

"Stop in the name of the high king!" one of them shouted.

"Go!" Khalous said.

Broderick helped his brother to his feet.

The vipers rushed toward them, weapons drawn.

Together, the two brothers turned to flee when an arrow flew past Broderick's face. He flinched, turning, and saw one of the soldiers topple to the snow with an arrow through his eye socket. Spatters of red littered the snow. A second soldier tumbled into a heap next to his comrade with an arrow through his neck.

The third soldier came to a halt. He looked around, seemingly confused by the almost magical appearance of the two bolts. He fell to his knees a moment later, coughing and hacking from an arrow in his cheek that had lodged in the back of his throat.

Dana emerged from the pine trees behind them and put an end to the soldier's pain with a final arrow to his forehead. She pulled the green hood of her cloak back. If Broderick had a word for the expression on her face as she looked at the three dead men it was disgust.

"Dana?" Nash said.

Broderick gaped at his sister, eyes wide with amazement. Neither he nor Brayden had ever killed a man before, and in an instant their sister had felled three.

"All of you," Khalous growled, "back to the monastery before I kill you myself!"

Broderick sprinted headlong through the trees, ignoring the thin branches that lashed at his face and tugged at his wool slacks. When they came to a river, Khalous told them to stay in the water and follow its eastwardly current, which took them further from Halus Gis but kept them from leaving footprints in the snow.

The freezing river water soaked through Broderick's boots and leggings and numbed his toes. He and the others followed the river's northward curve until they were leagues away from the camp of broods. Then Khalous led them west through the woods, running all the way to the fields east of Halus Gis.

"To the barn!" Khalous said. "Move!"

Broderick didn't hesitate, and ran the rest of the way to the monastery, through the southeast gate, up the main road, and into the big wooden barn next to the chapel.

Preston and Clint were inside cleaning the stalls. Their grungy tan tunics soaked in sweat and days old grime. They both looked up, startled, when Broderick scrambled through the doors, sat down on a hay bale, and ripped off his boots. His toes ached as he rubbed them.

"Broderick, what in all the known world happened to you?" Preston asked.

"Black vipers!" he said, shivering.

"Really?" said Clint, sounding enthusiastic. "Where?"

"In the hills... south of the fields," he answered between breaths.

Brayden and Nash ran into the barn, huffing and sweating.

Dana entered the barn with her bow in hand. She walked straight up to Broderick and knelt to closely examine his face, a look of grave concern in her rich brown eyes.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Although touched by his sister's compassion, Broderick refused to appear in need of her care, at least, not while the other boys were present. "Of course," he said, pushing her hand away.

He continued to rub his feet, which were finally starting to warm.

Ty and Nash sat down and began to remove their wet clothes.

"You should've seen this girl," Nash said, pointing to Dana. "She was so fast! Two of them were down before I even knew what was happening. And the third viper, she put an arrow right through his—"

Khalous shoved open the door of the barn with a crash. His energy simmered like boiling water under a pot's lid. When he spoke, his volume and anger brought a unified gasp from the group. "Like a bunch of mules, you are. All of you. Braying like asses over slop in a bucket." He walked over to Broderick and Brayden, eyeing them with a fierce agitation. "You two are lucky we followed you. There was a company of twenty black vipers camped on the other side of that ridge." He looked at Nash. "You all were so loud it's a wonder they didn't come down upon you."

Khalous put his hands on his hips and paced back and fourth. He had yelled at them in anger before, but this was different. His face was red with fury, which was unfair, Broderick thought, considering that he, Brayden, and Nash had almost lost their lives at the hands of twenty black vipers. Broderick was confident that they would've fought them off had Khalous not intervened.

Pick entered the barn. Behind him came a dozen young children, the very same ones who had traveled with them from Edhen and had yet to be adopted by Efferousian families.

"You're all sleeping in here tonight," Khalous said. "Everyone from Aberdour will be up in the lofts. You will make no sounds. Understand?"

"Why?" Broderick asked. He slipped on a pair of dry leggings.

"Because you're a bunch of negligent fools!" Khalous yelled.

Broderick drew back, frightened by the gruff captain, but enraged as well.

"We didn't know they were there," he said. "We would've been quieter if we had." He covered his feet with some dry hosen.

"That's the problem, master Broderick," Khalous said. "You didn't know they were there. What do you think I've been trying to teach you? Survival." He paused. "Stop acting like stupid children and recognize that we are at war. Your lives are at stake here! And because of your carelessness you've endangered the lives of everyone at this monastery."

Broderick could feel his ire rising in the face of Khalous' stern rebuke. He didn't think the situation was as dire as the old captain made it sound, and he had grown tired of being yelled at.

"I think we did pretty well," he said.

Khalous stopped as though he had just been hit by a log. "I beg your pardon, master Broderick?"

"Brayden and I were fighting them," he said. "I hit one of them square in the nose. Dana killed three of them all on her own. If the others come here we will—"

"What?" Khalous blurted. "What will you do? What do you think a group of children can do against a company of twenty armored black vipers?"

"What you've trained us to do," Broderick said.

"I think I've trained you to be smarter than that."

"Maybe we'd learn more if you weren't so busy yelling all the time!"

Khalous turned so sharply that it made Broderick flinch. The captain stormed over to one of the animal stalls and grabbed a thick wooden stump that he dropped with a crash into the center of the barn.

"Up you go," he said.

Broderick shook his head, knowing full well what discipline was in store for him. Khalous had used this method multiple times on Broderick, Clint, and Nash whenever they disobeyed or whenever Khalous got tired of their bickering.

"Now!" Khalous thundered.

In an angry huff Broderick stepped up onto the stump and lifted his right leg, balancing on his left foot.

"All night," Khalous said.

"What?" Broderick gasped.

The longest Khalous had ever made any of them stand atop the stump was half a morning.

"You will stand there all night in total silence," Khalous said, "or until you've learned some respect. The rest of you into the loft. We'll be lucky if the soldiers don't come here tonight looking for those responsible for the death of their comrades. If they find any of us hiding here they will murder everyone in this monastery for harboring fugitives from Edhen. Now absolute silence!"

At last it occurred to Broderick why Khalous was so furious. Their actions hadn't just riled a den of black vipers, they had endangered everyone in Halus Gis.

Broderick shut his eyes in shame as he considered the chaos that would descend upon the innocent lives in the monastery if the vipers found them here. Inwardly he kicked himself for being so stupid.

Khalous pointed to Pick and Stoneman and spoke in a hushed tone, "If they come, get bloody."

"Bloody bloody," Stoneman said.

Pick nodded.

Khalous and Pick were in the midst of securing the barn doors when the duktori walked into the barn. Broderick never saw much of Bendrosi, the monastery's well-mannered abbot, but he seemed a reasonable and kind man.

"Why have you brought the children out here to the barn, may I ask? Is everything all right?"

Khalous seemed reluctant to answer, but he told the duktori what had happened.

The shock was clear on Bendrosi's face. "Do you think the black vipers will come here?"

"I wish I knew for certain," Khalous said. "If they do, just stay calm."

The abbot considered what Khalous had said. Then he noticed Broderick standing on one foot atop the wooden stump in the middle of the barn.

"What is happening here?" he asked. This was not the first time the duktori had expressed interest in the way Khalous disciplined the boys. Many arguments had erupted between the two about his rough treatment of them, their plethora of bloody noses, bruises, and gashes. Khalous had kept Bendrosi at bay so far, but Broderick had often wondered how much longer the duktori would continue to tolerate the violence, especially with Prior Gravis displaying such strong disapproval.

"Discipline," Khalous said simply. He reached to close the barn door. "Do not worry, my friend. If the soldiers come, they will be dealt with. Good night."

Khalous and Pick braced the barn doors with a thick wooden beam.

"I'll take first watch," Pick said.

Taking a deep breath, Broderick used his hands to keep himself steady in preparation for a long night balancing atop the log, even though he wasn't sure that he could last all night.

None of them ate supper. None of them spoke. The rest of the children climbed up into the loft and bedded down in silence.

Broderick tried to occupy his mind with stories and songs to pass the time as he continued balancing atop the stump, but after a while he ran out of stories, and found that he couldn't recall all the words to some of the songs. Through the spaces in between the barn boards he watched the glow of the moon as it arched higher in the sky until it rose above the roof and out of sight.

His foot was getting sore, as were the muscles in his thighs and shoulders. Fighting off sleep wasn't difficult at first, but as the night wore on he found his eyes growing heavy and his back slouching. He began to wonder if it would be so bad if he climbed down off the log and slept for a little while. He doubted Khalous would notice, but he also feared the captain's wrath if he did.

He heard creaking in the loft above as someone moved down the ladder to the barn floor. A moment later he felt Brayden's hands on his arms.

"I've got you," his brother whispered.

"What are you doing?"

More creaking drifted down from above followed by the tapping of hands and feet descending the ladder. It was Nash. He took hold of Broderick's left arm as Brayden took the right.

"What are you—" Broderick started to ask again.

"If you've got to do this all night, then so do we," Nash said.

Preston descended a moment later, followed Dana. They formed a circle around Broderick and propped him up with their outstretched arms.

The five of them remained there for the rest of the night, throughout the chill of the early morning air, and the first glimpses of the rising sun. By the time Khalous climbed down from his bed high in the loft and found them, they were all bleary eyed and exhausted. The captain looked them over one by one, nodding with the thinnest of smiles on his lips.

"All right," Khalous said, motioning with his hand for Broderick to step down. "I want to make sure you all understand this." His voice was calm and devoid of the ire that had infused his tone the night before. "You are no longer citizens of Aberdour. You are strangers in a foreign land. You have no king. You have no country. The high king of Edhen doesn't care who you once were. You are dirt to him. If his soldiers get their hands on you, any of you, Orkrash will kill you." He pointed from one end of the group to the next. "The only thing any of you have are the people next to you. This is what gives you strength."

Broderick looked to his right at Brayden and Preston, then left toward Dana, Nash and Ty. He wouldn't have made it through the night without any of them.

Khalous was right. They had no country anymore. They had nothing except each other. Broderick realized that he had been living as though he were still within the safety of Aberdour, well protected behind its stone walls. He felt with an icy chill through his core that it had come time for that to change.

The months passed. Another summer came and went, followed by another bitter winter. The group continued to bond under the leadership of Khalous, who never wavered in his seriousness or discipline.

He had begun inviting Dana with them on their training exercises and even forged her a new bow more powerful than the one she'd had before. She could launch an arrow into the dead center of a target from even the longest distances, a feat that none of the others could replicate. She was getting faster, stronger, and more tactical.

Khalous had the monastery's blacksmith forge for the boys new swords of folded steel, which he charged them with sharpening on their own whetstones. The swords were heavier, but only at first. Their arms grew stronger, their attacks faster, and before long they were holding their own against Pick and Stoneman in dueling matches high atop the eastern fields.

Broderick found that he rarely thought about life in Aberdour anymore. His long lost sisters Lia, Brynlee, and Scarlett, were a mere memory that he chose not to think about. All he had was a growing fire in his chest that burned against the Black King. For Broderick, the day they returned to Edhen could not come soon enough.

# DANA

Dana thought the game had a simple enough objective: retrieve the trophy and bring it back to the top of the hill. Complicating matters was the fact that the trophy was hidden in a padlocked box somewhere in the monastery.

Also hiding was Pick, Stoneman, and Khalous—the Old Warhorse, as the boys had come to call him. All three of them were ready to sack anyone not clever enough to tread quietly.

"You all hid your weapons inside the monastery right?" Brayden asked. He was crouched low in the tall grass on a slope facing Halus Gis, dressed in light leather armor and pants designed to make less noise when he moved.

"I put mine behind the barn," Dana said. She missed the comfort of her bow in her hands and the rattle of quivered arrows at her hip, but she knew this was all part of the exercise.

She glanced at her two teammates.

Clint just yawned, not seeming to care.

Broderick folded his arms, frowned, and said, "I still don't see why we had to hide our weapons."

"Because we'll have to scale the walls," Brayden said. "I don't want the clatter of weapons giving away our positions."

"Remember last time Khalous had us sneak into the monastery?" Dana added. "He stationed Ariella at the gate to confiscate any weapons."

"That's what they do in some towns," Brayden said.

Broderick's nature in recent months was to argue at every possible instance, most notably with Brayden, so it came as no surprise to Dana when he said, "But I can scale the wall _with_ my weapons."

"I know you can," Brayden said, keeping his cool. "That's not the point."

"That wall is fifteen feet high," Clint argued. "How do you expect us to scale it?"

Broderick poked Clint in his gut. "Told you to stop stealing tarts from the kitchen."

Clint shoved him. "Go piss."

Dana tried to hide her smirk. She knew that Clint's weight wasn't solely the fault of his love for food. Over the last two years he had received several growth spurts that had not only given him noteworthy girth, but considerable height. Underneath his portly build, however, was well-formed muscle fully capable of pushing that weight around.

Brayden scratched an outline of the monastery walls in the dirt with a short stick. "Trees grow close to the walls here and here." He poked the ground twice, once in the northeast corner, and once in the middle of the southern wall. "Their limbs should get us close enough to hop over."

"They do," Dana said.

"How do you know?" Clint asked.

"Remember last year when the duktori heard there were black vipers in the west, and he ordered the gates shut for a whole moon?"

The boys nodded.

Dana shrugged. "I used to sneak out at night to practice with my bow."

"You? Break the rules?" Clint said, and his tone was fringed with sarcasm.

Broderick shook his head. "Bad sister."

"All right," Brayden began. "We need to sweep the grounds in sections. If we split up we can each search one area. We'll meet behind the barn when the dinner bell chimes."

Broderick started toward the monastery, throwing a terse, "Got it," over his shoulder.

Clint hurried after him.

"Wait," Brayden said. "If you find the box, don't touch it. Come find me first. All right?"

Broderick and Clint kept walking, both of them ignoring Brayden.

"All right?" he called again.

Still, they didn't respond.

Brayden stood, sighed, and looked at Dana, his eyes begging for help. She shrugged, not knowing what to tell him.

"Looks like they're headed south," she said. "North for us?"

"North it is," Brayden answered.

He took off at a quick jog down the hill.

Dana was more than content to be alone with Brayden. The two of them worked well together, she thought. Her natural attention to detail coupled with his careful thought process made them a formidable pair during Khalous' many war games. Too often she felt that Brayden's cautious nature stemmed from fear, but at least it worked to his advantage, unlike Broderick who too often acted before he thought.

Brayden had become a respected combatant as well. His coordination with his sword and shield, his perfect balance, and acute focus, made him a sharp warrior. He wasn't as fast as Broderick, or as stylish as Nash, but he managed to coalesce the best bits of Khalous' teachings to become a well-rounded fighter. He was relentless with his training. He never stopped perfecting his body. If Khalous demanded one hundred pushups, Brayden did one hundred, twenty-five. If the boys were challenged to sprint one league, he would run two. If he did this to better improve himself or stay in competition with Broderick, Dana couldn't be sure, and she didn't think it mattered.

Unlike her brothers and Clint, who had all grown considerably over the years, Dana hadn't grown much at all, at least not in height. Though still short and small waisted, her features had become more refined. Where once a young girl's round cheeks and soft jaw sloped into a scrawny neck, now appeared a woman's face that gave way to a graceful collar and other attributes more akin to womanhood.

She followed Brayden north toward the ravine that divided the eastern hills from Halus Gis. They traversed a fallen tree to cross the precipice and hurried up the slope behind the eastern wall of the monastery.

"They're never going to respect you unless you win their approval," she said.

Brayden cast a curious glance over his shoulder. "What?"

"Clint and Broderick. The others too."

Brayden created a notch with his hands to hoist Dana up into a tree. The rough bark tugged at her slacks as she climbed up.

"I shouldn't have to win their approval," Brayden said. "Like Stoneman and Pick respect Khalous. He doesn't have to earn their respect. They respect him because he's their superior."

Dana crouched on a limb and looked down at her brother. "So you think you're superior to the others."

"Everyone keeps expecting me to be a leader, so, yes."

Brayden climbed up into the tree.

"I just wish they would trust me," Brayden continued. "Things would be so much easier if Clint wasn't fighting me all the time. Broderick too."

"Clint is like a dog trying to lead the pack, but he's got no idea where he's going and he's too dumb to realize that most of the others don't respect his leadership anyway. Worry less about him and more about our brother."

He followed Dana out onto a thick limb and dropped down onto the wall.

"They need to understand the chain of command," Brayden said.

"Khalous might have us living like we're soldiers, but we're not soldiers," Dana said. "There's no chain of command here. And the boys are, um..." Dana paused, unsure of how much she should tell him. If she were to be honest, she'd have to admit that the others found Brayden too timid. "They need a reason to follow you," she concluded.

Brayden looked hurt. "What are you saying?"

Dana winced, worried she'd said too much. "Remember how father used to dine with the soldiers every few days? He'd go out to the barracks, sit with the men, learn about them, talk and joke with them. And maybe he had their respect by default, but he earned it nonetheless."

Dana led the way, sidling out along a thick bough toward the monastery's outer wall. She hopped down onto the stone, traversed across the top of the wall, and lowered herself down the other side.

Brayden followed suit, landing next to her on the soft grass.

"Any suggestions?" he asked, his voice quieter.

"I don't know." Dana poked her finger into his chest. "That's privileged information for leaders like you to figure out."

She looked around, making sure the way was clear. "So why did you tell them not to open the box without you?"

"Because I know how to get it open."

Her brows lifted. "Really? How?"

He smirked. "That's privileged information for leaders like me." He took off at a slight jog south toward the main road.

Dana headed west along the inner skirt of the northern wall.

As she moved deeper into the monastery, she grew nervous. She recalled what had happened to Preston, Nash, and Ty when they attempted to retrieve the box the day before. When the boys had returned, Preston bore a bruised cheek courtesy of Pick, and Nash's bloody nose and Ty's bruised ribs were the result of an encounter with Stoneman. She wondered what would happen to her if she were caught.

Dana came across the blacksmith's workshop first. The man who worked as the monastery's smithy, a big-armed criminal named Lorne, had been reformed through the ministry of Duktori Bendrosi. He worked in the shop twice a week making tools and fixing broken metal objects. The man had intimidated Dana when she'd first met him, but Lorne, despite his wild eyes and toothless grin, was nothing but a big teddy bear inside.

Dana looked around the workshop, but didn't see the locked box.

She continued west through the grounds, keeping a sharp eye out for Khalous, Pick, and Stoneman. She eyed the monastery denizens going about their duties—lay servants tending to the communal garden and hanging laundry, widows with their children, orphans playing in the street.

After searching the outbuildings, including the lay servants' dormitory, Dana concluded that her quarter of the grounds did not contain the hidden trophy. She slunk toward the barn to meet the others out back.

When she rounded the corner of the stable building she saw Clint prying aside one of the barn's clapboards. He wedged his wide frame through the opening, snagging his brown pants for a moment, before disappearing inside.

Curious, Dana crept into the barn through the same gap. Inside she saw Broderick and Clint conspiring near a small brown wooden box secured with a padlock. The two boys had found the trophy.

To Dana's horror, the box hung suspended above the floor by four ropes. Each rope was attached to a cowbell. The whole contraption was one giant alarm waiting to go off if anyone touched it.

Clint went to reach for the box when Brayden appeared in an open window at the rear of the barn. He signaled for Clint to stop.

"What?" Clint snapped, his voice rising.

Brayden pressed a finger to his lips and shook his head.

Broderick, ignoring his brother, slapped Clint on the arm, and gestured to the box. "Just do it," he whispered.

Dana remained crouched in the dark corner of the barn, gritting her teeth in frustration at Broderick and Clint. Her legs tensed, half wanting to spring out into the open and stop them, but she knew that if she moved she risked giving away her position.

"Just listen to Brayden," Dana whispered to herself. "Trust him."

"You ready?" Clint asked.

Broderick crouched low in preparation to sprint. "Ready."

"Stop!" Brayden said.

Clint charged up to the box. He took one mighty swing with his sword, splintering the wood into a hundred pieces. All four bells blared. The trophy tumbled out—a silver chalice. Broderick sprinted for the trophy, grabbed it, and dashed for the open window where Brayden was watching, infuriated.

"You idiots!" he shouted.

"Run!" Clint said. "I'll draw them off." He swung his sword at one of the ropes, rattling one of the bells again.

The barn door burst open with Pick and Khalous barging inside.

"Run, Broderick!" Clint yelled. He twirled his sword and set his eyes on Pick, who was unarmed.

The young soldier was dressed in leather-padded slacks and a close-fitting armored vest, spry and quick. He shot forward into a low sweep kick that blew Clint's knees out from underneath him.

Dana never ceased to be amazed at how fast Pick could move.

"Bloody bloody," Pick chirped. He proceeded to disarm Clint and pin him to the ground.

Dana turned her head to see if Broderick had made it out the window. Instead she saw Stoneman slip out from his hiding place in one of the horse stalls. He slammed Broderick in the chest with the pole of a spear. The boy fell to the floor like a sack of grain, sending the trophy clattering across the floor.

"Incredible effort, you two," Khalous said. "What a big, dumb, incredible effort."

Broderick shoved Stoneman's spear out of his face. "Get off me," he said, rising to his feet.

Brayden vaulted through the window into the barn. "I had the key, you halfwits!" he shouted.

"What?" Broderick said.

"What?" echoed Khalous.

Brayden tossed the Old Warhorse the key. "I saw Lorne cutting it for you yesterday," he said. "I saw you hide it in the pocket of your tunic, so I figured I'd take it in case it had anything to do with the challenge."

"That's quite an assumption, master Brayden."

"But genius," Pick added.

Dana emerged from her hiding spot and walked out into the main room to watch the inevitable argument between Brayden and Broderick unfold. Their bickering was becoming so common that even predicting their spats was a bore.

"You had the key and you didn't tell me?" Broderick said. "What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with _you_?" Brayden shot back. "Do you understand nothing that we're doing here?"

"Yeah, trying to win."

"Once again completely missed the point of this exercise."

"Oh, do tell." Broderick's tone reeked with sarcasm.

"Teamwork," Brayden said. "Trust. Silence. Stealth. Not everything needs to be solved by smashing and running like some barbarian jackdaw. Do you ever just stop to think for two bloody seconds?"

"You just like to solve everything on your own," Broderick said. "Have to have all the glory, don't you?"

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? You kept that key a secret so you could be the one to open the case. Always have to be the big hero."

"All right," Khalous said. "That's enough."

"But you don't have the courage to become a hero, do you?" Broderick continued.

"What?"

"You're a coward, Brayden. Always have been."

Dana looked at her brother's face and saw the toll of Broderick's words.

"You blame me for smashing and running, acting before I think," Broderick said, "but the fact is you never act at all because you're just too scared."

"That's enough," Khalous said again.

"You're a self-centered jerk, you know that?" Brayden said.

"And you're every bit the spoiled prince that—"

"I SAID ENOUGH!" Khalous bellowed. He pointed a finger at Broderick and then waved it over toward Brayden. "You're both a couple of stubborn asses."

Dana sniggered. The Old Warhorse wasn't wrong.

Broderick folded his arms. He started to protest, but Khalous continued.

"Brayden, there is a leader in you somewhere. You want your team to trust you? Then you need to trust your team, and sometimes that means working with whatever decisions they make whether you agree with them or not."

He wheeled on Broderick. "And you! You criticize your brother for wanting all the glory, but that's only because you're so obsessed with getting it yourself."

Broderick stormed out of the barn, slamming his fist into the door as he went and splitting the wood of one of the boards.

Khalous inhaled a deep breath, shaking his head. He lifted a hand to his whitening beard and paced away in deep contemplation.

Pick let Clint off the floor. Dana watched him rise to his feet, snarling as he brushed himself off. He threw an impudent glance at the others and then thumped out of the barn.

Khalous walked up to Brayden. Lowering his voice, he said, "I like the way you use your head. You're a careful thinker. You've a mind for strategy. But you need the trust of your team. You need to make a stand, boy. Learn to take control. Find a way to bring them together or you're going to lose them all." He motioned toward the floor and the shattered box. "Get things cleaned up, then join us in the dining hall."

The captain left along with Pick and Stoneman, leaving Dana and Brayden behind.

Brayden exhaled through puffed cheeks as he ran his fingers through his long brown hair. While he paced away from her she could see the frustration seeping off his shoulders.

"I don't wish to speak ill of our father," Dana began, "but it's his fault, not yours."

"What is?"

"Father always lavished you with attention and instruction. What did he give to Broderick? A cold shoulder? Disinterest?"

Brayden scowled at her. "No. Father never did that."

"Perhaps you didn't notice, but Broderick was always trying hard to steal some of father's attention away from you." She gestured toward the open barn doors. "Have you noticed how well they've bonded?"

"Broderick and Clint?"

"They spend more time together than anyone. Clint has become Broderick's alternative to... well..." She stopped, not wanting to say it.

"Me."

Dana stayed quiet.

A moment later, Brayden asked, "Why? I don't understand. What's Broderick see in him that—"

"Strength," Dana said. "It's the wrong kind of strength, but he sees power in Clint. He needs to see that from you, Brayden. So do the others. Khalous is right, they need to know they can trust you."

Brayden looked defeated as he wandered over to a wall of tools and picked up the broom. He went about sweeping up the mess of splintered wood in silence. Dana helped him cut down the ropes and put away the cowbells.

When they were done, Brayden slipped away. Dana decided to give him some space and left him alone.

Dana went to the chapel. She wandered through the columned cloister off the west wing that encircled a lush green flower garden. The summer was almost over—her third summer on Efferous. It would be autumn again soon and the surrounding hills would unleash a splendorous chorus of color.

Normally Dana would spend her afternoons in the kitchen helping the servants prepare the evening meal for the residents of Halus Gis. However she had been spending less time there as her commitments to Khalous' training took over her life. Her days had become filled with running and stretching, climbing, horse riding, and exhausting archery drills. More often than not she went to bed filthy, sweating, and bearing a good-sized bruise or two. Her body had grown leaner though, her legs had strengthened, and her fingers had toughened from plucking her bowstring.

But a part of her missed her afternoons in the chapel, picking food from the garden, preparing meals, and tending to the children. It reminded her of simpler days in Aberdour when her mother would sit with her by the castle hearth and show her how to sew a patch into a leather coat, or stitch art into fabric. Lilyanna had taken great pride in grooming Dana for a life as a wife and mother. She had even given her singing and dancing lessons, and though Dana's voice lacked any sort of musical potential, her dancing had made her graceful and surefooted, a trait she was glad for today.

Still, she missed the dream of marrying one day and starting a family of her own. She feared the rest of her life would be spent preparing for a war she'd rather avoid.

Through the colonnade she saw Nairnah Kholoch sitting on the grass sewing a pair of leggings. Dana walked over and sat down next to her.

"Did Pick tear his pants again?" she asked.

"No. Stoneman. Right down the bottom." She giggled.

"Kind of you to mend them for him," Dana said.

"I just like to help."

Nairnah had a reputation of always lingering where there was work to be done. She may not have been very independent minded, but she could follow directions to the letter and never had to be told twice. Nairnah had matured over the last two years, emerging from her shy, nervous shell into a blossoming young woman. Dana had even come to admire her, though the girl was several years younger than she.

"You're a good helper," Dana said. "Others have said so."

The girl smiled in thanks, blue eyes squinting above raised cheeks.

Dana watched Nairnah sew in silence for a few moments, enjoying the late afternoon sun as it dressed the garden in warm light.

"Is Brayden all right?" Nairnah asked.

Dana was well aware of the girl's long-standing affections for her brother. Nairnah was almost of marrying age, by Edhen's standards anyway, but Dana doubted marriage would come very soon for any of them.

"Why wouldn't he be all right?" Dana asked. She wondered if Nairnah had overhead all that had just transpired in the barn.

"A couple days ago I saw his lip was split," she said. "I don't like those games they play."

Dana didn't disagree. The games Khalous put them through often resulted in a mixed bag of cuts and scrapes. She often reminded herself that it was all for a greater good, that Khalous was preparing them to be warriors capable of astonishing feats.

"My father used to say that soldiers were made the same as swords," Dana said. "The best swords are heated, pounded, cooled, heated, folded and pounded again. It's a long process that takes time and strength. That's how the best soldiers are made, over time through strength and discipline."

"Do you remember your father very well?"

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

She thought for a moment, thinking of Kingsley's charming tawny brown eyes. He had tough workman's hands that were never anything to her but gentle.

"He was strong," Dana said. "I remember his hands, when he'd pick me up, there was something so secure about them. He had a strong mind, too. He knew what was right and wrong, and never wavered. His love for my mother was undying, even after..." She stopped herself, recalling the pain of her mother's betrayal.

"After what?" Nairnah asked.

It occurred to Dana that such secrets didn't matter anymore, and so she continued. "I was about to say, even after she conceived Broderick with another man."

Nairnah gasped.

"My father kept it a secret to protect my mother from public shame. I never knew what love was until I saw the way he forgave her, embraced her, and welcomed her back into the family. He had a fierce love for her, that much I know."

Nairnah looked sad. "I don't remember my father. Or my mother."

"Not at all?"

She scrunched her face as though the admission had hurt her inside. "I remember what it was like to have a mother and father, but, even though I try, I can't remember them specifically." Dana watched a single tear slide down her cheek. "I don't know why."

"What were their names?" Dana asked.

"Edward and Nora."

"What did your father do?"

"He was a carpenter. He built wagons and sold them all throughout the kingdom."

"And your mother?"

"She was a seamstress. Her legs didn't always work, so I would help her. I'd fetch fabric from the attic, or buy new cloth from the market." Nairnah smiled as she spoke, her eyes lost in fond recollection. "My mother used to say that she could hold her needles and her fabric, hold up a new shirt or a vest, but she could never hold her children. She liked it when I worked with her, I think. It gave us something to do together."

The dinner bell rang.

"I think you remember your parents quite well actually," Dana said.

Nairnah's eyes blinked as though realizing the memory she had just relived. "Yes, I suppose I do."

The two girls left the grassy garden to join the others in the dining room.

Dana let Nairnah go on ahead when she noticed Khalous and Ariella standing in a corner of the cloister talking with Prior Gravis. Rather, it looked like Gravis was doing most of the talking. Judging by the look on Khalous' face his words were not being well received.

Dana stepped back behind one of the pillars of the colonnade to listen.

"I've found a blacksmith in Pelnon looking for an apprentice," Gravis said, "and I know of several carpenters and scholars in Arys looking for boys to mentor. Some of our older orphan boys will be taken away to—"

"This world does not need carpenters and scholars," Khalous said. "It needs warriors." He faced Gravis squarely, his broad shoulders and chest draped in a confident navy shirt with a high collar, covered over in patches of leather armor, well worn and scarred.

"Of course, but we are not talking about soldiers. We're talking about children. Warfare is the work of men, not—"

"Tell me, Gravis, how old were you when you began your studies here?"

Gravis interlocked his hands under the long maroon sleeves of his belted robe. After taking a brief moment to think, he said, "I was a young boy."

Khalous folded his arms. "The mind of a child is a fascinating thing. It absorbs so much more than the mind of a grown man. Children who begin learning at a young age quickly become masters of their craft." He stepped toward Gravis, letting his powerful chest and shoulders crowd the prior just a bit. "I'm training these children not just to make them soldiers, but to make them the best soldiers the world has ever seen. A fact you will undoubtedly be grateful for if the high king of Edhen ever decides to invade this land you call home."

Gravis drew a deep, slow breath. He straightened his back and clenched his jaw as though struggling to hold back a flurry of protests. It was no secret that he didn't like the violence of Khalous' training on the monastery grounds. He tolerated it only out of respect for the abbot who was far more understanding.

Gravis walked away.

Khalous leaned back against the stone wall of the dining hall. He looked pale and forlorn.

Ariella stepped up to him. Though she was well beyond middle age, she was still plenty lovely. Her hair had grown long again after enduring the shame of having it cut by the abbot when she left the sisterhood. It was now braided down her back, brown and white, lovely against the green of her simple dress.

"Don't lose heart," Ariella said. "Just because some don't understand what you're doing, doesn't mean it's wrong."

Her hand went to Khalous' cheek. Dana wondered what the abbot would say if he saw them so close together. The abbey had strict rules about the physical contact allowed between unmarried men and women.

"I know, but they're not ready," Khalous said. "Complacency has settled upon them. They're becoming too comfortable here. Too content."

"It is not your responsibility to save Edhen. You have given your life to the Falls, to your kingdom. Perhaps it's time to rest."

"I made a promise, Ariella. I promised Lord Kingsley that I..." Khalous' voice trailed off.

Kingsley.

Dana tensed, taking a renewed interest in the conversation. All this time she had believed that they were on Efferous to hide, to train in secret with Khalous to one day strike back at the Black King. Now she wondered if there wasn't another reason they were here, something to do with her father perhaps. The thought made her pulse quicken.

"Promised what?" Ariella asked.

Khalous paced back and fourth.

"We need to finish this," he said. "I must fulfill Lord Kingsley's wish."

"What wish?"

Khalous stared at the floor, not answering.

"Very well," Ariella said with a stiff upper lip. "Do what you must to honor your king, just be sure you aren't holding onto these children for your own purposes."

"What do you mean?"

Ariella cupped his cheeks in both her hands. "I love you," she said, her manner softening. "I know you are a man of honor, loyal to the traditions and family of Aberdour, but your purpose is with me now, and to our family, should the Allgod bless us with one. You don't need any more purpose than that."

Khalous fell silent, and Dana wondered if she saw a tear trickle down into his beard. He kissed Ariella on the cheek.

She smiled. "Where will you be taking them?"

"To meet a friend."

Khalous walked off into the dining room with Ariella in tow.

A nervous chill arose in Dana's chest as she pondered the idea of leaving Halus Gis. The monastery had just begun to feel like home.

Dana waited until after dinner to share what she had overheard with Brayden.

She went to find him in the barn where he often was in the evening, tending to the horses, putting away tack and other tools. She was surprised when she didn't find him there.

Voices outside behind the barn caught her attention. She followed the sounds around back until she saw Clint straddling the top of the monastery's northern wall. He was staring down at Broderick and Brayden who were engaged in a quiet, but furious debate.

Clint rolled his eyes. "Great. Now she's here."

Broderick sighed with annoyance and turned his back on Brayden. He took hold of a rope hanging over the wall and climbed to the top of the fifteen-foot-tall barrier.

"Broderick!" Dana said. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Shh!" he said. He stood atop the wall and walked out of sight. A moment later she heard the weight of his body drop down onto the grass on the other side.

"You should come with us, Miss Dana," Clint said. He winked at her. "Might have fun." He disappeared over the wall.

"Apparently they've done this before," Brayden said, throwing up his hands.

"Done what? Where are they going?"

"There's a village about four leagues west. They go there at night sometimes, and come back before dawn."

"How long have you known about this? Why didn't you tell Khalous?" She hated how accusatory her voice sounded, but she couldn't deny her anger. "Can you imagine what Prior Gravis would do if he found out the boys were sneaking outside the monastery?"

"I've noticed them coming into the barn late at night before, but I didn't know why until just now."

"Do they have any idea how dangerous that is?" she said. "Black vipers—"

"Haven't been seen for a long time," Brayden said.

"But Bendrosi and Gravis say there are still wanted posters for refugees from Edhen all over Efferous." She pointed to the wall. "If they're caught..." She stopped herself with a huff and paced away from Brayden, trying to calm down. "Idiots," she muttered.

"I won't argue with that," Brayden said. "Should I tell Khalous?"

Dana shook her head. "It won't matter much longer anyway."

"What do you mean by that?"

She spent the next few moments relaying to him the things she'd overheard Khalous telling Ariella. Brayden listened with growing fascination, and when she got to the part about Lord Kingsley his eyes widened.

"A promise to our father?" he repeated. "What could that mean? Do you think that's why he brought us here?"

Dana just stood there, looking at him, her mind filled with all the same questions.

"Did he say when we might leave?" Brayden asked.

"No." Dana turned and looked back at the rope hanging over the wall. "But, for their sake, I hope it's sooner rather than later."

# BRAYDEN

From atop the ladder Brayden was able to look beyond the walls of the monastery to the colorful autumn hills beyond. In the last few weeks, the forest's numerous shades of green had given way to fiery tones of red, orange, and yellow. The colors ignited like a spark to parchment in the late afternoon sun.

Brayden remembered the mountains of Aberdour and how beautiful they looked come fall, their rocky slopes dappled with patches of vibrant trees. He missed his old life, but was glad for the similarities he found on Efferous that reminded him of home.

He turned his attention on the apple branches hanging above him. The tree was one of many in several long rows of fruit trees occupying a large swath of property east of Halus Gis. He tugged off a few more apples and dropped them into a wheeled cart next to the ladder beneath him.

Several trees down the row he watched Dana climb up onto a ladder. The way her navy dress swished at her ankles coupled with her posture as she reached up to grab an apple reminded him of his mother.

Dana saw him staring and smiled. "Are you all right?"

"You remind me more and more of her," he said.

Her smile faded and for a moment Brayden wondered if perhaps he shouldn't have brought it up. After a pause, a hint of cheer returned to her face. "Broderick has her eyes. Did you ever notice?"

He had.

Brayden's ladder jerked suddenly. He dropped an apple and grabbed onto the top step to keep from falling.

"Oops," shouted Clint as he walked past. "I didn't see you there."

"Piss off," Brayden said.

Brayden watched his cousin stroll up to Dana's ladder with his gaze fixed shamelessly in the direction of her bottom. When she reached up to pluck an apple, Clint shoved his hand up between her legs and gave her right cheek a firm squeeze. Dana squealed, dropping the apples.

Brayden's insides flashed hot with anger.

"Hey!" Preston shouted as he walked by with an empty wheeled cart. He slammed the cart down and stormed up to Clint. "What in all the hells was that?"

Clint shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Dana hopped down from the ladder. Her face was as red as the orchard's apples. She turned to Clint and slapped him. "Don't ever touch me like that again, dog!"

Clint, not even seeming stunned by her blow, threw up his hands in surrender. "Relax, Dana. I was just playing around."

She spun about and marched away.

"What's wrong with you?" Preston asked.

Clint jabbed him on the shoulder. "Oh, come off it, Mr. Fancy. You're telling me you wouldn't—" he made a crude thrusting gesture with his pelvis, "—her if you had the chance."

"My feelings for Dana are beside the point."

"Oh, ho! You have a soft spot for little miss princess?"

Preston stood up straight, letting his broad shoulders and full height expand. He was taller than Clint, and far more physically fit, but nowhere near his weight.

"What I have for her is respect," Preston said. "And I'd appreciate it if you could at least attempt to offer her the same. She's your cousin, for pity's sake."

Brayden climbed down from his ladder. He knew how sensitive Preston was to matters concerning women, and he could see the fire rising in his eyes. If Clint didn't back off soon he had no doubt this confrontation would end in blows.

"Oh, I'll respect her all right," Clint said as he stepped toward Preston. "I'll respect her when she's on her knees like a good little whore—"

Preston's fist knocked him across the jaw.

Clint staggered back, his hand flying to his mouth. His fingers pulled away a trickle of blood. He whooped with delight and started to roll up the sleeves of his dingy brown tunic. "About time, pretty boy. You ready for this?"

Brayden slid between the two of them, one hand stopping Clint's advance and the other aimed at Preston. "That's enough!"

"Get back, Brayden," Clint growled. His eyes narrowed at Preston and he raised his fists.

"I said that's enough!"

"Let me fight him!"

"If you don't back away you're going to fight us both!"

Clint refocused his eyes on Brayden.

"Actually you'll be fighting all three of us," said Nash, who stepped out from the adjacent row of fruit trees. He stripped off his tan tunic and dropped it on the ground, crossing his well-chiseled arms along his well-cut chest.

Brayden thrust a finger at Clint. "Don't forget, that's my sister you're talking about. When you insult her, you've insulted me."

Clint shrank back and tossed his hands up once more. "You three need to relax. I was just trying to liven up our day. It gets boring out here."

Brayden noticed Khalous standing among the apple trees twenty paces away. The Old Warhorse looked bleak clad in dark slacks and a loose tunic, arms crossed in disdain. When Clint saw him he slunk away through the apple trees, nursing his cut lip.

"Damn the stones," Nash said. "I was really looking forward to watching you two beat the piss out of that foul sack of wind."

"Weren't you going to help?" Preston asked.

"Nah. I'm all bark and no bite, remember?"

"You're my brother. How could I forget?"

"Brayden," Khalous called. He gestured with a jerk of his head and began to walk away.

Brayden thanked Preston and Nash for standing behind him, and then jogged to catch up with the captain.

Gloom covered Khalous like a dark cloak. When Brayden neared, he slowed, almost afraid to approach.

"Sir?" he asked tentatively.

"Why do you keep holding back?" Khalous asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean. You've had more than one chance to put Clint in his place, but you never do. You're holding back. Tell me why."

Brayden looked down, ashamed. A part of him knew how to beat Clint, but another part of him, a larger part, was too afraid to do so.

"Sir, beating my cousin in combat won't do anything but enrage him further."

"So what is your plan then, to let him continue to manipulate the others with threats and physical intimidation?"

Brayden started to respond when Khalous cut him off. "Every time you don't stand up to Clint, you lose the respect of the others. You're acting like a coward when you need to be acting like a leader. They'll never follow you otherwise."

"Sir, Clint is like a dog," Brayden said. "He wants to be the leader of the pack, but he doesn't know how. Once he sees that the others don't think of him as a leader, he'll back off."

"Patience?" Khalous questioned with a single eyebrow dubiously raised. "Your tactic for dealing with your cousin's insolence is patience? You sure it's not passivity?"

Under the scrutiny of Khalous Marloch, Brayden's strategy sounded ridiculous. He swallowed, nervous, unsure of what to say.

"No," Khalous began. "I want you to make a stand. The boys need to see you do it. Clint too."

"You want me to beat him up?"

Khalous cupped Brayden around the nape of his neck in a firm, almost painful, grip. "I want you to make a stand," he said again.

The thick soles of the captain's leather boots thumped along the worn path out of the orchard as he walked away.

Brayden felt queasy inside. He didn't understand why Khalous seemed dead set on turning him into a leader. Moreover, he hated that Clint was somehow his responsibility.

"I've seen him do that before, you know," Nairnah said.

Surprised by the sound of her delicate voice, Brayden spun around and saw Nairnah standing under the shade of an apple tree, her apron full of red and green fruit. She looked beautiful, he thought, with a few renegade locks of brown hair on either side of her smooth face.

"Do what?" he asked.

"I've seen the way Clint treats the women," she said. "I've seen him outside the washroom before, trying to peek inside."

"He hasn't touched you has he?" The thought of it made his blood boil.

She shook her head.

"You would tell me if he does, yes?"

"Yes, my lord."

Brayden smirked. "We're a long way from Aberdour. I'm not a lord anymore."

She blushed. "Yes, you are. You're a Falls aren't you?"

Brayden walked over to her. Her blue eyes, looking up at him, were like the sky on a cloudless day. He almost forgot what they were talking about.

"Um, can I help you with that?" he asked, looking at her apron full of apples.

"I can manage," she said.

"Oh."

After an awkward pause, she added, "You could walk with me back to the chapel. Sister Marleenious said she'd show me how to make apple tarts."

He agreed with a casual nod that belied his excitement.

As they steered toward the monastery Brayden noticed plump clouds in the distant sky that looked ready to rain.

A chill in the air made him acutely sensitive to the warmth emanating from Nairnah's body as she walked next to him.

"A thistle!" she exclaimed.

Brayden followed her eyes to the tall grass abutting the worn foot trail. There he saw, not one, but several milk thistles, a popular flower throughout much of northern Edhen. He had never seen one on Efferous before.

"It looks just like the ones we have back home," Nairnah said. "Oh, I should tell Senona. She loves thistles."

"How do you know?" Brayden asked.

"When she lived in Thalmia they grew around her house. They always remind her of home." She giggled and leaned in close to Brayden, whispering, "I think Ty has his heart set for her."

Brayden held back his knowing grin. All the boys knew of Ty's fondness for Senona, a raven haired Efferousian girl. The two had been orphans at Halus Gis together before the refugees of Aberdour had arrived. Brayden was sworn to secrecy regarding Ty's affections though, and so he said nothing except, "Is that so?"

"I think so," Nairnah mused.

They crossed the bridge leading to the southeast gate and started up the road that cut through the middle of the monastery.

"Is that your father's dagger?" Nairnah asked, gesturing with her nose toward the sheath on Brayden's belt.

He nodded.

"Dana said you've carried it with you ever since your father died, but that you never use it."

Brayden fingered the dagger on his hip, recalling the day he'd pulled it off his father's belt. "I plan to use it some day."

"Use it for what?"

He had yet to confide in anyone his intentions with the knife, but something about Nairnah made him feel safe to say it. "The Black King killed my father. Some day I'm going to use it to kill the Black King."

She didn't offer any response to his words, no looks of surprise or indignation. If anything she seemed to expect his words.

Their walk came to an end in front of the chapel. Nairnah shuffled off into the kitchen to help with the evening meal. She promised to save a seat for him next to her when dinner was served.

The memory of walking next to Nairnah, feeling her warmth and basking in the sweet sound of her voice, lingered with him for the rest of the day. He found himself having difficulty concentrating during sword practice.

Khalous slapped him on the back of the head. "Pay attention!"

Shaking off his distracting thoughts, Brayden adjusted his padded helmet, which the captain had knocked askew.

"This isn't a dance," Khalous said. "Focus!"

Brayden charged forward with a downward swing. The captain, shirtless and bold, unpadded as always, deflected the blow with the flat of his blade. He looped the handle under Brayden's armpit and slapped him in the neck with his sword so hard that Brayden flipped sideways. He crashed into the dirt on his right shoulder, feeling his ribs crunch as his sword and helmet went scattering.

Nash gasped. "How the bloody hells did you just do that?"

Khalous leaned down and glared at Brayden. "Are you awake now, young master?"

His mind was spinning, partly from the pain, partly from the shock at what the captain had just done. Khalous had never shown them that technique before.

"Sir," he groaned.

Khalous helped him up. "You are all under the impression that your skills with a sword rely on memorizing a finite number of movements. If you wish to die, by all means, continue this very limited line of study. If you wish to win in battle than you might want to start applying what you've learned." He leveled his sword at Nash. "Helmet on."

Nash came forward. He was padded in thick brown leather from head to toe, not enough to protect him in actual combat, but enough to stave off some of the more serious blows the blunt practice swords could deliver.

Khalous called for Broderick, who slipped his helmet on and readied his sword. He faced Nash and the two began to spar.

"Keep moving!" Khalous said. "Don't just parry and riposte. Be aggressive, audacious. Take the initiative."

Broderick struck first, a driving thrust that sent Nash scattering out of the way. He recovered and returned a thrust at Broderick who stopped him mid-strike with the flat of his sword. He jerked his blade up, a blow that would've ripped Nash's forearm in half had it not been for the padded sleeve's deflection of the dull metal.

"Good!" Khalous said. "Let every move put you in a position to maim or kill."

Nash took a low L stance, his sword hilt in his left hand, the blade in his right. Across from him stood Broderick who held his broadsword horizontally in two hands over his head.

"Displace your adversary's blows with counter-strikes timed in the middle of his action," Khalous said. "Intercept and stifle his attack. Every fight should last no longer than a few seconds and end with one of you dead."

Brayden watched the two boys continue practicing their strikes while he nursed the knot in his stiffening neck. Khalous' flip had succeeded in making Nairnah a distant memory. He was now fully focused on the training, if not a bit distracted trying to figure out how Khalous had tossed him so easily.

Brayden had long thought that sword fighting was a skill reserved for those with sharp reflexes and coordination, but those things, he learned, can be developed. Good sword fighting was about knowing and applying a handful of key principles having to do with adversarial perception, timing, distance, leverage, and technique.

"The flat of the sword for deflecting," Khalous said. "The edge for hurting. Move faster!"

Nash lunged in with a downward thrust. Broderick deflected mid-strike and drove in, shoving the hilt of his weapon under his opponent's chin. The move put Nash off balance and sent him spilling backward over Broderick's leg.

"Good!"

Ty and Clint faced off next, which was like watching an enorbear take on a squirrel. Clint's size and power always made for an interesting matchup against Ty's agility and speed. Ty bounced around on his feet, dodging Clint's blows to the left and right. He somersaulted behind him, lashing his sword across Clint's padded back. The move was quick and effective. It impressed everyone except Khalous.

"Is this a dance?" he said. "Are you trying to woo a virgin princess?"

Ty shook his head. "No, I just thought—"

"A more skilled fighter would've cut you a dozen ways in the time it took you to finish your little display." He turned to face the boys. "Listen up. You're not trying to tag your opponent. This is not a game of cat and mouse. You go straight in at your enemy. Throw him off his guard. Seek the bind. What the Fellians call _zum schleezen en_ , or _attraversarie_ in Efferousian. Be the first to make the cross, draw blood, and win."

Sword fighting, Brayden had realized, wasn't like the way the poets of old romanticized it, or the way the stage actors mimed it for entertainment. It was unquestionably violent and cold, an art, with precision the paint and death the portrait.

In the years since leaving Aberdour, the boys had refined their reflexes with repetitive speed drills that conditioned their muscles to react on instinct. They built their strength by practicing with weapons that weighed three times more than a standard broadsword. They lifted rocks to build their muscles, pushed wagons across the hills weighted with grain sacks, and spent afternoons sprinting along the northern cliffs.

Brayden could feel the results of the training in his body, see it in the tautness of his muscles and how combat was beginning to fit him like a glove.

The dinner bell rang and their swordplay came to an end.

"Well fought today cousin," Clint said, slapping Brayden between the shoulder blades

The blow sent spasms of pain through Brayden's stiff neck. In that moment he wasn't sure who to resent more, Clint or Khalous.

His pain eased a bit when he sat down at the table with Nairnah. They weren't usually allowed to talk during meals, the priests and nuns preferring silence, but they exchanged a few whispers about the quality of their day.

When the evening meal was over, Brayden retreated to the stables to finish his daily chores when he glimpsed Clint and Broderick making their way behind the barn. They sprinted off the road and over the grass, cloaks billowing behind them.

His chest tightened in anger. He knew what they were up to.

When he found them, Clint was already on top of the fifteen-foot wall. He was dressed in a black travel cloak with a brown leather satchel draped over his shoulder. When he saw Brayden come around the corner he groaned. "Oh look, it's the abbey magistrate."

Broderick glanced at Brayden through the curly black locks spilling over his forehead. He looked irritated, but said nothing. Like Clint he was dressed for a journey.

A hundred words hovered on the tip of Brayden's tongue, condemning words that he knew would sound harsh and judgmental. He bit them back, searching for better ones that might help him lure Broderick away from the dangerous influence of Clint Brackenrig.

"Broderick, I, uh... I think—"

"I know what you think," Broderick said, "and I'm not interested in hearing it again."

"We should invite him along," Clint said.

Broderick threw his head back and laughed.

Even to Brayden the suggestion sounded ridiculous, but when he realized all other words had escaped him, he said, "All right. I'll go."

The stunned looks on the faces of both Broderick and Clint almost made him smile.

"Please tell me you're joking," Broderick said.

Brayden moved past his brother, grabbed the rope, and hoisted himself up the wall. Though he refused to show it, he felt sick inside. He knew going with them was a mistake. If they were caught Khalous would hold him responsible.

He crouched down on top of the wall next to Clint and said, "So, where are we headed?"

"You better keep up," Broderick said. He pulled himself up the rope.

The three of them dropped down onto a grassy slope high atop the northern cliffs. The ocean stretched before them into a darkening horizon of blue and gray.

Broderick and Clint took off at a brisk pace. They ran down a narrow trail edged by tall grass and thorn bushes that followed the monastery's northern wall. Brayden stayed on their heels, crossed the ravine on a mossy tree felled long ago, and up into the eastern hills. They emerged from the woods on a narrow road. Broderick and Clint turned north.

Brayden had no trouble keeping up, though it did surprise him to see the heavy-set Clint keeping pace with Broderick.

"You ever see any black vipers on these roads?" Brayden asked.

"Black vipers haven't been seen on Efferous in more than a year," Clint said. "Everyone at the monastery would know that if they ever ventured out into the world."

"The duktori travels," Brayden said, trying not to sound defensive.

Clint scoffed. "Yeah, to visit other monasteries where he hears the same lies from old men just as paranoid as he is. It's all a bunch of hogwash. Black vipers don't come around here any more. It's that simple."

"So where are we headed?" Brayden asked for the second time.

Neither of them answered at first. Both seemed to resent the fact that he had chosen to tag along.

"Mykronos," Clint finally answered.

"Or, as we sometimes like to call it, 'My-girl-ous,'" Broderick added.

Clint chucked.

Brayden didn't bother to ask why. He had a feeling he'd know soon enough.

Mykronos sat four leagues east of Halus Gis, a ramshackle town of dilapidated wood huts that crowded the rocky shores of the northern ocean. Night had settled upon the coast by the time the three boys made their way into the village, but Brayden could still see the crooked shacks in the shadows. Amidst the scent of sea salt he could taste the stale smell of human sweat and urine. A few scattered homes were lit with torches that provided a sampling of light on the sprawling, disjointed village of indigenous Efferousians.

The fringes of the village were quiet with only a few sullen faced elderly folk awake to gawk at the three young men striding into town.

Soon, however, a brighter glow out near the beach caught Brayden's eye. He even thought he could hear the faint echoes of song.

As they got closer, Brayden saw that the natives were dancing in the sand around a huge bonfire, carousing in loin clothes and little else. Broderick and Clint strolled up to the outskirts of the party, smiling and gawking at the limber, topless women spinning in circles around the blaze.

My-girl-ous.

The villagers continued their celebration without pause, unaware, or perhaps disinterested, in the presence of the three foreigners.

Broderick and Clint peeled away from the dance and sauntered over to a wooden hut in which sat several large barrels of some kind of beer. The mawkish odor emanating from the shack was like bad breath and piss. Brayden covered his nose.

Clint tapped the shoulder of the man serving the drinks. Brayden watched the man's face go from sweaty and tired to sweaty and annoyed the moment he recognized Clint.

"No, no," the server said. "Trouble too much. No drink for you. Away!" He waved his hand in Clint's direction as if shooing off a fly.

Then Clint reached into his satchel and offered him a handful of copper and silver coins, which seemed to catch the man's attention.

"Where did you get that?" Brayden asked.

"From people," Clint snapped.

The server took the coins, filled two wooden goblets with the rancid smelling beverage, and handed the cups to Clint and Broderick.

"What is that?" Brayden said, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

"More foul than a dead cat's ass, but stronger than wine. That's all we know," Clint said. He downed his drink in a series of massive gulps. When he lowered the goblet his face was red and he coughed.

Lifting his cup, Broderick tried to down the whole thing like Clint, made it halfway and gagged.

A few nearby villagers in hand-stitched leather vests laughed at them.

"At what point is this little adventure going to become appealing?" Brayden asked.

Broderick wiped his mouth. "Why did you come tonight, brother?"

Brayden pondered for a moment, wondering if he even had an answer. "Curiosity, I guess."

"Go home," Broderick said. "Stop worrying about me and worry about your little helper."

Brayden could only assume he was talking about Nairnah.

His brother knocked his shoulder into him as he stepped past and returned to the dance celebration. Two of the natives were now naked and copulating in the sand, unconcerned with the mob of dancers that were still spinning and jumping around the great fire.

Brayden's eyes went wide with disgust. He'd never seen such an open display of sexuality before. What was more troubling was how nonchalantly Clint and Broderick seemed to regard it.

He took hold of Broderick's arm. "We shouldn't be watching this," he said, but he didn't know why. It just felt wrong.

Broderick pulled his arm away. "Just because you can't see the beauty in it doesn't make it wrong."

"Beauty? It's barbaric."

"This couple has been trying for two years to conceive," Broderick said. "The entire village is now praying to their gods to bless them. So, yeah, there's something beautiful in it."

"So do they have to do it in the open?" Brayden said.

Clint slapped him on the back. "We'll understand if this comes as a shock to you, Brayden, but we don't care."

"Go home, brother," Broderick said again. He and Clint disappeared into the crowd.

Brayden threw his hands into the air and left the beach.

He returned alone to the monastery contemplating whether he should tell Khalous about what his cousin and stepbrother were up to. He hated the idea of being a telltale, but he also hated the destructive example Clint was setting for Broderick. He hated how powerless he felt to stop it. He wished for Broderick to see the negative habits in Clint without having to be told, but he suspected Clint's influence was degrading his brother's self awareness.

Brayden realized that Khalous was right: he would need to make a stand against his cousin. Even if it meant alienating him forever, he had to do it for the sake of the others, especially Broderick. Estrange one, or divide them all. He loathed having to make such a choice.

Brayden snuck into the barn, trying not to wake Preston, Nash, and Ty sleeping in the loft above. He grabbed a saddle blanket from one of the stalls and spread it out on a pile of hay bales stacked on the ground floor. He reclined onto his back and stared up into the rafters, hoping for sleep, but knowing it wouldn't come.

He lay awake for some time, wrestling with his fear and uncertainty. Bit-by-bit he saw through the barn boards a pale blue appear in the east. Dawn was approaching.

"My lord?" Nairnah called.

Brayden saw her tiny frame silhouetted in the barn's entrance. She crept inside, clinging to a thick blanket around her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" Brayden asked. "It's cold outside. And you should be sleeping."

"I'm sorry, my lord. Please forgive me." He tone was near panic.

"Forgive you for what?" he asked.

"I had to say something. I didn't want you to get in trouble. I'm sorry."

"Nairnah, what are you trying to—"

Brayden heard voices outside. One of them belonged to Khalous, and the Old Warhorse didn't sound very happy.

Brayden hurried out of the barn to find Khalous storming up the road driving Clint and Broderick ahead of him.

"What were you thinking?" Khalous growled.

"We didn't do anything wrong," Broderick said.

"Just having a little fun," Clint added, belching mid sentence.

"And endangering the lives of everyone here," Khalous said. "You two could've been caught, interrogated, tortured. What if you were forced to give up information about the other refugees—"

"Caught by who?" Broderick challenged. "Black vipers? There aren't any—"

When Broderick noticed Brayden standing in front of the barn watching them, he froze. His jaw fell open and he said, "You told?"

"What?" Brayden said, surprised. "No. I—"

Clint marched toward him, fists balled.

"Damn the stones," Broderick muttered. "You told!"

"I did not!" Brayden shouted.

"No," Clint said. "Not him. Her." He pointed behind Brayden.

Brayden whipped around to see Nairnah stepping out of the barn.

"Didn't you, little puke?" Clint said. He shoved past Brayden and charged at Nairnah. "Didn't you?!"

"Stop!" she yelled. "No!"

Nairnah screamed when Clint slammed her in the left side of the head, an open palm to her ear that sent her straight to the ground.

"Little cunt!" he spat. "I ought to—"

Brayden plowed into Clint so hard the young man flew back into the barn door and bounced off. He toppled to his knees, landing face first in the dirt.

Clint jumped up. "You worthless dog!"

He tackled Brayden. The two tussled along the ground, grunting and grappling.

Brayden could hear Nairnah screaming. He glimpsed her out of the corner of his eyes, saw her lying on her back, clutching her ear, blood seeping out from between her fingers.

Preston, Nash, and Ty hurried out into the early morning light, sleepy eyes jolting awake.

Clint stood over Brayden using his full weight to pin him to the ground. He sent his fist into his ribs once, twice, three times, until Brayden jabbed him in the middle of the face. The blow wasn't very hard, just enough to loosen Clint's grip. The blow that followed, however, shattered his nose with a crunch.

Clint rolled off of Brayden, clutching his face and sputtering through blood and mucus. He scurried away and rose to his feet. Brayden tore into him with both fists, a knee to the groin, an elbow to the cheek, and a blow to the side of the head that threw Clint to the ground in a cloud of dust.

Brayden wasn't thinking about making any kind of statement. This had nothing to do with earning the respect of his brother or the confidence of his team. This was a rage-fueled loss of control, and he knew it, but he didn't care. He was sick of his cousin. He was sick of the training. Sick of being forced to become someone he wasn't.

He stood over Clint, grabbed him by the lapel, and sent one final blow into his head. Clint lay still on the ground, unconscious.

"Bloody hells," Nash whispered as he gawked at Clint's prone body.

Brayden looked at Nairnah, bawling on the ground. Clint had blown out her eardrum, he wagered. She wouldn't be able to hear out of her left side for some time, that is if the damage wasn't permanent.

Ariella hurried down the road wrapped in a white shift and a dark blanket. She rushed to Nairnah whose wails had turned to panicked sobs.

Behind her in a flowing brown robe came Prior Gravis, a torch held over his head. He took one look at Clint lying on the ground and regarded Khalous with an accusatory stare.

Brayden began to feel like he had done something wrong.

"Well done," Nash said. He started to clap.

"Nash!" Khalous snapped.

"Sir?"

"Shut it!"

Khalous put an arm around Brayden's shoulders and steered him away from the commotion. He led him across the road to the entrance to the communal garden. Under the canopy of a graceful elm, he started pacing.

"I'm sorry, sir," Brayden said. His hands were shaking and he felt out of breath.

Khalous stopped, as if surprised by Brayden's admission. "Sorry for what?"

"I–I lost my temper. I tried to do what you told me to do, but I did it in the wrong way."

He looked across the road at Nairnah. Gravis was carrying her toward the chapel with Ariella in tow. Two other priests were kneeling next to Clint.

"When I saw him hurt Nairnah, I–I don't know. I just... reacted."

The captain strode up to him. His eyes searched his face in the growing light of dawn. "You recognize that?"

Brayden nodded.

"You understand that?"

Again, he nodded.

"Then there's nothing else to say." Khalous pivoted toward the barn. He started to walk away when he stopped, turned, and said, "Except, well done."

The Old Warhorse strode away.

Brayden supposed he should've felt proud, but he didn't. He looked down at his hands. His knuckles were sore and bleeding in several places. If this is what being a leader felt like, he didn't want any part of it.

# MEREK

The setting sun topped the hazy blue of the surrounding forest in a warm golden glow. Merek admired the splendid blossoms of the apple trees in the garden, swaying in the evening light.

Awlin had fallen in love with the trees the moment she found them deep in the woods north of Velia. Wanting to give his sister the home she dearly missed, Merek cleared away the saplings encroaching upon the apple trees and planted a garden underneath. He then took advantage of the space in the adjacent glade to build a small cottage. By the following spring, he and Awlin had made a home.

The cottage was illegal, he knew, sitting on land that belonged to the province of Betharous, untaxed. He just hoped the deep woods concealed the humble abode well enough to prevent it from ever being discovered.

Awlin emerged from the cedar woods with an armload of fabric, bouncing on her toes and humming to herself. The sun made her blonde hair glow. It had taken her all day to walk to Velia and purchase the materials she needed to sew them some new clothes. She had been making many journeys into town lately, purchasing things they needed with money Merek had earned by fixing armor.

"You're in a good mood," he said as she trotted past him, her ivory skirt swishing through the tall grass.

"Oh? Well, it was a good day, and a good trip. See?" She showed him some of the fabric she'd found, a gray wool to make him some new slacks, and a soft yellow fabric—her favorite color—for a new dress. "I even found some linen to make you a light shirt for hot days," she said.

He gave her an appreciative grin. "Come inside. I've kept some supper warm for you."

Merek led Awlin into their homely cottage. The rear wall and chimney were constructed from the native river rock, the other four from cedar and pine boards he'd hewn from the woods himself. The cottage was a crude, single level, three room structure containing a kitchen and eating area, a sitting area, and a bedroom. Not a masterpiece by any means, but it had thrilled Awlin's heart to have a place to call home.

Inside, he poured her a bowl of vegetable stew. He sat down in a wooden chair, his sore back and tired knees thanking him. He picked up a mail shirt and began combing his fingers along the metal links.

"Are you nearly finished?" Awlin asked.

"Just a few more rivets to mend. Balimous said he'd give me an extra fifty rosi if I got this back to him tomorrow. I should have it done tonight."

"That will work out perfectly then," she said.

Merek glanced her. "What do you mean?"

For a moment Awlin acted like she'd been caught saying something she wasn't supposed to talk about. "Oh, I just mean that it's good you'll get it done early. Fifty rosi would be good. Do you think it will be enough to buy a window? I would so like a window on the western side, where the sun comes in. It too often feels like a tomb in here. I..." She stopped once he started chuckling. "What?"

"You're not telling me something," he said. He returned to the small metal links on the mail shirt.

"What? No I'm not."

"You are. You have a secret, and you almost let slip what it is."

"I didn't. I mean, I don't. Have a secret that is." She huffed. "Why would you even say that?"

He shrugged. "You don't have to tell me. Just don't think that I don't know."

"Know what? What do you know?"

"You are a terrible liar."

She blushed, shaking her head, and proceeded to ignore him. She became very interested in her bowl of soup, eating quietly with a smooth wooden spoon.

"Very well. I do have a secret," she said after a while.

Merek looked at her, cocking an eyebrow.

"There is someone in Velia I want you to meet. A man. His name is Panyos, and, um, well, he's very nice. And I, um, I think I may be in love with him."

Merek maintained a good degree of stoicism while he continued working on the shirt.

"How did you meet this man?"

"Last summer. I saw him looking at me during the town fair. He offered to let me try one of his pies."

"And all the times you went into the city after that and took so long—"

"I was visiting him at his shop." She giggled. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"So he's a baker?"

She nodded. "He tells me his shop is known throughout the empire for its sweet breads and pies, and that the herus himself has twice commissioned him to make some cakes."

"Impressive."

She set her spoon down. "I would very much like for you to come to town with me tomorrow and meet him. I know it's dangerous for you there, but I haven't seen any black soldiers in three moons. If we're careful—"

"Is there still a bounty on my head?" Merek asked.

Awlin's eyes drifted to the floor, discouraged. "Yes." She looked at him. "But we can be careful, can't we?"

Merek put the shirt down and thought for a moment. He would do anything for his sister, but the risk of him being noticed could lead to more than just his capture. If he were arrested Awlin would be in danger as well.

"Let me see if I can get this shirt done tonight, and I'll think about it," he said.

Awlin finished her soup in silence. Humming a mellow tune she cleaned her dishes and wiped down the kitchen. She kissed him on the forehead and drifted off into the bedroom.

Merek finished his work sooner than he expected. The mail shirt was an expensive one, custom made for a nobleman in Magarous. A bunch of the rivets had been torn during a jousting tournament, and the nobleman had given the shirt to an armorer named Balimous in Velia. Balimous occasionally outsourced such work out to Merek. The jobs were infrequent, and paid little, but at least it was an honest living.

Soon after finishing the shirt, Merek moved into the sitting room and took up a chair by the fire. He knew he had promised Awlin that he would think about her proposition, but the truth was he had already thought about it as much as he needed to. He couldn't wait to meet this young man who had captured his sister's heart. In fact, he hoped the relationship might turn into a marriage. Not that he longed to give his sister away, but he had always known that she would be far safer with someone other than him. As long as the Black King had a bounty on his head, Awlin was in danger. Her marriage to a respectable baker might be a great thing.

Merek fell asleep in the chair and didn't wake until the smell of warm oats and sugar reached his nose. He opened his eyes, noticing Awlin in the kitchen. She pattered around the table on bare feet, a white linen shift draping her lean form.

"Sugar?" he said, stretching.

She smiled. "I bought some yesterday. I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Consider me surprised."

Merek wandered outside and relived himself, then walked down to the brook behind the cottage to wash his hands and face.

When he returned to the cottage, Awlin asked him if he had finished his work on the mail shirt.

"I have."

"Then shall we go into town today and take it to Balimous?"

Merek sat down at the table. "No. Not 'we.' You."

Awlin froze. A moment later she cast a heart-broken look at him over her shoulder. Her green eyes, usually so alive, turned dark.

"And while you're doing that," he continued, "I'm going to go meet this baker of yours."

A wide smile split across Awlin's face. "Really?" Relief washed over her like a stream and her eyes sparkled again. "You were this close to having a pot of boiling oatmeal thrown at you."

"You'd throw hot oats in my face?"

"For starters." She flicked the spoon at him and a glob of warm, pasty breakfast meal hit him on the cheek.

"Uh-oh. Someone's in trouble," Merek said. He jumped at her.

She scooted around the table. "Don't!"

"Or what?"

"Get away! No!"

He chased her around the table, his fingers aimed for the sides of her ribs where he knew she was most ticklish.

Merek had long missed her laugh.

After breakfast they set out for Velia. Merek led the way, picking his own path through the woods so as to avoid any confrontation with other travelers or vipers of the high king.

Velia was a sprawling town of affluent nobles and other well-to-do citizens built on the corners of three of the northern provinces of Efferous—Betharous, Danium, and Damium. The town had become an epicenter of commerce in the northern regions, and one of the most important cities in the empire.

Merek took comfort in the fact that Velia, being so well traversed by people from so many different regions, would conceal him and Awlin well. They blended into the crowd as they walked along Velia's numerous sloping streets that curved through multiple levels of beige stone buildings and pillared archways.

"You remember what we discussed?" Merek asked.

"Yes, yes," Awlin said in clear annoyance.

"Tell me again."

She exhaled in a puff. "If we need to separate I am to head west out of Velia and hide in one of three locations. When the sun has almost set I can return to the cottage, but I am not to approach unless you're there to give me the signal."

"And do you remember the three locations?"

She stopped and turned to face him. She seemed ready to burst, but after a momentary pause she calmed. Setting a hand against his cheek, she said, "Brother, I love you. I know what to do. Now please relax. You're making me even more nervous than I already am."

He took a breath. "I just want you to be safe."

She gave his cheek a pat and continued down the street.

"You'd do well to find yourself a woman, brother," Awlin said as they entered a large round plaza paved with smooth sand colored stones. "It shouldn't be hard with those honey brown eyes of yours. Do you still like your ladies in blue?"

He shook his head. "The color of the dress doesn't matter much, I suppose."

She waved her hand at him. "No, I know you like blue. Blue dresses, brown eyes, and brown hair. That's always been your type. Give me some time. I'll find you such a girl."

Panyos' bakery sat at the south side of the plaza, on the corner of an adjoining street. A sign hung over its entryway in the shape of a loaf of bread adorned in a graceful Efferousian script.

Awlin wiped her hands along the folds of her dress.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She offered a smile. "Mm-hmm."

As soon as Merek opened the door to the shop the delicious aroma of fresh bread and pastries rolled over him. He hadn't smelled anything that good since his mother's baking back on Edhen.

The walls of the store shimmered with polished mahogany panels and ornamental trim. Fancy tables adorned with delectable samples of mouth-watering treats occupied the floor. Wooden shelves filled with wrapped loaves of bread gave Merek the immediate impression that Panyos was a man well versed in his craft, and if what Awlin had said about his success was true then he was making a good living from his work as well.

Panyos emerged from another room wiping flour from his hands on a dingy towel. He was handsome enough, with that tan Efferousian skin and dark hair. He was of average build, doughy around the middle, but with warm honey colored eyes that Merek was sure had charmed many women.

It was the look in those eyes that made Merek's inner warning flags rise high.

Awlin lit up. "Panyos, I'd like you to meet my brother, Merek."

Panyos looked worried, his smile disingenuous. Though Merek could tell he was trying hard to put on a convincing air, there were enough tells in his mannerisms to indicate that something was wrong.

Awlin didn't notice. How could she? She was lost in own little world, grinning from ear to ear as she continued introductions.

Panyos wiped his brow and interrupted her spiel. "W–would you mind waiting here a moment? I have, uh, several loaves in the oven. I'll be right back." He breezed out of the room.

"Isn't he wonderful?" Awlin asked.

Unsure of who else might be listening, Merek responded loud enough for them to hear, "Indeed he is." At the same time he took Awlin by the arm and steered her toward the exit.

"What are you—"

"He's handsome and certainly doing well for himself."

He pressed a finger to his lips and felt her arm tense in his grip.

"Oh, this looks delicious!"

Peering through the windows, Merek scanned the plaza for enemy soldiers.

"If anything happens," he whispered into her ear, "I want you to run."

Merek set his hand on the door latch.

"What is it?" she whispered back.

"I'm not—"

The black viper moved between the rows of bread shelves with almost perfect silence. Had it not been for the sun glinting off his blade and casting a reflection of distorted light on the wall, Merek never would've seen him coming. He spun around, caught the man's strike by the wrist, and plowed him back into a table full of pastries.

"Run, Awlin! Run!" Merek shouted.

She threw open the door and took off, back down the street the way they had come.

Merek wrestled with the soldier for several moments until he managed to knock the short sword from his grip. The weapon clattered against shelves and loaves of bread until it hit the floor. Merek dove for it, snatched it up, spun, and tore the blade through the soldier's throat, stopping him mid-lunge and spraying the bakery floor in a shower of blood.

Merek moved toward the door. He caught a glimpse of Panyos standing by the counter, tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he said. "They came to me. They–they wanted her. They knew who she was. I–I–I didn't want to, but they made me—"

Another black viper shoved past Panyos. "Out of the way!" There were two more behind him. "Stop in the name of the high king!"

Merek dashed from the building out into the plaza. He shoved past merchants and noblemen, throwing himself into the thickest part of the crowd he could find.

Behind him came the angry shouts of his pursuers. They rallied the city guards who proceeded to join the chase.

Wanting to lead the soldiers away from Awlin, Merek turned east. He sprinted through Velia's winding roads, working his way toward the northern gate.

Trumpets sounded. More guards picked up the chase.

"It's him! It's him!" yelled one of the soldiers. "In the name of the high king, I order you to cease!"

Merek jumped up onto a barrel, vaulted onto an empty wagon seat, and then sprung for the lip of an open second story window. He pulled himself inside. The barb of a crossbow bolt jammed into the window frame, missing his head by a finger's breadth. He tumbled into the room, disturbing a nursing mother and her infant. The woman screamed at the intrusion as Merek sprinted out into the hallway where he raced down the stairs, through a backdoor, and along a series of alleyways and side streets. He hoped his antics would've thrown off his pursuers, but by the time he found his way back onto the main road they noticed him from afar.

The soldiers began shouting in Efferousian, " _Criminal! Criminal!_ " which served to alert the native guards.

Merek retreated from the road and huffed it back down the alley.

He flinched when he saw a spear swing out from around the corner, but it came too quick to avoid. The wooden end of the weapon struck him in the side of the face, and knocked him out.

He didn't feel the impact of the stone ground when he fell, but he did when he woke up later that afternoon, slumped over the back of a horse, his face throbbing. His mouth was gagged and his hands were clasped in front of him. Beams of sunlight stabbed through the trees overhead while the satisfied chatter of soldiers could be heard behind him. Merek's eyes flitted shut as unconsciousness took him again.

At least Awlin was safe.

Merek awoke when one of the soldiers yanked him down from the horse. He slid off his belly and landed in a heap on hard packed soil. He groaned as he rose to his knees and looked around him. The apple trees. The cottage. The sound of the trickling brook out back.

He was home.

His heart lurched as he tried to figure out how the soldiers had found this place.

The front door to the cottage opened, and the sight that greeted him made his insides twist and his blood boil.

"Merek, I'm so sorry," Awlin said, her voice quivering.

A viper followed her outside and pushed her onto her knees in front of the house. He bunched his left hand up in her beautiful blonde hair and yanked her head back. With his other hand he placed a knife against her throat. She wimpered at the touch of the sharp metal, her eyes red and moist, her cheeks bruised, dried blood around her nose. They had roughed her up already.

"I'm so sorry," she said again. "They made me–they made me tell them. They made me bring them here."

Merek started to stand when someone slammed a heavy fist into his shoulder. He grimaced as he was forced back down onto his knees.

A grim-faced viper sauntered around to confront Merek, his hands clasped casually behind him. He was strikingly tall, lean, but with decades of war etched onto his grizzled face. He was no mere soldier either. The black cape hanging from his shoulders was edged with a white stripe—a marshal.

Merek swallowed back his fear as he realized this commanding officer had the power of judge and executioner.

"Untaxed property on the land of the herus," he said as though he were reading the food items on a menu. "Fugitive from Edhen. Wanted murderer. Thief. Traitor. Coward. Your list of offenses never ends, does it, Merek Viator?"

Adrenaline, pain, and unadulterated fear had sent Merek's hands shaking. He looked at Awlin, his mind reaching for ways to free her from their predicament and finding nothing. Whatever price it cost to get her safe, he would pay it—even if it meant his life.

The marshal knelt, looking tired and indifferent and in no mood for discussion. "One of two things is going to happen here today," he began in a bored voice. "One, you tell us what we want to know, and then you will die, but she will live. Two, you refuse to tell us what we want to know, in which case you both will die." He looked back at Awlin. "Though first we might take her back to camp and have some fun."

The man holding Awlin by the hair smiled wickedly.

"She weighs, what, ninety, one hundred pounds? And four or five pounds of that is nothing but pure tit."

Merek's jaw clenched, his hands straining against his bonds.

"Now where are the gemstones that you stole from your high king?" The marshal spoke as though he were talking to a child, clearly and carefully, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Merek answered without a moment's hesitation. "They're in the house, under the floorboard by the fire place. You'll find a box there."

The marshal gestured toward one of the four other soldiers behind Merek. The man stomped into the crude cottage. Merek listened to him bang aside the kitchen table and chairs before he hacked through the floorboards and found the secret hiding place. He returned a moment later with a small wooden box, which he delivered to his commander.

"There are only two here," the marshal said after he flipped open the hinged lid. "I was told that you had stolen six."

"Yes, yes. There were six pieces, but I used four of them to purchase my sister's freedom."

The marshal seemed pleased by his answer. "He tells the truth," he said, looking around at his men. "Good man. Good man. Of course, we already knew this. We found the nobleman who sold you your sister a long time ago. Unfortunately, he only had one of the gems. This means one of two things: either he was lying, or you are."

"I'm not lying," Merek blurted. "I don't know where the rest of them are. Please, let her go. I've given you what I have. Release her. Take me. I beg you."

The marshal scratched his bristly chin as he thought. "Two years ago, when I was ordered to come search for you in this piss hole of a country, I would have considered your begging plea." He grabbed Merek's chin and squeezed. "But you have kept me here for two years, sweating my way through tribes of ugly natives, lingering under the desert sun in this scorching armor, searching for you, and when I finally find you, what do I discover? You, living here quietly in the country without a care in the world, unchecked, untaxed, like a very little king of a very little kingdom. No, I'm sorry, Merek Viator, I am immune to your begging pleas for mercy. You have made me considerably angry."

Merek saw the blow coming, but he could do nothing about it. The marshal's studded fist hit him in the eye, rattling his teeth and knocking him backward. Awlin protested through thickening tears, struggling against the beefy fist that refused to let go of her head.

When Merek righted himself he saw the marshal strolling up to the cottage with a flaming torch. He dragged it along the dried grass of the thatched roof before kicking in the door and tossing the torch inside.

"It's all right," Merek mouthed to Awlin, though he couldn't deny his growing fear over the knife poised at her throat. All it would take is one command from the marshal and her life would be over. "It's all right," he repeated, even though in his heart nothing felt right at all.

The cottage blazed while the marshal strolled up to Awlin. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her toward him, eliciting a scream from her lips.

Merek jumped to his feet. "Wait, listen," he started to say, but two heavy hands grabbed him from behind and held him in place.

"It just occurred to me," the marshal said, "there is actually a third way this can all end today."

He took Awlin by the shoulders and wrestled her toward the burning cottage. She fought him, crying in terror, but powerless in the towering marshal's brutish clutches. He threw her inside the house and slammed the door shut behind her.

"NO!" Merek shouted.

He spun around and slammed his forehead into the soldier at his back, crushing the man's nose in a quick spurt of red. The two other soldiers that had been waiting at Merek's back lunged at him, weapons drawn. Merek avoided one sword thrust, and threw his bound hands around the soldier's neck. He caught the man in the mouth with the rope, and when he pivoted and flipped him over his back, the soldier's mouth ripped open wide and he crashed to the ground gurgling screams over his flailing jaw.

Picking up the soldier's sword, Merek dueled with another until he had disarmed him and impaled him through the throat.

Awlin's cries reached Merek's ears as she pounded on the cottage walls.

The flames of their home were stretching higher and higher into the air, almost drowning out the sounds of her agony.

With tears in his eyes and hot rage in his gut, Merek unleashed everything inside of him. He tore through two more soldiers like a feral bear, hacking at limbs and thirsty for blood.

Awlin screamed as she burned, "MEREK!"

The marshal drew his sword and sparred with Merek a mere arm's reach from the raging inferno.

He made a dash for the door, but the marshal landed a kick to Merek's side that sent him tumbling into the dirt. He sprang up and attacked again, diving into the man with vicious swings, thrusts, and hacks.

An arrow pierced Merek's thigh and sent him spinning to the ground. He realized that in his blind fury he had neglected to check the location of the sixth soldier.

The marshal came down upon Merek with a heavy overhead swing and a startling yell. Merek lunged at him, releasing a savage war cry of his own. He lifted the captain into the air and used him as a shield to charge the crossbowman. Throwing the two vipers into each other Merek descended upon them in a hail of strikes that churned their flesh into shredded meat.

When they were both dead, Merek staggered to his feet until the crossbow bolt jutting out of his thigh brought him back down to the trampled grass.

"Awlin!" he called, as he half crawled, half limped to the front of the cottage where the blaze assaulted his face, singeing his hair and eyebrows. He reeled back.

"AWLIN!"

He reached for the door, but the flames were too hot. The wood of the cottage groaned and shifted. Sparks stung his eyes and he stumbled back.

When Merek realized his sister was no longer screaming, he knew she was gone. He collapsed on his knees in an anguished fit of sobs. He fell on his face and pounded the earth, screamed and screamed until his throat went raw.

The sky had faded to a deep navy by the time he moved again. The fire had eaten all it could of the cottage, leaving nothing behind except charred bones and a smoking ruin of memories.

# SCARLETT

Scarlett Falls tensed when Lord Dagart Elle burst into the room, all truculence and power. He strode across the tiled floor of Tristian's bedchamber in polished leather boots, dark slacks, and a rich maroon tunic that hung to his knees.

Dagart jabbed an angry finger at Scarlett. "Out!"

Scarlett set her embroidery on the padded wood chair and scuttled out of the room. Only once in three years had she failed to respond to Dagart's orders as promptly as he liked and the side of her face had suffered for it. She had never made the same mistake again.

She lingered in the hallway outside, just within earshot, like she always did.

"Get up!" Dagart said to Tristian as his son reclined on a patterned lounge chair reading a book.

"Good morning, father," Tristian said in his usual polite manner. "How are—"

"Your mother has returned," Dagart said, "and she has brought Lady Arrahbella to meet you."

Scarlett peeked around the corner and saw Tristian hanging his head in discouragement. He hobbled along with his cane to the mahogany shelf to return his book. "I was afraid of that," he said.

King Dagart scowled. "I've got no time for you petty gripes. We've been planning this for a long time."

"No, _you've_ been planning this for a long time," Tristian said. "I've had no say in the matter." He hobbled on his mangled leg back toward his father.

"And rightly so," Dagart said. "It is my position as king to build a future for this kingdom, one that ensures the longevity of our family."

"Really? And all this time I thought mother was in charge," Tristian muttered.

The slap came quick and sharp and flung Tristian's head to the side. He shifted his cane to keep from falling.

Dagart's voice quieted, but intensified. "In all your years of hobbling about this world, what good have you ever done? A worthless cripple. A worthless son. It's time you did the one thing you can do, unless you're going to confess that your prick is useless too."

"I'm not marrying her, father," Tristian said, his head still cocked to the side.

"Oh yes you are," Dagart growled. "And when you meet her today, I expect you to act in a manner befitting an Elle."

The king strode toward the hallway, prompting Scarlett to shuffle back out of sight.

"Be ready by noon," Dagart said over his shoulder. He left the bedroom and disappeared down the hall.

Scarlett stepped back into the room, trying to catch a glimpse of Tristian's face. He ambled over to a tall window next to the bookcase and clasped his hands behind him. He took a deep breath as he overlooked the garden promenade outside overflowing with leafy trees, flowery bushes, ferns, and other greens.

Scarlett went to her embroidery and picked up a small wood framed chalkboard that she carried with her everywhere. Though only eight years old, she had already mastered reading and writing.

On the small board, Scarlett scrawled, _Are you all right?_ She tugged on Tristian's sleeve and showed it to him.

He nodded, then returned to his somber contemplation out the window.

Scarlett wiped the board clean with the white sleeve of her dark brown dress and scrawled another message. _I don't want you to marry her._

After reading it, Tristian offered a slight smile. "I don't want to marry her either." He hobbled to a chair and sat down, stretching his hunched back. "But life is full of things we don't want to do. Perhaps my father is right, marrying Lady Arrahbella would be good for the kingdom."

Scarlett erased her message and wrote another. _He's wrong._

Tristian chuckled, a pleasant, soothing sound that Scarlett had always relished. "It's been known to happen."

Footsteps pattering down the hall beckoned their attention to the doorway. Aamor swept inside, her dirty gray servant's dress swaying at her ankles. The young maidservant never failed to provide a breath of fresh air, especially when she was in the same room as Tristian.

"I just heard the news," Aamor said. "Your mother has returned?"

"Just a little while ago," he said.

Tristian slipped a beige tunic over his linen undershirt. The fit was poor over his crooked left arm, and the shirt appeared much too baggy around his middle. He sat down on his large bed and stretched his leg.

"How is she? I mean, do you think she's still, um..." Aamor seemed hesitant to finish her question.

Tristian cocked his eyes at her. "Yes?"

Aamor dipped her head. "Forgive me, my lord. I shouldn't speak against the queen."

"You want to know if my mother is still a madwoman?"

Scarlett had never met Tristian's mother, Lady Catherina, but she had learned in a very short amount of time how notorious she was throughout Tay. Some called her a lunatic. Others said she was still devastated over the death of her young daughter at the hands of Tristian, an accident that had haunted the Elle family for years.

"Do you think the mystics have helped her?" Aamor asked.

Tristian shrugged as he reached for his boots. "That was my father's hope. In the three years she's been gone I've not received a single letter from her. I know as much as you."

Aamor fidgeted with a lock of auburn hair hanging by her face. She seemed nervous. "I hear she's brought a young woman for you." She moved toward the nightstand to collect the breakfast dishes. "A princess from Efferous. They say she's beautiful."

Tristian grunted as he tried to slip his boots on. "Uh-huh."

Aamor set the dishes down and knelt in front of the prince. With practiced hands she slipped his boot over his skewed foot and buckled it for him.

"May I offer a suggestion?" Aamor asked.

"Of course," Tristian said.

Her eyes fell to his shirt. She clicked her tongue as she thought. "Don't wear that shirt."

He looked down at his tunic. The fit was loose, the style old, and with the cuffs unbuttoned the way they were the shirt looked sloppy and cheap.

"What's wrong with this?" he asked.

Aamor stood and went to the wardrobe. "You're going to meet a princess," she began. "You'll want to look like a man worthy of her attention."

"I'm not concerned with impressing anyone," Tristian said. "This marriage is hardly being arranged for my benefit."

"Regardless, she is a lady and you should treat her as such."

Tristian sighed in defeat. "Must you always be right?"

Scarlett smiled at him.

Returning from the wardrobe, Aamor held up a waist length navy blue gambeson. The garment was designed for ornamental purposes, not the combative functions it was normally used for. It was beautiful nonetheless, with silver thread on the cuffs that wove up the sleeves forming a dramatic triangular pattern on the shoulders.

"I'm not going to war," Tristian said. "I'm going to meet my future wife." He paused, considering what he had just said. A moment later he rose and began to remove his dingy tunic. "I see your point."

Scarlett continued to work on her stitching as she watched Aamor help Tristian into the regal looking gambeson. It fit him well, and gave him an air of masculinity that his disfigurement too often deprived him of. She brought him a brown leather belt to cinch it at the waist, and a sword and sheath to drape at his side to add a touch of style. Aamor slicked her hands with some oil and used it to brush the long dark locks from his face.

"The lady must be able to see you," she said.

Their eyes locked, and Scarlett saw for one brief moment a glimpse of their mutual affection.

"I'm sorry," Tristian said.

"My lord?"

Tristian cleared his throat. "Please have them bring the carriage around. I'll be down shortly."

Aamor dipped her head. "Right away, my lord."

Tristian turned to Scarlett. "How do I look, Red?" he asked, pulling at the high collar of his shirt.

Scarlett shrugged.

"Oh, thanks. That's very reassuring."

Scarlett gathered her embroidery and chalkboard and followed Tristian out of the room.

The halls of the Elle family castle had changed little since Scarlett had arrived in Tay. There was a new painting of a three masted ship in the grand hall, and the green tapestries in the main entryway were new as of last winter. They featured the leopard emblem of Tay intertwined with the golden serpent of the high king, an effort on behalf of King Dagart to show his ardent support for Orkrash Mahl.

Scarlett climbed into the carriage behind Tristian. They rode west where the high walls of the city's buildings fell away to reveal an aquatic backdrop of majestic blue sea. Scarlett could see the harbor in the distance with several larger ships anchored further out in the water. Gulls called overhead while white blossoms scented the air.

The carriage stopped next to a beautiful grassy garden enriched by a small trickling brook. Several ballooning willow trees shaded a small white table that had been set for a picnic with a crisp white cloth, porcelain dishes, and silver wine goblets.

Two women were seated at the table in waiting.

A footman opened the carriage door and Scarlett hopped out. Tristian followed, gripping the door for support until he planted his cane on the ground. When he saw the prepared table and the two women waiting for him, he took a deep, calming breath.

"And now it comes to it," he muttered.

Even from far away it wasn't difficult for Scarlett to tell which woman was who. Lady Catherina Elle, a woman of about fifty, looked petite and fragile with a proud back and twisty brown hair that time had dusted with gray.

Lady Arrahbella, on the other hand, stood out like a goddess among the rigid and pale-faced citizens of Tay. By even the highest standards she was a beautiful woman, and her appearance had little to do with the exotic foreign gown that draped her as elegantly as the feathers on a dove. Scarlett thought the young woman could have worn a potato sack and outshined every other woman in the realm.

"Tristian, my love!" his mother cooed as she waddled up to him with tiny steps and threw her arms around him.

Scarlett didn't miss the bewildered expression on Tristian's face. He looked as though he didn't know what to do. With some hesitancy, he put one arm around his mother and rubbed her back.

"Hello mother. Does this morning find you well?"

"Very well, my son. Very well. Oh, I have missed you."

"You have?" Tristian sounded surprised.

Catherina leaned back and laughed. "Of course I have, my beautiful boy. My prince." She kissed his forehead.

Scarlett did as she always did and wandered a short distance away from the conversation, far enough to remain unnoticed, but still close enough to hear. She clasped her hands behind her back and watched and waited.

"We will have plenty of time to talk later, you and I," Catherina said. She stepped aside and gestured toward the dark haired woman. "Allow me to introduce you to Princess Arrahbella fu Cipio, from the illustrious province of Konia on Efferous."

Tristian transferred his cane to his gimpy left hand, took the princess' fingers in his right, bowed his head and kissed her knuckles.

"My lady, reports of your beauty are not exaggerated," he said, which made Arrahbella smile.

"My lord is too kind," she said.

Catherina snapped her fingers at a pair of white-robed servants waiting by her carriage. They hurried down into the garden—almost fearfully, Scarlett thought—carrying wine and a plate of cakes.

"I shall leave you two alone for now," Catherina said. "I have spent too many days at sea and wish to breathe air that doesn't reek of salt."

Arrahbella bowed to the queen. "Good day, my lady. Your have been a most kind traveling companion."

Catherina patted her on the cheek. "You too, my dear. See you at dinner."

As Catherina returned to her carriage, Tristian offered the princess a seat before taking his own.

"Surely, you must be tired," he said. "Would you rather take a rest? We can do this another day."

Arrahbella shook her head. "Life on the great sea suits me, I think. I enjoy the ocean air and the high waves. I feel sorry for your mother who didn't seem to revel in it as I did."

Scarlett noticed the princess spoke the language of Edhen with the ease of a native. Only a hint of her Efferousian accent seeped through.

"So was she truly a good traveling companion?" Tristian asked, seeming surprised.

Arrahbella's response didn't come as soon as Scarlett thought it would. "She, um, had her moments."

Tristian smirked. "That sounds more like it."

With the food set out and the goblets full, the servers retreated from the table. They remained standing at a distance, ready to assist the moment either Tristian or Arrahbella gave a subtle flick of the wrist.

"My father sent my mother away several years ago to a doctor on Krebberfall in hopes of curing her of her mental illness," Tristian began. "Well, some call the man a doctor. I would call him a mystic. Who knows what he did to her. I'm eager to see if his treatment helped."

"It must not have been easy to be away from your mother for so long," Arrahbella said.

Scarlett smirked. _You have no idea_ , she thought.

"You have no idea, princess," Tristian said.

"Will my lord pardon me if I correct him?" Arrahbella asked.

"Oh?"

"Where I come from I am not known as a princess. This word was foreign to me until I started learning your language. We have different concepts of royalty, I think. On Efferous, the daughter of a king is known as a ficept."

Tristian nodded, and Scarlett knew that Arrahbella wasn't telling him anything that he didn't already know. If there was anyone in Tay that rivaled Scarlett's sharp memory and ever growing knowledge of things, it was Tristian.

"Fi signifies a female descendent of a royal family," Arrahbella continued. "Fu signifies a male descendent."

"Hence your name," Tristian said, "fi Cipio."

A look of surprise crossed Arrahbella's face. "You know my language?"

"Not as fluently as you know mine," Tristian said. "I have spent a great majority of my life confined to beds and chairs with little else to do but read. One learns much when he consumes all the books in the castle and reads them again until he acquires more which he reads again and again." He smiled at the end so she wouldn't take him too seriously, which she didn't.

"Please don't mistake my meaning," Arrahbella said. "I do admire your country very much. I admit I have often envied the princesses of your land. To be a princess must be an amazing thing."

"Well, if I understand the social structure of your people, and I believe I do, a princess is exactly what you are."

"My lord?"

"Even if you are not considered such on Efferous, now that you are here, seeing a prince, as unrefined as this one may be, you are, I'm afraid, a princess."

Scarlett couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw the young woman blush.

The two of them sat for some time discussing the differences between Edhen and Efferous, their likes and dislikes of sweet cakes and wines.

Scarlett sat down in the grass to work on her embroidery, listening as the two of them danced around the topic most prominent on Scarlett's mind.

Tristian finally broached the subject. "If I ask you a personal question will you be honest with me?"

Arrahbella looked almost offended. "I would never be less than completely honest with you, my lord."

"I'm curious to know how you feel about traveling half a world away from your home to marry a man you've never met."

Arrahbella's answer came before no hesitation. "My mother and father have prepared me well for this day. It is my duty as ficept to my father, adjucept of Konia. I honor them by fulfilling my part in this arrangement."

"And is that what this is to you? Fulfilling an _arrangement_?"

She looked down at her lap where she had been toying with the pleats of her gown.

"Let us speak plainly," she said, and when she looked up the sweetness had vanished from her face. She looked like a woman of business conducting a transaction.

Tristian gestured with an open hand for her to continue.

"This marriage is born from our parents," she said, her tone going hollow. "It is mutually beneficial for both of our families for us to wed. For the Elles, my father has pledged his support of King Dagart's war efforts. For the Cipios this union will mend decades of hostility between our great kingdoms. Having a daughter married to one of the great kings of Edhen will give my family much prestige on Efferous. I hold no illusions, my lord. I will provide you with an heir, and serve your family with loyalty."

"What about love?"

Arahbella looked shocked. She blinked, her eyes softening. When she spoke, her voice was tinged with grief. "I don't think people like you and I have the luxury of love, my lord."

If her words affected Tristian at all, he didn't show it. "So after the wedding there will be war. Tay and Glencoe..." He stopped, shaking his head. "The two kingdoms have been at each other's throats for several generations. Now they compete for the support of the high king. You and I are nothing except pawns in their schemes, which I care nothing for." His words were blunt, but they didn't seem to phase Arrahbella in the slightest.

"Perhaps," she said, "but Tay is on the verge of a radical growth that will benefit many if its campaign against Glencoe is successful."

Tristian smirked. "You sound like my father."

"Does that please, my lord?"

Tristian shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "My father cares more about impressing the high king than he does about you or me, which is something else I care nothing about."

"Such passivity is dangerous..." She stopped and bowed her head. "Forgive me, my lord. It was impolite to criticize you."

Tristian waved his hand. "There is nothing to forgive. We were speaking plainly, remember. Thank you for your honesty."

"May I ask what my lord does care about?" Arrahbella asked.

Tristian leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. "Well, I would like to care about you, miss."

If Arrahbella wasn't blushing before, she was now. "Me?"

"Truthfully, I find my life rather meaningless. To love someone, I think, would be a great fulfillment."

Arrahbella considered this for a moment, but Scarlett couldn't tell by the blank expression on her face if she was moved or revolted by the notion. Then she said, "I think that would be lovely," and Tristian smiled.

Their conversation moved on to lighter topics. Tristian regaled Arrahbella with stories about the great sea captains of Tay and the battles they had fought in the waters before the city. Arrahbella told him tales of her home land and answered many questions he had about the strange creatures there, including the one he found most fascinating: the basilisk. Edhen had no such creature, but many believed that on Efferous it could grew big enough to swallow a man whole. Arrahbella explained that if the basilisks ever did grow that large it was a long time ago, and that today they were no wider than a man's leg.

Finally she serenaded him with a song from her homeland. Scarlett didn't understand any of the words, but the young woman's voice was remarkable.

As evening began to close in around them, Tristian stood and said, "You have had a long trip, and I wish to give you plenty of time this evening to refresh yourself, indulge in the castle's hot baths, and make yourself at home."

Arrahbella dipped her head. "My lord is too kind."

Her eyes then went to Scarlett, which made her tense. Scarlett was much more used to being ignored, taken as one of Tristian's servants, and though that was a role she often played for appearances sake, there was little truth to it.

Arrahbella walked over to her. She bent down and said, "Hello. And who might you be?"

"Oh," Tristian said, "my apologies. This is Red, my friend. She doesn't speak."

"Red. What an interesting name." Arrahbella looked down at Scarlett's embroidery. "What lovely work."

Scarlett smiled in thanks.

When Arrahbella stood up, she asked, "Is she your sister?"

"No. A friend."

Arrahbella looked at Scarlett once again and her confusion was evident.

"Oh," she said. "I see."

The three of them rode together in Tristian's carriage back to the castle. This discouraged Scarlett who had planned on asking Tristian what he thought of the beautiful princess, having already written, _Do you like her?_ on her chalkboard. Out of fear that Arrahbella might see it, Scarlett erased it before climbing into the carriage.

Two Efferousian maidservants were waiting for the princess on the castle's front steps. After Tristian had bid her farewell, they escorted Arrahbella to a private area of the castle that had been reserved for her.

Scarlett noticed Aamor lingering just inside the entryway eyeing the foreign princess as she and her small entourage glided past.

Scarlett hurried up the steps to meet Aamor, eager to fill her in on all that had transpired. When she noticed that Tristian had not followed, she stopped and turned around. He was walking down the street into town, limping along with the assistance of his cane. She started to go after him when Aamor reached out and touched her shoulder.

"Let's leave him be for now, love," she said.

While Aamor went off to attend to other tasks throughout the castle, Scarlett made herself comfortable atop the front steps where the late summer sun had warmed the stone. She sewed for a while on her embroidery, recalling Arrahbella's kind compliment about her work. Scarlett didn't think it was anything that special, just an image of a bear on beige fabric, and not even a very good one. She wondered if the young woman had been genuine with her compliment.

Bickering from inside the castle caught Scarlett's attention. She listened for several moments from the castle steps, but the voices were too hushed to make them out. She stood and tiptoed toward the open front doors.

Peering into the entryway she noticed King Dagart and Queen Catherina having a fiery, but hushed, discussion. Their voices echoed down the corridor to Scarlett's ears.

"And here I was daring to think you'd come back after three years with a little more fondness in your heart," Dagart said.

"Please," Catherina moaned. "Of all the things you ever wanted from me fondness wasn't one of them."

"So what do you expect? Do you want them to marry tomorrow?"

"No, but perhaps a little sooner than two years."

"A year and a half. Enough time for me to see how genuine she is."

"What, you don't trust her?"

"Not entirely."

Catherina giggled. "And what part of you is so distrustful?" She reached down and grabbed his crotch. "Are you sure you're not just stalling the wedding so you can break the mare on your own?"

Dagart slapped her hard across the cheek. Scarlett had witnessed him do the same to Tristian earlier in the day, but this blow had made the queen stagger. To Scarlett's surprise, however, Catherina came up smiling.

"I see time hasn't changed you much either," she said.

"Tristian will marry the whore when I deem it necessary."

Catherina looked at him and smiled. "Whatever you say, _my dear_."

The king turned in a huff and disappeared into a room at the end of the hallway.

Catherina glanced toward the entrance. She locked eyes with Scarlett, a glare that startled her and sent her ducking back behind the door. She stood there a moment, heaving, terrified of being noticed by the queen. In the two years she'd spent in Tay, Scarlett had heard nothing but horror stories about Lady Catherina's explosive temper. They said the queen was a woman to be either pitied or feared, but Scarlett had yet to make up her mind about which.

"Don't be afraid, child," Catherina said. "Come to me."

With her heart thumping like a rabbit in her chest, Scarlett moved out from behind the door. The queen was standing in the middle of the stone entry court, her thin frame draped in lush silk and lace. Despite how small she was, the woman emanated power and menace.

"My, my," Catherina said. "I had heard of the resemblance, but, by the gods, you look just like her, the daughter I lost all those years ago. Please, come closer. Let me look at you."

Scarlett walked toward the queen with unhurried steps, trying to be obedient, but craving nothing more than to run the other way.

"Is it also true that you cannot speak?" Catherina asked.

Scarlett nodded.

"Good," she said. The queen looked off to the left as though speaking to someone else, someone who Scarlett couldn't see. "I do not ever whish to hear this ghost child speak." Her eyes blinked and refocused on Scarlett.

"You saw the king hit me, didn't you? It's all right, you know, to allow a man to hit you. It makes them feel in control. He thinks he's running this kingdom, and so I endure his abuse. It's a trick all women must learn, but it takes time, patience, and determination because men are stupid and stubborn." She caressed Scarlett's cheek. "You see much in this castle, don't you, little one?"

Scarlett decided not to answer that question.

"One thing I do not wish you to see is me," Catherina said, her tone icing. "And I do not wish to see you. Keep your," she paused, shivering, "disgusting face out of my presence, for the pain I feel looking upon you is... is..." Her voice faded away.

"Mother?"

The queen jerked her hand away from Scarlett's face, blinking her teary eyes as she looked toward the entryway where Tristian stood with his cane.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Yes, quite," Catherina said. "Just speaking with this child."

"Her name is—"

"I care not about her foolish name!" Catherina snapped. She cleared her throat, smoothed out the front of her dress, and walked away.

Tristian watched her go before looking toward Scarlett. She tried to appear brave, but she knew the fearful impression Catherina had left on her face lingered bold enough for Tristian to see it.

"You'll have to forgive my mother, Red," he said. "She has not been well for many years." He ambled over to her. "Father sent her away for some care, but..." He grimaced. After a breath he said, "I fear it has all been in vain."

Without another word he climbed the steps to the second floor.

Scarlett ran outside to collect her embroidery, and then pattered after him up the stairs and down the main corridor. Through the last door on the right was Tristian's bedroom. She found him there seated on the edge of his bed, a downhearted expression upon his face.

"Please close the door," he asked.

Scarlett obeyed. She walked to her bed that was situated in a small veiled cove across from Tristian's. She sat down on the mattress, watching him, her insides burning with questions she wanted to ask.

Tristian started to unbutton his shirt when he noticed her looking at him. He shrugged. "Well, I guess this will be my story then," he said. "A pawn in my father's warmongering." He peeled off the gambeson, and then went for his boots. "Love? Humph. You can forget about love. We have nothing in common, her and I. She shares my father's ideals, not mine." He hunched over his knees, staring at the floor. "Love was never meant to find me."

Scarlett reached for her chalkboard and scrawled a simple message. She trotted across the floor and stood in front of Tristian. Before showing him the message she placed her small hand against his chest, over his heart, and tapped it three times. Tap. Pause. Tap, tap.

Tristian looked at her, confused.

She did it again. Tap... tap, tap.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

Scarlett turned her blackboard around. _I love you_.

His eyes grew soft. He hugged her, squeezing her across her tiny shoulders.

# BRYNLEE

"Oh, please," said Sir Dunmore Waters. "The fall of Aberdour was inevitable, and the way it fell a disgrace." He swirled his wine around in his goblet before tossing back another gulp.

"And it likely will never recover," said a second man, Kerk Drhakozi. He sat cross-legged on a sofa next to Cordelia whose fingers toyed with his rich blond curls. "Orkrash attacked that kingdom with a vengeance, leveled the outer towns, and burned the main city to the ground. Some say he had a particular hatred for Aberdour, but no one knows why."

Warming herself in the lounge chair by the hearth was the conversation's third participant, a smug looking woman by the name of Mistress Rose Gown. She was middle aged, with a provocative combination of sensuality and sophistication. "Aberdour has been the laughing stock of this realm long before its pathetic collapse," she said. "While every kingdom was conquered by the high king, what did the lord of Aberdour do? Nothing. The fool left the doors of his city open. He let his children roam and play. It was business as usual all throughout the kingdom until The Raven stormed its gates."

Sir Dunmore lifted his goblet. "All hail the name of Sir Komor Raven."

Rose lifted her glass, as did Kerk. There, in the common room of Mungo's brothel, the three of them drank to the health of the high king's military leader.

The petite voice of a ten-year-old girl cut through the break in the conversation. "It's true that many point to the open doors of Aberdour as proof of Lord Kingsley's negligence, but I've always felt it speaks most profoundly of his compassion."

The four conversationalists swiveled their heads in unison and gaped at Brynlee Falls. She stepped into their midst, an elegant blue gown hanging off her shoulders. It was padded at the hips, giving her otherwise narrow frame a pair of lovely curves. "So many people had been displaced by the wars that they had nowhere to go. The king of Aberdour turned his city into a refuge for widows, orphans, and the elderly. His efforts to help them saved the very beating heart of Edhen."

Rose's face lit up. "Well said, child."

Sir Dunmore grinned. "It appears we have a historian in our midst."

Brynlee put on her prettiest smile and dipped her head in humble acceptance of the praise.

"I knew a historian once," she said. "A man by the name of Pherson Elms once said of Aberdour's siege, 'Those carrying the knowledge and heritage of Edhen would've been lost, be they driven out to the sea by spear or into the ground by sword, had they not been welcomed into the bosom of Aberdour.'"

"And what does that mean?" asked Cordelia, the prostitute nestled at Kerk's side. She had never proven to be the brightest flame on the nightstand, but with breasts as large as hers she never needed to be.

"It means our great realm would've lost much during the war had it not been for Lord Kingsley's willingness to save it," said Kerk.

"But what is Aberdour today?" Sir Dunmore said. "It has limped along for three and a half years, a shadow of its former self. Would it not have been more prudent for Lord Kingsley to secure his gates, hire reinforcements, equip the city with greater siege weaponry to defend itself?"

Brynlee cleared her throat. "I believe it was the Fellian philosopher Gerhardt Baudendistel who said, 'A world with more weapons will toil, but a world with more mercy will thrive.'"

Everyone's eyes went to Sir Dunmore. The tall knight appeared stumped for a moment. "Philosophers." He spat the word like spoiled wine. "Clever word smiths they may be, but realists they most certainly are not." He downed the last of the wine in his goblet, prompting Brynlee to grab a pitcher from a nearby table and bring it to him.

"More wine, my lord?" she offered.

He lowered his glass.

"Learned and polite," Rose commented. "What a remarkable young lady. Miss, you must tell me your name."

"Emma," Brynlee answered. "And I did not wish to offend you, Sir Dunmore. I was merely fascinated by your conversation." And that wasn't a lie. The regal knight in his long velvet blue tunic had caught Brynlee's attention the moment he'd started speaking. He claimed to have traveled much of the known world, and as he conversed with Rose and Kerk she found he had a tremendous knowledge of history.

"No harm done," the gray-haired knight said, giving her hair a quick stroke. "I often bore of pompous old men speaking before they think with no real knowledge of that which they're speaking. You, young lady, are a breath of spring air."

Brynlee flashed a delightful smile and a cute little giggle, both of which she had practiced to charming perfection.

Interest. That's what it was all about. Catching a client's interest, yes, but also holding that interest, which was sometimes easier said than done.

"Where did you learn so much, Emma?" Rose asked.

With practiced enthusiasm, Brynlee answered, "My mother and father taught me to read when I was young. I find I very much enjoy books, and so I read. A lot, actually."

"It's true," Cordelia said, looking bored next to Kerk. "Hardly a day goes by when we don't see her with a book in her lap."

"Some men like having their minds aroused by a knowledgeable woman," said Kerk.

Cordelia poked him in reproof.

"Not all men, my dear," Kerk said. He gave her cheek a small kiss, which seemed to reassure her. She linked her bare slender arm around his and pressed into him.

"It is true," Rose said. "Some men are looking for more than a pretty face, a woman who can stimulate their _other_ brain."

Sir Dunmore laughed.

Rose turned to Brynlee. "Tell me, Emma, Mungo is your master, correct?"

"He is, my lady."

"And has he realized what a smart young woman he has in his midst?"

Brynlee shrugged.

"I don't think that's the brain Mungo thinks with, Mistress," said Kerk.

The remark elicited a squeal from Cordelia. Her hand shot to her mouth to cover her embarrassment and mask the parade of snickers that followed.

Brynlee could only imagine how Mungo would've reacted to such a comment were he not away on business.

Something clamored across the wood floorboards of the upstairs hallway. A spattering of laughter followed, the deep chuckles of a happy young man coupled with the flirtatious giggles of one of Mungo's prostitutes. A moment later, the long blond haired head of Prince Camdyn Lochnor appeared over the gallery railing. He looked down into the common room, beaming like a little boy.

"You were right, Sir Dunmore," the prince said. "She was indeed very flexible."

A half naked prostitute danced up next to him, sweating, and brushing her mangled red locks away from her freckled face. It was Fetinah. She was known all throughout Perth for her athletic sexuality and vocal inhibitions. She draped her lithe form around the prince's long neck and kissed him.

Sir Dunmore lifted his goblet to the young man. "Well, done, my lord. Have your fill, because tomorrow we ride for home."

Camdyn looked at Fetinah. "Again?"

She blushed and pressed a hand to her heart. "Oh, my prince!"

He scooped her up into his arms and hurried back to the bedroom, the woman squealing and giggling.

"Are there not many decent whores in Frostkeep?" Kerk asked.

Dunmore shrugged. "If plump and lazy is decent then our kingdom is rife with the best."

A bout of laughter followed.

"Tomorrow we ride for the kingdom of Tay where I'm sure my young lord will sample many more fine women. After that we ride north for home."

"I've always wanted to see Tay," Brynlee interjected. "I hear the castle there glows white. I wonder, is it from the sea salt or from magic?"

Dunmore chuckled.

"You are a curious little one, aren't you," Rose said. "Come here, child." She sat up in the lounge chair, swinging her legs out onto the floor, the numerous crinkles of her elegant red dress bunching in her lap. Brynlee had heard that Rose owned a lavish brothel in northern Perth. Adored by men, feared by other women, Rose had a reputation of being a fierce businesswoman and a voracious lover.

"Are you working yet?" she asked.

"I serve the house," Brynlee answered. "I tend to any needs the women have, and bring food and wine—"

"I mean, do you have any charges?"

Charges. The informal word for clients. It was a word that terrified Brynlee because she knew that in just a few short years she'd be taking on her first.

"No, ma'am," she said.

Rose smirked. "Mmm-hmm. Mungo is saving you, isn't he? He knows he has someone special in you."

Brynlee felt something warm and wet sliding down her leg. Fearing she had spilt something in her lap unawares, she glanced down. Several drops of blood lay on the floor between her feet. Several more were trickling down her leg.

Her stomach twisted in horror.

Cordelia gasped and sniggered. "Looks like someone needs a cork."

Kerk chuckled and buried his face in Cordelia's cleavage.

Brynlee felt panic rising in her chest as she watched several more drops of blood fall from between her legs.

"Someone get her a towel or something before she bleeds all over the floor," Sir Dunmore muttered, his tone edged with disgust.

Brynlee's face flushed red with embarrassment. "P–pardon, my lords. Mistress Rose."

Tears of humiliation and pain sprang to her eyes as she hurried out of the room. She tried to control the blood drops with her fingers until she got to the room she shared with Korah on the second floor. The room smelled of candles and cherries, Korah's favorite fruit, but at the moment it was dark and unoccupied.

Brynlee grabbed a towel off the dresser, threw it on the floor and sat on it, sobbing. She wrapped her arms around her stomach as a cramp tightened within her, deep in a place she'd never felt before. She brought her hands to her face and sobbed into her palms.

She had always known this day was coming. She remembered when her older sister had first bled, but Dana had the comfort of their mother and nursemaids to care for her. Unlike Brynlee, Dana hadn't bled under the roof of a brothel run by a sadistic bawd who was chomping at the bit for her to come of age.

Brynlee allowed her mind to return home, to Aberdour, to the arms of her gentle mother. She longed to sit in the dining room of the castle next to Dana and Scarlett, teasing her brothers. She wanted to feel Broderick tickling her feet under the table, and listen to father scold Lia for throwing food at the cook's voluminous bottom even as he struggled not to laugh. His eyes always narrowed when he smiled big, those beautiful tawny brown eyes.

Aberdour. It couldn't really be all gone like they were saying. Surely there were some people left in the city.

Brynlee fumed. Who did Rose and Dunmore think they were to criticize her father? If only they knew the struggles Aberdour had endured in the days leading up to the attack, the dilemmas her father faced, the lengths he took to keep his people calm and confident. It wasn't his fault that the city had been so quickly overrun. Aberdour's scouts had been paid off or assassinated, giving the city no warning to the coming attack. But no one remembered that part of history. They only remembered Aberdour as a city of stupid woodsy people, and its king a lazy fool.

Brynlee sniffled when she heard the sounds of clopping horse hooves on the street outside. She went to the window and looked down over the balcony. A carriage had rolled to a stop in front of the house. Mungo stepped out, followed by Korah, the brothel's most sought after woman.

Brynlee felt her heart lift. She bounced on her toes while she waited by the door for Korah to enter.

When the young whore walked inside Brynlee hurried forward to give her a hug, but stopped when she saw Korah's face. The right side was bruised and swollen, her lip split, and her left eye a purple mess.

"What did they do to you?" Brynlee asked.

"It's nothing," she replied.

Brynlee helped Korah to the bed where she sat down, holding her ribs.

"Young men drinking too much, too happy, too excited."

"What can I get you?" Brynlee asked.

The young woman shook her head. "I just need to rest."

Noticing Brynlee's red eyes, Korah stroked her cheek where the tears had been. "You've been weeping. What happened?"

Brynlee started to speak, but then couldn't find the words to say. Korah's eyes took in the bloodstains on her dress and the bloody towel on the floor. Then her bruised face melted into a look of compassion and she wrapped her arms around Brynlee. She held her for a long time, stroking the back of her head.

"It's all right," Korah cooed. "This is a good thing. You're a woman now."

Brynlee sniffled. "I don't want to be a woman."

Korah held her tighter. "Some days neither do I."

The door to the bedroom opened and Cordelia poked her head inside. "I heard what happened. Are you all right, Korah?"

The young woman nodded.

"Mungo is pretty upset," Cordelia said as she walked over to join them on the bed. "He says he's going to charge them extra, and that he won't let them come here again. Wealthy bastards."

"He's said that before about others," Brynlee said, "but he lets them come back anyway."

"Oh, Emma, Mungo wants you downstairs," Cordelia said. "Sorry, I almost forgot."

"What does he want?"

"How should I know? By the way, are you all right?"

Brynlee decided not to answer. She knew Cordelia didn't really care.

She stripped off her stained dress and slipped into a robe. She hurried down to the common room, not because she was eager to get there, but she knew what the consequences would be if Mungo caught her dawdling.

The brothel owner stood next to the hearth in a bright orange robe. He and Mistress Rose were engaged in a tense looking discussion.

"I'll understand if you don't want her," Mungo said, running a hand through what little hair he had on his head.

"How bad is she?" Rose asked.

"She will be unable to work for at least a month."

Rose thought for a moment. "If it's true that Korah speaks two languages, can read, and is as refined as you say the time lost will be of little consequence. I'll get my money's worth out of her soon."

Mungo noticed Brynlee standing at the entrance to the common room. "Ah, there she is. My bright, beautiful little Emma." His smile dropped when he noticed her pale face and red eyes. "What's wrong, my lovely?"

Rose cleared her throat. "This little charmer became a woman tonight."

Mungo didn't seem to know what that meant at first. His brows lifted when it dawned on him. "Ah. Right. The blood on the floor. Be sure to clean that up, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was hoping you might consider trading this one as well," Rose said, gesturing toward Brynlee who shivered at the woman's words.

Mungo looked taken aback. "Oh, she is far too young."

"But exceedingly smart," Rose said. "Surely you know what a high price a well learned whore can generate in this town. Some men like a girl who can hold a conversation without sounding like an imbecile. Little Emma here put on quite an impressive show for us tonight. With a little more refinement she could be earning three times what most girls her age make."

Rubbing his chin as he thought, Mungo paced away from the hearth. "What is your offer?"

"I'll take her and the young woman. Korah won't need as much training. I could begin working her as soon as this winter. After one year, I'll return her to you, and you'll have yourself a top earner skilled enough to draw in clients with deep pockets."

"Korah is already a top earner."

"Ah, but when you get her back from me she'll be the best girl in the whole city, one of the best in the realm. Men will come from every kingdom to have a taste. I'll waive my usual fee if you promise to allow Korah to work for me on a regular basis." Rose looked at Brynlee. "And as for this one, I'll take her under my wing until she comes of age. Then there will be two top girls in Perth."

"You'll want to work her after you finish training her, I assume," Mungo said.

"Of course, as soon as she's ready. I would say you'll have her back in about three years."

Mungo shook his head. "I can't be without her for that long. My regulars look forward to seeing her. The girl has charm, and she's a good worker. She lends a touch of class to my establishment."

"Indeed." Rose took a deep breath as she thought. "Very well. I'll take her, train her, and return her to you, but I'll consider her on loan to you for three years after that. She will be mine to call upon as needed, and I'll expect a percentage of her earnings while she's here."

Brynlee looked from Mungo to Rose, then back again. She didn't like what was being discussed. Words of protest were on the tip of her tongue, but she knew it was pointless to speak them. She was Mungo's property, and she'd face punishment if she did anything less than what he commanded.

"Agreed," Mungo said.

Rose smiled, her eyes crinkling, revealing her age. "Wonderful!" Turning to Brynlee, she added, "Run along Emma and pack your things. We leave tonight."

Brynlee was too stunned to move. "Leave?"

"You're going to stay with Mistress Rose for a while," Mungo said. "You should be honored. She trains the most elite courtesans in the known world."

"Only pack a few necessities," Rose said. "I'll have a whole new wardrobe for you in a few days."

Brynlee remained rooted to the floor. As much as she hated to admit it, the brothel had become her home and she didn't want to leave. She thought of her friends, Maidie and Vika. Would she ever see them again? Did she have time to say goodbye? They were all that she remembered of her old life in—

She jumped when Mistress Rose banged her hands together, sending a piercing smack through the air. "Move your feet, child!"

With great reluctance, Brynlee returned to the second floor, walked down the east hallway, and went to her room. She felt like she was in a daze, trapped in a dream that she couldn't wake up from.

In a small travel bag, she packed a few articles of clothing, along with some perfume and makeup, a hand mirror, a hairbrush, and a few books.

In the hallway, she met Korah limping from her room with a small leather bag. Brynlee's heart melted in pity at the sight of her. She took the young woman's bag and helped her down the stairs. She wondered if the clients who visited Rose's brothel were any better than the cheap ruffians who frequented Mungo's. She wished more of the charges that came through the doors were like Sir Dunmore Waters. He was a true gentlemen, she thought.

"Are you all right?" Brynlee asked, as they descended the stairs.

Korah put her arm around Brynlee. "That's what I should be asking you," she answered.

"My stomach hurts."

"You'll feel well enough soon, love." Korah gave her shoulders a squeeze.

A carriage was waiting for them in the market plaza. They climbed in to find Rose sitting in the dim interior, back straight, nose up, the pristine image of exorbitant wealth and faux nobility.

Night hid much of the mistress' abode from view, but the following morning's golden sunrise revealed an extravagant mansion in the middle of the city. Large black and white tiled floors covered the first level. Reddish brown walls stretched up into endless sequences of carved mahogany that lined the ceilings and corners. Every window, doorway, hearth, picture frame, and mirror was ornamented with rich brown wood. Everything smelled of sweet perfumes. The rooms were smaller than what Brynlee was used to, but where Mungo's brothel was designed for entertainment and orgies, Rose's place was built for intimate encounters between a whore and her charge.

Brynlee found a large spread of fresh fruits on the breakfast table, but she wasn't hungry. Her stomach was too busy churning from the future she imagined living in Rose's house of sensual curiosities.

"It's very different, isn't it?" Korah said. She was at the wardrobe putting her clothes in place. "Nice though, don't you think?"

Brynlee was amazed at Korah's optimistic naivety. For a woman who had spent a good portion of her life lost, alone, and abused, she often seemed determined to make the most of it.

"Mungo hated small spaces," Korah continued. "He liked the rooms open so that clients could watch if that's all they wanted to do, but here I sense... I don't know. I think it will be nicer here."

Korah's face still looked awful from the beating she'd received the night before.

Before midday a knock sounded on the doorjamb and a wide-eyed blonde with bouncy curls pranced into the room. She looked about fifteen, and wore a slim dress with a deep v-neck and a slit up the skirt that almost reached her hip. "Are you ready?" she chirped. "Today's the big day... oh my." Her hand went to her mouth at the sight of Korah. "Are you all right, love?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Oh, well, um, my name is Tavia. I'm supposed to help the two of you get ready to meet Rose for a picnic with Sir Dunmore Waters."

"Sir Dunmore?" Brynlee said, unable to deny the spike of curiosity that prickled within her.

"Isn't he wonderful?" Tavia said, her crisp blue eyes sparkling. "Such a legendary knight, he is. Sleighed a dragon in his youth, they say, and tore the head off a giant. A giant! Can you imagine?"

Tavia wore on her sleeve what Brynlee felt in her heart: an eagerness and excitement at hearing more of Sir Dunmore's thrilling adventures.

Brynlee and Korah spent the rest of their morning with Tavia, trying on various outfits and hairstyles, speculating about what Mistress Rose had in store for them.

Tavia was a wonder when it came to working with hair. Using a heated metal rod she curled the ends of Brynlee's straight locks giving them a jaunty bounce on the end. Tavia then added a blue ribbon to the back of her head to match her yellow and blue dress. She sprinkled her with scented oil, making Brynlee feel prettier than she had felt in a long time.

Rose's brothel was situated on a prominent corner in a bigger section of town, fronted by a circular plaza of stone and granite pillars that joined four major streets. The three girls drew a good number of stares from nearby men as they walked around behind the building and up an exterior stairway to the roof atop the fifth floor. There lay a spacious garden of green ferns, stone statues, and delicate wooden furniture warm under the afternoon sun. Shading the rooftop garden was a dark brown latticework wreathed in vines and flowers breathing sweet perfume into the air.

Mistress Rose was seated at a square wooden table across from Sir Dunmore. The pair of them looked like rulers sitting atop a small kingdom waiting for their servants to arrive.

"Wonderful," Rose said, noticing the girls.

Sir Dunmore stood and dipped his head to the ladies. Brynlee thought he looked handsome in his formal attire—black pants and blue velvet tunic. There was something different in his eyes though, Brynlee noticed. Something hungry.

Rose beckoned the girls to her with a wave of her fingers. "Today's exercise is quite simple," she began. "Sir Dunmore and I are old friends who have not seen each other in many years. We wish to talk for as long as we can stand one another, and we do not wish to be disturbed, but, tragically, as you can see on our empty table, we have no refreshments. The most refined women can serve without being a distraction. So, come ladies, serve us."

Without paying the girls any further notice, Rose returned to her conversation with Sir Dunmore, a dull discussion that could've put anyone to sleep about a plot of land on the hills north of Perth.

Tavia seemed to deflate while Korah looked confused.

Brynlee noticed the rich arrangement of foods under the shade to the left. She walked over and examined the spread, making mental notes of the various utensils, jams, butters, breads, fruits, leafy greens, cakes, and drinks that filled the table.

Korah appeared at her side and began preparing a plate.

"No," Brynlee whispered. "Drinks first. The tea cup." She pointed to a white cup overturned on a small white saucer. Korah grabbed the cup, and Brynlee took one of the pitcher's from which she could smell a steaming brew of lemon and honey.

As quickly as she could Brynlee dished out the various foods and drinks while Korah and Tavia delivered them to the table.

The etiquette of serving food was a cultural staple on Edhen, a process filled with intricacies, longstanding customs, and important details. Food spoke volumes to the feelings the host had for his or her guests, as did the manner in which it was served.

Tavia was about to walk away with a plate of cakes when Brynlee caught her by the sleeve. "Wait." She removed the spoon from the tray. "Wrong one. This is the proper serving spoon for cakes." She slipped a large utensil under one of the pastries, a flat spoon with a forked lip, meant to ply apart the often-sticky surfaces of sugary treats.

"How do you know so much about this?" the young woman asked, looking distressed and overwhelmed.

Brynlee hesitated, just long enough to stop herself from telling the truth. "Uh, my family worked in a castle."

As Tavia returned to the table Brynlee went about preparing the next stage of the meal when she heard the clumsy tripping of feet and the scraping of wood, followed by the cringe worthy shatter of glass against stone. When she whipped around she saw a horrified Tavia standing over the plate of cakes, which had spilled all over the floor and Sir Dunmore's lap.

"For–forgive me, my lord," Tavia said. She dropped to her knees and began cleaning up the mess.

As displeased as Sir Dunmore looked it was nothing compared to the expression of rage on the face of Mistress Rose. She slid her chair back and stood.

"Tavia, come here."

The girl jumped up and ran to Rose. "Yes, Mist—"

Her head snapped to the side as Rose's hand breezed by her face.

"How dare you?" the woman growled. "Not only have you ruined a very good serving dish, but you've ruined our food, and you've interrupted our conversation, and you have humiliated my guest. What is wrong with you, girl?"

Tavia was quivering, her cheeks red, and not just from Rose's disciplinary slap.

Rose reached under the table and withdrew a stiff leather whip with a curled loop on the end.

Brynlee noticed Tavia's jaw tightening in anticipation of the pain to come.

"This should teach you," Rose said. Then, as though a brilliant idea had struck her mind, she handed the whip to her guest. "Sir Dunmore, I seem to recall you have a knack for this sort of thing. Would you mind disciplining this clumsy young girl?"

Sir Dunmore grinned. "With pleasure, my lady."

In that moment, all the preconceived notions Brynlee had of Sir Dunmore faded. A refined knight he appeared to be, but as his eyes filled with a cruel lust she realized that he was no gentleman at all.

"Come here, girl!" he said.

Tavia stepped toward the man. He bent her over his lap, pulled up her dress and yanked down her knickers, exposing her bare bottom to further humiliate the girl. Using the leather whip he lashed her across the cheeks, leaving a bright red mark, and causing Tavia's body to jolt and yelp at the pain.

Brynlee stood by with Korah, flinching at every painful smack.

"Well," Rose barked at them, "don't just stand there like two dawdling fools, clean up this mess!"

She sat back down, crossed her long legs, and sipped her tea as she watched Sir Dunmore savor his moment.

Brynlee cleaned up the spilled cakes while Korah collected the shards of the broken plate.

With his arousal now at an obvious frenzy, Sir Dunmore tossed the leather whip onto the table and flipped Tavia up over his shoulder. She cried as he carried her off the rooftop and down the stairs, inside to one of the bedrooms where he slammed the door.

"Well done, both of you," Rose said, once Brynlee and Korah had finished cleaning up the mess. "It should be obvious by now that I expect nothing but perfection from my girls. The smallest slip, the tiniest trip, is a most unflattering thing on a young courtesan, and not something I will tolerate."

She pointed to Brynlee. "You are far too knowledgeable for someone of your age. Where did you learn how to do this, and don't tell me it's because you read."

Brynlee shoved her nervousness down deep and forced out a confidence that she didn't come anywhere close to feeling. "I was raised in the castle of Aberdour, mistress. My mother was a cook there, my father a blacksmith for the King's Shield, and I a servant to Lady Lilyanna. I was schooled by the same tutors who taught her children." She stopped, hoping the dashes of truth she'd sprinkled in with her lies would be enough to fool the clever mistress.

Rose eyed her as though sensing deception. "A remarkable privilege for a young servant girl."

"The Falls were very kind to me, mistress."

"Do you miss your life there?"

The question cut to the core of Brynlee's heart, unearthing memories and feelings she had long kept buried. She would've answered had it not been for the lump in her throat that seized her voice.

Rose smiled. "It's obvious that you do. I want you to consider my palace your new kingdom, Emma. As of this moment you are my head girl. I want you teach the others how to properly serve a meal without bumbling and ruining the fine reputation of my establishment." She looked at Korah. "You have a fine reputation as well, young lady. More than once has a man come to my house singing your praises. I've brought you here to shape you into the finest courtesan in the realm, and to help me instruct some of these other promising young ladies. Starting with this one." She caressed Brynlee's cheek and offered a charming, but fiendish smile.

Brynlee felt a cold shudder run down her spine. Her life, she knew, had suddenly changed, and not for the better.

# DANA

"Move quickly, my child!" said Sister Eeliana.

Dana ran from the bedchambers of Duktori Bendrosi just as the abbot leaned over his bedside again and wretched into a wooden bucket. She was relieved to be out of the bedroom, away from the stench and the awful sight of the duktori's mangled hands and feet. Pounding in her chest was an urgency to reach the kitchen before any more grains were consumed by anyone.

It was probably too late. If the duktori had been poisoned by food it had happened days ago. If any others were infected they would be showing signs soon enough.

Dana emerged from the dormitory building and sprinted down the street toward the chapel, through the garden just off the east wing, and into the dining hall. Breakfast was long over, but two male lay servants sat at one of the long wooden tables hunched over bowls of broth.

"Don't eat the bread!" Dana shouted.

She charged into the kitchen. Sister Marleenious and one of the lay servants, Lenasa, were rolling dough.

"Don't eat the bread!" she said again. "No flour. No grain."

The women stepped back from the dough, lifting their hands to their shoulders as though it were poison.

"I knew it," said Sister Marleenious. "He's got the fire in him."

"How is he?" Lenasa asked.

"Not well," Dana continued, panting.

Marleenious swept her pudgy forearm across her brow, her hand leaving a trail of white powder above her blue eyes. "Allgod have mercy. The fire. If–if the duktori is sick... if he... then surely us?"

Prior Gravis swept into the room, his robe trailing along with his billowing black velvet vest cloak. There was a look of controlled concern upon his weathered face. He instructed the cooks to show him where the flour and grains were kept. Dana followed them into a dark room surrounded by cold stone walls lined with wooden shelves packed with food and cooking ingredients. Upon the floor sat brown sacks of wheat and flour.

Gravis cut into one of the bags and pawed through the white powder. Next he tore open a grain bag and raked through the kernels until he found a tiny black pod. He lifted it, exhaling long and slow.

Lenasa gasped and covered her mouth. "Then it is true. The fire will soon be in us all."

Gravis gestured with his hand for calm. "That's not necessarily true." He pointed to the sacks of flour and grain. "This needs to go. All of it."

"All of it?" the cook asked, shocked.

"Every bit."

"The duktori," Lenasa said, "is he going to be..."

Gravis just shook his head.

Sister Marleenious closed her eyes and bowed her round head, a second chin forming on her neck. Her lips began to mutter quick prayers, the words of which Dana couldn't hear.

But she didn't have to hear them to find them irritating.

A developing hatred was growing inside of her for how the nuns and priests were always so quick to turn to their religion for help, like it was a giant support beam in a storm. Whenever there were signs of inclement weather they would seek the aid of a some giant, invisible esoteric spirit that Dana didn't understand. The Allgod, they called him, _Kintiere_ in Efferousian, which meant King Bear. They prayed to him day and night, and, regardless of whether or not he answered, they always seemed to find peace.

Sometimes Dana found it hard to be sure if she wasn't just jealous.

She followed the prior back to the duktori's bedchambers on the top floor of the dormitory. His bedroom was large, but plain, and lightly furnished with just a few necessities. Everything looked old, from the dusty bookshelves to the mangy bearskin rug to the desk by the bow window, the top corner of which was covered in a small mountain of old melted candle wax.

The abbot lay in a wide four-post bed on mottled sheets, his elderly face ashen. She watched as his feeble body convulsed and contorted underneath a patchwork blanket of faded reds and yellows. She could see the toes of his gangrenous feet, black and misshapen, protruding at the end of the bed. At one point it appeared as though his right leg had stopped moving altogether, but then Dana realized that it was because the infected appendage had fallen off.

The monastery's doctor and several nuns continued to tend to him, even though everyone, including Bendrosi, knew that there was nothing they could do.

Dana stayed by the duktori's bedroom all afternoon, afraid to leave lest Gravis, the doctor, or the nuns tending to him needed her. Once his body had excreted all of its fluids and the infection caused by black wheat grains had finished ravaging his body, Dana moved down stairs.

She cried in silence as she walked outside, eager for fresh air that didn't reek of fecal matter and human sweat. Her hands were clammy, her throat tight, and her stomach was dancing as if a swarm of butterflies had been stirred up within it.

She grabbed her bow from the barn and stomped across the road, the ground muddy and pocked with hoof prints. Turkey vultures, the fingerlike fringes of their wing tips unmistakable on their black silhouettes, wheeled above as though they knew death was in the air.

Dana retreated behind the barn to sling arrows at targets in the hope of calming her nerves.

With the duktori gone, Prior Gravis was in charge. She tried not to think about what implications that had for her and her brothers. Gravis had never wanted them at the monastery. He had never condoned the violent training that Khalous put the boys through, and Dana feared he would send them away at the first chance he got.

She notched an arrow and drew back the string of her bow. The draw weight was too light, decreasing the range and power of the projectiles. Granted it was little more than a hunting bow, but in her grief she craved for a more refined and violent weapon.

Her fingers released the string and the arrow surged toward the target, hitting the center, as usual. She inhaled satisfaction, enjoying the wave of power she felt coursing through her limbs.

"Do you ever not hit the center?" Pick asked as he sauntered around the corner of the barn.

Dana drew another arrow out of the quiver at her hip. "Sometimes."

"I've never seen you miss," he said.

"You obviously don't watch me practice enough."

She loosed the second arrow, which landed next to the first one in the center of the target.

"You're too modest," Pick concluded.

Dana leaned on her bow and shut her eyes as more tears ebbed their way to her cheeks.

"If I'm intruding I can leave you be," he said.

"Bendrosi's dead," she managed to say.

Pick walked over to a small maple tree and leaned against its trunk. "I figured he wasn't going to last much longer."

Dana didn't like how Pick seemed so calm when inside her was an inferno of rage and fear and uncertainty.

"Are we going to have to leave now?" she asked after a moment.

Pick was quiet as he gazed up at the swaying branches of green leaves above him. "Maybe. But the Allgod will take care of us. You just wait and see."

Her teeth clenched at his words. "How can you say that?"

Dana ripped an arrow from her quiver, notched it, and let it fly. It struck the target just left of center.

"I'm sorry?"

She huffed. "The Allgod. I'm sick of hearing about the Allgod."

"He was the god of your father, was he not?"

"I don't know what my parents believed," she said, which was a lie. Both of her parents were ardent believers in the god of the ancient High King Vala Hull, a being commonly called the Allgod. What she didn't know was why.

"I do. Your father was a man of deep faith. He would often pray with the soldiers, and he—"

"Well it's not what I believe," she blurted.

"Why not?"

She had no answer at first. "I don't know."

"Do you believe in the ancient gods?"

She scrunched her face at him. "Please. Ancient superstitions, that's all they were."

Pick chuckled and crossed his arms. "I won't argue with that. My mother was from Tranent. Her family was faithful to the Middies, Cuir and Cotch, allegedly the gods of sunshine and earth." He shook his head and smiled. "Her father never once raised a successful crop." He laughed.

Dana only frowned. "I can't believe that the Allgod is who they claim him to be, benevolent and kind, not while someone as evil as the Black King ravages my homeland."

Pick nodded. His understanding eyes helped Dana relax.

"What do you believe?" she asked.

He slid down to the grass. Breaking off a piece of straw he tucked it into the corner of his mouth to gnaw on. "Hope. Love. It's hard to say, I guess. I grew up being told about Edhen's ancient gods—the Northern Gods, the Southern Gods, the Middies—but they seemed silly to me. The Allgod, I don't know, he seems real. This peace they have—" he waved his hand toward the chapel, "—it's real too. I don't understand it, but in it I find hope, and that gives me the strength to face another day no matter how bad things get."

Dana didn't know what to make of Pick's words. Her analytical mind couldn't wrap itself around something as vague as faith, not when everything in her life was falling apart.

She filled her target with a few more arrows in quick succession before she realized that her bow was not going to relieve the anxiety she felt inside.

She watched from the barn later that afternoon while the priests and nuns of Halus Gis, along with the lay servants, orphans, and refugees honored their deceased leader. They celebrated his life with songs and words of prayer.

The duktori's body was taken deep into the crypt below the chapel. There he was sealed in a private room where he would remain until his bones were ready to be added to the great macabre mural they called The Ossartes, or The Place of the Honored Holy.

Up until the burial ceremony, Dana had only heard about the frightening display of old bones in the underground room. Halfway through the burial she decided she never wanted to see it again.

Khalous, Pick, and Stoneman lined up along the walls of the crypt with the boys during the ceremony. They all stood with pale hands clasped over dark mourning robes, heads bowed in respect. The high collars of the priestly garments made her brothers look mature and dignified, Dana thought. She realized how much they had a grown up over the last few years, boys becoming men, taller and stronger.

"We're getting kicked out, aren't we?" whispered Nash as the priests offered songs of mourning.

"I don't know," she whispered back.

"That dog Gravis has hated Khalous since the moment we first got here," Clint muttered. "He'll have his way now."

"Quiet!" whispered Brayden.

Later that afternoon as Dana was helping the kitchen staff prepare for the evening meal she saw Gravis retreat to the duktori's office in a private section of the chapel. There he summoned the other head priests for a closed-door meeting that lasted long into the night.

Dana finished her evening chores in the chapel. She hurried across the road to the dormitory, eager to make it to her bed before night's incoming chill sank through to her bones. She washed her face and hands in a bowl of lavender scented water, slipped into a cozy nightgown, and huddled under the blankets of her small cot.

She lay in the darkness and the silence for a long time with an unsettled mind, wishing for sleep, but finding none.

"Things are going to change, aren't they?" came Nairnah's petite voice from the cot next to her.

"Yes," Dana whispered.

"Are they still awake?"

Dana peeled back the blankets to her bed and tiptoed across the cold floorboards to the window. The chapel's office torches were dark.

"No."

She hurried back to her cot, the cold of the wooden floorboards nipping at her feet. She jumped into bed with an audible shiver.

Nairnah's cot creaked as she slipped off her mattress, patted the two step gap to Dana's bed, and climbed up alongside her. Dana lifted her blankets to make room for the girl's small form and then the two of them hunkered down against the chill like they had done many nights before.

"I'm scared," Nairnah whispered.

"Scared about what?"

"I feel like we're being abandoned again. First on Aberdour, now here."

"Don't worry. Even if Gravis makes us leave, Khalous will be with us. He's—"

"I mean by the Allgod."

Dana went silent.

"They say he abandoned Aberdour, that the kingdoms of Edhen got so wicked he had to leave. What if, because we're from Edhen, he's abandoning us all over again?"

Dana hated the girl's question as much as she hated the answer she wanted to give, but she wouldn't crush Nairnah's hopes. If the girl wanted to have faith in some distant deity that was up to her, and Dana wasn't about to take it away.

"I don't know," she managed to say.

Nairnah looked up at her. "Will you pray with me?"

Dana's insides pinched. "No." When she feared she had upset Nairnah, she added, "but you can."

After a moment, Nairnah curled her head down and began praying in Efferousian, just like Dana had heard the priests of Halus Gis do many times. She prayed for help, for protection, and asked for the Allgod's care and mercy. Her tiny voice rose to Dana's ears, half muffled by the blankets that hugged them.

The following morning came rumors that Gravis was sending a messenger to the duktori of a neighboring monastery. He was being summoned to help nurse Halus Gis through this time of loss and to appoint a new leader.

Until the duktori arrived or sent instructions, Gravis was in charge. Already his leadership was casting a cheerless rigidity over the grounds that did nothing to ease the heartache of those mourning Bendrosi's loss. He ordered every building in the monastery sterilized, cleaned from top to bottom, and put through a rigorous inspection to help prevent the spread of any infection. He became controlling and more contemptuous of the refugees of Aberdour.

After just a few days Dana couldn't stand the sight of him.

She decided to spend the afternoon riding Meikia, one of the monastery's draft horses. The massive beast was bigger than any horse Dana had ever ridden, with the curve of its back standing well over her head. The horse had always terrified her, but fear, it seemed, was the only antidote to her despondent spirit.

"Easy boy," she said as she climbed the stepladder to the horse's back.

Broderick was shoveling out one of the stalls in the barn when he noticed Dana mounting Meikia. "What are you riding him for?" he asked.

"Because I want to," she said.

"Your legs barely fit around him. Bareback won't be very comfort—"

Dana charged through the barn doors, down the dusty road, and over the bridge leading onto the southeast hills.

Riding Mekia was like riding thunder. She felt like a mere speck upon his back. She let her anger at Gravis and her fear of the unknown strip away her inhibitions, which pushed her to ride harder and journey further from the monastery than she ever had before. Mekia never seemed to tire. In fact, when Dana finally pulled the horse to a stop in the distant fields, he seemed excited and energized and ready for more.

She wheeled him around and rode him just as hard back toward the monastery, his hooves echoing the furious pulsing of her heart as they pounded like drums across the land.

On the southeast hills overlooking Halus Gis, Dana slowed the horse to a walk so she could take in the view. The stone monastery, with its many roofs and chapel spire, cut a sharp silhouette across the darkening cobalt sky.

She brought Mekia to a stop when she noticed Ariella crouching in the grass up ahead. The woman appeared as little more than a shadow as she bowed to her face, rose up and stretched her hands to the sky. Her face was darkened by smears of dirt and the sleeves of her mourning robes hung in shredded tatters off her shoulders.

"Ariella?" Dana asked.

The woman gasped and stood up straight, her hand going to her chest. "Dana? You frightened me, child."

"I've interrupt something important," Dana said. "I'm terribly sorry. I'll leave you in peace."

Ariella sighed and rubbed her head. "No, no. It's all right. I was simply saying goodbye in a very old fashion."

All around her were clumps of tall grass and veiny field roots, spatters of dirt flung in all directions leaving a bare patch of dark soil upon which Ariella sat. She got to her feet, not bothering to brush off the filthy pleats of her skirt.

"Ages ago," Ariella explained, "Efferousian priests would say goodbye in this manner to bless the soil over the buried body of the deceased. Their tears were considered a gift to the earth to honor the dead."

Ariella bowed her head and remained still in silent prayer while Dana pondered the mystery surrounding the custom. She thought the sentiment was a sweet one, but odd nonetheless.

"Kintiere grant us mercy in our grief," Ariella prayed. "Welcome my brother in The After."

She turned to Dana, a strange look of serenity upon her teary face. "What are you doing out so late, child?"

Dana slid off Mekia's mountainous back and gave the horse a rub and a pat. "I needed to get away from Gravis."

"You are not the first I've heard say that."

"Does he have to be so... obnoxious?"

"He means well."

Dana walked with Ariella through the tall grass of the field back to the monastery.

"I've never heard it called that before," Dana said. "The After."

"Efferousians call it _morporium_. It means 'the life after,' a general term, of course."

"Stelldoma?"

"That's where Kintiere, the Allgod lives, yes. In Stelldoma, which is part of The After. It's known as the Otherworld on Edhen."

"In the common tongue, yes," Dana said. "The priests have another name for it, but I don't remember what it is."

"Neevah."

"Right."

They crossed the small wooden bridge leading into the southern gate of Halus Gis. Mekia's hooves thumped like war drums on the thick wooden beams.

"You don't believe in the Allgod do you?" Ariella asked.

Dana was surprised by the woman's insightfulness. For the first time she wondered if perhaps her distaste for the religion of Halus Gis had not been as veiled as she'd hoped.

"I don't really know what I believe. I don't think I've ever doubted his existence, but, like many on Edhen, I believe he has abandoned us. That's why Edhen has become so evil. The Allgod has left. And I–I..." but she couldn't finish her sentence.

"You what?"

Dana stopped and turned to face Ariella. "I hate him."

"What makes you think he's abandoned you?" Ariella asked. Her tone was calm and non-confrontational, but the question still made Dana squirm. She had never verbalized her thoughts toward the Allgod before, and doing so made her feel like she was betraying everything she had ever been taught.

"They say he left Edhen when the Immortal Crown was broken. He gave up on us, and just... just left."

"What is the Immortal Crown?" she asked.

Dana looked at her in stunned silence. "You've never heard the story of the Crown?"

"You forget, I am not a native of your land. I've lived there most of my life, but I wasn't raised learning your histories."

"You're right. I'm sorry." Dana paused a moment to recollect her history lessons on Edhen's first high kings. "Brynlee remembers this stuff better than I do, but I know the Immortal Crown was created by High King Vala Hull about five hundred years ago. He was the greatest high king Edhen ever had. Some said he was a wizard, the first and only wizard to ever become high king, but others say he was an emissary of the Allgod himself sent to bring light and peace to the people. Before he died, Vala Hull pulled from the earth a rare gem called a regenstern."

"A wizard's gem. I've heard of those before."

"Valla Hull imbued the gem with prosperity and wisdom and placed it in the Crown. Any high king who wore the crown immediately prospered in everything he did. When the high king was blessed, the kingdom was blessed. There was wealth and prosperity and harmony." She paused to clear her throat. "There was one condition though. As long as the high king ruled with generosity, selflessness, and love, the qualities within the regenstern were passed onto him and his people. But if he ruled selfishly, or was motivated by personal greed, anger, or revenge, the power of the Immortal Crown diminished."

"So how did it break?" Ariella asked as they passed by the lay servants' dormitory.

Dana shrugged. "From what I remember it started with High King Eachann Vardoth, who ruled three hundred years after Vala Hull. The city of Perth came under attack, and Eachann's daughter was murdered. In his grief he revisited punishment on his enemies a hundred times. He became violent and sorrowful and bitter."

They meandered past the dorms. Dana became aware of the sleeping souls in the houses around them and lowered her voice before she continued.

"They say the Immortal Crown broke, not in a literal way, but that it's power diminished. And nothing was the same after that. Wars increased. Disease spread. Famines. Wickedness. It's like the Allgod's hand of blessing went away."

Ariella stopped in front of the barn and turned to face Dana. "I can not speak to the motivations of the Allgod, he has his reasons for all that he does and allows, but in all my personal experience with him I've learned one thing: he never moves, Dana. We may move, but he is always firm."

Fidgeting with Mekia's reins, Dana looked at her feet. "I wish I could believe that."

Ariella smiled and gave her a hug. "You know what I admire most about you, child?"

Dana found it hard to believe that there was anything about herself for anyone to admire, least of all a former nun. Curious, she asked, "What?"

"You never stop thinking."

The barn door creaked and Dana looked with Ariella to see Khalous stepping out into the moonlight.

"Ariella?" he asked, looking from the dirtied hem of her dress to the brown smears on her face. "Are you—"

"I'm all right, my love," she said.

Khalous cleared his throat and looked at Dana. "Where have you been?"

She dropped her head. "I was out riding. Forgive me. I should've told—"

"Put the horse away and then come with me."

His bleak tone made Dana nervous.

She bid Ariella a goodnight and then, with flutters in her chest, returned Mekia to his stall.

In the loft above she could hear the snores of her brothers and their comrades.

She found Khalous outside in the communal garden, leaning against a fencepost, his bearded chin tipped skyward toward the stars.

"You wanted to see me?" she said.

"I've spoken with Gravis. We're leaving in two days."

Her heart sank. She shut her eyes and grit her teeth. "That bastard." Her words slipped out in a whisper. "Why can't he see the value in what you're teaching us? Didn't you tell him? Didn't you explain to him that if someone doesn't stand up to the Black King—"

"Keep your voice down," Khalous said. His tone was all business, even downright scornful. "The decision to leave was mine, not the prior's."

Dana closed her mouth, stunned.

Khalous folded his arms across his thick chest and said, "You will not be coming with us."

His words hit her like a blow from Mekia's hindquarters. "What?" she breathed.

"I'm taking the boys to the city of Thalmia. It's a long journey, but I have an old friend there who may be willing to give us asylum."

The nervous fluttering in Dana's chest had grown into a pounding rage. She struggled to keep her attitude in check when she said, "Don't leave me here."

"Dana—"

"No. I mean it. Khalous, my brothers are all I have left. You can't—"

"Be quiet and listen to me," he snapped.

She saw that there would be no arguing with him. His mind was set, and she had no say in the matter. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She felt like she was being abandoned all over again and it infuriated her.

"My friend in Thalmia has ties to an elite brotherhood of warriors through whom I can continue your training." He gestured to the monastery grounds around them. "I can't do that here." He stepped toward her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "I will come back for you."

She sniffled. "Take me with you."

"When it's safe."

She shook her head. "No. Don't leave me here."

Khalous smiled and shook his head. "You've got your father's pigheadedness, you know? All of you do."

"I don't care if it's dangerous. Give me a bow. I can help."

"That's not what I'm worried about, and you know it."

"No. I don't. What?"

"It's different for a woman," Khalous said. "I'm sorry, but it's not like it is for Brayden and Broderick. If black vipers catch them they will kill them. If they catch you, you'll be treated like a prize, a spoil of war, and you'll be passed from tent to tent and tormented and abused and..." His eyes clamped shut, and Dana saw the glistening of a tear slid down his cheek into his beard. "I held you all in my hands when you were born." He lifted his thick, cracked palm. "You used to fit right here, you and Lia, Brynlee and Scarlett. The daughters I never had." He sniffled. "But regardless of what you mean to me, you mean even more to Edhen. Your brothers have the hearts of warriors. They will fight and die for Edhen. But you have a much greater purpose."

Dana's eyes were a watery mess now. "What is that?" she managed to say.

Khalous smiled. "You will lead it." He put his arms around her.

She resisted at first, but slowly her arms found their way around his waist. She had never thought of Khalous as a father figure until now, and it touched her heart that he considered her to be a daughter. She cried into his chest, hating him for his decision, but understanding it nonetheless.

"But you'll come back, right?" she asked. "You won't forget about me here?"

"No, my lady. I will come back for you. That much I swear."

# BRAYDEN

Dana set her hand over Brayden's chest and taped her fingers three times. Tap... tap, tap.

The familiar gesture was old, something he hadn't felt in a long time. It broke his heart to feel it again.

"Do you remember when she used to do that?"

"Scarlett? Yeah."

"I miss her, Brayden. Lia and Brynlee, too, but Scarlett she..." Dana stumbled on her words. "She was so gentle and young and so undeserving of all of this."

Brayden hugged her.

He felt her fingers tap his chest again—tap... tap, tap. Scarlett was barely three years old when she had started doing that. It took his family a long time to figure out what it meant.

"I love you, too, sis," Brayden said. "We should return in a few months. It will be winter soon, so keep warm."

"You better come back," she said, her voice muffled against his cloak.

"I will."

She pulled away and looked at him. "I'm serious. Thalmia is a dangerous place. We've already lost Bryn and Scarlett and Lia. I'm not losing you too."

He stroked her dark brown hair, which had been matted by the morning mist. "We'll be all right."

Her arms enveloped him one more time.

Khalous had not given the boys much warning. With a straightforward announcement he told them that their time at Halus Gis had come to an end. They all knew it wasn't his fault though. With the death of Duktori Bendrosi, Prior Gravis was now in charge, and it was no secret that he had long wanted to send them away.

Brayden was sad to leave. Halus Gis had become his home, and now it was the second home he had been forced to leave in three years.

"Promise me something else," Dana said. "If you all are actually successful in finding these Kriegellian folks, and if they will teach you their ways, learn it. Learn all of it. I want us to bring a thunderstorm down on the Black King when we go back."

"You can be downright wicked when you get riled. Did you know that?"

"I mean it," she stressed.

"I know you do. It's why I'm shaking right now."

She cracked a slight grin and rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious," Brayden said. "Look at my boots. They're quaking." He kissed her on the forehead. "Goodbye, sister."

Khalous emerged from the chapel, a grim personification of no-nonsense readiness. His silvery hair was pulled back into a beaded ponytail, his beard braided in a short spike just under his chin.

Behind him came Ariella, her cream-colored sleeves hugging her aproned waist. Khalous gave her a tender hug before proceeding through the mud toward the waiting train of horses.

Brayden was just about to follow when he saw Ty standing under the tall fir that shaded the chapel's southeast corner. He was holding hands with a downcast Senona. Even in her sorrow the foreign girl looked beautiful, her sandy colored face framed by the blackest silky locks.

Ty withdrew a milk thistle from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it and returned a kiss.

Seeing the two of them together made Brayden's heart ache for Nairnah. He looked around for her among the people of the monastery who had gathered to see them off, but couldn't find her. It pained him to think that she was so upset over his leaving that she couldn't come say goodbye.

Reluctantly Brayden walked to a horse that was waiting for him alongside a covered supply wagon. It was an ugly gray and white speckled mare that he had never ridden before. Its ears twitched at him as he approached.

"You all righ', young master?" asked Stoneman from atop the wagon seat.

Brayden mounted his horse and gave the muscled warrior a curt nod.

Had he been in the mood to be a bit more honest, however, he would have admitted that nothing felt right to him. He didn't like being forced out of Halus Gis by an ignorant old prior. He didn't like leaving Dana, Nairnah, and some of his friends behind. He didn't have a good feeling about their journey and he despised how nervous and fearful he felt in his stomach.

He followed Khalous along the curving road through the monastery. Behind him trailed Nash and Broderick, followed by Stoneman in the wagon, and Clint, Preston, and Ty atop horses of their own.

Brayden saw his own sullenness reflected in each and every one of their faces. None of them wanted to leave. The monastery had been their shelter for more than three years, a place where they had all learned to be men.

At the western gate waited the priests and nuns of Halus Gis—teachers, mentors, and even friends. The nuns muttered prayers as the boys filed past while the priests tossed them blessings in the name of the Allgod.

Gravis stood among them, stone-faced and stubborn.

"Son of a whore," Broderick muttered as they sauntered by.

"I hope he gets the fire in him," Nash said.

Brayden set his jaw, determined not to cry.

He hoped that leaving the monastery would get easier the further away they traveled, but it didn't. As the company crested a distant hilltop, he twisted in his saddle to take one last look at Halus Gis. The slate walls enclosing the chapel and surrounding community were bathed in thin wisps of autumn fog, their dreariness seeming to mourn his departure.

He thought again of Nairnah, her thin lips and generous smile that always seemed to lift more on her right cheek. She was thirteen now, and lovelier by the day.

Brayden imagined saying goodbye to her one last time, the feel of her hands around his neck, her soft breasts pressing against him as he squeezed her around the waist. He decided in his mind that had he been given the chance to say goodbye he would've kissed her. He wondered if she would've kissed him back.

"Do you think we'll ever see them again?" Broderick asked.

Ty smiled. "I'm thinking yes."

"I'm thinking no," Nash said.

"What makes you think that?" Broderick asked.

"My negative personality."

Khalous trotted back to join them. "We're approaching the main road," he said. "From here on out you speak only Efferousian."

The company journeyed south for the rest of day. They traversed along grassy hills that gave way to league after league of dull brown hardwood forest devoid of autumn's colors.

The country of Efferous was about twice the size of Edhen, longer from north to south than it was wide. In the summer months the northern regions were rich in emerald hills of grass and dense forests that gave way to sandy deserts in the south where the heat never died. Come wintertime the north endured blustery winds with occasional snow, except for the immense Thanadousi Mountain range where it seemed to snow almost constantly.

The territories in between were a harsh landscape of untouched wilderness, blistering sun, and strange creatures.

"Will we see any of those barbarian girls?" Nash asked.

"What barbarians?" Ty said.

"The ones you told us about. The ones that don't wear any coverings up top."

"Them isn't barbarians. Just because a person lives in the Sylvestri doesn't makes them barbarian."

"The what?"

"He means The Wilds," Broderick said.

"Whatever it's called. You know who I mean. Are we going to see any?"

Ty looked annoyed, as he often did when dealing with Nash's curiosity of Efferousian women. "No," he said. "Them is being in the desert lands much further east."

"Forgive my brother," Preston said. "He's merely being an idiot."

Nash extended his hands and shrugged his shoulders. "What's wrong with—"

A roar echoed through the forest, bouncing off the rocky hills to their right and the slate gray walls of the mountain to their left.

Khalous lifted a fist in silent command and the entire company came to a stop.

"What in all the hells was that?" Nash asked.

"Whatever it was, it was way too close," Preston said.

Broderick looked around. "Sounds like old Kette."

"Oh, like you know," Clint scoffed.

Broderick threw him a discourteous look. "I've heard locals in Mykronos talk about him. They've seen footprints. Trust me, he's real."

"He's a myth."

"It's not being a him," Ty said. "It's being a her. And you saying her name wrongly."

"Says the one who can barely say anything," muttered Clint.

"Quiet!" Khalous said.

"What is a Kette anyway?" Preston asked.

"A mountain troll," answered Brayden. Once the words left his mouth, he felt his insides twist into a nervous knot.

"Perfect," Preston moaned. "That's just perfect."

"Shut it!" Khalous snapped.

The group fell silent. They remained stationary for several long moments, eyes and ears roaming about the notch of rocks and hills.

Brayden inclined his head to the west, listening to the wind tussle the tops of distant trees. He turned eastward, hearing nothing but silence from the steep edges of the mountain.

"Psst," Nash said. "Your horse's nostrils are quivering."

Brayden looked down at his ashen horse. Although he couldn't see her nostrils, he did notice her trembling and that her ears were pinned.

"Something's in the air she doesn't like," he whispered.

Behind him he heard Broderick patting his horse's shoulder. "Easy girl," he said in a low tone.

Up ahead, Brayden saw that Pick had stopped at a bend in the road. He turned in his saddle and gestured with a gloved hand for Khalous to come forward. Brayden took the initiative and followed. His horse clopped along on the uneven terrain, its ears flicking left, right, and then back again.

"What is it?" Khalous asked.

But Brayden saw it before Pick could even answer—the mutilated corpse of a mountain lion. The carcass lay in the grass off the beaten trail, but bloody red bits of it were strewn across the road. A fresh kill.

"Mountain troll?" Khalous asked.

Pick glanced up at several large tree boughs that stretched out over the road. "They normally prefer thicker canopy than this."

There was a sudden crashing in the woods along the hills to the right that startled Brayden's horse. He urged the animal to be still while his eyes roamed the thick evergreens. He saw no movement, but the crashing was inching closer. When it stopped a cluster of black winged birds sprouted from the trees in front of them into the gray sky, screeching and complaining.

Brayden had long heard rumors of mountain trolls, massive beasts that kept to the woods feeding off anything they could find. Some people said they were timid. Others said they were a myth. Brayden hoped for either.

"Perhaps we should keep moving," Pick whispered.

"No," Khalous said. "We're being watched."

"You see it?"

"Through the trees straight ahead." Without looking away from whatever it was he was seeing, the captain continued, "Brayden, I want you to pass by behind me and continue down to the next bend. Pick, send the others after him one at a time."

"Are you sure we shouldn't just—"

"This is a territorial challenge," Khalous said. "We just need to show him that we are not a threat to—"

The beast charged. The trees in front of it split and snapped in a rush of noise akin to an avalanche of stone. The mountain troll roared into view, a towering four-legged beast that seemed hewn from the forest earth. It swatted at Khalous' horse, knocking it and its rider aside.

"Go!" Pick shouted to Brayden as he drew his sword.

But Brayden's horse was out of control, spinning first away from the troll and then back in frantic confusion.

The troll reared up on its hind feet, extending its already immense height to three times that of a man. On stumpy cloven hooves it stood before them and pounded its chest with a massive fist of dwarfish fingers. If it had eyes, Brayden couldn't find them under its dome of gray bony protrusions and bulging root-like veins.

The troll crashed down onto all fours. It knocked Brayden off his horse as it charged toward the wagon, roaring at the pair of dray horses.

Stoneman cursed and dove off the wagon seat. The troll plowed into the horses, ripped the head off one and struck the other with its forearm so hard that it went sailing into the trees. The wagon came apart with the blow, its contents spilling all over the ground.

From the scattered mess of provisions came the horrified scream of a girl.

The troll flinched, startled at the ear-piercing wail.

Brayden's eyes went wide.

"What in all the bloody hells?" Pick shouted.

Nairnah scrambled out from under the mess of broken wagon parts. She sprinted for the trees, legs scrambling over rocks under the folds of a gray dress.

"Nairnah!" Brayden shouted.

Her scream seemed to irritate the troll. It leveled its bony head at her and charged.

Brayden jumped off his horse and ripped his sword from its sheath. Any thoughts of fear or hesitation were gone from his mind. He charged forward, shouting at the beast in hopes of getting its attention.

Broderick and Nash unleashed a slew of arrows at the animal, most of which just bounced off its calloused hide.

Stoneman, Pick, and Preston attacked the troll from behind, drawing thin lines of red across its thick squat legs. Broderick and Nash circled around in front of it and continued to fire arrows at its head in search of a weak spot.

Brayden worked his way toward Nairnah. She was caught between a wide boulder and a pair of trees through which the troll was making desperate grabs for her with its stubby fingers. It grabbed one of the trees and lifted it from the ground, uprooting a massive spiny orb of dirt and branches. It chucked the tree aside.

Brayden wasn't sure which had struck him—the tree or the arm of the troll. He just knew that his world was spinning out of control. He landed on the other side of the road where he tumbled through leaves, dirt, and pain.

He staggered to his feet, clutching his sword in a vicious grip.

Stoneman, Pick, Preston, and Clint lay in scattered heaps on the road while a cloud of leaves rained down around them. The troll had gone feral, ripping up trees in a frenzied effort to find Nairnah, who was screaming in a terrified panic.

Brayden got to his feet and saw her sprinting down the road toward the unconscious body of Khalous. She would've escaped the troll's notice had she not screamed again.

The mountain troll pulled back from its frenzy. When it spotted Nairnah, it gave chase, shaking its head in protest of her high-pitched wails.

Brayden raced to intercept it. He dove out into the road and threw himself in front of the beast's charge. He caught the troll in the throat with the full shaft of his sword and hung on tight as it plowed over top of him. He twisted the hilt of his blade and allowed the friction of the ground against his clothes to drag him along the beast's underbelly, tearing a long gash through its neck. Brayden's cloak and tunic turned to shreds as his left arm and face raked across the gravel.

The mountain troll moaned an effervescent bellow, coughing blood and mucus onto the road. Its feet stumbled and gave out. Brayden lost his grip and felt his body toss and turn under the mammoth monster until it slid to a stop.

All went quiet.

For a moment Brayden remained still, his heavy breaths muffled against the rancid skin of the mountain troll. With great effort he pried himself out from under the animal's hind leg, covered in dirt, his skin pepped with shards of rock and a plethora of burning scrapes and bruises.

On shaky knees he walked around to the front of the animal. Blood was flowing from the long gash in its neck.

It was then that he noticed a tiny black orb nestled beneath a small horn on the side of its head—an eyeball. It was staring at him, using the last bits of its life to examine its conqueror. The black orb flitted from Brayden's face down to his feet, then back up again. Then the skin around the black orb relaxed and the eye went dead.

"Brayden?" came Nairnah's meek voice. She staggered toward him, her teary expression frozen in horror.

He ran to her, scooped her up in his arms, and held her tight.

"W–what was that–that thing. W–what... I don't... I'm sorry. I–I..."

"Shh," Brayden said. He did his best to calm her, but he knew that nothing could take the edge off except time.

Nash and Broderick jogged over to him in a clatter of leather, quivered arrows, and astonished breaths.

"Brayden, you do realize you just killed a mountain troll," Nash said. He grinned. "A bloody mountain troll. By the gods!"

"Well fought, young master," said Pick. He pointed toward the left side of Brayden's face. "Better get that cleaned up."

Brayden's hand went to his face to discern what Pick was referring to. The moment his fingers touched his skin he felt the wounds ignite—imbedded pieces of rock felt like fire against his face. He grew queasy and sat down. His nerves became aware of the other injuries along his left arm, which was bleeding beneath the shredded sleeve of his shirt.

As badly as he had been hurt, he considered himself lucky to be alive.

The horses, on the other hand, had not fared so well. Three of them were dead, and the rest had scattered except one.

Khalous had taken a direct hit from the troll and landed in the rocks on his head, but apart from a bloody rip on his scalp the Old Warhorse wasn't badly injured. The moment he was well enough to stand he launched into a tirade against Nairnah. She accepted his fierce scolding with her chin huddled against her collar.

"Forgive me, my lord," she said. "I didn't wish to be left behind."

"We don't always get what we wish, young lady," Khalous growled. "I'll deal with you more later. For now, let's clean up this mess and make camp. Quickly now. Move!"

The boys dispersed, but Brayden stopped when Khalous called his name. "Sir?"

Khalous leaned back against a rock. He pressed a torn white rag into the gash on the side of his scalp from which had flowed several thick streams of blood. He looked at Brayden and said, "Well done."

Like a well-oiled set of gears the boys did as they had been trained. Clint and Nash retrieved food from the supply wagon; Preston gathered wood and built a campfire; Ty and Pick corralled the scattered horses and took them to drink; Broderick scouted around the campsite to ensure that they were hidden from any roads, towns, or houses.

Stoneman and Khalous collected their supplies from the wagon, which had been destroyed beyond repair. At the campsite they divided up the provisions among what horses were left while Stoneman brewed some vegetable stew.

"Can you eat troll?" Nash asked.

"I wouldn't," answered Clint. "Their bodies carry too many diseases."

"Says the man being unbelieving in trolls just a short whiles ago," said Ty.

"That's one thing I'm definitely going to miss about life at Halus Gis," Pick said. "The food." He sat down on the ground and leaned back against a log. "Those nuns sure do know how to marinate a goose."

Brayden smirked at his remark, which caused the left side of his face to ignite with fresh sparks of pain. He winced and tried to remain still as Nairnah pulled another rock from his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"No, it's not you."

She removed the bandage from his head, dipped it into a bucket of water and rung it out. With gentle fingers she dabbed at his pockmarked skin. She had pulled more than a dozen pebbles from his jaw, cheek, and forehead, some imbedded so far into the skin that they had to be pried out with a sewing needle.

"Will these scar?" Brayden asked.

"I suspect so," answered Khalous.

"Look on the bright side," Nash began, "you now have a great nickname. Leatherhead."

"I was thinking Pockface," added Clint.

"You're both being so helpful," Brayden said.

Stoneman passed out bowls of steaming watery broth filled with soft vegetables. The soup was bland, and made Brayden miss Halus Gis even more.

When Nairnah was done removing the stones from his arm, she applied a sticky green paste that Khalous had made from some medicinal herbs and hot water. She bandaged up the worst bits and fetched him a new tunic from the bundles of spilled provisions.

She sat down on his right side and cuddled into him. The warmth of her body so close to his gave him a wave of energy that seemed to ease his pain.

"Do they have good food in Thalmia?" Nash asked sipping broth from his bowl.

"Very good foods," answered Ty. "Lots of fishes. Very good spices from Konia so the meats tastes very good."

"Sir?" Preston asked, looking at Khalous. "Are we still going to travel there, I mean, now that we've lost the wagon?"

Khalous finished wrapping a white bandage around the gash on his head. "Tomorrow Pick will take Nairnah back to Halus Gis and the rest of us will continue on. We're down four horses—mine is dead, the carthorses are dead, and Brayden's ran off. That means two of you will have to double up."

"I don't need a horse, sir," Pick said. "We can make it to Halus Gis on foot by the end of tomorrow if we leave early and move quickly." He looked at Nairnah. "Is that all right with you?"

Before she could answer, Khalous said, "Serves her right." He thrust a finger at her. "You should never have put yourself in that wagon."

"Stupid girl," muttered Clint.

Brayden sprung off the ground in an instant, slopping steaming hot puddles of soup onto the ground. "What did you say?"

"Here we go," Nash said through a mouthful of soup.

Clint rose to meet his gaze. "And I thought she was the one with the bad ear. I said she's a stupid girl for hiding in the carriage. Now it's destroyed and she's inconvenienced everyone."

"That wasn't her fault and you know it," Brayden said.

"All right. Let's calm down," said Pick.

Brayden refused to blink as he stared at Clint. "Apologize."

"Or what? You going to fight me again?"

Though Brayden's heart was raging at Clint's unending disrespect of Nairnah, more bloody knuckles between him and his cousin was the last thing he wanted. Khalous had told him once to make a stand against Clint, which he had done to the praise and admiration of his peers, but he had regretted it ever since. Dealing with Clint was going to require a bit more tact.

Though it went against every impulse coursing through him, Brayden turned his back on him. "No, Clint, I'm not going to fight you again because I know that's what you want." He walked over to Nairnah and sat back down, careful of the wounds on his side. "You like feeling like you're in control. Or maybe you just like to fight. I don't know. But I'm not going to have any part in it. You want to be a prick, be a prick. The rest of us have better things to do than listen to you bray like an ass." He put his arm across Nairnah's shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

Clint looked confused, lost, and unsure of what to do with himself. His ire seemed to have calmed though. He sulked back to his seat and sat down.

After a moment the campfire chatter returned.

Nairnah gestured with her chin to Brayden and he followed her out of the campsite. She led him away from the fire until they were out of earshot, tucked under an opening in the forest canopy where the moon painted several nearby rocks in light gray.

She sat down on a flat stone, patting the spot next to her. When he sat, she nuzzled into him, careful not to squeeze him too tightly.

"I'm sorry. I've messed everything all up." She sounded on the verge of tears.

"No you haven't," he said. He put his arm around her and teased the fraying sleeve of her shoulder with his fingers. "A mountain troll messed everything up. Khalous and Clint are just frustrated, and they're directing their anger at you." He looked down at her, her tiny brown head bowed to her feet. "Honestly, I'm glad you hid in the wagon."

She looked up at him. "Really?"

"I looked for you when we left. I just wanted to say goodbye, but I couldn't find you. I thought... I thought you didn't want to see me."

"I did want to see you. I wanted to be with you. That's why I hid in the wagon. I knew Khalous would be angry when he found out, but I thought once we got on the journey he would have no choice but to let me come along."

"Just how long were you planning to hide in there?"

She shrugged. "Until we reached our destination I supposed, but I got so hungry."

Brayden smiled as much as he could with his injured face. Imagining Nairnah trying to remain hidden for so long without food or water or a secluded place to pee, was amusing.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"Nairnah, it's going to take more than a whole moon to get there."

She put a hand to her head. "Oh my."

He chuckled. "Never mind. What's done is done."

Having her little body next to him was so warm and so thrilling. He pulled her in tighter, wanting more.

"Brayden?" she asked. "When will I see you again?"

He thought for a moment. "Maybe not for a long time. Khalous is taking us to Thalmia, the capital of Advala. It's in the southernmost area of the region. He says he has a friend there who knows the Kriegellians."

"The who?"

"The Kriegellians. They're Fellian outcasts," he explained.

"What's a Fellian?"

Brayden was surprised she didn't know, but reminded himself that she was the daughter of a humble wagon builder and seamstress. Few people outside the royal family and of non-noble birth had any knowledge of the worlds beyond Edhen.

"A Fellian is a person from Krebberfall," Brayden said. "You'll also hear them called Krebbers, but that's not a respectful term. Don't say it. In fact, I probably shouldn't have even told you."

"So why were the Kraig... the Kraig–lians... What are they called again?"

"The Kriegellians."

"Why were they outcast from Krebberfall?"

"They started mixing magic into their combat, and magic is strictly forbidden on Krebberfall."

"Why?"

"I don't really know, but they say Kriegellians are unmatched. Their magic, their swords, the way they fight, is unstoppable. If they'll train us we'll have abilities beyond anything in the Black King's army. We'll be able to go back to Edhen and take back our home."

"What do you mean if they'll train you?"

"That's the problem. They don't always accept outsiders, and, admittedly, there's a chance they're not even real. Until Khalous told us about them, I had always thought they were just a legend in a tale I once heard." He looked over his shoulder toward the road where, somewhere, the giant corpse of a freshly killed mountain troll lay facedown in the dirt. "Then again, legends seem to be coming true lately."

"I like to think there's always some truth in a legend," Nairnah said. "My mother believed in the guardian spirit of the Allgod. She even believed, like the legend says, that he once took the body of an enorbear and walked the land to commune with the people. My father never believed in such things, and I didn't either until on the day we buried my mother I saw an enorbear standing on the hill looking down on her grave. Not a tame one, but a wild one. A real one."

"I'm sorry," Brayden said. "I thought your mother died with your father during the siege."

Nairnah shook her head. "When my baby brother died after he was born, mother slowly went mad with grief until she... Well, father said the grief just killed her." She looked up at him, her eyes moist and flickering with the distant light of the campfire. "Please come back. You're all I have left, Brayden."

"Don't say that," he said. "You have Ariella back at the monastery, and—"

"No, I mean from before." She sniffled, taking a moment to compose herself. "I lost everyone when we left Aberdour. There was nobody I knew, except you. You were the only person I recognized. I don't want you to go away."

"A part of me wishes I didn't have to," he said.

"Only a part of you?"

"If there's a chance that we can return to Aberdour and rescue our friends, my sisters, I have to take it."

She nodded and said she understood, but it was clear her grief was unassuaged.

Brayden slid off the rock and knelt in front of her so he could look her square in the face. "Nairnah, I want you to do something. When you get back to the monastery, help them. I've seen you with the children there. I've seen you working in the garden. You have a compassionate heart. Take that gift and use it while you can. I will come back for you, but don't sit idly by waiting for me. Use your gifts. All right?"

"I will, my lord."

Brayden noticed that the conversations around the campfire had all but ceased and many of the boys were now snoring away on their mats.

He led Nairnah back to the fire where he added a few more logs to brighten the blaze. He stretched out a blanket for her and bundled her in several others. He lay down behind her on his good side and wrapped his injured arm around her. It was intoxicating to hold her so close.

"Get some sleep, Nairnah," he whispered. "We both have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow."

He wanted to kiss her, but he was too afraid. Even the following morning when he saw her with Pick getting ready to set out, he imagined walking over to her and kissing her on the lips. But, again, his fears inhibited him.

Khalous stomped past him on his way toward Pick. The captain still looked grumpy. His face was pale with dark bags under his eyes.

Nairnah dipped her head toward him as he neared. "I'm sorry, my lord," she said. "I didn't mean to cause so much trouble."

"Well you did," Khalous replied. "When you get back to Halus Gis, I want you to stay there."

"Yes, sir."

Khalous looked at Pick. "I want you to stay there as well."

Pick's brows flattened. "Sir?"

"Look after Ariella, Dana and the others. I aim to be back in two moons. I'll see you then."

Brayden could tell that Pick thought the command was an odd one. The young soldier eyed his captain for a moment or two and then gave an accepting nod of his head. "Until we meet again then."

Their arms clasped and they cuffed each other on opposite shoulders.

Brayden went to Nairnah, his heart burdened with the uncertainty of when they would see each other next.

"At least you'll eat good tonight," he said, trying to make light of the situation.

"I'll miss you," Nairnah said.

"And I you."

Watching from the dying ashes of the campfire were Nash and Broderick who sniggered until Stoneman shut them up.

"I believe in what you're doing," Nairnah said. "I will pray to the Allgod for your safety."

Her words touched his heart more than he expected.

And then, to his surprise, she stepped forward and kissed him. Not a peck on the cheek, or a blessing on the forehead like the nuns of Halus Gis would've done, but a kiss on his lips, sweet and moist. He didn't think to kiss her back until she had already pulled away, and by that time it was too late.

# SCARLETT

Scarlett scribbled a single word on her chalkboard. Feeling as though it wasn't strong enough on it's own she added an exclamation mark, and then drew a circle around it, and then several more for good measure. She flipped the board around for Aamor to see.

No!

The young woman glanced at it, frowned, and shook her head. "I'm afraid you don't have much choice in the matter, love."

She bunched up the bedding from Scarlett's mattress and tossed it into a large straw basket. Scarlett had never before seen the young maid act so irritated and distraught.

She scribbled another phrase on her blackboard. _I want to stay here!_

"The queen wants you in your own room, so that's what I have to do," Aamor said. "You're getting older, love. You'll be nine soon. It's not appropriate for you to share Tristian's room anymore. When he's married he's not going to want you in here with him and... and... that woman." She snapped a pillowcase and began folding it.

Scarlett wrote another word on her board.

"Why?" Aamor said. "Because there are things that a husband and wife need to do on their wedding night, and, um, Tristian and Lady Arrahbella..." Her folding slowed to a stop. She stood there for a moment staring at the bare mattress, the half folded pillowcase limp in her hands. Scarlett watched as Aamor sat down on the bed and brought the pillowcase up to hide her eyes. Her tears were masked, but Scarlett could still see her sobs.

Aamor's feelings for the crippled prince had gone unnoticed by everyone, including Tristian, but not Scarlett. It was no secret to her that Aamor was in love with him, and Scarlett had inklings that Tristian loved her in return. But the relationship wasn't appropriate. Even Aamor knew that. Servants did not become involved with members of the royal family.

Scarlett walked over to the bed and wrapped her arms around Aamor's waist. The young woman offered an appreciative moan, and stroked Scarlett's hair as she wiped away her tears.

"I'm a silly girl, aren't I?" she said. "What chance did I ever have with a prince of Tay? Lady Arrahbella is an honorable woman. I should be happy for him."

Scarlett offered Aamor a comforting smile, hoping it would make up for her bad attitude that had permeated the morning. It wasn't the maidservant's fault that she was being forced out of Tristian's bedchambers. Neither of them had much say in the matter.

Scarlett hated the idea of leaving Tristian alone, especially with his new bride. Princess Arrahbella fi Cipio was indeed a fine young lady, but she was almost too fine. Scarlett didn't like the way she always appeared so flawless.

Scarlett scribbled on her chalkboard, _I don't trust her_.

"Lady Arrahbella? Why not?"

She thought for a moment, and then wrote, _She's a Buttonhead._

Aamor wrinkled her face. "Buttonhead? The jester? He's just an actor."

Precisely.

"I didn't even know you could spell that word."

A female servant from the kitchen staff hurried into the room. "Aamor, Lady Catherina is asking for you. She wants you downstairs at the party."

"But she sent me up here to finish moving Red's things."

"I guess she changed her mind." The young woman left the room.

"Very well." Aamor got up, her reddish brown ponytail swishing against her neck. She clicked her tongue, thinking. "Curse that bloody woman. What does she think she's—" Aamor suddenly covered her mouth. "Oh! I shouldn't say such things about the queen."

Scarlett grinned and shrugged. She didn't care. If she had a voice she'd be saying such things all day.

"If you ask me, and I'm sure you would, I think she changes her mind just to make us angry," Aamor whispered.

Scarlett couldn't agree more. Lady Catherina was known for her dramatic mood swings. Many assumed it was the result of her fraying mental health, but others, like Scarlett, supposed she did it for fun. The queen was like a cat in that regard that viewed those under her as mice to be played with.

"Let's get down to the Hall," Aamor said. She gestured toward Scarlett's beautiful purple gown. "You didn't get all dressed up just to hang around with me, did you? You should go be with the people. I hear there will be dancing."

Scarlett's eyes widened and she nodded with excitement. She, of course, knew about the dancing already. She had been looking forward to it for weeks.

Scarlett tucked her small blackboard into a pouch in the front of her gown. The pocket had been sown into the pleats at Tristian's request to make it easier for Scarlett to carry her board with her. She had more than a dozen dresses with such pockets, as well as many with white cuffs or tippets for dry erasing.

"Tristian said you've been enjoying your dance lessons," Aamor said as they left the room. "You're very lucky you know. Not many girls get such opportunities." Scarlett thought she detected a hint of sadness in Aamor's tone.

She skipped alongside the young maidservant as they made their way downstairs to the State Hall. The cavernous room sat under a resplendent white dome in the very center of the castle. As they neared, Scarlett could smell the aroma of flowers, ladies' perfume, and seasoned meats. The sounds of music and frivolity from within made her spirits bubble.

"Have you seen the high king's emissary yet?" Aamor asked in a hushed voice as they approached the entrance to the Hall.

Scarlett shook her head that she had not.

"I do not look forward to meeting him. I hear he's rather... strange."

Orange torchlight bathed the State Hall. Long green palm branches and massive clusters of cut flowers hung from leafy vines all around the room. Hundreds of people had filled the Hall. Most sat at one of the many long banquet tables indulging in the royal smorgasbord of choice foods and wine. Others had formed a circle around a large dance floor that was occupied with dozens of people. Feet tapped and dresses swayed to the hand-clapping beat of a fast tune played by a flutist and a man with a tambourine.

The king and queen had spared no expense in their preparations to entertain the high king's emissary. Scarlett had yet to hear his name, but his reputation was one that generated either respect or fear depending on who she asked.

"Over there," Aamor said. She gestured with her chin toward the dais against the south wall upon which sat King Dagart's throne. His seat had been pushed back to make room for a long rectangular feasting table, which was draped with a white cloth and covered with a variety of warm and glistening foods—chicken and rabbit meat in an almond gravy, glazed white bread, garlic and egg pottages, citrus fruits imported from Perth, and a variety of expensive figs, raisins, dates and prunes.

King Dagart Elle sat at the middle of the table facing the room, his gold crown topping off a ceremonial outfit of green and black. His queen, Catherina, was on his right. The orange glow of the firelight made her pale skin look warm and robust. She wore an ivory gown with a raised pattern of curly designs and flowers that accentuated her trim neck and shoulders. Next to the queen were empty chairs for the princes, Taggart and Tristian.

To the king's left sat the emissary of High King Orkrash Maul, a lean man with slick black hair who Scarlett recognized immediately. The sight of him chilled her bones.

"That must be him," Aamor said. "He does look strange, doesn't he?"

Scarlett's mind filled with unwelcome memories as she took in the unforgettable face of Ustus Rapere.

"I hear they call him the Ivy of Edhen," Aamor whispered. "But I don't know why."

Next to Ustus sat Demulier Congrave, the wild-eyed woman who had accompanied him that day in the market plaza of Perth. She was as chilling then as she was now, with green catlike eyes that never seemed to blink, and a lithe frame that exuded sensuality and power. Scarlett remembered her like they had met yesterday, and she trembled with the memory of Demulier and Ustus dragging her sister away into the dark hallways of a brothel. Scarlett was sold to Prince Taggart that day, a day that had changed her life.

"Oh, my Lord Tristian!" Aamor exclaimed.

Scarlett was surprised that she hadn't noticed the prince sooner. He stood just to her left dressed in his royal best, a long navy coat made of velvet with gold trim that shimmered in the light. His long black hair had been pulled away from his handsome face and ran down to the nape of his neck.

"I'm glad you both could make it this evening," he said, leaning on a cane to support his deformed leg. In his free hand he swirled a silver chalice of wine. He took a sip and then regarded the cup with satisfaction. "Father has pulled out the good stuff tonight." He looked down at Scarlett. "Are you all right, Red?"

The sight of Ustus must have shaken her more than she realized. Scarlett swallowed back the uneasiness in her stomach and gave Tristian a nod.

"I've never seen this many people here before," Aamor said, stepping closer to Tristian.

"Nor I," he said, "which makes me suspect that many of them were paid to attend."

_Or threatened_ , Scarlett thought.

Aamor playfully swatted him on the arm. "Careful what you say, my lord."

He finished his wine and passed the chalice to a nearby manservant. "Or what? Do you think my father would have me hanged?"

_No, but Catherina would_.

Aamor looked aghast. "I certainly hope not! I only fear one of the guests might overhear you."

Tristian sighed. "You're right, as usual. It would be a shame if one of these arrogant nobles groveling at my family's table were found to be insincere."

Aamor stifled a giggle and tried to hide her reddening face.

Tristian chuckled. "And now I've embarrassed you."

"Well, normally I wouldn't mind, but you know I snort when I get to laughing."

With a chuckle, Tristian said, "I rather think a little snorting could liven up this affair, don't you?"

Some nobles at a nearby table turned and cast annoyed glances toward the prince.

Aamor started tittering and covered her mouth.

Scarlett smiled while she watched them. Seeing them both so close together sent her imagination running. She pretended there was no propriety between them, that they were common peasants, perhaps owners of a humble cottage on the outskirts of the kingdom. He wasn't a prince, and she wasn't a servant. They were even, perhaps, in love.

Scarlett reached out, took their hands and clasped them together. She imagined, for a moment, that they were husband and wife, and that she was perhaps their—

Tristian jerked his hand away and wheeled on Scarlett. "What are you doing?" He lowered his voice when some of the guests took notice. "Red, you shouldn't have done that. What's wrong with you?"

Aamor stepped back, looking embarrassed. "My lord, she was simply being silly. Weren't you, love? No harm done."

"That was inappropriate." He glared at Scarlett. "Don't ever do that again!"

Tristian's anger surprised her.

"I think she's just at that age when a young girl's thoughts turn to romantic things," Aamor said. "Yes. Isn't that right?"

Scarlett nodded, though she still wasn't sure what she had done wrong.

Tristian composed himself, smoothing out the front of his coat. "Well, let me give you both a piece of advice. Leave all your romantic notions at the borders of the kingdom. There is no place for softness in Tay, or love." He wagged a finger at them both. "Don't ever get married, at least not to anyone from this place. There are no good men here."

The look of heartbreak on Aamor's face went unnoticed by Tristian, but not Scarlett.

"You're a good man, my lord," Aamor said.

"No, I'm not." Tristian looked away, his face saddened by some distant secret. "Now, if you'll excuse me." He ambled away with the help of his cane.

Aamor slipped down the corridor to the left and vanished around the corner.

Looking first toward Tristian, and then in the direction of Aamor, Scarlett felt suddenly lost. She wondered if what she had done was truly so bad. Tristian and Aamor were in love. She knew it. She saw it almost every day. People in love were supposed to be together. It seemed so simple.

She took a deep breath and sighed away her confusion. Adults. She would never understand them.

Scarlett made her way into the crowd. She walked between the rows of tables packed with chattering noblemen clad in refined coats and leather, many flirting with freshly powdered noblewomen indulging in pointless gossip.

She worked her way to the middle of the room to watch the people dance. She liked the women in their beautiful dresses, the billowing skirts that flared out when they twirled.

"My lady," came a voice behind Scarlett. She turned to see a tall man with a regal chin and charming blue eyes smiling down at her. He had the gray hair of a gentleman past the prime of his life, but the build of a man who could still handle a sword. "My name is Sir Dunmore Waters, and I've been told that you are quite the little dancer." He extended an arm to her. "Might you give me a dance or two?"

Scarlett beamed and dipped her head toward him.

"Wonderful!"

She stepped up to the old knight, put one hand in his and set the other high atop his shoulder where she could hardly reach.

And then they were off, their feet stomping across the tile floor. Sir Dunmore was a good dancer, keeping the time and leading her in twirls to the right and to the left.

"Lord Tristian told me you enjoy your dance lessons very much," Sir Dunmore said. "It makes him happy, I think. Without the use of his feet it delights him to see you use yours."

The song ended, but Scarlett was just getting warmed up. When a fiddler began a bouncing tune she grabbed Sir Dunmore and started again. The crowd parted, making way for the tall knight and the springy little girl twirling and stepping as though they were the only ones in the room.

"We have an audience," Sir Dunmore said, as he dipped Scarlett over his arm. "Make me look good."

Hand in hand they danced a straight line to one end of the floor, then back toward the stage. She caught a glimpse of Tristian smiling down at her from his father's table, which gave her a thrill, a thrill that died the moment she saw the sour expression of Queen Catherina. She did not look amused.

The song finished and the people clapped. Sir Dunmore bowed. Scarlett curtsied, and they retreated from the dance floor.

A young woman glided up to Sir Dunmore and kissed him on the cheek. From her powdered cheeks, glossy lips, and long dark hair, to her deep décolletage, slim waist, and extravagant gown, she glimmered with a promiscuous beauty. "Who is she?" she asked, looking at Scarlett.

"Korah, this little one is the young lady I was telling you about," Dunmore answered. "The prince's young friend, and a wonderful dancer." He took Scarlett's hand. "Well done, miss." He gave her knuckles a kiss.

"And did you have fun, my darling?" Korah asked.

Sir Dunmore released a deep satisfied breath. "Korah, my dear, that was a fine dance."

"Should I be jealous?" Korah asked.

"Nonsense. You'll get your turn to dance." He grabbed her around the bottom, pulled her against his hip, and added, "In my room later tonight."

Korah giggled, a sweet and inviting sound.

She looked at Scarlett. "Do you live here in Tay, child?"

She nodded.

Korah's eyes brightened at the admission. "Oh, very good! Then perhaps you could tell me why the castle appears to be white when viewed at a distance. A very dear friend of mine who loves history and facts about the kingdoms made me promise to find out for her. Is it because of a magic spell, or is it a trick of the light?"

Before Scarlett could answer, Sir Dunmore tossed his head back and guffawed. "Silly girl. There is a simple scientific explanation for the castle's appearance, and it has nothing to do with spells or trickery. It's caused by the salt that blows in off the ocean, paints the castle in a fine white dust, you see."

Korah ran a finger through the knight's gray beard. "Seems they were right about you, Sir Dunmore. You know a lot about many things."

They walked off together, rubbing noses, hands groping.

Scarlett shook her head, amazed by the things people claimed to know and chose to believe. Had she a voice she would've explained that the castle's white appearance had nothing to do with salt, or magic and light. The stone used to build the castle was rich with white lime. When hit just right by the sun it appeared to shimmer white, though only for a brief period each day, and only when the skies were clear.

Scarlett noticed a series of quick colorful movements in front of the king's table atop the dais. When she got clear of the crowd she saw a trio of acrobats and jugglers leaping and spinning onto the stage. Among them was Buttonhead, Tay's most renowned jester. He wore a bright blue and red uniform with bells and trailing feathers, but his most distinguishing feature was his white button mask. The royal family of Tay, and a few others, knew him as Robert Kerr, a stage actor in the city's amphitheater, famous for his dramatic portrayals of Tay's historic leaders.

Scarlett noticed that the king's table was empty.

Glancing around the room she saw Tristian limping through the door behind the king and queen. She followed after him, intending to ask him about her living arrangements. She didn't care what the queen said. She didn't want to be forced out of Tristian's bedchambers and she was certain he would plead her case before Catherina.

She caught up to him in the corridor outside the State Hall, at the entrance to a private meeting room known as the King's Cagair. Scarlett had never been allowed inside. In fact, few were. The King's Cagair was reserved for confidential government and judicial matters.

Scarlett tugged on Tristian's shirtsleeve.

"Red," he greeted, "it was wonderful to see you dance tonight. You'll have to excuse me for a little while. The high king's emissary has requested a private conference with my family."

Demulier Gongrave brushed past Scarlett, her wild green eyes giving her the chills. "What a lovely young girl," the woman purred.

"Red, this is Demulier Congrave," Tristian said. "She is a high ranking advisor to the high king."

Scarlett didn't need or want an introduction. She remembered Demulier all too well. She offered a polite bow nonetheless.

"Charming," Demulier said before slipping into the meeting room.

"I'll be out shortly," Tristian said.

Scarlett huffed once the heavy wood door to the King's Cagair had closed. A guard stationed himself in front of the entrance that, when sealed, was soundproof. He glared at Scarlett with a stern gaze that suggested she find somewhere else to be.

She veered south and made her way along the corridors that circled around the King's Cagair. She didn't like not knowing what was being discussed. She didn't like that woman, or the high king's emissary.

They may have locked her out, but she knew of other ways inside.

Scarlett took a stool from a broom cupboard in the rear wing of the castle, and carried it to the corridor that circled around the back of the secret meeting room. Against the wall there was a notch with a small vent high above the floor. The vent was small and cold. Scarlett knew that in a few years she would be too big to fit through it, but for now she could shimmy on her elbows and knees to the metal grate overlooking the inside of the King's Cagair.

A half dozen lanterns illuminated the room. The dark stone walls were bare minus a large silver and gold coat of arms that hung behind the king's chair. Dagart, Catherina, and their two sons sat around a broad wooden table alongside two of Dagart's closest advisors, Balgair Kinloch and Dolmhart Gloinson. Princess Arrahbella sat next to Tristian, with a look of faint trepidation on her porcelain face.

Demulier stood on the outskirts of the room, her eyes intent on Ustus as he circled the table in the middle of a speech. He appeared calm and dignified, even if Scarlett did think his face was creepy.

"Do not think the loyalty of the Elles has gone unnoticed by his majesty," Ustus said. "He is extremely grateful for your support, and is prepared to reward you." He thrust a finger into the air. "But not in material gain. The wealth of Tay is widely known throughout the realm, and his majesty knows you are not in want, and so what he is prepared to offer is a wealth not of this world."

King Dagart looked puzzled. "What kind of wealth?"

"Wealth in power."

This seemed to please the king who smiled, as did his wife.

Demulier stepped forward and joined Ustus, who seemed to shrink in her presence. As much authority as Ustus conveyed, Demulier clearly had more. "The power our great king brings is the power of Ahkidibis."

A dark silence descended around the table.

Advisor Balgair said, "You dare speak that name here, woman?"

"Hold your tongue," Queen Catherina said with a deep frown.

"My lady," said a frightened Balgair, "to speak the god's name so freely is to invite his wicked presence into—"

"I said silence!" she shouted.

Demulier looked disappointed as she shook her head. "'His wicked presence,'" she repeated. "Those who fear the power of the God of Fire do not know what they should fear. It is that fear, Balgair, that taints his legend. Ahkidibis offers only truth, wrapped in the fury of a thousand ages. He is to be pitied, not feared. Loved, not hated. He rewards those who serve him, like High King Orkrash Mahl."

"The high king bows to the God of Fire?" Balgair asked. He seemed surprised, though no one else did.

"Hence his power," Demulier said. She moved along the side of the table with a devilish sway. "Hence his wealth. Ahkidibis is not the monster so many fear him to be. He wants a place on Edhen, and in exchange he is willing to grant us much, but he requires loyalty." She trailed her fingers along the back of Prince Taggart's neck. "Faithfulness. A pledge of unwavering allegiance."

Balgair looked stunned. "If you're asking the leaders of Tay to bow fully to the God of Fire—"

"Will you shut up, fool?" Catherina moaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Your protests are starting to give me a headache."

"Mother, let him speak," Tristian said.

Emboldened, Balgair turned to the king. "My lord, this requires careful thought. Whomever the high king chooses to bow to is his decision, but to require us to bow with him is the antithesis of freedom. It goes against everything the great High King Vala Hull fought to give this land."

"Vala Hull?" Demulier said.

"He was a tyrant," Catherina spat.

"And yet thanks to him this realm exists today," Tristian said.

Catherina turned to her son in shock. "Are you agreeing with Balgair?"

"I neither agree nor disagree with anyone," the prince answered. "I think this whole conversation is pointless."

"You consider the will of your high king pointless?" said Ustus. His expression was cold, his eyes like knives as his gaze bore down upon Tristian.

"If it is the high king's will that we bow to his god then all this discussion is rather moot, don't you think?" Tristian said. "What is the alternative? Death? Let's bow and be done with it."

Balgair lifted his hand. "We must think about this before—"

"We _have_ thought about this," Dagart said, cutting off his advisor. "This is why the high king has sent his emissaries to us, to hear our pledge of loyalty to him and to his god. As much as I hate to admit it, my cripple of a son is correct."

Balgair scoffed. "This is madness."

"Nevertheless," Dagart said, rising from his seat, "it is your king's wish that all of Tay follow the god of the high king."

Demulier glided over to Dagart and ran her hand across his shoulders. "As your loyalty grows, so will his strength. As his strength grows, his generals will rise. And you will be first among his chosen."

"Generals?" Balgair said. "Not the Adarc?"

Demulier smirked.

"My lord, the Adarc are demons from ancient times. We cannot—"

Catherina slammed her palm on the table. "For the last time, you will shut your tongue or I will remove it from your mouth!"

Balgair jumped to his feet, his chair scraping along the stone. "I will not stand by and let this kingdom fall to ruin because of the desperate hopes of an ignorant few."

"How dare you speak to your king like that?" Catherina said with a gasp.

"My apologies, my lady," Balgair said. "My job is to advise the spiritual and moral direction of our kingdom, and Tay has been backsliding for years. I cannot stand by and allow this to come to pass."

"Then you can remove yourself from this council," Dagart said.

Balgair looked offended. "My lord, I—"

"Your king gave you an order," Catherina hissed.

"Technically it wasn't an order, mother," Tristian said.

"And you can go with him, insolent twit," she said.

"My son stays," Dagart said. "If the Elles are to swear to the God of Fire, then they all must swear."

Balgair looked around the table, his eyes lingering on Advisor Dolmhart who had yet to say anything. The man stroked the pointy tuft of hair on the end of his chin as though in deep thought. After a moment, Balgair left the room.

Demulier walked to one of the lanterns and removed it from the wall. She extinguished its flame and then smashed the glass jar of oil onto the table. Pressing her palm into the oil she uttered a series of strange sounding words unlike any language Scarlett had ever heard before. When she lifted her oil slicked hand, she blew on it and a small flame erupted in her palm.

She extended her hand to Dagart. "Swear to him," she said. "Swear to your high king and to the God of Fire whom he serves."

Dagart took the woman's hand, wincing at the bite of flame. "I swear."

She walked to Catherina and extended her hand. "Swear to him, your high king and to his god."

The queen took Demulier's hand and shook it. "I swear."

And so it went around the table—Taggart, Dolmhart, and Arrahbella, their hands sealing their commitments in a blink of flame.

When Demulier came to Tristian, Scarlett held her breath, wishing she could shout out to him to stop.

"Do you swear to Ahkidibis?" Demulier asked.

Ahkidibis. The God of Fire. Everything Scarlett had ever heard about the deity was monstrous. She couldn't let Tristian pledge allegiance to such a being.

She grabbed onto the metal grate, hoping to rattle it to get Tristian's attention, but the metal was bolted tight to the wall.

Tristian took the woman's flaming hand.

Scarlett felt her heart sink as she watched him give it a single shake up and down.

"I have the strangest feeling we've met before," Demulier said as she looked deep into Tristian's eyes.

He shrugged. "I doubt it. I could not easily forget a woman of your beauty."

She smiled and let him go, extinguishing the tiny flame in the palm of her hand with a sultry puff of her lips.

"The high king expresses his thanks to all of you," Ustus said. "He asks now for your patience. The road ahead will be long and fraught with many obstacles. War is coming to Edhen, and he will need loyal supporters."

Dagart dipped his head. "High King Orkrash Mahl can count on Tay, its resources and its people."

When the meeting adjourned, Scarlett took advantage of the scraping chairs and bustle of bodies to mask her movements back through the vent. She climbed out of the hole into the hallway, returned the stool to the broom cupboard, and ran back down the corridors leading to the State Hall.

She wheeled around a corner to see Demulier and Ustus in the midst of a hushed discussion. The sight startled her. She jumped back and hid around the corner, winded from her run. Slowly, carefully, she ventured a peek around the bend.

Demulier look agitated. She paced in front of Ustus in her long black gown, one hand pressed against her forehead.

"It's him," she said, trying to keep her voice low.

"The cripple?" Ustus said.

"He is the one, I know it."

"How do you know?"

"When I touched him, his soul reeked with the memories of his ancestors."

Ustus crossed his arms and touched his chin in thought. "But you did not get this feeling when you touched his brother, or the king?"

"The link to one's ancestral line is not always strong," Demulier said, "but in Prince Tristian it thrives. I'm telling you, he is the one we need to—"

Ustus held up his hand. "All right. All right." He looked down the hallway, first away from Scarlett, then toward her. Just as his head swiveled in her direction she ducked back behind the corner.

She heard them whispering before their footsteps retreated away.

After a few calming breaths Scarlett pursued them back to the State Hall.

The entertainers had left the stage and were now mingling with the crowd, doing sleight-of-hand tricks and telling jokes. The main stage had been taken over by a woman with a large harp, strumming away and humming as the guests indulged in wine and the large number of prostitutes now mingling with the crowd.

Scarlett looked around for Tristian, desperate to tell him what she had just overheard. But what had she overhead? In her mind, she couldn't make sense of it. Demulier sounded obsessed with Prince Tristian, rambling on about the memories of his ancestors, not to mention her talk of gods and the high king, which made no sense.

She looked left, then right, searching for signs of Tristian's lumbering frame. She wheeled around, bumping headlong into the hip of Princess Arrahbella.

"Oh, my dear, are you all right?" the princess asked.

Scarlett nodded.

Arrahbella stepped back, her brows crinkling as she looked at Scarlett's dress. "My, my. What have we been up to?"

Scarlett realized with horror that her beautiful purple dress was smeared with dirt and dust from the narrow vent. She should've known that crawling around in the arteries of the castle would leave her filthy.

"Maybe you should go clean yourself up," suggested Arrahbella. "It's getting late, and besides this party is becoming hardly a place for a young girl."

"Quite right," said the queen. She wandered up behind Scarlett. Her eyes glanced up and down her filthy dress in disgust. "What in the nine kingdoms have you been up to, child?"

Scarlett mimed the first thing that came to her mind: a monkey. She puffed out her cheeks, scratched her armpits, and wobbled from foot to foot, knowing that such an unladylike display would rile the queen's temper. It might mean a slap to the face, but it would at least stop her from asking questions.

"Ghastly!" Catherina exclaimed. "Off to your room at once!"

Scarlett hung her head in mock sorrow and walked off.

"And not to the west wing," Catherina said. "Aamor!" She snapped her fingers, and a moment later the young maidservant appeared next to her. She was sweating and out of breath, a pile of dirty plates in her hands. "You are to move this child's belongings to the servants' dormitories at once."

Aamor looked confused. "My lady, Prince Tristian told me to give her a room in the west wing with—"

"Did Tristian recently become king of Tay?" Catherina asked.

"No, my—"

"Do his orders supersede my own?"

"No, my—"

"Then what part of what I have ordered you to do remains unclear? Take this child to the servant chambers at once. She isn't large. Give her the smallest room."

"That would be my room, my lady."

Catherina pressed a hand to her heart and gasped. "What a marvelous idea. Thank you, Aamor."

The maid scrunched her brows. "My lady?"

"You two can be sisters and share a room together and giggle over silly dreams and sew patches into your filthy clothes."

Aamor dipped her head. "Yes, my lady."

She set the stack of dishes on a nearby table and took Scarlett by the hand. Together they left the State Hall.

Aamor said nothing as they walked to the rear wing of the castle, descended to the lowest level, to the damp, dark passageway where the servants resided in cramped quarters.

Scarlett wondered if the young woman was still upset at her about trying to join her hand with Tristian's.

Aamor pushed hard against a stubborn door that scraped and groaned as it opened, revealing a small room with a bed, a wooden chest, and a small table. Aamor went inside and lit a few candles. She then went about picking up a few loose garments laying on the floor.

Scarlett stood in the doorway, somewhat afraid to enter. She didn't quite feel welcome in Aamor's room, but, then again, she had never felt very welcome in Tay. She had been brought here to be the butt of a joke, and found herself unwanted all over again once the punch line had played itself out. There was no place for her in Tay, apart from her friendship with Tristian, and even that appeared to be coming to an end.

Aamor noticed her standing hesitant under the lintel. The young woman sighed as she sat down on the bed and patted the mattress next to her. Scarlett entered and sat down.

"I'm sorry," Aamor said. She set a hand on Scarlett's back and gave it a rub. "I shouldn't be mad at you. It just doesn't seem fair. With every passing day it seems the wealthy get more and more, and we get less and less."

Scarlett thought for a moment, then pulled out her blackboard and wrote: _We have each other_.

Aamor dropped a kiss atop her head. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

# BRYNLEE

"Another flawless performance, Emma," said Mistress Rose as she sat crossed legged at the breakfast table. "You're surpassing my expectations, which doesn't happen very often."

Brynlee stepped back and bowed her head. "Thank you, mistress."

She wiped her sweaty palms on the front folds of her yellow linen dress and surveyed her handiwork. She had set the table perfectly, with spoons, forks, and knives in careful order. The tea had been poured without spilling a drop, the biscuits served and buttered in a clean manner, and the apples sliced and laid out in a balanced pattern. The setting looked pleasing dappled by the sunlight floating in through the window's latticework.

Mistress Rose looked elegant in her black and red silk gown. The lace-covered fabric panels on her chest fit closely making a flattering silhouette, but from the waist down the fabric flowed outward in a giant bell shape, the hem trimmed with black braiding.

"Wipe that hateful look off your face, girl," Rose snapped.

Brynlee's eyes darted to the mistress, fearing she had done something wrong. To her immediate relief she realized Rose was speaking to Tavia, another one of her courtesans in training. Tavia was fifteen and was already taking on charges even though she was, as Rose would say, "slow and clumsy." Tavia was the daughter of a poor brick maker in the slums of northern Perth. She knew little about decorum and table etiquette, an area Brynlee excelled it, which was probably why the young woman had developed such a dislike for her.

When it came to physical beauty, however, Tavia had more than a leg up on Brynlee. She had two actually, and both were long and beautiful, giving way to shapely hips as well as other desirable curves.

"You could learn a lot from Emma," Rose continued. She reached out and caressed Brynlee's chin. "She's going to be my best girl some day." She gestured toward an empty wooden chair. "Sit, my dear."

Brynlee took the seat, pulling at the uncomfortable folds of her linen dress, which was little more than a shift with nothing worn underneath. She felt naked wearing it outside her bedroom, but Mistress Rose insisted the garment would help her grow accustomed to the even more revealing clothes she would be expected to wear in the future.

"Let us talk," Rose said. "Pretend I am your man. You have successfully seduced me with your delicious treats, charmed me with your lovely looks, now stimulate my mind with some engaging conversation. This, ladies, is the true art of a courtesan."

Brynlee's mind went blank. "Um."

Rose snapped her fingers. "Never start a conversation with, 'Um.' Never say 'uh' or 'er' or any other empty-headed noises. Noises are uninteresting. Use words. Now try again."

Brynlee cleared her throat. "I—"

Rose's fingers snapped again. "Never start a conversation with 'I.'"

Tavia snickered.

"You're not here to talk about you," Rose continued. "You're here to stroke the ego of a man, which is an art unto itself. Stroke his ego too blatantly and he'll know you're putting on a show. Stroke it too lightly and he won't feel like he's getting his money's worth. Now come on, child. I thought you were a well-learned girl. Show me some of those wits of yours."

Brynlee racked her brain for something to say, a piece of historical fact, any fact, and said the first thing that came to mind. "You're from Aberdour, aren't you my lord? The summer must almost be over right now, if I'm not mistaken. I hear it gets quite humid there in the summer. Tell me, do you know of any watering holes where a girl might enjoy a cool bath when the summers get too hot to bear?"

Rose smiled and clapped her hands. "Very good, Emma. You put the attention on him right away. Asked him a question to get him talking. And that, ladies, is the easiest trick in the book. Get a man talking about himself and you'll be set for hours. Just don't forget to bat your eyes and at least pretend to be listening."

Brynlee offered a cute little smile, which was something she had learned to do on cue at Mungo's.

"And a word of warning, when a man is thoroughly charmed by you he will likely lavish you with gifts. No matter how silly or useless they seem, you will treat them like gold. Understand?"

"And if he doesn't give you gifts he'll give you secrets," Brynlee said, repeating something she'd heard from Korah years ago.

Mistress Rose looked pleased. "Quite right. Most men assume you are too stupid to understand, and so they'll talk about many things they should not, but always remember that secrets are to be kept. Never shared. The moment you lose the trust of your clients, you've lost your reputation and your job."

Rose stood up and smoothed out the front of her sleeveless red gown. "Clean this up." She waved her hand over the breakfast table. "When everything is finished, meet me upstairs."

"Yes, mistress," the girls answered, almost in unison.

Rose left the dining room and pattered up the stairs. Brynlee began collecting plates and dishes and placed them into a wooden crate to take to the kitchen.

Tavia grabbed a piece of uneaten cake and lifted it to her lips. She paused, said, "If you say anything I'll scratch your face," and stuffed it into her mouth.

Brynlee noticed dark welts across the back of Tavia's hands. "What happened?" she asked.

"Nothing," the girl said, grabbing for the forks and spoons. Then, considering, she added, "Mistress Rose caught me drinking milk from the cellar again."

Brynlee exhaled and shook her head. "I told you not to do that. Milk is costly, and you know the mistress saves it for the clients."

"Shut up," Tavia said. She slammed the silverware down into the crate and closed her eyes. For a moment Brynlee thought the girl was going to cry. "Some of the other girls say I'm too skinny. They say none of the men will love me if I'm so skinny. They tell me to drink more milk, but the mistress won't let me have anything except water." She looked at Brynlee. "So what in all the hells am I supposed to do, huh?"

For a moment Brynlee didn't know what to say. Tavia's sudden revelation was jarring and made her pity the poor girl.

Her eyes wandered to the welts on the back of her hands again, which were not the first the young woman had ever received. Mistress Rose used a long leather switch, about as thick around as her biggest finger and as long as her arm. It whistled through the air when she swung it and landed against flesh like a sharp sting, hard enough to leave a mark, but not to break the skin. Brynlee had seen the mistress whip Tavia across the feet for tripping over a customer, and once across her back when she broke a plate.

"Why do you have to be so perfect, Emma?" Tavia asked, toweling off the table.

"What?"

"I mean, where did you learn to do all this stuff?"

Brynlee shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I just watch how others do it."

Tavia threw the towel in the crate and heaved it off the table.

"You're like a little princess," she said. "Sweet and spoiled, big brown eyes like a little fawn. Just wait until you start taking on charges. See how you like it."

The thought of taking on male clients hung over Brynlee's head like a dark gray cloud. Mistress Rose reminded her of it almost every day. The whores of her brothel talked about it like it was a great honor, but to Brynlee it was a terrifying prospect. She had three more years of waiting and training and then she would know what it was like to sleep with a man.

"Tavia?" she asked just as the girl was about to enter the kitchen.

She stopped and huffed. "What?"

"What's it like? The first time?"

"What do you mean 'the first time..." Tavia started to ask, but she stopped when she realized what Brynlee was referring to. She shrugged. "It is what it is." She disappeared into the next room where Brynlee heard the rattling of dishes and trays.

Disappointed that she didn't get a more definitive answer, Brynlee went back to cleaning the kitchen by swiping crumbs off the wooden table. She should not have expected Tavia to answer her seriously anyway. The young woman hated Brynlee. Ever since that day when she spilled a tray of cakes all over Sir Dunmore Waters and received a whipping for it, she'd been haughty and spiteful.

Tavia remerged from the kitchen, her bruised hands hugging her waist. "It hurts," she said. "The first time. It hurts."

Brynlee felt the nervous knot in her stomach clench a little bit tighter. At the same time, however, she saw the pain in Tavia's face and her heart filled with compassion for the poor brick maker's daughter.

That afternoon they served Rose and her guests during a small, private gathering of wealthy knights and high-ranking noblemen. The femininity of Rose's establishment shrunk behind their charade of polished armor, decorative swords, the scent of oil rubbed leather, and rugged virility. The exclusive party, which was by invitation only, coupled with fine wine and the popularity of Rose's girls, made the gathering a much talked about affair. Even the stout-waisted Mungo attended, his balding head wreathed in green leaves.

Brynlee was thrilled with the new gown Rose had given her for the occasion, the first red dress she'd ever had. The top was delightfully soft, a velvet fabric that hugged her torso with the help of a gold and black ring belt. Silk-lined tippets let her hands and forearms work unrestricted while the brocade skirt allowed lots of room for her legs to move.

And move she did.

Brynlee and a couple of Rose's less experienced courtesans spent their time hurrying up and down the stairs to and from the kitchen serving cakes, wine, fruit, and spiced cheese. Hustling without looking like one was hustling, Brynlee knew, was the key to looking desirable. Rose insisted upon gracefulness at all times, along with an unending smile, and, when it came to interacting with potential charges, a sweetness so thick it was almost suffocating. Pet names like "Honey" and "Deary" were to be peppered all throughout their conversations.

The most exclusive clientele had pseudonyms that the girls were to use as often as anything else. The seasoned knight Dunmore Waters, for example, was known as Sir Dimples. All the girls knew if they ever called him this outside of Rose's brothel he would probably beat them to death, but when they purred "Sir Dimples" into his ear while tickling his beard he became butter in their fingers.

Rose's girls worked the bawdy crowd with enthusiasm, filling the stomachs with wine and teasing them with flesh, all while stroking their egos with incessant flattery.

A crash, like a door breaking off its hinges, sounded from one of the bedrooms down the hall. A moment later a lean man with a tuft of hair circling his bald dome stumbled down the hallway, half dressed and red in the face. Sir Dunmore Waters came stalking after him, fists clenched and ready to fight.

Rose Gown emerged from the crowd of prostitutes and half drunk nobles. "What is this all about?" she demanded. Upon noticing the skinny man, she gasped. "Brother Placidous? Are you all right?"

The quivering priest stopped in the archway and faced the room of gawking party guests. He finished roping his pants around his waist. "Yes, m–my lady. I–I think there's been a misunderstanding."

Tavia hurried down the hall, naked save for a bed sheet that she clung to her chest. She punched Sir Dunmore in the shoulder, a blow the knight didn't even appear to feel through the leather padding of his torso. "What is the matter with you? He is my charge. We were—"

Dunmore turned and slapped her so hard she spun to the floor. He looked at Rose. "You've got a wolf in sheep's clothing here, my lady."

Rose was fuming. "Sir Dunmore, you better be glad we have such a lengthy friendship otherwise I'd have you thrown out for this disruption."

"My apologies, mistress." He pointed to Placidous. "This charlatan is no longer a priest. Seems he is still taking your money to support the church, however."

Placidous lifted his hands. "N–now, hold on now. Mistress, I've known you for many years, and the church greatly values your support. You must believe—"

"You are not a priest?" Rose said.

"He was exiled from a monastery called Halus Gis on Efferous more than three years ago," Dunmore said. "Seems there were questions about his morality."

A few chuckles sputtered up from the guests.

Rose cocked an eyebrow at Placidous. "Is that so? And the donations I've given you?"

Without his shirt on it was easy to see the shiver that ran up the man's torso. He opened his mouth to speak, but in his distress it appeared that words had escaped him.

"He probably kept the money for himself," Dunmore said. "How else could he afford to frequent such a lavish, respectable brothel such as this?"

The room had gone silent. Brynlee didn't even dare to breathe as she stood in the crowd of guests watching the scene unfold.

She saw Tavia on the floor nursing the left side of her teary-eyed face while trying to cover whatever dignity she could with the thin sheet.

"You lied to me for three years," said Rose as she stepped toward Placidous. "You took money from me, money you said would go to keeping your religious leaders out of my business."

Placidous had begun to cry. "Mistress, please. I—"

"YOU LIED TO ME!" Rose screamed. She threw her goblet of wine at him, which bounced off his shoulder and spilled down his chest.

Placidous fell apart. "I–I'm s–s–o sorry, mistress. P–please forgive me. I will pay you back. I will pay you back, I swear it!"

"Pay me back with your life, dog."

Rose snapped her fingers and Dunmore, along with a bodyguard who had been hired for the night, grabbed Placidous by the arms.

"Take him to the window and hang him from the eaves," she said. "By his feet," she added. "Then set him on fire."

The people in the room made noises of agreement, some even clapped.

"What?" Placidous screamed. "Mistress, I beg you!"

Rose lifted her hand and silence descended upon the room again. "But first," she said contemplatively, "take his prick." She slipped a shiny narrow dagger out from her sleeve and handed it to Sir Dunmore.

The fervor of the crowd erupted and drowned out the panicked screams of the former priest. He kicked and fought against the strong arms that held him to no avail.

Through the bustle of shifting bodies, Brynlee saw Tavia scurry to her feet and take off down the hallway. She pushed after her through the crowd.

She followed her outside around the back of the house and up the stairs that led onto the roof. The air was chilly, heralding the autumn that was soon to come.

"Stop following me," Tavia said as she wrapped the white sheet around herself. She went and stood by the waist high parapet and looked out over the nighttime city of Perth, the warm breeze toiling with a few strands of her blonde curls.

"Are you all right?" Brynlee asked.

Tavia looked at her. The usual bounce of life in her crisp blue eyes was dead. "Just give me a moment."

Tavia jumped when the piercing scream of Placidous tore through the night. She covered her face and cried, shivering from head to toe. "It's not true what they say about him. He wasn't a rapist. He never hurt me. We've been together many times and he's never been anything but kind."

"Did he really steal from Mistress Rose?"

Tavia didn't answer at first, just cried and shook her head. "I don't know. It doesn't matter." She shot Brynlee a vicious scowl. "What do you care anyway? Little Miss Perfect."

Brynlee never knew what to say to Tavia's insults, but as her eyes once again fell on the red whip marks on the back of the girl's hands, she got an idea. She unbuttoned the top two buttons on the back of her dress until she could slip her right shoulder out from the collar, revealing a faint pink scar along her shoulder blade. She turned so Tavia could see it.

"I didn't get out of his way in time," she said. "He was drunk and had a stick in his hand, so he whacked me with it. Left a scar." She pulled the sleeve of her dress back up and started refastening the buttons. "See? I'm not so perfect."

The corners of Tavia's mouth twitched as if to smile. "Who was he?"

Brynlee shrugged. "Just a customer of Mungo's."

Tavia leaned over the wall and looked down. "Sometimes I wander how long it would take me to fall from up here," she mused.

A nervous flutter blossomed in Brynlee's stomach. "Why would you wonder something like that?"

"I don't know. Maybe cause I'd like to think that I can fly. Maybe if I jumped off and opened my arms the gods would let me soar away from this awful place."

Brynlee watched the young woman lean out over the edge, further, further, and further. Tavia had a strange distant look in her eyes, almost like she wasn't there, and it pimpled Brynlee's skin.

Taking Tavia's arm, she asked, "Are you all right?"

She blinked and leaned back. "Yes. I'm just..." She paused. "I'm just tired."

Brynlee felt her shivering under her hands. "Let's get you out of this chill. You're not dressed to be out here."

The two girls slipped back inside unnoticed. Brynlee did her best to keep Tavia from seeing the nude mutilated body of Placidous hanging in the window. She urged her back to her room where they shut the door, pulled the drapes, lit as many candles as they could find, and then burrowed under the pillows and silk blankets of the large bed. They tented the sheets over their faces, hiding from the muffled noises of chattering guests, bawdy laughter, and the rhythmic thumping of aggressive sex two bedrooms away.

"I misjudged you, Emma," Tavia said, taking Brynlee's hand. "You're not so bad."

"Thanks. You're not so bad either."

Tavia rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes I am."

The two girls shared a giggle that seemed to deflate any lingering uneasiness between them.

"What did you mean earlier tonight when you talked about falling from the roof?" Brynlee asked. "Why would you think about something like that?"

Tavia was quiet for a long moment. "Don't you ever think about running away from here?"

"No."

"I do. I think about running back home," she whispered. "My parents are dead, but, oh, to be among the cattails and dragonflies again, hunt for turtles in the pond. You don't think about running away ever?"

"Not anymore."

"Why not?"

Brynlee thought for a moment. "When they brought me to Mungo's it never occurred to me to run away. Then one night this other girl, Murron, she decided she wasn't going to be a whore. She tried to go out the window. When Mungo caught her, he beat her so bad she limped for many days after that. Since then, any time I think about running away, I think about Murron."

"How old were you?"

"I was seven."

Tavia's spirit seemed to deflate.

"Besides," Brynlee continued, "where would we go?"

"I hear that on Efferous Edhen is known as _do locus dubi veevay_."

"What does that mean?"

"The place where evil abides." Tavia shifted to bring her head closer to Brynlee's. "In fact, Placidous, he told me lots of things about Efferous."

"What kinds of things?"

"Amazing things!" She lowered her voice even more. "He said Halus Gis is a place of hope. Said it once helped refugees from Aberdour. We could find safety there, and peace. Maybe even live there. We should get out of here. Work our way to Efferous. Start a new life!"

Brynlee shook her head. "If you're caught, Mistress Rose will beat you, maybe even sell you off. You can't—"

"She can kill me for all I care. I can't stay in this place any more. Will you come with me?"

The directness of her question caught Brynlee off guard. "Uh, I don't... I don't know. I mean, no. I can't."

"Of course you can."

Brynlee didn't know what to say. The conversation alone made her nervous.

"Will you at least think about it?" Tavia asked.

When Brynlee didn't answer, Tavia rolled over in a frustrated huff.

Neither of them spoke the rest of the night. Brynlee lay awake wondering if she had become too complacent, too willing to accept her fate. Maybe it was time to start dreaming about something beyond the walls of Rose's brothel.

Then again, she found herself wondering if her life was truly so horrible? Her days in Aberdour were a memory now. She had adapted to life in the capital city quite comfortably. She had food, clothes, a warm bed, and she found it quite enjoyable to feel beautiful and appreciated by so many. Rose was a strict mistress, but she took care of her girls, far better than Mungo ever did, and Brynlee was learning business savvy from her every day.

She drifted off into a dreamless sleep, and didn't wake again until after dawn. She was alone in the bed, and Tavia was nowhere to be seen.

Brynlee trotted downstairs in a linen chemise. The scent of fresh bacon spitting in the kitchen made her stomach rumble and her taste buds salivate.

When she rounded the corner and saw Korah her heart burst.

"Oh!" Korah exclaimed as Brynlee threw herself into her. "I'm glad someone is happy to see me return."

Rose sat at the wooden table sipping a mug of warm herbs, a red robe draped over her frame. She looked frazzled with a head of disheveled hair, but Brynlee guessed that she had been up late entertaining a charge or two.

"You're late," Rose remarked. "Sir Dunmore was here last night. Where were you?"

"Didn't my lord tell you? We encountered Marshall Linfeld at the Margretian Wall. He wished to bed me for the night, and so I stayed." She handed Rose a small ivory pouch of coins.

Rose pursued her lips. "Linfeld must stop taking advantage of my girls. I wished you had been here last night."

"You missed quite a show," Brynlee said.

"Oh?"

"Never mind that for now," Rose said.

"Are you hungry?" said a fat kitchen maid waving a spatula dripping with yolk. "I'll have some eggs and honeyed mead done right for you in a just a moment, young miss."

"Sounds wonderful."

"Tell me about your trip," Brynlee said. "Was the castle at Tay as large as I've heard? Is it really white? Did you figure out why?"

"Oh, hush child," Rose said. "Your questions are giving me a headache."

"Mistress Rose!" cried one of the girls as she came running down the hall. "Mistress Rose!" It was Abby, one of the brothel's more popular courtesans. She was dressed in nothing but a red robe.

"What is it, dear?"

"It's Tavia, mistress. She's run away."

Rose's eyes crinkled in anger. "What?"

"Her bed is empty. Her things are gone. And I can't find her anywhere."

"Go fetch the..." but Rose stopped when she noticed Abby wasn't dressed. She looked at Brynlee's chemise and sighed in frustration. "Is anyone in this house fully dressed?"

A young woman hurried in from an adjoining room wearing a simple serving gown. "I am, mistress."

"Fetch the magistrate at once! Tavia can't be far. Go now, child! Go!"

The young woman ran from the house, the straps of her apron trailing behind her.

Rose rubbed her face and started pacing and muttering. "Little wench. Going to cost me more to hunt her down and bring her back than she's earned me all year." She stopped when she noticed Brynlee and Korah and a couple other girls staring at her. "Don't any of you have work to do?"

While the others peeled off to various corners of the house, Brynlee helped Korah to her room with her travel bags. As soon as the young woman closed the door, she unleashed a flurry of hushed questions at Brynlee. "What in all the kingdoms happened while I was away? Why did Tavia leave? Is the mistress all right? She looks sad."

Brynlee found it difficult to spit out last night's tale of horror just off the cuff, but she did her best. She finished by describing Tavia's desire to run away.

"She even asked me to go with her," Brynlee said. "Oh, Korah, I should've known she would do this. I should've stopped her. You don't think this is my fault, do you?"

Korah put her hands on Brynlee's shoulders. "Shh. Listen to me. Tavia's choices were all her own. You must promise me, no matter how bad things get, you must never run away. Don't even attempt it. Do you understand?"

Brynlee wasn't sure if Korah's words made her feel better or worse. "Why not?"

"Because there is no place better than any other," she said. "We are all made for a purpose, and we must endure whatever purpose we've been given." She stood and wandered to her wardrobe to remove her dress. "We can't change our destinies, Emma. We have to live the lives we have."

"'Few will ever be great enough to bend history, but if each of us works to change a small portion of events, then we, in the total of all those small acts, will write a greater history then has ever been written.'"

Korah narrowed her eyes in confusion. "What does that mean?"

"It means just because we can't change the world doesn't mean we can't change anything."

"And who said that? Someone famous, I'm guessing."

Brynlee grinned. "My grandfather."

Korah smiled. "Just promise me you'll never do anything foolish. It's a dangerous world out there, my love."

Korah's words were poignantly illustrated later that afternoon when Tavia returned. The magistrate found her nude body lying in a ditch, unconscious and covered in mud, bruises, semen, and blood. Her face was unrecognizable, and her left arm was broken.

Rose asked the magistrate to send the doctor who arrived later that afternoon. Life in the brothel came to a near standstill. The girls gathered outside of Tavia's room, heads peering in through the doorway as the doctor set her broken arm in a splint and sling, stitched up her wounds, and gave her some medicine for the pain.

Tavia didn't know how many men had raped her, but she knew she had spent the night in the cold and mud of the gutter.

Suppertime came and went in almost total silence. Mistress Rose ate alone in her bedchambers, which she had never done before.

While Brynlee was preparing some tea for Rose, one of the girls asked, "What's wrong with the mistress?"

"She's mad at Tavia," said Abby as she sat down at the kitchen table. "She's never liked her. The girl is such a clumsy oaf."

They all started speculating in between mouthfuls of vegetable soup and bread. "Rose has invested a lot in her and what has she gotten in return?"

"Nothing."

"And she probably won't get nothing from her at all. Probably sell her off now that she's all damaged like she is."

"Don't talk like that!"

"You just wait, honey. I'm right."

Brynlee ignored them and stole down the hallway toward Rose's lavish bedroom. Dark red drapes covered the windows and walls. A massive four-post bed piled with lush pillows and decorated with whips and shackles occupied the north wall. The room was heavily perfumed and featured several large paintings of nude women in wanton poses.

The mistress was sitting at a large dark wood desk, gazing out at the evening streets and the commoners walking by.

"Mistress, I've brought you some hot tea."

Rose said nothing. Brynlee took the tray and set it on the desk. She poured a small cup and placed it on a white saucer next to Rose.

"See if Tavia needs anything, will you Emma?" Rose said. "I want you to stay with her during the night. Can you do that, please?"

"Of course, mistress."

"You're a good girl, Emma. You have a rare kindness in you."

Brynlee had never heard such soft-spoken compliments from Rose. She almost didn't know how to respond. "Thank you, mistress."

She retreated from the bedroom and went up stairs to check on Tavia.

The halls of the brothel were growing dimmer as the daylight faded, making the dark red and brown wood walls feel ominous and empty.

She knocked on the doorjamb to Tavia's room and then opened the door. The silk sheets of the scented bed had been thrown aside, the bank of pillows spilling onto the floor.

"Tavia?"

Brynlee looked behind the folding screen over which was draped an extravagant blue dress, one of Tavia's favorites. She looked inside the wardrobe and then toward the cushioned seat under the bow window, but the room was empty.

She went downstairs, a growing sense of uneasiness rising within her.

She hurried through the front door and ran around the back of the building. She took the stairs as fast as she could, up five flights, to the garden on the brothel roof.

There she saw Tavia standing atop the brick and mortar parapet looking down at the street five stories below. Her toes were on the very edge.

"Tavia!" she called.

The girl turned, her swollen face covered in tears.

"What are you doing?" Brynlee asked.

Lips quivering, Tavia said, "I don't want to do this anymore, Emma."

"Do what?"

She gestured toward the mountain of bruises on her face, the one eye that was sealed shut. "Look what they did to me. I don't... never again. Do you understand?"

Brynlee moved toward her. "Don't do this."

"I have to. I'm not strong like you. I'm sorry."

She backed closer to the edge.

"You know what my older sister once told me? She said, 'Brynlee, whenever you're afraid, you pretend to be someone else. Someone stronger.' And so I dig down inside every day and I find someone bigger than me, someone who can take the hits and keep living."

Tavia's expression seemed confused. She looked from Brynlee to the street far below. "Brynlee?" she said.

"That's my name. My real name." The admission brought a tear to her eye.

"As in the princess of Aberdour?"

Brynlee swallowed a lump in her throat and moved her head up and down.

"Everyone thinks you're dead," Tavia said. "They think all the Falls children are dead."

"I know."

"Why would you tell me that?"

Brynlee inched closer to the parapet, almost close enough to touch the young woman's leg. "Because you're my friend, and I want you to know who I am. I need you, Tavia." She reached up for the young woman's hand. Tears trickled down her face as her heart banged against her ribs. "If I can be strong, you can be strong, too. I can show you."

Tavia regarded the ledge one more time. "Brynlee Falls of Aberdour."

"Take my hand, Tavia. Please." Her sobs came full force now, an embarrassing mess that covered her face.

Tavia's expression melted and she took Brynlee's hand. She hopped down off the waist high ledge where Brynlee grabbed her and pulled her in close, mindful of her broken arm.

"By the gods," Tavia whispered. "Brynlee Falls!" She jerked away from her embrace and looked her square in the eyes. "Placidous. He–he told me... on Efferous... Oh, I can't–this is amazing!" Her words came out in a spluttering mess and she cupped her brow with her palm.

"What are you trying to say?"

Tavia's eyes focused on her, intense and wide. "Brynlee, did you know that your brothers are still alive?"

# BRODERICK

Behind him a large dark shape moved against a cobalt sky scattered with stars and luminous with moon-washed clouds. He remained still, muscles taut, but when he saw that it was Stoneman, he relaxed.

"Didn't mean to frighten yeh, young master," said the soldier of the King's Shield. His massive frame lumbered through the dark until he squatted down next to Broderick, the leather straps of his armor creaking and stretching.

"It all looks a wee different at night, dun' it?" he said, his strong bearish voice comforting in the unfamiliar night.

Broderick focused his attention back on the city of Thalmia stretching out below him. The shadows of its buildings and streets were etched in moonlight, their dark silhouettes peppered with fire-lit windows and towers.

"Actually, I think some things are easier to see at night," Broderick said.

"Such as?"

Broderick pointed west, toward the ocean shore, where a section of the wall bowed inward to accommodate the harbor. "See those two narrow towers all lit up? That's the most prominent gate. The road passing under it is wide, and the entrance is well lit." He moved his finger to a smaller gate in the northern wall that was facing their direction. "That gate, on the other hand, is barely lit at all, which means fewer guards."

Stoneman nodded. "Good eyes, you got."

"And do you see that tower?" Broderick pointed toward a single flame high over the center of the city, glowing through the thin white mist that hung above the region. "A watchtower that high and that bright can only mean that whatever's over there is very important, probably the herus' house or something."

"Herus?"

"Their king."

"Why don' they jus' call him a king?" Stoneman asked.

Broderick had to smile, because he had asked the very same question when Ariella tried explaining it to him once. "It's just what they call him, I guess. Each of the eleven provinces of Efferous are governed by a herus who answers to an emperor who oversees the realm."

Stoneman smirked. "I guess yeh did learn a few things at Halus Gis, 'spite what people says." He chuckled and ruffled the hair on top of Broderick's head.

"I figure we should probably stay away from the parts of the city that are so well lit," Broderick said. "More light means more people, more danger."

Again Stoneman laughed. He pointed to the bright watchtower at the city' center. "Tha's righ' where we be going to."

Broderick felt a nervous lump form in his throat. "Figures."

Stoneman tapped him on the leg. "Come. We should get back." The big soldier left the cliff side.

Casting one more glance at Thalmia, Broderick let his eyes drift south along the winding streets and alleys until a thickening fog swallowed his view of the city. He wondered how much further the city extended, and if it reached all the way to the southern shore.

By midmorning the following day, he had his answer. From within Thalmia, high atop a flat cobbled marketplace, Broderick saw what last night's fog had kept secret—the yellow stone city rolling for leagues and leagues toward a sparkling blue ocean.

"What do you think, Sir Taighfinn?" Khalous asked over his shoulder.

Ty's head swiveled left and right as he sauntered along atop his horse next to Broderick. "She smells of home," he said.

"You don't look very happy about it," Broderick said, noting the worried look on Ty's face.

"Just because this is being my home doesn't mean I'm full of happiness at being here."

"What? You don't like your home?" Nash asked.

"Thalmia is, um, not always a nicest place."

"I heard the herus cuts the arms and legs off his enemies," Clint said.

"Sick bastard," Nash muttered.

Gulls called overhead and hopped about the winding cobblestone streets. A refreshing breeze whistled past dark wood beam structures and creaky wooden signposts.

There was hardly a single road that lacked a store selling fishing tackle or fabric for sails, leather for jackets, wood for boats, or any number of other things required for a tough living wrought from the ocean. Patches of people plodded up and down the sides of the salt dusted streets, while vendors hocked rice, fish, and skins of ale.

Broderick followed Khalous deep into Thalmia, his eyes on high alert for the hidden contingent of black vipers he was sure was waiting to jump out and capture them. He felt his palms moistening, and his nerves growing thin. But no one came to get them. In fact, no one seemed to take any notice of them at all. The eleven travelers moved deeper and deeper into Thalmia, with few citizens even bothering to give them a glance.

Khalous led them into the heart of the city. He veered down a side street that circled around an enormous central plaza and stopped in front of an old inn and tavern.

"We wait here," he said, dismounting. He led his horse up to a long trough in front of the building and tied its reigns there. "Broderick, Brayden. Follow me."

Broderick slid down off his horse, an odd mixture of curiosity and fear wrestling around in his stomach. He locked eyes with his brother, but Brayden looked just as uncertain.

Khalous was all business as he strode into the tavern, the interior of which was dim and not much unlike a dungeon, Broderick thought. The place was quiet, save for a barman counting coins, a table of three bearded old men playing a game with colorful stones, and an exhausted looking traveler sipping ale from a dingy wooden mug.

The grim captain walked up to the barman who put aside his coins and smiled. "My lords, welcome. Will you take drink and meat?"

"Honeyed mead," Khalous said in Efferousian. "With a dash of salt."

The barman scrunched his face as he reached for a wooden mug. "A dash of salt, eh? All the salt around here not enough for you?" He chuckled as he filled the mug, dropped in a spoonful of honey, gave it a few sloshing swirls, and set it on the counter. He took a pinch of salt and tossed it in the cup.

Khalous thanked him and took the drink.

Broderick followed him to a table against the wall next to a tall red and yellow stained glass window. Broderick pulled off his gloves, tugging at the bottom of the old armor chest piece that rode up to his jugular when he sat, its leather worn and dark with old sweat. He ran his fingers over the time-polished surface of the table, smooth under his fingertips, and glanced outside.

Khalous made himself comfortable in a seat that allowed him to view the tavern. He took a sip from his cup and wrinkled his face in disgust. "Still can't get used to this piss water," he said, passing the mug to Brayden.

Broderick watched his brother lift the cup to his scarred face and recoil after a quick whiff. He ventured a sip, but pulled away and gagged.

"Too salty," he said.

By the time the drink reached Broderick he wasn't interested.

"It's the sand," came a voice behind him.

Broderick looked over his shoulder in surprise. A tall man in brown and tan leather armor, buckled with shiny plates of metal, looked down at them. His appearance shimmered of wealth and status.

The man's presence perplexed Broderick, for he had done a headcount when he entered the bar and this man was not among the patrons he had noticed.

"They use sand to help churn the mixture," the man continued. "It is eventually filtered out, but it leaves behind a taste that often takes foreigners by surprise." He looked from Brayden to Broderick. "If you boys ever want people to believe you're from Efferous, choke down a goblet of mead without gagging."

Broderick wondered how the man knew they weren't from Efferous. Their accents were perfect, at least his was, and their skin had darkened from years of training in the hot Efferousian sun. They may not have been true natives, but they could've passed as some.

Khalous stood. "Is that why you told me to ask for salt?"

"No. In fact, salt makes it worse, but I needed to know who you were."

The man sat, his motions singing of readiness and control. He introduced himself as Tenri Hollandara, military consultant to the herus of Thalmia.

"I sent a messenger to Tenri last night," Khalous explained to Broderick and Brayden. "The adjucept has long been a friend of Edhen, but times have changed. I needed to be sure he would help us."

"Adjucept?" Broderick asked.

"It's another word for herus," Tenri said.

Broderick shrunk, wishing he had paid a little bit more attention to his lessons.

"Much has changed in our land these recent years," Tenri said, tossing a lock of brown hair away from his forehead, "but, fortunately, Herus Proditous has not. He remains as sympathetic to the plight of Edhen as he was the day your dark king invaded."

"A relief that," Khalous said. "We could use some supplies, and a place to stable our horses for a night or two."

"Of course, and about the other matter you wished to discuss—"

Khalous lifted his hand to beckon a pause. Broderick thought he noticed the eyes of the Old Warhorse flicker toward him and Brayden. "We'll discuss that later."

The sounds of horse hooves trampling the ground outside called everyone's attention to the windows. When Broderick looked he saw a contingent of Efferousian soldiers riding up toward the inn. They encircled the others who were waiting out front.

Broderick noted the disconcerted expression on Tenri's face.

"Are they with you?" Khalous asked.

Tenri stood. "No. Of course not."

Broderick's fingers wandered to the reassuring coolness of his sword hilt. He noticed Brayden doing the same.

The door flew open and a soldier in a shiny silver helmet and armor that matched Tenri's strode inside. He bore a grim frown and several sheathed weapons. "Commander," he said in a cold tone, "Herus Proditous wishes to see you at once. He demands that you bring," he paused, as if uncertain of his choice of words, "your companions."

Broderick's eyes flitted from the soldier to Tenri to Khalous. His muscles were ready for whatever came next. The Efferousian solider was a good two feet taller than him, but Broderick was already assessing his armor and saw two weaknesses that would yield a killing blow if he were quick enough.

Tenri extended a calming hand toward them both. "It's all right. I should have told the herus about your arrival as soon as I knew. I was just being cautious, as is he." He looked at Khalous and said, "Trust me, old friend," but the look in his eyes solicited nothing of the sort.

They followed the tall soldier in the polished armor out of the tavern. They mounted their horses, and fell in behind Khalous and Tenri. The escort of foreign soldiers surrounded them along the way, which only made Broderick's nerves grow thinner.

"What's all this about?" Nash asked out of the corner of his mouth.

"Wish I knew," Broderick muttered.

Sharing the saddle behind Nash was Preston. He poked his brother in the ribs. "They can hear you."

"That's the fourth time you've poked me since we lost the wagon. Do it again and you're walking."

The soldiers of Efferous were a sight to behold. Unlike the soldiers of High King Orkrash Mahl with their dark armor, black cloaks, and devilishly shaped helms, the men of Efferous displayed their soldiery with a much more outlandish pride. Their breastplates were almost mirror like in the sun, fringed with gold plating, and held together by tan and brown leather. Bright buckles on their shoulders clung to long red capes that draped over the flanks of their horses.

Khalous and Tenri began conversing with one another, and though Broderick strained to hear them, he caught only a few words.

The street spilled out into an enormous circular public square paved with a patchwork of large sand colored slabs. The soldiers of Thalmia escorted the company across the square toward the tallest structure, a prominent building standing five stories tall. The building's facade was supported with a long sequence of round grooved columns that reached up from a sequence of wide steps to a roof adorned with statues and carvings of ancient figures.

"The Lex Dificat," Tenri said, waving an open hand toward the building. "What you might call a Law House. Home of the adjucept, and the seat of our government. It also houses many important guests and dignitaries."

The shadow of the building enveloped them as they left their horses and started up the steps. Through the front entrance they emerged into a tiled promenade of stone—flowery troughs carved from rock, tall pillars etched with a tracery of vines and leaves, ornamental boarders along the ceiling's edges, and eloquent statues of armored men and robed women. The back wall of the promenade opened into a luscious green garden courtyard.

"When we stand before the adjucept, you may call him Adjucept Proditous, Herus Proditous, or simply Herus," Tenri explained. "Adjucept is the name of his position, but herus is a title given to men who hold that position."

"Is it true that there are no women adjusepts?" Preston asked.

"No," Tenri said, which, judging by the look on Preston's face, surprised him. "There is one, in which case she is called a hera, unless she is in the presence of a man of equal or greater importance, in which case her title is demoted to matrona." He looked at Preston. "On Efferous, women are never held in higher regard than men."

Broderick and the others followed Tenri through the garden courtyard. Everywhere he looked he saw plants he could not identify—long stemmed flowers of white, blue, and yellow, spiny ferns that looked dangerous, and palm trees that stretched beyond the building's five stories where winged leaves fanned out against blue sky.

A second set of stairs took them out of the garden courtyard to a cavernous meeting room of white and tan marble stone. Lengthy white and yellow tapestries rippled in the breeze in between high narrow windows void of glass.

At the far end of the meeting room, atop a raised platform and under a canopy of red and gold drapes, reclined a man of significant girth. Mountains of pillows and an abundance of fruit and sugary pastries surrounded him. At his back stood two servant women wearing small yellow triangles of fabric over their breasts and hips. Their heads were bowed and their hands clasped, awaiting to serve the fat man's whims. The man made no effort to rise and greet his guests, but he did looked pleased to see them, clapping his hands and flinging bits of frosting off his fingers.

"My heart is made merry that you have brought them to see me," he chirped.

Tenri thumped his right fist to his chest and dipped his head. "Your Excellency, I beg your pardon for not bringing this matter to your attention sooner. I had every intention of—"

"Oh, bother me not with your cerebral libations. I trust you implicitly, my friend, and your deference to our mutual consortium. No bothers. No bothers." He vigorously shook his head. With a loud clap of his suety hands, he said, "But when I heard these weary travels had come to sojourn in my kingdom, my heart was elated. Friends of Edhen, come, come!"

"Were we that obvious, Herus Proditous?" Khalous asked.

Proditous' belly shook as he laughed. "The gods smile upon you benignly, my friend. Others like myself might not have been so charitable." With great effort he stood. His thick ankles swelled under his knee length white robe when he shifted his weight onto a pair of tan sandals. "I know why you have come. Your hearts fear the black vipers and the dark king of Edhen who pursues you still. This is unfortunate." He waved his hand and shook his head. "But not why I have brought you here." He descended the platform saying, "The pulchritudinous kingdom of Edhen beguiles men far and wide with both its alluring beauty and otherworldly charm. I admire your home extensively. Lamentably, never again will I presume to entertain myself there as long as your dark king remains in power. He is—how should I say this?—a horrid man." Proditous flopped a thick arm around Khalous. It draped across the captain's shoulders like a lazy boa. "Regale me, if you will, good captain, of the grand tale of your adventures thus far. Come, come. Spin me a brilliant tale!"

Proditous and Khalous wandered out of the adjucept's cavern-like meeting room to the garden courtyard. Slowly they meandered around its perimeter with the old captain doing most of the talking. The herus listened with wide eyes and a boyish grin, clapping his hands from time to time and laughing with that stupid sounding chirp.

"Are there many black vipers in Thalmia?" Broderick asked.

Tenri shook his head. "Their presence on Efferous dwindled considerably about a year ago. We still see patrols from time to time, but nothing more."

"You mean we could've been living down here this whole time?" Clint said with a groan.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, young master," Tenri said. "Your dark king rules with a hammer of fear, a fear that has stretched even to Efferous. The people here are leery of anyone from Edhen, and they'll report them to black vipers if they see them. Anyone caught harboring or helping refugees from Edhen will be arrested or killed."

"So why is he willing to help us?" Nash asked, nodding in the direction of the fat herus.

"I wish I could say."

Broderick sat down on the steps leading up to the herus' pillowed throne. "Have you heard anything from Aberdour lately?" he asked.

"Bits and pieces," Tenri answered. "Thalmia still enjoys open trade with Aberdour, but since the fall they have had little to offer."

Broderick felt his heartbeat quicken. None of them had heard anything about Aberdour since the attack more than three years ago.

"Tell me more," Broderick said. "Who rules the kingdom now?"

"The king there is a man by the name of Dearg Mordoch, though, to call him a king would be an insult to all true kings. Regardless, he is a passionate supporter of Orkrash and not a man easy to disagree with."

"How is it there?" Brayden asked. "The people, are they well?"

Tenri looked hesitant, almost like he was afraid to speak. He gazed down at the ground for a moment, thinking, before saying, "They are struggling. Aberdour is not what it used to be. When Orkrash sent his army to attack the city it was not like the times he besieged Montrose or Tranent or Turnberry. His forces came at Aberdour to destroy it, and they nearly did. All the outlying towns were burned, the people of the region were scattered or killed."

"Why?" Broderick asked.

"Orkrash hates Aberdour. No one knows why." Tenri folded his arms across his leather and metal chest. "The man who led the attack, a knight by the name of Sir Komor Raven, was given permission by the high king to keep any spoils of war he desired. What The Raven desired was money, and so he had made a deal with a wealthy northerner to sell him the kingdom."

"Sell the kingdom?" Nash repeated. "Sell Aberdour?"

"To Dearg?" Broderick added.

"Indeed. Dearg is a mad king, they say, but it was his arrangement with Sir Komor that spared most of Aberdour."

"So in the end," Nash began, "The Raven got rich, King Dearg got a city, the outlying towns were demolished, and half of Aberdour was destroyed."

Tenri just looked at him, a deep frown on his lips.

Broderick realized how unprepared he had been to hear this news of his homeland. It made him furious to know that Aberdour had been conquered and traded like a piece of merchandise.

And then there was Dearg. Broderick's insides clenched at the thought of what the mad king was doing to his home. His muscles ached for vengeance, yet his mind knew there was nothing he could do, not now anyway, not from Efferous.

Proditous came ambling back from the garden, his eyes like orbs and his smile wide and fat. He slapped Khalous on the back, laughing at some joke. Khalous must have told him a brilliant tale indeed.

"I extend to all of you an invitation," he said, opening his arms in a grand gesture. "Tomorrow we shall have an opulent fete, and in exchange for my hospitality I request that you all spin me wondrous tales of your adventures. Embellishments encouraged of course."

Broderick looked at Khalous, surprised by their good fortune. To go from being humble orphans taking refuge in the crowded confines of Halus Gis to honored guests at a massive banquet felt like a dream.

"We would be delighted," Khalous said.

Proditous clapped his hands. "Brilliant!"

# BRAYDEN

Brayden twirled as a trio of street performs flipped and cartwheeled past him. When he turned back around he had to shuffle sideways to avoid being run over by a man balancing atop a rolling sphere of wood.

The festive music pouring out of the dining hall had attracted dozens of entertainers to the public square. The evening air was thick with the scent of wood smoke, spiced meats, and beer while acrobats tossed themselves about, jugglers wowed spectators with twirling torches, and weapon masters demonstrated their skills with throwing knives and swordplay.

"There's good money in entertainment for a performer who knows when and where to showcase his talents," said Tenri Hollandara. He walked up to Brayden with his hands clasped behind him, flawless armor reflecting a hundred tiny torchlights.

"Thalmia has many talented people," Brayden remarked as he watched a man swallow a flaming sword and then pull it back out again.

"The only place you might find better is in Konia," Tenri said. "There you will find the home of the gladiators and the largest war reenactments on Efferous."

Tenri walked with Brayden among the crowded square as they made their way to the dining hall. Vendors offered them sales on sharpened steel, brand new pieces of armor, jackets, and colorful silk shirts. Farmers and bakers showcased fresh produce, sugary tarts, pies, and frosted cakes topped with raspberries.

Brayden looked curiously at Tenri. The man was a perplexing character. Although he talked and dressed like an Efferousian, his hair was too light and his eyes too dark to make him a native. When he spoke the language of Edhen, however, his accent disappeared.

"Sir?" Brayden asked. "You are from, Edhen, aren't you?"

"Turnberry, to be exact," Tenri said.

"I always liked Turnberry."

"It's a kingdom rife with notions of honor and family, yet bereft of grace and mercy." His tone was cold, and Brayden didn't get the feeling that he had much fondness for his homeland.

"Why did you leave?"

"For the same reason as you. For the Kriegellians." Tenri rolled up his right sleeve, exposing an arm covered in black tattoos. "I found them. I joined them." He paused to let Brayden examine the plethora of dark mystic markings. He pulled his sleeve back down. "And then I lost my place among them."

"How?"

"A Kriegellian can lose his place within the brotherhood through one of two ways, death or by losing his sword in combat, though most who lose their swords pay with their lives. My opponent was far kinder."

"Are you a servant?"

"And Proditous is my master."

Brayden tried to hide his surprise. The thought of the oafish Proditous besting a man as lean and athletic as Tenri was laughable.

"Oh, he did not fight me himself," Tenri said, noticing with a smirk Brayden's dubious expression. "But it was he who commanded the soldiers who bested me, thus my life went to him."

"Soldiers? How many soldiers did it take to best you?"

"Twelve."

"It took twelve men to defeat you?" Brayden lifted his brows in awe.

"If you don't count the thirty who died in the process, yes."

"I want to be a Kriegellian warrior," Brayden said. "Are you going to teach us?"

Tenri chuckled. "Unfortunately, I am forbidden. Even were I not, that decision doesn't lie with me." He clapped Brayden on the shoulder. "Come, we should make our way to the banquet hall. It is never polite to be late for dinner when the herus has invited you to be his honored guest."

They passed by a pair of big dray horses standing latched to a stationary wagon piled high with barrels of ale. Behind the wagon sat the dining hall, a broad building of stone and plaster, its sand colored pillars carved with a pattern of vines and flowers and illuminated by towering bowls of fire. The sensual aroma of roasting meat wafted down the steps and spilled out onto the plaza below. When the scent touched Brayden's nose he felt his stomach lurch in anticipation.

The entrance was guarded by a massive set of doors standing a good twenty feet tall.

A guard stopped them before they could pass through and said, "The herus has requested that all weapons be left outside the dining hall tonight."

Brayden's eyes went to gauge the reaction of Tenri. He appeared to be stifling his annoyance even as he removed his sword and passed it to the guards. "The herus does this from time to time, Master Brayden. Nothing to be worried about."

Brayden followed suit and surrendered his weapons to the guard even though doing so created a hollow feeling in his chest.

Inside, flickering torchlight enriched the pale angles of the hall's architecture while a large bonfire crackled in the center of the room. Deep shadows hid a plethora of corners while the foreign chatter of the surrounding guests made Brayden feel uneasy. Above him, however, the open roof of the dining hall gave way to a pleasant view of the night stars that he found calming.

"Decorus Ferrum," Tenri said, greeting a sharp looking man in a trim brown and gold jacket.

The man turned. His devilish look surprised Brayden. He had a short ponytail of coal black curls pulled straight back from a dark, angular face.

"Brayden, I want you to meet the greatest swordsman on Efferous, and possibly the known world," Tenri said.

Brayden extended his hand toward the dark skinned stranger. "Nice to meet you."

Decorus shook it methodically, staring at Brayden with scrutinizing brown eyes from under dark, low set brows.

"You words carry the taint of an Edhenite," he said.

Brayden wasn't sure how to take his remark. "Is that bad?"

"Only if you're an Edhenite," Decorus said.

Tenri laughed, diffusing the tension that had unexpectedly sprung up. "You'll have to forgive, Master Decorus. He is suspicious of everyone and has not a shred of kindness. But a finer warrior you will never meet. It's a shame he no longer accepts students."

"If one were worthy enough, I might." Decorus gestured to Tenri. "I was wondering if I might have a word with you."

"Of course."

Tenri excused himself to converse elsewhere with the mysterious sword master.

"This Proditous fellow knows how to throw a party," said Nash when he found Brayden standing near the entrance of the dining hall. The young man had made himself comfortable in the dress clothes that had been provided to him by Proditous, an embellished gold and yellow jacket that hung to his knees, silk shirt, embroidered slacks, and a leather belt bejeweled with blue stones.

"Don't you look... lovely?" Brayden said, trying not to laugh.

"Hey, just because it's not a style where we come from doesn't mean I don't look amazing."

"You look like a girl."

Nash put a hand on Brayden's shoulder. "Don't take this personally, but impressing you with how good I look is the last thing on my mind. Impressing them, however, is of utmost importance." He gave a nod of his head toward a pair of beautiful young women eyeing them from across the room. The girls noticed them looking in their direction and turned into each other giggling.

"Incredible aren't they?" Nash said.

Clint attacked him. He wrapped his arm around Brayden's neck and dug his knuckles into his scalp.

"Take that, cousin!" Clint said, slurring his words.

Brayden shoved him away, annoyed.

"Someone's been at the herus' ale," Nash said as Clint staggered on his feet.

"I could take all of you drunk when I'm drunk, but only when... when, um..." He belched. Brayden noticed that his eyes were glassy and moist. "You're a bunch of ducks, you know that?"

Brayden chuckled. "Ducks, eh?"

Clint nodded and lifted his goblet to his lips.

Broderick walked over to them. He had exchanged his leather armor and worn slacks for a formal black tunic with a dignifying high collar, matching black pants, and polished leather boots.

"Did you hear?" he asked.

"Hear what?" Nash said, tipping back a mug of ale.

"Khalous says the Kriegellians don't recruit outsiders," Broderick said. "They're a pretty superstitious lot, he says, always fearing they're going to bring evil into the ranks or something."

"So does that mean we came all this way for nothing?" Nash asked.

"I guess so."

Brayden lifted a quelling hand. "We don't know that yet. I don't think Khalous and Tenri are done talking about it."

"What does Tenri have to do with anything?" Broderick asked.

"He's a Kriegellian," Brayden said. "He's the one we came here to see."

Nash's eyes widened in disbelief. "Tenri is a Kriegellian warrior?"

"He used to be. He has their markings on his arms. I saw them."

Nash swiped another mug of ale off a passing tray.

"How can you drink that salty, sandy... whatever that is," Broderick said with an expression of obvious disgust.

Another server walked by with a tray of small pastries. Nash snatched one. "It's called indulging. And I plan to do a lot of it."

Proditous had planned a grand indulgence indeed. Among the many rows of tables and guests were serving platters piled high with roasted boar, fish in a red mackerel sauce, large baskets overflowing with fruit, deep bowls containing a variety of nuts, and loaves of fresh bread still warm to the touch.

Tenri led them to a table at the front of the room where they seated themselves before a wide platform. Atop the stage, several women in flowing wisps of cloth entertained the guests with elegant dances until the herus arrived.

When Proditous entered he started at the front of the room. He strolled among his guests on his way to his table so he could receive their compliments, thanks, and kisses. He was wearing chocolate leather and silks and his head was wreathed in green leaves. At his side was a beautiful young woman in a fine silk dress colored a deep red and embroidered with birds along the neckline that plunged to her navel. She swept her skirts aside and seated herself at the table across from Brayden. She looked sad and distant.

Proditous stood at the head of the table and stretched out his hands. When the room quieted, he offered thanks to their gods and then permitted the crowd to eat.

The meal that followed contained nothing but the most succulent foods Brayden had ever eaten. They began with small plates of oiled bread and garlic. When they were finished Proditous motioned to the servers who took their plates and replaced them with cuts of spiced meats and boiled vegetables seasoned with sea salt. The servers kept their goblets full with wine and beer while a single musician serenaded the crowd with a large U-shaped stringed instrument that resembled a harp.

A manservant stopped by their table with a pitcher of mead and offered to refill Brayden's mug. As the man reached out to take the cup, his tunic parted and the hilt of a curved dagger glinted in the torchlight. The man refastened the button, poured Brayden's drink, and glided away from the table.

"Master Brayden," Proditous said, "word is you have felled a mountain troll." He pointed to the left side of Brayden's face, which still bore the scars of his encounter with Kette. "Do entertain us with the chronicle. Please, no prevarication and do embellish the details."

Brayden found it difficult to weave the tale of his encounter with the beast so spontaneously. He did the best he could, throwing in a few spectacular additions in an attempt to please the herus.

His wounds no longer hurt, but the scars along his jaw, cheek, and forehead were still healing and would likely be there for the rest of his life.

Through the dim firelight of the dining hall Brayden saw a pair of shirtless male slaves carrying a large pillow upon which rested what looked like a pale, hairless dog. They brought it to Proditous and set it on the ground next to his chair. The thing on the pillow was a wretched sight, the torso of a limbless man. He lifted his emaciated head up toward Proditous who stroked the man's stringy black hair. The herus dropped a piece of meat on the pillow that the man began to eat.

"What is that?" asked Broderick, his face wrinkled in disgust.

"Broderick," Khalous said, his voice tinged with caution, "it is not polite to question our host."

"Oh, no bother," Proditous said. "He is merely a curious boy."

"What happened to his arms and legs?" Nash asked.

"I had them removed," Proditous said.

"Why?"

Proditous tented his fingers over his generous belly. "This is a tale I do love to expel."

Brayden had a feeling it wasn't one he would enjoy hearing.

"His name is Beggar. He is one of the Niqua. You could say the Niqua are to us when the Fellians are to the people of Edhen. What do you call them? Krebbers. A wonderful term, by the way. Belonging to no one. Apropos, don't you think, for slaves and the weak?"

Beggar craned his neck up to look at Proditous. When he opened his mouth to moan Brayden noticed that he had no tongue. Proditous placed another piece of chicken in the man's mouth.

"When I conquered his people, an importunate and primitive race, I told his sire I would demonstrate forbearance from taking his son's life, but that he would live the rest of his days like a dog by my side beseeching from me the scraps from my table." He dropped a greasy husk of chicken skin on the floor. "I am a man of my word. So I truncated his limbs. I uprooted his genitals and removed his tongue."

A wicked smile crossed the fat man's lips.

"You see, it is not enough that we conquer our enemies. We must make examples of them. It is how the world learns peace."

Brayden forced down the nervous lump in his throat created by the hideous creature on the floor.

A male server bumped into Brayden's back as he squeezed past him. "Pardon, my lord."

"Herus," Nash began, "would it be impolite to ask one of those dancing women to come a bit closer?"

Proditous glanced over to one of the stone pedestals upon which stood a beautiful woman swaying to the music of the stage musicians. Apart from a strip of fabric across her breasts, she wore two long panels of fabric on her hips, one slung low in the front and one in the back.

Proditous tipped his head back and bellowed.

"Do they not have women on Edhen?" Tenri asked.

"Few so lovely," Nash said.

"You have to forgive my brother," Preston said. "He suffers from a lack of respect for the fairer sex."

"Your brother is in good company," said Proditous. "Some peculiarities that you might see as ill-mannered foibles are actually nothing but social commonalities here on Efferous. Women, for example, are treated quite differently than they would be on your homeland."

"On Edhen we respect and love our women," Preston said, "but here women are treated much like servants, which I think is disgraceful."

Khalous leaned toward him. "Watch your tongue, boy."

"Oh, it's all right," Proditous said. "Our culture must seem very strange at times." He downed a generous gulp of wine and belched. "Scientifically, women are inferior to men, that is to say, naturally, unalterably inferior. Women are, in other words, the second sex in the fullest sense. Deformed males. Intellectually they simply lack the capacity to make their reasoning powers, such as they are, authoritative. There is nothing wrong with treating them this way. It is simply how it is."

Brayden watched Preston fidget in his seat, his face reddening.

He cast his eyes toward the young woman whom Proditous had walked in with. She seemed uninterested in anything except the food she was picking at with her fork.

"If this is true of all women, as you suggest," Preston began, "how is it that the women of Krebberfall, for example, are considered equal to men? In Krebberfall, the king does not rule with a queen by his side, rather the two of them rule together. Some even say the women there rule over the men folk."

Brayden noticed a male server standing behind him. The close proximity of the man took him by surprise. The server noticed his discomfort and took a small step back. "Pardon me, my lord."

Beggar moaned for more food. Proditous tossed him a bread roll and said, "The women of Krebberfall suffer from a besetting sin innate to all women, which is the lack of self-discipline and self-control. The history of the Krebber culture is rife with women wallowing in every sort of luxury, aided by their complaisant, uxorious husbands."

Proditous reached over and stroked the bare shoulder of the woman sitting next to him. He smiled as though satisfied by something he hadn't verbalized. "Men do well to tame their women," he said, kissing her hand.

Preston's chair scraped obscenely as he got to his feet, disgust in his eyes. Brayden could see the guests around them listening eagerly for what he had to say. Instead, the young man wiped his mouth with his napkin and cleared his throat. "Pardon me, my lords. I must relieve myself." Without waiting for permission to leave the table, he stormed off.

"It seems we have unsettled our guest," Proditous said. A few of the people dining nearest to them chuckled in response.

Brayden noticed an unusual number of menservants gathering around the table. They stood at the backs of their guests, hands clasped behind them, eyes staring forward.

Unsettled by their close proximity, he scooted his chair back and stood. "I think I shall join him," he said to Proditous. "With your permission of course, my lord."

Beggar snarled on the floor by Brayden's feet and clamped his jaws onto the heel of his boot. The attacked startled him and he jumped back. A few guests burst out laughing, but Proditous was not amused. He sent a hand down across the wretch's face that knocked him flat onto his pillow.

"Dog!" he shouted. "How dare you insult my guests!"

Brayden looked down as the poor man lifted a pair of sad eyes to him. He saw only a shred of humanity in the dark orbs staring up at him, pieces of a man lost amongst a more feral nature.

"Forgive him, master Brayden," Proditous said. He waved an open palm toward the exit. "Please."

Brayden left the table. He exhaled long and deep, releasing himself of the tension that had accumulated in the air.

He caught up with Preston near the front entrance of the dining hall.

"Don't let him offend you," Brayden said. "Their ways are very different here."

"The fat swine keeps a human torso as a pet," Preston said quietly. "Their ways aren't different. They're inhumane."

Brayden didn't disagree.

A large number of guards had gathered to obstruct the front entrance.

"Something's wrong," Preston said.

"The fall of a great empire began three and a half years ago," came the resounding voice of Proditous. Brayden turned to see the herus standing at the end of the table, his hands open to the crowd of quieting guests. "Our brothers and sisters on Edhen were overcome by a powerful high king. The western most kingdom of Perth was the first to fall, but the soldiers of the city stood their ground for seven days. Ultimately, regrettably, the invading king prevailed." He picked up his goblet of wine. "Tonight we drink to the men of the west, those fallen heroes who were the first to give their lives in the resistance of High King Orkrash Mahl."

Brayden shivered at the mention of the high king's true name. Edhen's rebels preferred the more derogatory term "Black King," which Orkrash himself was said to despise. Black vipers would kill anyone they heard using the name.

Likewise, they had been known to kill those who spoke the rallying cry of Edhen's rebel movement, an ode to the brave soldiers of the west.

Proditous lifted his goblet. "A drink to our fallen friends in the west."

"For the west!" Khalous said, in his native tongue.

Brayden chilled. Something wasn't right.

"For the west!" echoed Stoneman.

The hands of the servers moved toward their concealed blades.

Broderick and the other boys at the table with Khalous, along with many other guests, raised their glasses in respect to Edhen's honored dead: "For the west!"

One of the servers right in front of Brayden reached around the neck of a wealthy old woman who had just raised her glass in salute. Before she'd had a chance to take a single sip, however, the server plunged the blade into her heart.

The screams of startled and horrified guests flowed through the hall like the rush of a river; a mere trickle at first until the ruckus surged into a tidal wave of panic.

In the back of the dining hall, the doors flew open. Soldiers of the high king of Edhen flowed out, fully armored in black and silver metal with weapons drawn.

Stoneman lifted one of the menservants and tossed him into a crowd at the next table.

Khalous stole one of the servers' curved blades and began fighting. Brayden had never see the Old Warhorse in such wild combat before. There was fire in his eyes, something fierce and confident, like a warrior king of old. The power of his presence expanded as he tore into his foes.

"He's one of them!" came a shout to Brayden's left. He looked and saw two black vipers, disguised as servers, hurrying toward him, swords at the ready.

Brayden grabbed a flagpole, swung its base in a wide arch, and slammed one of the soldiers in the head. The pole broke in half as the man went tumbling.

The second soldier engaged him in a series of strikes and counterstrikes until Brayden managed to wrestle him to the floor. He shoved the broken staff through the solder's neck, and then tore his sword from his grasp. Adrenaline coursed through him, pushing him to the edge of control, making him do things that both frightened and energized him. He brought the sword down into the viper's body, piercing his heart, then his lungs, then his stomach, and a handful of other places until the soldier went still in a widening puddle of his own blood.

A fist latched onto the back of Brayden's shirt and hoisted him to his feet. Hands spun him around and showered his body with blows. Amid the pain sparking before his eyes he glimpsed the dark skinned face of the legendary swordsman Decorus Ferrum. The man moved like a snake, sinuous and quick, but with the strength of an ox. His punches sent Brayden's world spinning out of control. He landed flat on his back, cracking his head against the stone tile.

Stoneman came down upon Decorus like a small mountain. Brayden scrambled out of the way as the two tumbled across the floor. The agile sword master sprang to his feet. Stoneman righted himself and rushed in to strike, but in the time it took him to deliver one blow Decorus had landed six. Stoneman went down like a felled oak.

Brayden managed to push through the dizziness and climb to his feet. Preston appeared at his side, his nose bloody. He offered Brayden a sword.

"We need to get out of here!"

"Go!" shouted Khalous as he barreled through the throng of war. "Run!" A large flap of flayed skin hung off the side of his jaw.

"Get to the horses!" shouted Stoneman.

"No!" Khalous barked. "There are no horses. Just move your—"

Decorus landed in the middle of them, kicking Khalous in the chest, striking Brayden in the throat, knocking Preston to the ground, and spin-kicking his booted heel into the side of Stoneman's head. The big warrior was the only one among them who didn't fall. He staggered, dazed, and took another series of debilitating blows from Decorus' lethal hands.

Broderick and Nash tumbled out of the hot mess of fists, knives, swords, black vipers, and confused guests. They joined Brayden and Preston and engaged a quartet of enemies. The black vipers were stronger, bigger, and far more experienced, but the young men of Aberdour held their own.

"Khalous!" Stoneman croaked through grit teeth.

When Brayden saw him, he was struggling to break the chokehold of Decorus. His face looked like a piece of raw meat that had just been tenderized. "Get 'em out!" he said. "Get 'em—"

Decorus jerked his arms apart, snapping Stoneman's neck. A hard shove from his knee threw the giant soldier's lifeless body to the floor.

Khalous grabbed Brayden by the back of his shirt and yanked him toward the exit, shouting, "Run, damn you!"

They plowed through the line of guards, tearing off limbs and impaling torsos as they went.

Brayden hurried out the front entrance and down the stone steps of the dining hall on the heels of Broderick and Nash. They sprinted across the moonlit plaza, ducking arrows and dodging bystanders.

"Move!" Khalous yelled behind them.

The captain bellowed and fell, his knees twisting and crunching so loud that even Brayden heard them pop. He stopped and whipped around to see an arrow sticking through Khalous' kneecap.

"Don't you stop for me, boy!" Khalous snarled, but Brayden ignored him. "Go, you fool!"

He knelt to help him up. Khalous cuffed him on the side of the head. "Run, I said!"

"Shut up! Give me your arm."

Khalous flopped his arm around Brayden's neck and the two hobbled away on three legs.

Brayden heard the impact of the second arrow strike Khalous in the back. He went down with a crash, taking Brayden with him.

"Get up! Get up!"

Brayden's eyes darted toward the wave of enemy soldiers pouring out of the dining hall as peasants in the plaza ran screaming for safety.

Brayden gasped when Khalous grabbed him by the collar and shook him. "Listen to me, you stupid boy! You are the last son of Aberdour, heir to your father's throne, now you move your bloody ass out of this place!" He coughed, grimacing, and dribbles of blood appeared on his lips. With a shaking fist he grabbed Brayden's hand and shoved something small and stringy into his palm. "You need to take this. It belonged to your father."

Brayden looked at his hand to see a small bone necklace tied to a thin leather strap.

"What is—"

Khalous shoved him away. "Now go!"

Brayden's throat seized with horror and hot grief

"RUN!"

Arrows whispered overhead as Brayden tore himself away from the captain. With heavy feet and a heavier heart he sprinted across the plaza and down a dark street between a black clapboard shop and a stone tower. He wheeled around the next corner and saw Broderick and Nash waiting for him to catch up. Together they huffed it north through the sprawling streets of Thalmia, ducked down a narrow alleyway, and dropped into a recessed cellar entrance. The boys crouched low in the darkness and waited, heaving for control of their breath.

Brayden closed his eyes, groping for the threads of his shredded composure.

"That sword master killed Stoneman," Nash blurted. "Did you see him? Decorus just broke his neck. Son of a bitch!"

"Quiet!" Brayden said.

"Did anyone else make it?" Broderick whispered.

Nash was shaking his head. "I don't know. I don't know." He clutched his head. "Just killed him, Brayden. Just killed him. Just broke his neck."

"Calm down," Brayden said. He took a deep breath. "Just... let's just think for a moment."

He glanced around the dark alleyway. There were no other places to hide, and no other streets to escape to. They could only return to the plaza, or continue heading north, which, as far as he knew, took them no closer to safety.

"We need to get out of the city," Broderick said, leaning on a sword he had stolen from a black viper. Brayden could smell the blood on the steel and it made his stomach squirm. He tried not to imagine what the black vipers were doing to Khalous.

"We need our weapons," Nash said. "Our armor, provisions. They've got it all."

"There's no going back," Brayden said.

"Proditous took us for a bunch of fools," Nash said. "He disarmed us. He made us vulnerable. He was stalling just to stab us in the back as hard as he could."

"SONS OF EDHEN!" Proditous' voice boomed through the night, a much different tone from the boyish chirping they'd heard from him before. He sounded menacing now, primal and vicious.

The three of them quieted as they strained to listen.

"You will come out from the shadows, or we will hunt you down!"

"Fat pig," Nash muttered.

The echoes of shouting and tortured screams drifted over them.

"Khalous!" Brayden blurted.

He rushed from his hiding spot and raced back toward the plaza. He was about to break free of the shadows and burst into the open when Broderick grabbed him and wrestled him behind an empty wagon cart.

"What do you think you're doing?" Broderick whispered. "Are you mad?"

"They're going to kill him," Brayden said.

He looked across the plaza to the pillared façade of the dining hall. A large gathering of armed Thalmian guards and black vipers had surrounded a badly beaten Khalous Marloch. Six of them were struggling to tie his arms and legs to a wagon wheel that lay flat on the ground.

"I know you can hear me," Proditous shouted. "If you do not come forward your captain is a dead man."

Proditous seemed to shrink as a tall viper commander in black armor strode out from the mass of soldiers at his back. He took a few steps out onto the plaza, a long black cape edged with white swishing behind him. Upon his head flowed a mop of ginger hair that hung in tangles over his stubbly face.

"Enemies of Orkrash Mahl. My name is Lord Marshal William Rushwater. In the name of the high king I order you to surrender yourselves peacefully. Do so and your lives will be spared."

"There's a lie if I ever heard one," Broderick whispered.

"The lord marshal?" Nash said, astonished.

"Do it not and your lives are forfeit," William continued. "No soldier of any rank will ever offer you mercy again. You will be hunted down, arrested, and taken back to Edhen to face your high king's justice." The lord marshal gestured toward Khalous. "If not for yourselves, surrender for your beloved captain."

Khalous was tied spread-eagle across the surface of the wagon wheel.

"And if he dies here tonight, so shall be his blood!" the lord marshal concluded.

"We should leave," Broderick said.

"Shut up you heartless dog!" Nash snapped. "We have to do something."

The gruff roar of Khalous overpowered Nash's voice: "No surrender! Don't you dare give in to these cowardly sons of whores!"

William looked at Proditous and nodded his head.

The herus snapped his fingers and a Thalmian guard emerged from the ranks carrying a mighty battleaxe. He strode up to the wagon wheel and lowered the blade to Khalous' outstretched arm. After a second nod from William the Thalmian guard brought the axe down through Khalous' right arm, lopping it off above the elbow. The captain screamed and thrashed against the ropes.

"See?" William yelled into the night. "His life can still be spared if you just surrender now. Your high king is a merciful king. He will grant you your lives if you come forward."

Brayden fought down his sick unease, moistened his lips, and managed to say, "Don't listen to him. It's a lie. Orkrash wants us dead!"

"But what about Khalous?" Nash asked, his bottom lip quivering.

Brayden refocused his eyes on the scene, his teeth clenched in frustration, confusion, and rage. He wanted nothing more than to charge across the public square with his friends and fight for their captain, but he knew that would mean the death of them all.

He looked down at the bone necklace that sat in his clammy palm. He couldn't imagine what significance it contained.

"Run!" Khalous shouted again. "Return to Edhen! Show everyone that the bastard king there is nothing but a dickless swine!"

"Again!" Proditous ordered.

The guard hoisted his battleaxe into the air a second time.

"And when you do," Khalous continued, his voice growing in strength, "tell him Khalous Marloch, son of Darthous Marloch, is waiting to stick him again in hell!"

As the viper brought the blade down through Khalous' other arm, the brave captain bellowed, "No surrender! No surrender! No surrender!" His words ended in a babbling scream.

"Again!"

Brayden flinched and squeezed his eyes shut as the axe cut through Khalous' leg. He wrestled down the urge to give himself up and spare his captain from further pain.

"All the hells," Nash muttered in wide-eyed disbelief.

Broderick's hand touched Brayden's shoulder. His voice quivered when he spoke. "We need to go."

Lord Marshal William Rushwater continued yelling at them as the boys slunk out from under the wagon and retreated down the nighttime streets of Thalmia.

"Again!" came the distant shout of the herus.

Tears rushed to Brayden's eyes as he heard the thump of the ax again. This time, however, Khalous was silent.

Brayden stopped, leaning against a wall for support. A feeling of sick hopelessness churned in his stomach as his mind took him back to Aberdour, back to his father lying dead in the street. He shut his eyes, seeing the pool of red expand from under his father's corpse. He imagined the same thing happening in the plaza right now beneath Khalous.

He thumped his fist against the wall and cursed under his breath.

His brother called to him, bringing him back to the present.

Together they moved up the street alongside Nash, quiet and swift.

Brayden spotted Preston and Ty hurrying along a street to the north. When the five of them had rejoined they moved down an alleyway where they hid under the shadows of a shingled awning amidst a cache of crates and barrels.

"What do we do now?" Preston asked. "How do we get out of here?"

"We heads east," Ty said. "There's being another gate there."

"The eastern gate leads to the desert," Preston said. "It's a dangerous wasteland."

"We have no choice," Brayden said. "The order to seal the city is going to roll like the wind over all of Thalmia. The northern gate we came through is probably blocked already. By dawn it will be impossible to get out."

"We better move quick then," Broderick said.

"And must be finding some supplies," Ty added. "Cloaks, blankets, weapons, anything to help get gone."

"Fan out," Brayden said, "but keep heading east as fast as—"

"Get off of me, you fat ducks!" came the drunken cry of Clint. "Quack, quack, quack, says the stupid duck."

Brayden hurried back down the alleyway and peered out into the darkened street. He saw a team of Efferousian guards with torches and swords surrounding his cousin. Clint's beefy fist clung to a broken bottle, which he jabbed at one of the guards. The men kept their distance from the staggering drunk, laughing as the young man turned circles among them.

"Come and get some, little ducks. You stupid, smelly ducks."

"We need to help him," Broderick said.

"With what, our charm?" Nash argued.

"There's five of us," Brayden said. "I count five of them. If we—"

One of the guards fell silent when his throat ripped open. His lifeblood showered out like rain before he dropped to his knees, gurgling his final breath.

"What the—" shouted one of his comrades, who clutched his chest as a sword punched through his ribs. Before he fell, Brayden thought he saw the glimmer of a blade swiping through the darkness, taking the life of the guard next to him.

The remaining two men reacted in fear, spinning in circles and cursing.

"Over here!" shouted one.

"No, he's over—" The man's head tumbled free from his shoulders.

"Gods be merciful. I beg of you!"

Brayden wasn't sure if what he saw next was man or shadow. It appeared behind the guard and sliced off the man's hand, causing him to drop his torch in a plume of orange ash. The shadow, somehow, changed locations in the darkness, and the next thing Brayden heard was the sound of armor and metal hitting the cobblestone as the final guard was killed.

The alleyway went silent.

Once Brayden's eyes adjusted to the shadows, he saw a single hooded man picking through the pockets of the dead soldiers.

Clint staggered in place next to the man, rubbing his eyes and stammering. "Who... who are you, friend. W–w–what to do you do are you thinking?"

"More are coming," the man said. "Best come out from the shadows. Gather what weapons you can carry and follow me. Quickly now!" He hopped from one body to another, picking the dead vipers clean of gold, jewelry and any other valuable loot.

"Is he talking to us?" Nash whispered behind Brayden.

"Yes," the man answered. "And if you want to live you best prove to me you can move faster than that."

Brayden stepped out of the alleyway and approached the man. "How did you—"

"The lord of this region isn't about to let any of you leave," said the man. "He will pursue you, and, if I had to make a wager, I'd say he will catch you and kill you judging by the way you lot bumble through the dark."

The man was covered in close-fitting dark fabric, his face shadowed by a tight hood, his back by a ratty cloak. As he reached his right arm across one of the dead bodies, Brayden saw a plethora of inky black tattoos curling up his sleeveless arm.

"Follow me," the man said. "And hurry."

Without hesitating, Brayden fell in behind him.

Broderick grabbed his arm, and whispered, "What are you doing? We don't know this man."

"Didn't you notice?" Brayden said. "He's a Kriegellian."

# LIA

Lia cartwheeled out of the crowd in white slacks and a matching tunic, clutching a bright apple in her teeth. She finished with a back flip that landed her right next to Khile, drawing a spattering of "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" from the circle of spectators.

"Now, get back everyone. Give Ulyssa some space," Khile said, pacing the inside of the crowd. "My assistant is fearless, but she must not be disturbed for if anything goes wrong with this next trick her very life will be in danger."

Lia bit off a chunk of the apple and chewed as she balanced the rest of it atop her head. She had been nervous the first dozen times she and Khile had performed this trick, but his aim never faltered, not even a little, and now she pulled it off without so much as a blink of her eyes.

"No distractions," Khile continued. "I need space to—" he spun around and released the knife. It sailed through the air and split the apple, plowing it off of Lia's head, "—get my aim."

The people applauded.

"What are you crazy?" Lia blurted. "That's not how we do it!"

"Uh-oh, ladies and gentlemen. It seems I have upset Ulyssa."

"I wasn't ready!"

At first, the people looked shocked at her outburst, but then snickers of amusement began to eke from the crowd.

"We do this all the time," he said. "What's your problem?"

She withdrew her own knife from a sleeve at her back. "How would you like it?"

Khile grabbed a small wooden plate and held it up in front of his neck. "Now, hold on. Just calm—"

Lia hurled the knife into the dead center of the plate.

The crowed howled with laughter.

"Whoa!" Khile said. Lia was always impressed at how genuinely alarmed he could look.

"'Whoa?'" she repeated. "What do you think I am a horse?" She pulled out another dagger and threw it at him, striking the plate again, splitting it in two.

Khile grabbed another one and blocked a third knife that came sailing toward him. Then he blocked a fourth. Then a fifth. Each impact met with intensifying waves of "Oh!" from the crowd.

Khile tossed the plate at Lia. She kicked it out of the air, shattering it with the toe of her boot. He threw another, which she spin kicked, and a third, which she jump-kicked. Then, for the grand finale, he tossed two plates that Lia picked out of the air with a double jump kick. She landed on the ground amidst a hail of laughter, applause, and shattered plates.

Khile and Lia bowed.

A few people tossed coins of silver and gold on the ground. A few moments later the crowd had dispersed.

"How disappointing," Lia said, as she and Khile collected their earnings.

"What is?"

"Usually I get at least one poor fellow wanting to buy me a drink."

Khile laughed.

"Remember that guy who wanted to marry me?"

"Must be losing your touch."

They picked up the rest of the coins from the street, a meager amount, which was odd, Lia thought, considering Thalmia was rumored to be a place of great wealth.

"I wonder what went on over there last night?" Khile said.

Lia looked up at him and followed his gaze to a massive stone Law House. Workers mulled about the cobbled streets in front of the banquet hall scrubbing a wide swath of blood off the stone.

Lia dumped her handful of coins into a leather pouch, which she held open for Khile to do the same.

They finished packing up their props—a mixed bag of assorted weapons including razor sharp knives, broadhead arrows, swords, and spears, all of which Lia had obsessively polished to glimmering perfection. They secured their saddlebags, then loaded up their two horses and pack mule, an old stubborn beast that Khile had named Dumbass.

"I still think we should've gone to Konia," Lia said as she mounted her horse. "Konia is where the gamblers are, and the coliseum. People play freely with money there. We could make a fortune."

"You don't make a fortune doing what we do," Khile said.

They left the plaza and started down one of Thalmia's numerous winding streets, tightly enclosed by tall beige stone buildings. People mucked about on the sides of the road carrying baskets of goods and jugs of water, weaving around vendors selling fabrics and soaps. Lines of laundry crossed the street high above, blocking out the bright midday sun in broken shadows.

"It's not entirely unheard of," Lia said.

"What is?"

"Making a fortune entertaining. The mimes and musicians of Konia's coliseum get good money to perform onstage."

"Right. That's onstage. Not on a street."

"I say we give Konia a try."

Khile shook his head just as he had done at least six other times before. "I've already told you, Konia is too dangerous."

"Which is just another reason to go there."

"You're determined to get yourself killed aren't you?"

"Ulyssa needs some real practice."

Khile pulled his horse to a stop, and held out his hand for Lia to do the same. "Whoa."

She looked ahead down the narrow road crowded with pedestrians to a tall watchtower and the brood of black vipers swarming around its base.

"Checkpoint," said Khile.

"Looks like something has stirred them up," Lia remarked.

"Maybe we should find a way around."

"I'm not afraid of them," Lia said, and, deep down, she wasn't. Her years on Efferous had trained her how to blend in. The sun had tanned her pale skin and her Efferousian accent was flawless. Though her brown eyes still gave away her true heritage, her tongue had become so adept at lying that she'd fooled many folk, from farmers to high-ranking officials, into believing that she was native to the country.

The vipers at the checkpoint seemed agitated, Lia noted, even angry about something. She remembered the bloody street in front of the Law House back in the plaza and wondered if it was the cause of all the hubbub.

At the checkpoint, Lia didn't have to say a word. Khile, a good performer in his own right, put on his best showman's voice and had the guards laughing before they'd even noticed Lia. One of them even recognized Khile from a show they had done in Velia eleven months prior. Knowing they were performers, he waved them on ahead without bothering to question or search them.

They found a shoddy inn on the outskirts of the city that had large stables for cheap nightly rent. They put away their two horses for the night, along with Dumbass, stored their belongings, and changed out of their performance attire.

Khile always let Lia use the room first. She donned a black, high-collared tunic with caramel edging on the fitted cuffs, black leather pants, and a pair of scuffed brown boots. Then she trotted downstairs and waited for Khile.

He always looked good, she thought, when he dressed down. Tonight he wore a knee length gray tunic over black pants and high leather boots of dingy brown. Locks of his dirty blond hair were held back by a leather strap, exposing the rough-shaven sides of his strong jaw.

Lia followed Khile into a wood and stone tavern across the street from the inn. The place was almost full. The crowd of ratty commoners chattered in groups of twos and threes, some playing games at tables teeming with spectators, others drinking themselves into a stupor.

As Lia wove her way to the bar she picked up on bits and pieces of some of the conversations, most of which centered around the execution of an Edhenite soldier in the central plaza the night before.

"Some soldier or captain or something," one of the patrons said. "Man had been on the run for a long time."

"Serves him right," said another. "Edhen folks bring nothing but trouble here."

"Honeyed mead please," Khile said, rapping his knuckles across the bar. "Two. And none of that filthy, sandy piss water."

"All we got in here is filthy, sandy piss water," the barman snapped. "It's what makes our mead the best in the known world."

"Then at least pile on the sugar."

The barman chuckled as he handed over two mugs of foaming, yellow colored liquid. Khile passed one to Lia.

"To piss water," she said.

They clunked cups.

Khile started counting. "Four... three... two..."

"Already?" Lia asked, slamming her mug down and rolling her eyes.

A rotund man squeezed himself up to the time worn wood of the countertop, pushing aside the patron to Lia's right. He leaned toward her, his drunk eyes lingering around her bosom. "You a girl or a boy?" he asked, slobbering spit down his wiry beard.

Lia wasn't surprised by his question. Her hair was cropped short enough that from many angles she did indeed look like a boy. With the amount of dirt that usually smeared her face combined with her lack of any noticeable feminine assets, the only thing she found surprising was how often men seemed intrigued by her.

Lia cocked an eyebrow at the fat drunkard. She looked him up and down and curled her lip. "Am I girl or a boy? You don't look like the type who'd care, sweetness."

The man's eyes widened, almost as though he were offended. A moment later a broad smile split his ugly face. His head fell back, and he burst with laughter.

"Where did that come from?" Khile asked, nudging Lia.

"I just wanted to see what he'd do."

Khile sighed and took her by the arm, pulling her away from the bar to a dim corner.

"Listen, I get that you're serious about wanting some real fights, but lets pick and choose our tests carefully, all right? This is a dangerous place."

"I can handle myself."

"Of that I have no doubt. Still, you've got to learn to use this." He tapped a finger on her forehead.

Khile kept talking, but Lia was no longer listening, her eyes had refocused on the three black vipers that had just entered the tavern. The sight of them set her teeth on edge. They wore no helmets or plate armor, but still bore black tunics bearing the gold insignia of High King Orkrash Mahl. These soldiers were off duty.

Khile snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Do you hear what I'm saying to you?"

"Uh-huh."

Lia strolled through the tavern, weaving past patrons, making her way toward the vipers. Climbing up on top of the bar, she opened her arms wide and said in perfect Efferousian, "Welcome, men of Edhen. Your swords are legend. Would you kindly tell us your names so that we may drink to your good health?"

The three soldiers looked at one another as the crowd quieted. All eyes fell upon Lia.

"I am Tomas Guldonroch," said the leathery-faced man in the middle. He had deep lines around his mouth, and gray hair edging his ears. A seasoned soldier.

His comrades introduced themselves as Ian Henderson and Ewan Glamdrang. Lia bought them all a pint of beer and toasted to their health.

She saw Khile out of the corner of her eye acting antisocial in the dark corner. She ignored him, knowing she'd get an earful later, but she didn't care. This was just the kind of test she'd been waiting for.

"My lords," she began, slurring her words to appear just a tad inebriated. "Might you present us with a demonstration of your skill?"

To Lia's delight a few of the other patrons goaded them on. "Yeah, do it," one of them said. "Go on then, let's see," said another.

While the soldiers exchanged glances with each other, Lia noticed that Ewan was blind in his right eye, and Ian's right hand was nursing sore ribs on his left side.

"You flatter us, miss..." Tomas let his last word drag on.

"Ulyssa," Lia said with a broad grin.

"Ulyssa. I'm sorry, but we must respectfully decline."

The crowd offered murmurs of disappointment.

Lia sent a knife pinwheeling into the countertop right between Tomas' hands.

In an instant, the room became as silent as a graveyard.

The vipers looked at her with death in their eyes.

"I insist," she said cheerfully.

Lia trotted across the top of the counter, retrieved her knife, and pointed toward a wooden beam at the other end of the room. "Best two out of three," she said. "You and me. I'd like to know if I have what it takes to best a soldier of Edhen." She let her accent slip just a bit, and she could tell by the quick tilt of Tomas' head that he had noticed, just like she was hoping he would.

He nodded. "Very well."

The crowd cheered.

Lia hopped down from the bar.

Spectators cleared a straight path about ten paces in length to the wooden beam. Bets were made. Judgments were passed.

"She's a drunken halfwit," said one man.

"I saw her performance in the square today. She always hits her mark."

"Against black vipers? She'll never win."

Tomas was a soldier of average build, but with muscled arms that looked cut from stone. His eyes were steady and alert, vaults of combative knowledge containing decades of experience.

Lia gave him the option of going first. He took a short moment to gauge the distance and get a feel for the weight and balance of the knife. With a sharp flick of his right wrist he sent the dagger spinning into the dead center of the support post.

He was right arm dominant, Lia noticed. He didn't even need to use his left arm to compensate from the force of his throw.

People applauded him.

Lia stepped up to the line, cracking her neck, and putting on a show of looking dizzy and a bit drunk. It served to illicit a few chuckles from the crowd, effectively lowering their expectations. When she planted her knife right next to Tomas', the crowd gasped, laughed, and applauded all at the same time.

She bowed, and said, "Thank you. Thank you."

"Two out of three, right?" Tomas said with a smirk.

She responded in the language of Edhen, "Yes, sir."

The black soldier froze, looked at her, and his smirk broadened. "Very well. Might the lady go first this time?"

Lia accepted, and threw her knife into almost the exact same spot.

Tomas' blade stuck right under Lia's with a rare upward spin that dislodged her knife and sent it tumbling to the floor.

This, the crowd loved.

"Very nice," she said, feigning astonishment.

Tomas shrugged. "An amusing trick I learned long ago."

On the third and final round, Tomas went first. He threw his knife hard, burying it deep into the wood.

Lia stepped up. "Here's a trick I learned," she said. She lifted her right leg and balanced the knife on the toe of her boot. She stood there for a moment on one leg, arms out, waiting for the crowd's bated breath to be at just the right moment. Then she kicked the knife into the air, spun around, grabbed the blade, and used her twirling momentum to throw the knife into the end of the first knife's handle.

The eruption of cheer from the crowd was deafening in the tight confines of the tavern.

Tomas clapped as he walked up to Lia. He put a firm hand on her shoulder and drew her into him, speaking into her ear, "Come outside with me, miss."

"Oh, but sir, I—"

"Now." His tone was calm, collected, and not to be trifled with.

Tomas and his two comrades escorted Lia out the front door and around the side of the building.

Now that she was alone and walking among them, Lia had to admit the black vipers were far more intimidating. For a while she couldn't discern if she was feeling more fear than excitement, or if it was the other way around.

Once they were off the street and between the shadows of the buildings, Thomas said, "You hide your accent well, little miss, but not well enough, I'm afraid. What part of Edhen are you from?"

To Lia's own surprise, she froze. All at once the shadows, the soldiers, her own small size, the situation in which she had gotten herself, all settled upon her at the same time. She felt ashamed and foolish and well out of her depth.

"Miss? I asked you a question." Tomas snapped the fingers of his right hand in front of her eyes.

The gesture was just what Lia needed. Khile had done the same thing to her many times over the years, always in an attempt to get her to focus. She hated it, but it never failed.

Lia grabbed Tomas' right wrist and bent it forward toward the notch of his elbow, the pressure and pain of which sent the man to his knees. She heard his wrist snap as she leaned forward. At the same time she brought her heel up into the blind eye of Ewan on her left. She vaulted over Tomas to give herself some space. With a death grip on his broken hand, she twisted it in a half circle as she kicked Ian in his left side where she knew his ribs were tender. He dropped like a cart of bricks.

She clenched her fist, allowing her middle knuckle to protrude about a finger's width, and rapt it into the side of Tomas' neck, paralyzing his right arm and knocking him down. She bore down onto him with a crushing blow to his face, relishing the way his nose popped against her knuckles.

Khile arrived in a flurry of fists and knees. He roughed up Ian and Ewan until they lay motionless on the ground.

As Lia surveyed her handiwork, a wide grin broke out across her face. When she caught the look in Khile's eyes, however, her smile vanished.

"What?" she said, holding out her hands. "I knew I could beat them."

Khile's blue eyes glared at her in disappointment. He turned and left the alley without a word.

Confused, Lia followed him across the street to the inn. She thought he would've been impressed. Not every thirteen-year-old girl could knock a grown man unconscious, let alone three.

"What's wrong?" she asked. She trotted behind him as he entered the inn and stomped up the stairs to the second floor. "Will you talk to me? What are you doing?"

She followed him into the bedroom that he had rented for them to share. Her belongings were in a pile on the bed. Khile grabbed his things and turned to leave the room.

"Where are you going?" she asked, her stomach knotting up.

Khile stopped and exhaled in frustration. "As soon as those soldiers regain consciousness they're going to start asking around. It won't take long before they figure out who and where we are."

Lia had to admit he had a point.

"I did it on purpose, you know?" she said. "My accent. I wanted them to hear it so they'd take me outside."

"It was foolishness," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"I did exactly what you taught me to do. Know yourself, know your enemy, and know your surroundings. That's what you always tell me. I got to know my enemy during the knife fight. He was overly dominant with his right hand to the point that his left side was useless. One of them was blind in one eye, the other had a wound on his side. I knew what I was doing."

"You don't know yourself as well as you think you do," he said flatly.

"How can you say that? I just bested three trained soldiers in—"

Khile lunged at her so quick and swift that by the time Lia finished flinching and opened her eyes again, his fist was a hair's width from her nose.

"You didn't even see that coming, did you?"

A shiver crawled through her bones. "What's your point?"

"If you were ready you would've been able to defend that."

"You're my friend," she countered. "Why would I think about having to defend myself from you?"

"You're still letting your emotions control you. Whenever you get worked up you get sloppy. You have no self-control. And I'm done trying to help you understand that."

He threw his saddlebags over his shoulder and left the room.

Lia ran after him.

They retrieved their horses and mule without notifying the stable hand and hurried down the street.

"What did you mean by that?" Lia asked him.

But Khile just said, "Later."

They followed the main road east for a ways before heading out of Thalmia's northeast gate.

Khile said nothing to Lia as they made camp in the woods well off the road, far away from being spotted. He didn't even bother to start a fire. He just spread out his mat and went to sleep, leaving Lia alone in the dark with nothing but the stars and her miserable thoughts.

Twice she opened her mouth to say, "I'm sorry," and twice she changed her mind. She finally decided that perhaps she had been a little too careless, but she had still defeated three of the high king's men. As far as she was concerned, Khile wasn't giving her enough credit.

She looked at him asleep on his mat and allowed her eyes to trace the strong curve of his chin, his sharp nose, and handsome brow. He had been her only companion since leaving Aberdour, and though he was more of a mentor to her than anything, he was also a valued friend. Perhaps she hadn't given him the respect he deserved.

Khile's place on the ground was empty the following morning. His bedding was gone, as were his horse and saddlebags. He'd left Dumbass and all the rest of their belongings, so Lia assumed he was coming back. This wasn't the first time he had wandered off without telling her, just never under such circumstances.

Lia decided not to worry about it. She took her time exploring the wide bend in the river beyond their campsite. She dug out some fishing line and nabbed a couple of blunt nosed silverbacks that she gutted and cooked over a small fire. She tried to enjoy the catch, but found the meat bland and unsatisfying.

She missed Khile's laughter and the playful banter they often enjoyed.

When he still hadn't returned by noon, Lia started to get nervous. She kept herself busy by going through their entire arsenal of swords and throwing knives, sharpening and cleaning each one of them. She worked in a few practice throws with each blade before putting it away.

Late in the afternoon, Khile returned. Lia's heart was relieved, but she refused to show it.

"Get your things," he said, without looking at her. "I've found a place for us to stay."

She had never known him to be so mysterious and curt. It was obvious that he was still angry.

She said nothing as they journeyed back into Thalmia. She asked no questions, not even when he led her near scattered groups of black vipers. In silence, she trusted him, believing that his mood would lighten once the tension between them had a chance to dissipate.

Khile led her deep into a part of the city known as Perdives, a district reserved for the noble and wealthy. From smooth streets the buildings rose to form bigger and far more ornamental structures than Lia had seen anywhere else in Thalmia. Colorful banners adorned the homes along with vibrant green vines and bright flowers. Life felt more relaxed in Perdives, quieter, but much more expensive.

They worked their way up a winding street, over a bridged rivulet, to a luxurious red roofed villa on a hill overlooking the southern sea. The main house, barn, and outbuildings were a pleasant beige color, adorned with intricately carved murals of warriors with spears and swords and shields. The villa's L-shape design hugged a courtyard of green grass and stone walkways. Wind soughed in the massive papery leaves of four giant palms that provided some shade over the main house and grounds.

To Lia, the most interesting part of it all was nestled upon the lush green grass under the palms. There, over a dozen different devices for the practice of martial arts had been constructed—wooden and straw dummies, wood beams and bars, thrown weapons and archery targets.

The makings of an excited smile began to grow at the corners of Lia's lips. "What is this place?" she asked.

Khile dismounted and passed the reins of his horse off to a dark skinned stable hand. He took both their horses and led them away.

"A place I once called home," he answered.

Lia followed him into the grassy courtyard where the late afternoon sun cast dramatic shadows on the garden of practice equipment.

She stopped when she saw a man standing in the middle of the courtyard in brown slacks and a light linen tunic. He had long dark hair pulled back into a curly ponytail, skin the color of cocoa, and a devilish glint in his narrow eyes.

Lia looked at Khile, her hands and feet quivering with hope. "This isn't..." but she didn't dare guess for fear that it would deflate her growing hope.

Khile bowed to the man. "Master Decorus." He gestured to Lia. "I've brought you a new student. Her name is Ulyssa."

Lia looked from Khile to the legendary blade master, her heart bursting with excitement. Decorus Ferrum. Some called him The Beautiful Sword. He was one of the deadliest swordsmen in the known world.

"Is this my next disappointment," Decorus said.

"This one has potential."

Lia shot Khile a look of indignation. Was that all he thought she had—potential?

"We shall see," Decorus said. He gestured toward a rack of swords. "Choose your weapon, girl."

Lia took a deep, but discreet breath, and walked toward the weapon rack. There were two spears, a halberd, several swords of varying length and width, a staff, and a plethora of long knives. She took a short, slender sword from the rack, and tested its balance in her hand. Liking the feel of it, she went and stood before Decorus.

"Now attack me," he said.

Lia sunk into a ready foot stance, drew her sword back, and lunged at him. The next thing she knew she was spinning past Decorus head over heals. She landed on her rump in the grass three paces away.

Decorus tipped his face to the sky and laughed.

"You must think me a pin cushion from the way you seek to prick me," he mocked, pacing around behind her. "I said attack!"

Lia scrambled to her feet, annoyed and embarrassed, and lunged at him. She slashed once, twice, three times, but hit nothing but air. Decorus moved so fast she couldn't even tell how he was moving. In one moment he was on the left, and in the next he was on the right. When she dove at him with a straight thrust he clamped onto the blade with the flats of his hands, twisted it up out of her grasp, and caught it by the hilt. By the time she realized what had happened the point of the sword was a finger's breadth from her nose.

Decorus walked over to Khile who was watching silently, but critically. "This is the child you told me about this morning? She is nothing but a wild mare."

Lia hated his dismissive attitude, hated more the way he spoke as though she wasn't even there. His mocking tone made her blood boil, and she wished she had another weapon to attack him again. This time she'd be fiercer. This time she'd show him how good she really was.

"I never said she was great," Khile said. "I told you she had potential."

Decorus shrugged. "Perhaps, though I suspect—"

"Let me try again!" Lia blurted as she gripped her shredding temper.

Decorus wheeled on her so fast it scared her. "Never interrupt me, girl!" he roared. "And certainly never in that tone."

She recoiled at his wild-eyed snap and dropped her head in shame.

"But just to convince myself that this was, in fact, a total waste of my time, take this." He tossed her the sword, which she caught with clumsy hands. "I will grant you your request." He started circling her again. "Now ATTACK!"

With a scream, Lia tore into him with a series of thrusts and slashes, twirls and stabs. She kept her arms and legs in tight, her steps short and snappy, and built momentum on the sword by keeping it moving.

But Decorus' dance was still the stronger one.

He disarmed her as though he had become bored with the display, and returned the sword to the rack. Then he turned his back on her and strolled toward the main house.

Lia looked at Khile and opened her arms, confused. "That's it?" she whispered. "How can that be—"

"Potential," Decorus shouted over his shoulder. "I give her one week to show me that she has more than that." The sword master disappeared inside his home.

For a moment, Lia's mind went blank. Did he mean to train her? As exciting of a prospect as that was, she couldn't deny the rising tide of terror she felt inside.

Khile walked up behind her and said, "Listen to what he says. He's going to push you harder than you've ever been pushed. He's going to look at you like a horse that needs to be broken, and he will break you. His work isn't finished until he does."

A horrible weight descended upon Lia. She faced Khile. "Wait. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying goodbye, Lia."

She felt like she'd just been hit in the gut. For a moment she forgot to breathe as she tried to comprehend the why behind Khile's decision. Had he finally gotten sick of her? Had she finally pushed him too far or argued one too many times? Over the years he had been many things to her—savior, father, mentor, friend—but no matter what he was, he had always been there. The thought of life without him was almost paralyzing.

"Why?" she asked. "What, I mean, where are you—"

"I've got some things I need to take care of."

She saw the quiver in his chin just before he turned his back on her. She could tell this wasn't what he wanted.

Lia ran after him. "Khile, wait!" He didn't stop. "I... I'm sorry, all right?" She jogged in front of him. "I'm sorry!"

He stopped and looked at her. "We all have to find our limits, Lia, otherwise we'll never be able to push past them. That's what I've brought you here to do. Test yourself. Improve yourself. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes, but–but not... I don't want..." She deflated. "When will I see you again?"

A flicker of emotion passed over his otherwise stoic face. She wondered—no, hoped—that he was having as much difficulty saying goodbye as she was.

"I don't know," he answered. "Listen to Decorus. He'll be able to give you the training I never could."

He stepped past her. Her fingers twitched, wanting to reach for him, hug him, hold onto what she never thought she needed. She wished he'd reach for her, but he didn't. He continued on down the path back to his horse.

She watched him mount, watched him trot away, wishing that he would look back one more time, but he never did. Once he was gone, she hung her head and cried, more alone now than she had ever felt before.

# SCARLETT

Tristian's leg was bothering him again, she could tell. He had been standing for the better part of the morning as an army of tailors made the finishing touches on his wedding attire. They tightened a black leather belt lined with gold rivets around his waist, bringing in the dark surcoat that hung to his calves. The sleeves of his velvet navy blue tunic emerged from under the pointed shoulders of the coat and draped elegantly over his arms, matching the stiff collar that rose halfway up his neck, chaffing his stubble.

Tristian had never looked more dignified and uncomfortable at the same time.

As she watched the dressers adorn Tristian in seemingly endless amounts of decorations, Scarlett Falls felt her friend slipping further and further away from her. There appeared to be no end to the amount of people coming between them. His mother, Lady Catherina Elle, his father, King Dagart, the high king's witch Demulier Congrave, and now Princess Arrahbella fi Cipio who was about to become his wife.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, flexing his neck under the tight collar of his tunic. "You'd rather I go to my father and tell him I'm not marrying Arrahbella, that I'm free to make my own choices."

Scarlett spun her chalkboard around to display a message she had already written, _Arrahbella + Ustus + Demulier = bad._

Tristian Elle pinched the bridge of his nose. "You need to let this go."

Scarlett withdrew in a snit and sat down the bed, arms folded.

The dressers finished. One of them handed Tristian a pair of long leather gloves. They gathered their things and left the room in a hurry.

Tristian sat down on the edge of the bed next to Scarlett and pried the tight leather gloves over his fingers.

"I'm not denying that the high king's witch has some very strange ways about her," he continued, "but she is not plotting against me. She is kind and well respected all throughout the realm. You need not worry about her."

Scarlett started writing another message.

"You shouldn't have been eavesdropping on that meeting," he said. "Things are done and discussed in the King's Cagair that no little girl should hear. Promise me you'll never do that again."

She flipped her board around and shook it. _You're not using your ears!_

Tristian took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. Scarlett could see the anxiety piling onto him the closer it got to the wedding ceremony. She knew that deep down he didn't want to go through with this. He didn't want to be a part of his family's play for power.

"I'm sorry." He gestured with his hands for her to come closer. When she did, he wrapped her in a tender hug. "Many things are about to change, but know that my feelings for you have not. You're still my sister, and I love you."

Scarlett's hands went limp at her sides. Pity overcame her frustration. Tristian needed a friend right now, not a critic, she knew, but it was too difficult for her to let the matter drop.

He released her and held her at arm's length for a moment, his eyes roaming over her elegant purple gown. "You've never looked lovelier."

She slid off the bed and lifted the embroidered hem of her dress, swiveling back and fourth at the hips so the loose fabric would sway around her calves. She, too, loved the way she looked. The broad white ribbon around her waist shimmered in the light, and the careful braiding wreathing her head felt like a crown, even if the tightness did pinch her scalp.

She hugged Tristian again, squeezing his neck, wishing that the harder she squeezed the less he'd drift away. It had been nearly four years since she was taken from Aberdour and in that time Tristian had been her dearest friend.

He tried to stand, but Scarlett held on. She imagined taking him downstairs to a covered wagon and a team of swift horses that could whisk them away from Tay, away from Tristian's cruel father and his insane mother, away to a new kingdom where their petty grabs for power couldn't reach.

"All right," Tristian said. He pushed her away and stood. "How do I look?"

Her eyes roamed from his polished leather boots to the silly black points on his shoulders. Then she shrugged and curled her lips.

He laughed. "Oh, that's very helpful as always."

The wedding ceremony was stiff and dull, or so Scarlett thought. She always imagined there being more joy and dancing, but the exchange of vows between Tristian and Princess Arrahbella went by like a preacher's sermon that had already gone on too long.

Arrahbella had never looked lovelier though. Her gown was made of an enormous amount of lush ivory fabric that trailed behind her the length of three carriages. The gown was very structured with padding underneath, giving her hips a more dramatic silhouette. Long sleeves and a high collar, patterned with birds and flowers, covered every bit of the young woman's skin, except for her hands and face, which were as smooth and perfect as porcelain.

"There is not a woman in the kingdom who doesn't envy her beauty," whispered a woman in the crowd behind Scarlett.

"And not a man that doesn't crave her," said another.

Scarlett tried not to lock eyes with King Dagart. He remained stern in his practical black attire that was topped with a magnificent gold crown.

Next to him, Lady Catherina, the epitome of piousness and arrogance, held her head high atop a tiny neck.

Scarlett sniggered to herself as she imagined the weight of the queen's crown pulling her head clean off.

As sickly as Catherina's face and neck appeared, the dressers had done well to hide the hideousness of the rest of her body under a padded gown of white and pale blue. Still, Scarlett thought the queen looked miserable and fake.

The rest of the State Hall was crowded with Tay's wealthiest and most well dressed, a sea of velvet and silk fabrics entombing arrogant men and overly-perfumed women. They all stood beneath long twirls of white and violet ribbon that hung from the rafters alongside bunches of mint and lavender that scented the air. Wall hangings and vases of cut flowers brightened the austere whitewashed angles and the fluted pillars of the massive room.

Scarlett observed the events from the front row of standing spectators where she struggled to keep herself awake. She could only imagine the reprimand she'd receive from the queen if she were caught yawning.

The celebration that followed the formal ceremony was no less dull. Scarlett had hoped there would be some dancing, but instead the central floor of the State Hall was rearranged with tables for dining. People filled their seats and indulged in rich meats, spiced wines, and conversational topics that were far from interesting for a nine-year-old girl.

Tristian appeared to be happy, she observed, or least he was making a good attempt at pretending.

As for Princess Arrahbella, her hands had hardly left her husband's body since they shared their first kiss. Her fingers danced along his shoulders, twirled with the strands of his hair, rubbed his forearms, and held his hands.

Scarlett left the State Hall when she was sure no one was looking. She moved away from the entryway and breathed a sigh of relief once she was alone in the hallway outside.

One of the guards, Glendan Riverstone, smiled at her as she past. The man had developed a fondness for her in recent months. He had the shape of an ox, but he was sensitive and funny.

"Had enough for today, Little Red?" he asked as he stood straight and tall against the wall with a long halberd.

Little Red. Glendan was the only one who called her that. She rather liked it.

As she walked by him she slouched her shoulders and tried to exaggerate how weary she was of all the chattering rich people in their pompous clothes.

Glendan chuckled. "Give it a few more years, Little Red. It will be you in there."

Scarlett hoped he was wrong. If Tristian's marriage to Arrahbella was any indication of what getting married was like she was content to live without it.

She dug her fingers into the front pocket of her dress where she always kept her blackboard, but she found no chalk. Realizing she must've left it in Tristian's chambers she trotted up the majestic steps of the castle's main entryway and down the southern corridor toward his bedroom.

She slowed when she heard voices inside.

Scarlett approached the open doorway and peaked around the corner. She saw the queen speaking to a young woman who was seated on the bed and wearing very little clothing. Her wrists and neck were adorned in beautiful gold rings and her hair was laced with flowers. A prostitute.

Lady Catherina stood over her holding a long metal needle and a piece of white fabric. "If you get him drunk enough he won't feel a thing."

The young woman reached out, taking the needle and fabric in careful fingers. "You want me to smear his blood on the rag?"

"Just enough to leave a deep stain."

The prostitute looked shocked. "I'm not sure I dare hurt the prince, my lady."

Catherina reached out and caressed the woman's face. "I told you, get him drunk, pleasure him with every inch of your body and pain will be the last thing on his mind."

"And you are sure this will, um, satisfy our lord?"

"The high king believes my son could be the key to his endeavors, but the truth is in his blood. With his blood, Demulier will be able to look into his past and see if he truly descends from the ones who imprisoned Bodach."

The prostitute's face lit up. "And if he is, will our god live again?"

Catherina's fingers danced across the woman's lips. "In all his glory."

The young woman nodded. "I will do this, my lady. For you, for Tay, for the high king, for Lord Bodach."

Catherina bent down and kissed the girl on the lips, a gesture that startled Scarlett with its sudden passion.

When the queen turned toward the doorway, Scarlett launched herself back down the corridor. She hurried toward the stairs, desperate to get out of sight before the queen caught her eavesdropping. She turned left at such a sprint that her padded shoes slid across the floor. Catherina emerged from Tristian's bedroom just as Scarlett disappeared around the corner.

Pattering down the stairs and trying not to trip over her purple gown in her rush, Scarlett sprinted for the State Hall in search of Tristian.

He had never listened to her before, but he would have to listen to her now. His mother was planning to hurt him, or so she thought. Truthfully, she didn't know what the queen was up to, but she knew Catherina's intent was not for the good of her son.

Realizing anew that she still had no chalk for her blackboard, Scarlett derided herself. She tried to think of a way to communicate with Tristian before he retired upstairs for the night.

When she wheeled around the corner into the State Hall, she was struck with the lively ruckus of music and the cheers of a standing crowd. She saw Tristian and Arrahbella being escorted off the main stage by Prince Taggart and a bevy of attendants. The newlyweds were brought down into a throng of people for the traditional exit ceremony. Arrahbella began plucking petals from her flowers and tossing them into the crowd to bless lucky catchers with a year of good luck.

Scarlett pushed her way through the mob, desperate to find Tristian. In her mind she saw the prostitute waiting for him on his bed with that long metal needle. Why did they need Tristian's blood? What would they do to him afterward?

And who was Bodach?

Between a man in a puffy blue vest cloak who looked like a blueberry and a fat woman in a maroon dress who resembled a grape, Scarlett saw the velvety sleeve of Tristian's navy tunic. She reached for him when the grape jumped up for one of Arrahbella's petals. The woman's wide hips slammed into Scarlett and knocked her to the floor.

She scrambled to her feet, hoping she wouldn't be stepped on.

The people moved out of the State Hall like an ocean current, fanning out behind the newlyweds like water around a pair of rocks. They sloshed around at the foot of the castle's central stairway, applauding and whistling as the young couple ascended the steps—Arrahbella lifting the hem of her long skirt, and Tristian limping on his feeble leg.

Scarlett punched through the crowd to the foot of the stairs. When she looked up, Tristian and Arrahbella had disappeared down the hall. She sprinted up the steps and hurried after them. Never in her whole life had she wished more for the power of her voice.

Stop!

They were at the end of the hall. Tristian opened the latch to his bedchambers and Arrahbella stepped inside.

Wait!

Tristian moved to follow his bride when a second glance down the hall made him pause.

"Red?"

She ran to him, almost plowing him over when her little body collided into his hips. Her arms embraced him and held him close, threatening to hold him forever so long as it prevented him from entering his room.

"What's wrong?" he inquired.

Like an icy wind the voice of the queen echoed out from the darkness of the adjacent room, "Young Red couldn't bear to see you leave, my son, not without one last goodnight." Catherina strode out into the torchlight of the hallway, swirling a glass of wine.

"Oh, for pity's sake, Red, I will see you in the morning," Tristian said.

She stepped back, shocked at his tone of voice. She saw his eyes, puffy and glazed like moist glass. He was drunk, or close to it.

"My son has grandbabies to make," Catherina said, "that is if impotence doesn't prove to be yet another of his many maladies." She tossed back the last of her drink.

Arrahbella slipped an arm around Tristian and pulled him toward the bedroom. "Oh, I don't think that will be a problem, my queen."

The prostitute lay stretched out nude on the bed within.

No!

Scarlett reached for Tristian when the bony hands of the queen dug into her shoulder. "I think you should give them some privacy, my dear. It's something a mind as young as yours wouldn't understand."

Arrahbella shut the door.

Slapping the queen's arm away, Scarlett whirled around, her tiny fists balling.

Catherina's amused demeanor twisted into a suspicious scowl. Like a clamp, her hand landed onto the nape of Scarlett's neck, fingers pinching tight. "Come, child. Let's you and I have a talk."

Scarlett tried to twist out of the queen's grasp, but her thin fingers were painfully strong. Her grip tightened as she steered Scarlett down the hallway.

"I've long wanted to have a heart-to-heart with you," Catherina said as she led Scarlett down the hallway of the second floor.

She tossed a glance back at Tristian's bedroom door, her mind desperately trying to figure out another way to warn him.

"I was also very small when I was your age," Catherina began. "I could go places most people couldn't, places most people would never even expect to find a young princess. I learned many secrets, you know. Watched my father kill a man in his throne room when I was just a wee bit younger than you."

Catherina led Scarlett up onto the third floor. She pushed through a heavy wooden door that led out onto the castle's western wall walk overlooking the ocean and the setting sun. The air chilled her as a bitter breeze from the sea whisked by. It would be autumn soon, and not long after that the choppy waters of winter would begin to lash the rocky shores.

The heavy door swung shut with a loud thud.

To Scarlett's relief the queen's grip around the back of her neck relaxed. It didn't matter though. She was trapped. She couldn't open the heavy doors at either end of the wall walk on her own.

"Can you guess what I did with all that I learned?" Catherina went on. "I killed my father, for one." She offered a cocky smirk. "He had overstayed his welcome as king. He was an annoyingly arrogant man who never let me have what I want. I pushed him over this very wall when I was just thirteen."

Scarlett looked over the parapet. It provided a view of a road far below edging a steep escarpment of tall grass. The sun was setting over the ocean in the distance, casting dramatic shadows across the textures of the land.

"Truth be told, I had discovered that my pig of a father had seen me engaged in a tryst with one of my dearest friends. I was embarrassed, and so very frightened that he would put an end to our happiness."

She put her arm around Scarlett's shoulders, and together they leaned between one of the stone crenellations, looking down at the road several stories below.

"I asked to speak with him alone up here atop the wall." Catherina pointed to nothing in particular. "I said 'Look, father! Down there!' And when he leaned over the edge I helped him lean a little too far."

Scarlett felt a sudden nervousness rise in her chest.

The queen brought her lips close to Scarlett's ear, and she whispered in a voice tinged with scorn, "I know a little spy when I see one." She grabbed Scarlett by the waist. "And you, Red, see far too much!"

Scarlett's world tipped upside down as the queen lifted her over the edge and dropped her. She tumbled two stories to the wall's sloped batter where the angled skirt violently slowed her fall, peppering her tiny body with a hundred scrapes and bruises. Her right arm snapped above the wrist. Her joints popped and her back twisted. The rough stone slope kicked her out into the road where she rolled and skidded to a brutal stop on the cold hard gravel.

For a moment, she lay still. Her mind didn't register at first that she was hurt. When Scarlett lifted her head, pain shot down her spine. When she tried to push herself up, her right wrist screamed in agony.

She looked over her shoulder and up at the castle wall, expecting to see Lady Catherina staring down at her. The queen was gone, however, and the wall walk looked deserted.

For a long moment Scarlett remained on the ground, sobbing, trying not to move and wondering if she was going to die.

Before long it occurred to her that Catherina might send someone down to ensure that she was actually dead.

With small movements, Scarlett inched off the road and down a grassy embankment. She could feel her toes dragging behind her, scraping the bare ground. She must've lost her shoes. Her head felt dizzy. In her mouth she tasted blood, like warm copper.

She rested a moment in the tall grass, trying to keep her sobs quiet, not daring to move out of fear of feeling more pain elsewhere on her body.

Somewhere from the castle she heard the shouts of guards.

Her heart erupted in panic—they were coming to finish her off.

She saw a round stone culvert jutting out from under the road through which trickled a tiny stream. Scarlett pulled herself toward it, pushing through the tall grass and over the slippery moss. She climbed inside the slimy culvert and curled up against the chilly stone. Hugging her shaking knees to her chest she sat there in the cool, damp culvert, shivering from pain, shivering from cold, and fearing the moment the guards found her.

Voices encroached overhead. Two of them. She could hear the crunching of gravel beneath boots.

"Check over there," one of them said.

One pair of boots sauntered off.

A moment later, Scarlett flinched when a second pair of boots dropped down on the grass in front of her. They were black and polished, the boots of an interior castle guard properly regaled for the wedding ceremony.

The boots swiveled to face Scarlett, and an ox-sized man crouched into view.

"Are you all right, Little Red?"

# BRAYDEN

A mere whisper of morning light drizzled through the desert fog. In cold and eerie silence an exhausted Brayden Falls stumbled over wind swept sand dunes and sharp rocks, struggling to keep up with their mysterious rescuer. Since their successful escape from the clutches of the Thalmian guards, the man had not stopped to rest once. He hadn't even slowed. He had said little, and given them nothing except his name: Yori.

He was a lean depiction of well-formed muscle and agility, clad in dark, close-fitting gray leather, a tight hood and a ratty old cloak. An ominous metal faceplate pulled down from the folds of his hood and covered his whole face except for a slit across his eyes. His sleeveless leather torso exposed arms of sinewy muscle, his right sleeved in an intricate network of black tattoos.

Brayden wasn't the only one struggling to keep up with him. Behind him he heard the labored breathing of his stepbrother, the twins Preston and Ashton, the Efferousian native Taighfinn, and his cousin Clint, who was still inebriated from the wine of Proditous' generous party.

All day and well into the night they hurried over barren mounds of sand and through deep crags of dry gray stone.

Yori led them into a damp ravine, along the edge of a shallow river, to a rocky ford, then upstream for a time until they came to where a clear creek, gurgling down from the northern ridge, joined the flow. It was there that, at last, he came to a stop.

"We don't have much time," he said. "Take rest and water while you can."

The boys fell to their knees in worship of the trickling creek. With the moon high overhead providing just enough light to see, the exhausted travelers drank and cooled their aching feet.

On his knees before the brook, Brayden gazed down into the rippling shadows of his reflection. His sand-dusted face looked pale and sorrowful, and his brown mop of hair was a tangled mess. He was tired and cold, and it showed. He had nothing to cover himself with for warmth or protection other than the clothes on his back.

"Give me your knife," he heard Nash say.

"It's back in Thalmia," answered Preston.

"Even the one you usually keep in your boots?"

"These aren't my boots," Preston said. "This isn't my shirt either. Proditous gave me these. He gave them to all of us." The young man looked at Brayden. "They had us surrender everything. That swine betrayed us all."

Brayden looked back at his reflection as a new wave of hopelessness washed over him. He shut his eyes, trying to block out the pained wails of Khalous echoing through the corridors of his mind.

Broderick came and stood next to him. He drove the tip of his sword into the ground and leaned over it to rest. "Are you all right?"

Brayden's chest tightened. "No." Then it tightened some more, swelled with a hot ire burning deep within him.

"You want to kill them as badly as I do?"

Looking at his brother, Brayden saw in Broderick's eyes the same murderous rage he felt in his heart, the same thirst for vengeance. "We will. Not yet, but we will."

"I am with you," Broderick said. They were words Brayden never expected to hear from his brother, comforting words that gave him confidence and fueled the fire rising within him.

He set a hand on Broderick's shoulder in appreciation.

Broderick nodded toward Yori and asked, "What about him? Do you think he'll help us?"

Brayden looked at the Kriegellian warrior. It occurred to him that Yori had not given them his last name, a sign, perhaps, that he did not have one. He was a true outcast of Krebberfall, a man without a family, without a place to belong. His tattoos also told much of his story—an experienced warrior, a mystic, a man not even a fool would trifle with.

Nash approached Yori, still looking ridiculous in the colorful gold and bejeweled attire that Proditous had given him. "How did you do all that anyway? The way you killed those vipers. You were like a ghost. How did—"

"No time for questions," Yori intoned.

Brayden sidled up next to Nash. He glared at the dark blue eyes of the tattooed warrior that he saw looking out through the slit in the silver faceplate. "I think we have time for one question. Who are you?"

Yori lifted the mask and lowered his hood, exposing the long patch of hair that ran down the center of his head into a braided ponytail. "I'm a friend of Tenri's."

"Tenri? No friend of that traitor is a friend of ours," Broderick snapped. He lifted his sword and aimed it at Yori.

"The betrayal of your captain was not the fault of Tenri," Yori said. "Tenri is an honorable man, but like many from Edhen he is hiding, afraid to go against anyone who serves the Black King out of fear for his own life. He did not betray you, but those above him did once they found out who you are."

"This whole country hates us," Nash groaned.

"On the contrary, there are many on Efferous who sympathize with the refugees of Edhen, but they live in fear of their leaders who live in fear of the Black King. _Do locus dubi veevay_. Have you heard of this?"

Brayden and the others shook their heads.

"It is what the people here call your homeland: the place where evil lives. Your Black King is poison, and the people fear—"

"He is not our king," Brayden said. "The day we see his head on a spike can't come soon enough."

"Then I think I can help you."

"How?"

Dogs howled and barked in the distance.

"They caught up to us already?"

"Caught up?" Yori said. "No. They never left our heels." He pulled his hood back up and said, "Time to leave."

"No!" Broderick said. "This is senseless. We need to fight them."

"Agreed," Nash said.

"For what they did to Khalous," Broderick said.

"And Stoneman," Preston added.

"We fight."

Yori shook his head. "Without proper weapons, no armor, and you're all exhausted, undernourished and parched, you don't stand a chance."

"I don't care!" Broderick shouted. "They're going to pay for what they—"

"Pay they will," Yori said. "But not now. We need to—"

"No," Brayden said. He stepped between Broderick and Nash and approached Yori, his fists tightening. "We need to do this. We need to fight them."

The boys became silent, their eyes fixed upon Brayden. He caught a glimpse of his brother from the corner of his eyes smiling and nodding his head.

Clint staggered to his feet, holding a short sword he lifted from a black viper. "Most sensible thing I've ever heard you say, cousin."

Yori's eyes flitted to each boy, coming to rest on Brayden. "This is foolishness."

"You just said they've been right on our heels for two days," Brayden said. "If we can't lose them, then we kill them."

Yori was silent for a moment. Then he asked, "Is this the will of all of you?"

The boys stood before him, jaws set, eyes blazing, dirty fists and dingy weapons at the ready.

The tattooed warrior gave a nod of his head. "Then follow me. There is one place where we might have the advantage."

He took off into the darkness.

Despite the burning muscles in his legs and the painful blisters on his feet, Brayden pursued him. A newfound eagerness bounced in his step, fueled by anger an adrenaline.

Yori's pace accelerated. He sprinted through the night across large flat swaths of dried mud, hurrying to get to somewhere but he never said where. He ascended up onto a hillside then followed a ridgeline east.

It wasn't until a wall of dark rock blotted out the stars to his left that Brayden realized they were ascending into the mountains on a narrow path.

At long last Yori came to a stop. He instructed the boys to rest, and then darted up onto a boulder to peer down into the sandy valley they had left behind.

"Is everyone here?" Nash groaned as he lay on his back puffing light gray wisps of breath into the frigid night air. "Clint?"

"Here," came a weak voice.

"Damn it," Nash whispered.

"Oh, shut up!" Clint fired back.

Brayden smirked, glad to see the boys had not lost their sense of humor. He could tell that the thought of killing black vipers had invigorated them.

He walked over to the boulder and gazed up at Yori. "What do you see?"

"Torches," the warrior replied. "They are on the move." He hopped down. "On your feet. Battle draws near."

"How many?" Broderick asked.

"Twenty torches. Probably thirty men or more."

"We should move further up the trail," Brayden said. "It looks like it narrows just ahead. We'll draw them into tighter quarters. Force them to come at us slowly."

"The cliff does more than just narrow, Master Brayden," Yori said. "It cuts across the path."

"A dead end?" Nash said. "This is the place you thought we would have an advantage—a dead end?"

"But we'll have the element of surprise," Brayden said, trying to remain optimistic.

"How so?" Nash asked.

"They don't know how far ahead we are. If we can surprise them, we might catch them off guard."

"Some of us should stay behind," Preston said, "attack them from the rear. We'll drive at them from two—"

"No," Brayden said. "We all attack from the left. Push them over the edge."

"Let the rocks kill the scum," Clint said, grinning. "Second most sensible thing I've ever heard you say."

Brayden eyed each one of them. They looked horrible—sweaty, ragged, downtrodden—but they had been hewn from the aftermath of war, trained to take the blows and keep on hitting. They were boys who were suddenly becoming men, and he admired them for their tenacity in the face of fear, weariness, and death.

"We get bloody," Brayden said.

"Bloody bloody," Broderick replied.

"What does this mean?" Yori asked. "Is this a saying from your homeland?"

Nash picked up a rock and tossed it in his palm. "It means we're tired of getting pissed on by the Black King and his broods."

The barking of dogs echoed up the nighttime path

"It's time," Yori said, unsheathing his sword.

He hurried on ahead to where the wall of rock curved in front of the path and spilled over the edge. A vertical drop into darkness and certain death lay below.

Brayden selected Broderick, Nash, and Clint to hide themselves within the narrow crevices of the rock wall. He knew that when he gave the signal they would fight with more aggression than Preston or Ty, who were far more elegant and balanced fighters.

The ferocious yapping of the dogs drew nearer. They had the scent of their prey, and they knew they were close. They scurried over the ridgeline like crazed beasts and when they caught sight of their quarry their pace quickened.

"Leave them to me," Yori said. He closed his eyes and lifted his fist to his lips. "Forgive me, my friends," he whispered.

The dogs charged toward the boys, two of them, violent teeth exposed under raised lips, mouths swashing hungry white foam.

Yori vanished. He reappeared a moment later next to one of the dogs and with a violent kick he plowed its front shoulders into its companion, sending both beasts yelping and toppling over the ledge. Their high-pitched cries echoed like ghostly wails into the night.

"A wizard?" Preston whispered.

"Kriegellian magic," Brayden said.

Yori walked back to them, his face troubled. "That was not honorable," he lamented.

"No, but it was necessary," Brayden said.

"And amazing!" Ty said. "You could be fighting all them enemies for us."

"I hate to disappoint you," Yori said. "A dozen men I can handle on my own, fifteen at my best and in ideal conditions, but not thirty."

Brayden saw a glimmer of moonlight reflect off a silver helmet a little ways down the trail. "They're coming!" he said. "Wait for my signal."

The moonlight carved jagged shadows along the cliff wall, and illuminated the ridge path in a dull gray light. He could see the black vipers cutting dark shadows along the rock, their silver armor and weapons reflecting in the light from the moon

"How's your aim, Ty?" Brayden asked.

The dark-haired Efferousian skipped ahead, yanking back his arm and lurching forward, sending a stone the size of his fist hurling at the closest soldier. The stone plowed into his face and sent him toppling to the path in a cloud of gray dust.

"I always hits them well, sir," Ty said.

"Now might be a good time," Preston said as two more soldiers drew near.

"No, not yet," Brayden said. "We need them closer together."

Yori jumped out ahead of Brayden, putting him two steps from the next black viper in line. The viper drew back his blade and swung for Yori's throat, but the Kriegellian warrior wasn't there. When he reappeared behind his enemy he ripped his sword up the man's back.

He put two more black vipers in the grave before returning to his place alongside Brayden, Preston, and Ty.

"They're gathering into formation," he said.

Brayden squinted into the darkness and saw the soldiers of the high king slowing their advance. They merged into a four-man line with spear tips glinting forward, creating a lethal plow at the head of the group. Inch by inch they moved forward along the narrow mountainside pass toward their cornered prey.

"Calm yourselves," Brayden said. "Wait."

The marching feet of the soldiers drew closer. Brayden could discern the sounds of metal weapons and heavy armor jangling against buckles and straps. He noticed, with no small amount of fear, that there were more than thirty.

"Wait."

One of the vipers thrust an armored fist into the air. He gave a sharp command to stop. He walked toward Brayden, his wide shoulders capped with spiked silver plates from which swung a black cape bordered with a thick white stripe. A blood stained helmet in the shape of a stag skull adorned his head.

He lifted the face plate. It was Lord Marshal William Rushwater.

Brayden's lip snarled.

"Brave little warriors," the lord marshal said. "Stupid little warriors, thinking you can fight us here as poorly armored as you are. I bring an offer from the lord of Thalmia, one that ensures your survival providing you swear allegiance to—"

"NOW!" Brayden shouted.

Clint, Broderick, and Nash rushed from their hiding spots within the mountain's cracks and slammed into the packed unit of stationary soldiers. They pushed with as much aggression as Brayden knew they would, toppling their enemies over the edge and into the dark abyss. Screams filled the night and faded as the soldiers spilled onto the jagged rocks far below.

Brayden, Preston, Ty, and Yori tore into the black vipers at the head of the line. With the ranks of the high king's men so tight together the soldiers had no room to maneuver.

The lord marshal looked just as furious as he did insulted, an expression Brayden wiped off his face with a swipe of his sword. The man dropped to his knees, clutching at the void where his cheeks and nose used to be.

Brayden tossed his sword to Preston and picked up the marshal's, a shiny, well-balanced blade with a line of freshly sharpened steel glistening along the edges. The weapon tore through three other black vipers with ease, spilling the contents of their bodies in thick, syrupy sprays of blood.

War consumed the narrow mountain ledge. Metal against metal, fist against flesh. Swords struck bone and tore through ligaments and veins, sewing a tapestry of gore and gristle that darkened the earth with red liquid. Men hollered in pain, then in terror as they plunged off the beaten path, their armor clattering onto the rocks in an ugly discordant mess.

Brayden felt his energy flaring in ways he'd never experienced before. His adrenaline spiked, fueling his strength, pressing him into his enemies with a vigor he found thrilling. He set loose years of pent up rage, let every swing of his sword be for all the injustice the Black King had inflicted.

A spear sailed toward him and missed, bounced off the rocky ground, and then hissed as wood and steel slide across stone. He took a sword's edge to his shoulder, but fought to ignore the pain and dispensed his rage into the gut of his opponent with the full length of his sword. Once the hilt of his weapon could go no further he tore it free, and then brought it down onto the back of his opponent's neck—one hack, two hacks, three hacks, and then the head tore free.

Brayden saw Yori to his right, then to his left, then in front of him behind a cluster of enemies. The mysterious warrior fought like a demon, vanishing from the present world into another and reappearing elsewhere, delivering death everywhere he went.

He glimpsed Broderick fighting like a madman, even with a crushed and bloody nose.

"Get down!" Nash shouted.

Brayden ducked as a battleaxe swung over his head. He spun, plowing his sword into the black viper's thigh as Nash descended upon the man's back, thrusting through the soldier's neck a blade that punched out of his chest.

He ducked a second time when the body of a black viper sailed over his head and into the nothingness beyond, a mere toy hurled by Clint who threw himself weaponless into the fray. With nothing but his anger and his bare fists, he latched onto the enemy like a bear in the wild, hungry and desperate and joyfully furious.

On the narrow ridgeline, the number of black vipers meant nothing. Unable to coordinate any kind of attack, they had no choice but to fall before the enraged warriors of Aberdour.

"Stop!" came the tired voice of one of the soldiers.

Brayden whipped around to find a viper holding Nash from behind, his arm locked around the young man's throat. Nash looked spent, his face a mess of sweat and blood, his bright embellished clothes stained and torn. The soldier pressed a knife to his cheek, just under his left eye.

"Piss off, swine," Nash said, even as the soldier's grip around his throat tightened.

"I'll rip his eye out!" the viper snarled. "So all of you stop or I'll cut his face wide open, I swear it!"

"Kill him, Brayden," Nash cut in. "Rip his head off!"

"Silence!" the viper shouted.

Brayden strode toward the soldier, clutching his sword, debating on whether he'd slide the blade through his neck or his ribs. He knew Nash was about to lose an eye, but that didn't matter. This battle needed to be won. After too many years of losing, it was time for the enemy to suffer a blow.

"I mean it," the soldier said, shaking. "I'll do it!"

"Go on then, you decrepit lag!" Nash shouted. "Do it! Do it!"

Brayden started running toward them.

The viper drove the knife into Nash's eye and tore the bloody orb free from its socket. Nash wailed and fell, clutching his face as Brayden's sword swiped up through the soldier's wrist, taking his hand. A backward slash cut through the man's innards, and an elbow to the side of his head drove him toward the cliff's edge. The viper stumbled to his knees, coughing and screaming in wide-eyed horror at his missing limb.

"S–stop," he murmured, his face dissolving into a rheumy mess. "Please. Have mer—"

Brayden crushed his heel into the side of the man's head, plowing him off the ledge and into the blackness beyond.

Rage burned in his chest as he wheeled around to face the remaining vipers. There were six of them, six pairs of eyes gaping at him in wonder, confusion, and fear. Behind him he heard the footfalls of his companions gathering. Yori and Preston and Clint and Broderick. They stood at his back, ready for whatever came next.

Raising his sword, Brayden leveled it at the closest soldier. "Go," he said. "Go and tell your high king that the sons of Aberdour are coming for him. The children of the Falls want their homeland back. We will bring war. We will bring death. We will bring Edhen to its knees until your king surrenders or we paint the throne with his blood."

Quivering, the vipers retreated off the mountain's ledge.

Brayden lowered his sword. As it sank to his side, he felt the drain of battle overcome him. His shoulders slouched. His lungs gasped. The pain of a thousand tiny wounds sparked like embers in his brain.

"Graceless," Yori said. He knelt to examine Nash. "You lot fight like brawlers, and without honor."

Brayden's brows drew down in consternation. "Without honor? These swine got what they deserved."

"Perhaps."

Nash sat up against the rock cliff, clutching his face. His teeth were clamped tight as was the lid of his remaining eye.

Yori unpacked a long bandage from a pouch on his satchel and wrapped it around Nash's head. "You must keep it clean." He looked at Preston, who was kneeling by his brother's side. "Start a fire."

Brayden helped Yori lift Nash to his feet. Together they escorted him up the path to the inward curve of the cliff's wall.

Ty was waiting there, a broken arrow protruding from his shoulder. Once a fire was going Yori helped the young Efferousian remove the bolt. Then he sealed the flesh with the tip of a hot blade.

Broderick had removed his shirt and was nursing a knife wound in his ribs. The cut wasn't deep, but it did need to be sealed.

"It is feeling good, yes?" Ty said as Broderick grit his teeth through the pain of Yori's hot knife.

"You know what'd make me feel good right now?" said Nash. He had been lying on his back so still that Brayden thought he had passed out. "A woman, and not some girl of the marrying kind. One of those whore girls, like the kind at Gilly's House. You know the place, right—on the borders of southern Aberdour?"

"Like you know anything about Gilly's House," Clint remarked, rubbing a bruised shoulder.

Nash didn't seem to hear him. "Just a smooth skinned, long-haired, long-legged, warm... I don't know. An experienced girl, you know."

Preston rolled his eyes. "How romantic."

Yori sat down cross-legged and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Where I come from we seek to honor our women."

"How?" Preston asked.

Yori took a moment to think, and then a rare smile crossed his face as though he had just remembered an old joke. "In Krebberfall, often times after battle men's thoughts turn to those they love most. We talk about our women, praise them, try to outdo the other men with tales of our wives' greatest deeds."

"Did you have a woman?" Broderick asked.

Yori nodded. "Yes." His expression grew sad. "Once."

"What happened?" Brayden asked.

But all he said was, "She was taken from me."

For a moment no sounds disturbed the small camp except the snapping and popping of wood as it burned.

Ty's tender voice cut through the night. "We should be honoring him. Khalous."

"We will," Broderick said. "When we take the throne from the Black King."

Mention of Khalous brought a wave of heat up from Brayden's stomach. He swallowed back his grief, but not before a single tear escaped his eye.

"What did you mean that we fought without honor?" he asked.

"You fight with anger," Yori said. "You think this gives you strength, but it only serves to make you weak."

"These bastards deserved everything we threw at them," Broderick said.

"When an enemy asks for mercy, he deserves nothing less."

"Did they show mercy to Khalous when they severed his limbs?" Brayden asked. "Did they show mercy to my father and mother, or anyone anywhere on Eden?"

"In battle there is little that separates us from our enemies," Yori said, "but our capacity for mercy is one of them."

Brayden looked down into the fire, not sure if he agreed with the warrior's comments on mercy. He had enjoyed killing the black vipers, and his only regret so far was that he hadn't killed more.

"In truth," Yori said, "you all fought bravely. You have my respect. I will recommend to our leader that you be trained as Kriegellian warriors."

"Really? You're going to train us?" Preston asked.

"No, I said I would recommend that you be trained, but the decision lies with the leerah."

"The who?"

"Our teacher."

"Why?" Brayden asked. "Why are you helping us?"

"To honor the wishes of my friend Tenri, along with those of your captain." He paused, then added, "And your father."

Yori's words struck Brayden's heart like a dagger and sent the blood rushing to his ears. He felt a wave of heat rising to his face and his eyes widened.

"You knew my father?"

Broderick sat up a little straighter.

Yori nodded. "And your grandfather. The Falls have always been good men."

"How did you know them?" Brayden asked, drawing closer.

Yori looked away. His mouth opened to respond, but then he paused in careful thought. "That is a tale you will hear soon enough, but not from me." He uncrossed his legs and stood. "Rest, my friends. We have a long journey ahead of us."

Brayden remained awake for a long time, watching the boys drift off to sleep and listening to the soothing sounds of their slow and easy breathing.

For him, sleep would not come. He sat on the ground, his arms hugging his knees, until the first gray light of dawn tinted the eastern sky.

Astonished that he had forgotten, Brayden reached under the collar of his dirty tunic and withdrew the necklace Khalous had given him. The thing looked old, the bone charm worn smooth from years of wear. It was small, about the size of a finger bone, hollow, and tied to a braided leather strap. He turned it around in the firelight, trying to figure out what significance this keepsake had for his family.

Brayden sat up when he noticed that the bone wasn't hollow at all. Leaning closer to the firelight he saw what looked like a tiny piece of paper rolled up and tucked inside. With eager fingers, his heart shivering, he tried to pull the paper free, but he couldn't get a grip on it. He shook it, hoping to dislodge it, but the paper had been rolled inside the bone for so long that the two were almost a part of each other. Using a small stick he managed to push the note through the hole. He unfurled the tiny piece of parchment, revealing two small sentences written in his father's handwriting.

Fire melts not where the blade is frozen,

Where the sun ignites the snow at dawn.

Confused, Brayden read it again, whispering the words to himself. He mulled them over, then read them again, scratched his head, and read them again. No matter how many times he looked at them they didn't make any sense.

Disappointed, he sat back on his haunches and sighed.

After a few moments he rolled up the tiny piece of paper and placed it back in the small hollow bone. He lay down on the ground, examining the bone in the firelight while wondering why Khalous thought it was so important.

Weariness took him. He slept deeply, but awoke a short while later, his limbs stiff, his body exhausted, and his eyes heavier than they were before he had fallen asleep.

Yori was already up, collecting his belongings. "Rise, my friends. We need to move quickly. The lands ahead are filled with natives who will take advantage of lingering trespassers."

Broderick limped to his feet, his left arm curled protectively over his ribs. "Where are we going?"

"We'll pass over the mountain into the Wilds," Yori said.

"The Wilds?" Ty repeated, shock and fear edging his tone. "Cannibals there. Demon worshippers. Them are the ones who paint themselves with blood."

"Some," Yori said, unconcerned. "From there we go to the land of my people."

"No," Brayden said. "We need to go back to Halus Gis. We promised our sister we would return for her."

Yori shook his head. "It's too dangerous. If your captain told the lord of Thalmia about Halus Gis then the high king of Edhen knows where you've been hiding. He will be sending soldiers there, if he hasn't already."

"All the more reason we need to go," Broderick said.

Ty rose from his spot on the ground. "Yes. Senona is there."

Yori leaned back, crossed his powerful, tattooed arms, and glared at them. "Is this how all of you feel?"

Nash nodded, followed by Preston.

"You?" Yori asked, looking at Clint.

The beefy young man shrugged. "I suppose."

"That's his way of saying yes," Broderick said.

Yori nodded. "Very well. I will help you do this, but it is a waste of time. Everyone at Halus Gis will soon be dead."

"Then we better hurry," said Brayden.

# DANA

She sat up on her cot in the girl's dormitory, her eyes unwilling to stay open. Sweeping her hand over the top of her head, she pulled back her long mane of brown hair and rubbed her face. She had not slept well. She had spent half the night rolling from side to side until the blankets lay half on the floor and her nightgown bunched around her waist, leaving her pale legs exposed to the cold night air.

Dana pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her gown around her legs and tucked the hem under her frigid toes.

She noticed Nairnah, her tender eyes peeking out from under a large bundle of blankets. "Are you all right?" the girl asked.

Wiping her eyes, Dana replied, "I just didn't sleep very well."

"Anything I can do?" Nairnah offered.

"Thank you, but no."

"Will you cuddle with me?"

Even though Dana admired Nairnah's servant-like qualities, her neediness had become tiresome. Ever since Brayden had left the girl acted as though she didn't know what to do with herself. Her spirit deflated. Her motivation seemed sapped.

"Sorry, love. I need to get up."

She set her feet on the stone floor and cringed. Picking her way through the dark, she staggered to the communal privies where she relieved herself before washing and dressing. By the time she reached the breakfast table, she still felt as though her head was in a fog. Something in her heart felt raw.

In the dining hall, Ariella and the cooking staff were chatting about the new duktori who was scheduled to arrive today.

"Waylaid by bad weather, Gravis says," said Sister Marleenious as her suety fingers chopped carrots. "Seems winter has come at last in some parts east of here."

"It will be upon us soon enough."

Ariella hoisted a large metal colander out of the sink. She shook it a few times, draining it of the last few drops of water. "He should be here this afternoon." She noticed Dana standing in the doorway and her face grew concerned. "Good morning, love. Are you all right?"

Dana hugged her arms around her stomach. "Just didn't sleep well."

She didn't know why, but she felt restless inside, nervous. Halus Gis had not fared so well the last time significant new changes were introduced. Granted those changes were at the hands of the less competent Prior Gravis, still she couldn't help feeling leery of whatever changes the new duktori would bring.

"You need some breakfast in you," Sister Marleenious said. "Come have your fill, love. You'll feel right as a bud in spring."

Dana didn't feel hungry, but she ate anyway.

Prior Gravis found Dana and Nairnah after breakfast. He strode over to them in a long brown robe and red sash, his hands tented pensively in front of him. He instructed them to give the abbot's bedchambers another sweeping, much to Dana's displeasure. "And do make sure the shelves are free of dust, the books are organized, and that there is wood available for the fire. I wish to make the new duktori as comfortable as possible." He strode away without waiting for them to acknowledge what he had said.

"He seems determined to impress the new duktori," Nairnah said as Dana followed her out of the kitchen. "Pompous scoundrel."

Since Duktori Bendrosi's death, Prior Gravis had governed Halus Gis with as much cheer as one could find in the crypt below the chapel. His words were as hollow as its old bones, and his demeanor as cold as the walls upon which they hung. Both Dana and Nairnah, along with many others, were looking forward to the day that Gravis was relieved of his place at Halus Gis.

Dana stepped outside behind Nairnah and followed her to the dormitory. The hem of her skirt bobbed around her heels with every lucid step while her hair, drawn back in a jaunty bow, swung like a horsetail behind her.

"You're in a bouncy mood," Dana remarked.

"A new duktori is coming, which means Gravis won't be in charge much longer."

"Maybe, but there's a chance the duktori could appoint Gravis the new head of Halus Gis."

"I don't think so. Gravis has no cheer, no softness, and an abbot needs to be soft."

The girls entered the dormitory building and climbed the stairs to the duktori's private chambers. Dana pushed open the bedroom door. She realized that she hadn't set foot inside since the night the abbot passed. She remembered watching his convulsions from the doorway, the way his muscles contorted his limbs against his will. She couldn't tell if the faint whiff of human excrement in the air was real or if it was just a figment of her imagination.

Nairnah grabbed a dust rag and went to work on the shelves.

Dana walked to the window, a latticework of small square panes that curved outward to provide a broad view of the northern sea. She stood there a moment, taking in the view, unable to shake the queasy feeling in her gut.

"Do you ever miss it?" Nairnah asked.

"Miss what?"

"Castle life?"

"Sometimes."

"I think I'd miss it a lot." Nairnah simpered.

"In what ways?" Dana picked up a broom and started sweeping.

"I remember seeing you once standing in the sunlight in the town square. You had on a fine linen dress dyed pale yellow, with white lace along the hem and embroidered flowers. I always wondered what it would be like to have a dress that beautiful." She paused a moment to laugh at herself. "If I were a princess, I'd probably have a new dress made for me every day."

Dana thought her whimsical notions were amusing. "Believe me, it all gets quite tiresome after a while."

"You didn't like being a princess?"

Now it was Dana's turn to laugh. "I didn't say that. It might look like a life full of riches and nice dresses, but for all of its abundance it lacks many other things. Simple things."

"Like what?"

Dana brushed a few rolls of dust into a wooden bin that she dumped in the trash. "Friendship. How many times did your parents ever tell you not to play with certain children, or act certain ways?"

"A few times."

"Well we heard it every day. Little princes and little princesses need to know how to behave, and we have an endless line of attendants at the ready to remind us the moment we err. There are many expectations put on us, many responsibilities. Take Brayden, for example. As the eldest son it was his duty to learn to govern the kingdom from the moment he was able. Books and studying and tutors and mentors. Not always as wonderful as some assume."

"So do you prefer _this_?" Nairnah asked, gesturing toward Dana's broom with her dusty rag.

Dana stopped sweeping and thought for a moment. She had to admit, the past few years at Halus Gis had given her a purpose she'd never felt before. The lifestyle was simpler, and she was making a difference in the lives of orphans and widows every day.

She opened her mouth to give her answer when the bell within the chapel's tower sounded throughout the monastery. The girls ran to the east window and looked out toward the southeast hills where a group of riders could be seen cresting the grassy dome.

"The duktori!" Nairnah exclaimed. She pulled herself away from the window and trotted down the stairs, beckoning Dana to follow.

With a nervous flutter in her heart Dana moved from the bedroom, down the stairs, and out into the street. People were emerging from all corners of the monastery—nuns from the orchards, men from the workshops, widows, orphans, and lay servants from the dorms and outbuildings. They bundled blankets and cloaks around themselves to guard against the snowless cold, mouths puffing white into the air.

Pick was munching on an apple when he came out of the barn and fell in step alongside Dana. He was a welcome sight to Dana's eyes, even if he did reek of barn.

"Finally some new leadership around here," he said quietly. "Gravis has me ready to slit his throat." Noticing the worried expression on her face, he asked, "Is everything all right?"

She crossed her arms and shivered from the early morning cold. "Just worried, I guess."

"There's nothing to worry about. I suspect a duktori will do this place good. You just wait and see."

Prior Gravis called out last minute matters of etiquette, reminding people to bow their heads upon the duktori's arrival, to bow even lower if he approached them, and to show nothing but utmost reverence for "his holiness," but no one was listening. They were all looking down the main road in hopeful anticipation.

Dana stood next to Ariella. The middle-aged woman put a gentle arm around her shoulders and offered a reassuring smile.

The first of the riders trotted up over the hill and around the bend. He wore the plain white and brown colors of his order and bore a flag bearing the yellow symbol of Omneesah.

At first, Dana felt her heart swell with relief, but then she noticed the sword hanging from his belt, and the black and silver armor covering his legs. His horse was armored as well.

"What is that?" murmured one of the lay servants.

The soldier tore off the robe, revealing his armor underneath and the glistening silver serpentine emblem of the high king of Edhen.

Dana stepped forward. Her gaze sharpened a trifle. Her eyes drifted from the mounted soldier, along the rope in his hands, to the horse attached to the other end. Sitting atop the animal was a bloodied holy man.

"The duktori!" someone exclaimed.

"What have they done?"

Ariella grabbed her and pulled her into the crowd. "Dana, get back! If they find you here, they will kill you!"

"They'll kill us all," Dana replied.

Gasps and whispers of horror washed over the crowd.

The duktori's face had been beaten and cut to the point of being unrecognizable. His left hand was missing several fingers, and his clothing lay draped over his body in bloody shreds. There was no doubt it was the duktori, however, as evidenced by the familiar yellow sash around his neck and the white cap covering the top of his bloodied head. He had a gag in his mouth and his hands were bound in front of him.

"My lord!" Gravis shouted, bolting out into the street toward the helpless abbot. "What in the name of..." He looked at the soldier leading the way, a tall commanding officer. "Who are you? Why have you done this to—"

"Silence!" the black viper barked, his mouth spewing a small white cloud. He was an ugly man with a big brown beard and a fat nose. A rag of dark hair hung over his pale forehead, complimenting his bushy brows that drew down in a perpetual scowl.

Behind him came a contingent of black soldiers, all of whom had cast aside their priestly disguises. Dana estimated that there were more than twenty in all.

"My name is Marshal Garnock Welsh," he said in a guttural, bear-like tone. "I have come here on behalf of High King Orkrash Mahl and demand that you hand over any refugees of Aberdour that may be hiding here."

"This is an outrage!" Gravis said. He approached the commander, arms open in surrender. "This monastery is a place of peace. We have no quarrel with you."

Garnock moved his horse forward to confront Gravis. He slammed his boot into the prior's chin sending him tumbling back into the mud. The marshal smiled revealing two missing teeth on the right side of his bearded face.

"We know they are here," Garnock said. "We caught up with a group of wanted fugitives in Thalmia. They told us where to find the rest."

Dana felt her chest tighten. "Brayden," she breathed.

She felt Ariella's hand on her arm, heard her whisper in her ear, "Do not believe him. They would never tell anyone that we are here."

"We slaughtered them," Garnock added, "and if the traitors don't come forward we will slaughter everyone here as well."

Dana's hand shot to her mouth to stifle her horrified gasp. Ariella threw her arms around her and held her tight, urging her to be silent.

Gravis staggered to his feet, his hand cupping the generous flow of blood pouring from his mouth.

"If you wish to spare the life of your leader you will surrender the rest of these criminals," Garnock said. He jerked the reigns of the second horse, bringing the beaten duktori closer to him. He grabbed the man by the back of his hair and jerked his face toward the sky. The people gasped when Garnock placed a blade at the duktori's throat. "Give us the Aberdourian fugitives."

Gravis lifted his hands toward the viper commander, begging for calm. "Please, m–my lord. We have nothing to hide."

"Then give us the criminals. We know they are here."

Gravis looked up at the duktori, an elderly man with long gray hair, who regarded the crowd with teary blue eyes of regret and pain. Then he nodded his consent to Gravis.

"My lord?" the prior said, his voice quivering.

Garnock pinched the duktori's throat with his knife.

"Yes," the captive choked over the cloth gag. "Give them up."

Gravis faced the crowd, his eyes scanning.

Dana slunk back, horrified that those who had promised to protect her were now surrendering her to the enemy. She looked passed the lay servants and nuns standing at her back, to the monastery wall behind the chapel. If she ran as fast as she could she might reach the wall before any of the soldiers loosed their arrows. But even if she made it over the wall, where then could she go?

"Nairnah," she whispered. "Where's Nairnah?"

Several black vipers dismounted and walked up behind Gravis, their hands perched on the hilts of their swords.

Gravis called to Ariella. "Where is she?"

The woman scowled at him. "Don't you dare, Gravis! Don't do this."

"Either the criminals give themselves up," Garnock said, "or my men start killing your children."

Panicked gasps and cries wove through the crowd.

"Dana!" Gravis shouted, pointing in her direction.

She froze, her eyes slamming shut, half wishing, hoping, praying that she was trapped in nothing but a nightmare. Perhaps if she pinched herself she'd wake up back in the frigid dormitory, her legs and feet still aching from the cold.

The black vipers pushed their way toward Dana and grabbed her by the arms.

"Damn you, Gravis!" Ariella cried.

"I'm doing it for the good of the many," Gravis said. "Now where is the other one? Where is Nairnah? Where are the two little ones and the man they call Pick?" He stood back and shouted to the crowd, "Any refugees from Aberdour need to come forward now."

Dana's heart raced arrhythmically as the soldiers brought her before the marshal and threw her at his feet. The soiled dirt and horse manure from the road stained her dress.

"No!" Nairnah shouted. She burst out from the crowd. Pick was right behind her, trying to reel her in, but it was too late.

"Ah, the soldier," Garnock said, eyeing Pick. "Your two comrades fought bravely against my men in Thalmia... for a time."

Dana watched Pick's jaw tighten in rage.

Two soldiers moved behind him and Nairnah and forced them to their knees.

Gravis found the two orphans, Joseph and Pan, who were younger than Scarlett was when Aberdour was attacked. They were brought out from the crowd by impatient vipers who forced them to the ground next to Dana.

"As you all should know, harboring fugitives from the high king is a crime punishable by death," Garnock shouted. He looked over the crowd with dark and guileless eyes. "By the order of High King Orkrash Mahl I order this monastery burned to the ground and everyone within sentenced to death."

The black haired marshal shoved his knife up into the duktori's throat, spilling his blood all over the neck and forelegs of his horse. The old man's body toppled forward and into the muddy street.

"What?" Gravis yelled. "Please don't—"

The black vipers unleashed a barrage of arrows into the crowd. People screamed as they took wooden shafts in their chests, necks, and heads. Others scattered, running for the safety of the nearest buildings.

Pick jumped up and thrust his palm into the chin of the soldier behind him. The man's mouth slammed shut, ejecting shards of broken teeth into the air. Pick tackled the viper standing behind Dana. They tumbled along the ground through the mud.

"Kill them!" the commander ordered. "Kill them all now!"

Dana grabbed Nairnah with one hand and Pan with the other.

"Get up!" she shouted. "Joseph, on your feet!"

A third black viper rushed toward them, his sword drawn. He took a swipe at the boy, severing his tiny head from his impish body.

Spatters of the child's blood hit Dana's face and she froze, horrified. For a moment, she forgot even to breath.

When she saw the soldier grab Pan her shock turned to fury that exploded into violence. She charged the man, surprising him and throwing him off balance. With a sharp elbow she caught him in the eye socket and knocked him over. In the next couple moments she lost herself in rage and fear and pounded on his face with her bare fists. She grabbed his sword and thrust it down into his mouth. He gagged, eyes wide, his body convulsing. She stabbed him again, pushing the blade down through his cheek and into the ground.

The next thing Dana knew she had been lifted off her feet and slung over Pick's shoulder. She screamed, bouncing violently atop his back as he sprinted toward the safety of the chapel with Pan and Nairnah in tow.

Dana watched one of the soldiers behind them raise his crossbow. He loosed an arrow in her direction. She closed her eyes and screamed, dreading the moment the arrow pierced her skin, but the bolt missed her head and landed in the back of Pick's shoulder. He toppled forward, spilling Dana onto the ground.

"Get up, Dana!" Nairnah yelled, just as an arrow flew past her head and impaled one of the priests.

All around her people screamed as blood poured on the grass. The black vipers took torches to the dormitories, slaughtering the male and female lay servants as they went. They set aflame a hay cart and wheeled it into the barn, leaving the horses and donkeys to scream and buck against their stalls as they burned. They set the orchards on fire, smashed through windows and doorways and sent flaming arrows into all the buildings.

Pick staggered to his feet, wincing at the arrow in his shoulder. Dana and Nairnah helped him toward the chapel.

Ariella was already inside, her hand extended to Dana through the entryway.

"Behind you!" she yelled.

Pick threw Dana to the grass and whirled around, catching the incoming attack of a black soldier. The man had a massive iron mallet, which Pick managed to knock from his grasp. They wrestled for a moment until they fell to the ground.

Dana scurried backward into the chapel. She watched as Pick got the upper hand, lifted the soldier's mallet, and flattened his skull against the ground.

"Pick!" she shouted.

He hurried into the chapel behind Pan and Nairnah, his shoulder a bloodied mess. He took another arrow to the back just as he passed through the doorway.

"Close the door!" Ariella said.

Dana reached for the latch and pulled the heavy wooden door away from the wall. It groaned on its hinges as she pushed it into place.

Just before the door closed Dana glimpsed Prior Gravis on the road outside hurrying toward the chapel. The man was surrounded by violence. He stepped over bodies as he ran, ignoring the pleas of those dying around him.

"Wait!" he said, extending a bloodied hand toward Dana. "Wait, please!"

She hesitated. Her first instinct was to help him, but the thoughts that filled her mind a moment later were just the opposite. Gravis was the reason this was happening. If not for him, her brothers would still be alive. If not for him, Khalous and Stoneman would be here to help fight this assault. If he wanted mercy, he could beg it from the Black King's army.

"Close it!" Ariella shouted again.

Through the western gate Dana saw a second contingent of horsed vipers thunder down the main road. They stormed into the monastery, swinging spiked flails, and long halberds, charging over fallen bodies while lopping off the limbs of fleeing residents.

"Wait!" Gravis pleaded, nearing closer. "Wait! Wait!"

Dana pushed the door shut and slammed the drawbar in place.

"The west end," Dana said, pointing toward the garden through the door on the left side of the sanctuary.

Ariella hurried toward it and closed off the entrance.

There were three other people within the chapel—an elderly nun and a young dark-haired widow with her daughter. The girl couldn't have been older than five. They huddled together against the exterior wall, terrified faces bowed to the floor in desperate prayer. Nairnah joined them along with Pan.

"We can't stay here," Dana said. "They'll find a way in."

"They'll burn us out," moaned Pick as he struggled to rise onto his hands and knees.

Dana knelt, urging him to stay still. Two arrows protruded from his back: one right above his shoulder blade, the second in the muscle along his spine.

"Go," he said, "out the window, 'cross the grass... over the wall."

Dana shook her head. "What about the cliffs? We'll have no place to go."

"If we can get over the wall there's a narrow trail that leads down to the shore," Nairnah said.

"They'll kill us before we get out."

One of the stained glass windows shattered into a rainbow of small shards that collapsed on the heads of the huddling women and children. Pan screamed. A torch came spinning handle over flame into the sanctuary. It splashed down onto the pews in a spray of sparks.

Another window shattered and a second torch flew into the room. A third followed, then a fourth. A pitchfork crashed through a window near the pulpit, its prongs clutching a large heap of flaming hay. Black vipers ran by the windows, shouting for more fire. Bit by bit the flames took hold and the sanctuary started to burn.

"Mama!" cried the child of the young widow.

The woman jumped to her feet and ran for the door.

"No!" Ariella shouted.

The woman lifted the drawbar.

"If you open that door they'll skewer you."

"I'd rather that than be burned alive!"

"She's right," Dana said. "Don't do it!"

The widow paused.

Dana felt Pick tugging on her skirt. She looked down. He pointed toward the basement door.

"The crypt?"

The mere thought of all those ancient bones nailed to the wall in their death mural sent a cold shiver down Dana's spine. "We'll be entombed down there. When this place burns it will fall on top of us."

"It's our only... chance," he said. "Open the door. Go down. Hurry!"

A series of flaming darts shot through the broken windows, igniting the chapel's maroon tapestries on the opposite wall. Other arrows aimed at a steeper angle dug into the sanctuary's vaulted ceiling where their flames licked at the wooden beams and began to grow.

Dana went to the crypt door, lifted the latch, and heaved it open. The dank darkness beyond rose to welcome her like the shadowy arms of death. She pulled a torch off the wall and handed it to Pan.

"Into the crypt!" she shouted.

She went to Pick and lifted his arm up around her neck.

"Ariella!" she called. "Help me."

Pick groaned as they took his arms and hoisted him onto his feet.

From the corner of her eyes Dana saw the front door to the chapel open, sending a thick shaft of light careening into the smoky sanctuary.

"No!" she yelled.

But the young widow and her daughter had already sprinted through the doorway, their arms waving away the smoke in front of their eyes. The first arrow caught the woman in the chest and stopped her in her tracks. The second hit her in the shoulder, spinning her around, giving Dana a clear look at the shock of death that filled her terrified eyes. A third arrow pierced the back of her head and pushed her down into the dirt.

The girl was beyond Dana's view when she heard her scream.

Another arrow careened through the doorway and into Ariella's side. The woman gasped as though she'd just been slugged in the stomach. She toppled to her knees, losing her grip on Pick who fell forward and tumbled down the first flight of steps into the basement.

Dana hurried down to him. "Get up, Pick! Please!" He wasn't moving.

She looped her hands under his arms and pulled him down the second flight of stairs. Once at the bottom she laid him on the stone floor.

Pan was standing nearby with the torch, her tear-streaked face alive with fright.

"Wait here," Dana said, trying to sound brave.

Sprinting back up the stairs, she saw Ariella crawling through the doorway, clutching the end of a bloody arrow protruding from her right hipbone. The sanctuary beyond was a nightmare of flames. Dana could hear the beams of the once gorgeous ceiling cracking and giving away.

She bent down and took the woman's arm. "Grab onto me! We're almost there. Come on!"

The ceiling groaned and a single beam broke away. It crashed down a few feet from the crypt's entrance, showering Dana with a hail of red embers. She reeled back at the shower of hot sparks that stabbed her neck and face. She fell backwards down the stairs with Ariella.

More of the ceiling collapsed above. Giant beams wrapped in flame plummeted to the ground. The door to the crypt slammed shut, plunging Dana into total darkness.

# MEREK

Merek Viator felt the impact of the top step on his right shoulder first. The middle step jabbed into his back as he tumbled. He skipped over the last one and landed on his face in the muddied dirt. He was thankful for the alcohol coursing through his blood, dulling the pain, but he knew he'd feel it in the morning.

"Don't ever come back here!" the bartender shouted. With his muscle bound sidekick the bartender disappeared back into the tavern, leaving Merek in the pouring rain.

Staggering to his feet, he wiped the blood from his lip.

A moose of a man atop a tall black horse trotted by. "Get out of my way!" he shouted. Merek shuffled back on the greasy road.

Ugly Town. At least, that's what everyone called it, a slummy sector of Turnberry where the poor, the destitute, and the sleeping never-washed beggars struggled to survive. The permeating stench of cattle yards hung thick over Ugly Town like a blanket, thicker, even, than the vapors of rejection and cruelty that rose from every ruin.

Merek meandered up the street, slipping in the mud, trying to remember if the way out of this section of the city was up or down. Truthfully, he didn't know if he was going left or right.

He'd been on the continent of Edhen for four months, wandering the taverns of Turnberry, picking fights, and maintaining a degree of drunkenness that kept his brain in a constant fog. He had done the same thing on Efferous for over a year until he'd pulled together enough sense to leave for Edhen. He had traveled in the cargo hold of a pirate ship called The Forge Ahead. The journey had cost him another regenstern, which he had given to the captain. From bottle to bottle he wandered, never having a clear idea of where he was or where he wanted to go.

Awlin was dead, that he knew for certain, and for the last sixteen months that was all he could think about. That and his guilt. Just like before, the blame was on him. And that was one pain that no amount of alcohol ever seemed able to dull.

Merek's slacks and leather jerkin were soaking wet, chilling his skin. He had a cloak, but he couldn't remember where he'd left it. The only thought on his mind now was to find another tavern.

He made his way out of Ugly Town, through the curving narrow streets that rose to breezier hillsides. He stumbled along between stone buildings leased by swordsmiths, stonemasons, repairmen, tailors, armorers, and other tradesmen in need of space to produce their crafts.

"What you starin' at, drunky?" garbled an armor maker when he stopped from hammering a hot steel plate into a helmet.

Merek realized that his legs had stopped walking. He was standing in the middle of the street staring at the man for no good reason. On unsteady feet he turned up the road and continued to the center of the city.

He wobbled to a stop when he saw a large stone archway leading into what looked like a memorial ground. The words over the gate read: _Allanvale Honorary_. The location struck a dismal chord in his memory. He stood there a moment, looking in, and though he hated himself for doing so he started walking toward it. He passed under the drizzling stone arch, and wandered along paths paved with granite slabs, scanning the names of the noble families of Turnberry. Every highborn surname of the kingdom that had ever lived was listed here, the names proudly displayed on stone markers overlooking the family's burial plot.

The markers of the most honored families featured a silver seal embedded into the stone above the family name. The seal served as a symbol of the family's honor within society, which, in Turnberry, was valued above all other things.

When Merek found the plot of Viator, he stopped. A cold shiver ran up his spine. There was no silver seal on his family's marker. Not anymore. The grass had long grown over the headstones of his ancestors, along with roots and brambles that further represented all that Merek had cost his family.

Memories flooded him of the day he had shamed his family name—his drunken stupor, his foolish actions, the loss of his sister. The visions clamored around inside his head until he couldn't bear to look upon the dishonored plot any more. He turned away, fighting back tears.

He needed a drink.

Merek staggered out of the honorary and back into the street, but he had taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in a back alley cluttered with garbage and teaming with rats. He wasn't sure how far he wandered, but he knew where his legs were taking him, even though he was reluctant to go there.

Home.

It had been almost six and a half years since he had looked upon the house of his birth, but it wasn't his anymore. It didn't even belong to the family of Viator. Another noble family had purchased the building after Merek had disgraced his family name and fled.

Merek kept walking, down old familiar roads and passed ancient memories.

He stopped in front of a humble cottage on the outskirts of town. It was a simple straw and clay home situated behind a rickety fence. Chickens mucked around the yard along with a pair of goats and a few sheep, all looking dismal in the continuous rain.

A gray haired woman in a long tattered brown dress sat in a chair on the crooked deck of the small home, her nimble fingers finishing the seam to what looked like a collared tunic. She looked up at him, noticed him standing there with her silvery blue eyes, and returned to her work.

Then she paused, the tendons in her neck flinching. Her eyes lifted again and when they met Merek's, he felt another shiver course through him. The woman rose, shocked.

"Merek?" she whispered.

When he said nothing, here eyebrows drew in. She frowned and left the porch, heading into the house and calling for a man named Richard.

Merek reached out to the fence to steady himself. His throat seized, hot with grief and regret. He should have expected no less from his stepmother.

A man appeared in the doorway wiping his butcher's hands on a filthy rag. He eyed Merek with a pair of intense brown eyes, his bulbous jaw set in a deep scowl. He was angry, that much was evident, but Merek thought he saw a degree of compassion as well.

"What are you doing here, boy?" the man asked.

Merek staggered, forcing his mind to form words, but all that emerged was drunken stuttering.

"If you've got something to say, say it. Then be gone. You're not welcome here."

"I found her, father," Merek said, and his voice cracked. "Awlin. She's..." His throat locked. He forced the words passed the hot lump in his throat. "She's dead."

Richard Viator stomped down the steps and approached Merek, his tattered black boots splashing in the mud. "Is that what you came here to do, break our hearts all over again? Haven't you brought this family enough pain?"

Merek hung his head in shame, his shoulder heaving as he sobbed. "I'm sorry, father. I'm sorry for everything." His sorrow made a mess of his face while he talked. "I'm sorry for the dishonor I brought to our family. I'm sorry for losing Awlin. I'm—"

"Stop."

"I tried, father. I tried to save her."

"Quit your babbling!"

Staggering, Merek gripped the fence to keep from falling over as wave after wave of emotions crashed over him.

Richard fell silent. His hand moved as if to comfort Merek's shoulder, but then it stopped. Looking at his father Merek saw empathy in his eyes, but there was also anger and an ocean of hurt.

He pulled his hand away.

"I'm sorry about your brother," Richard said.

Merek's brows drew in. "My brother?"

"Broderick Falls was a good boy. His family didn't deserve—"

"The Falls want even less to do with me than you did."

Richard shook his head. "Lilyanna loved you like a son. She would've come to see you more except the king didn't want her—"

"She was not my mother," Merek blurted. "Beth is my mother. And thanks to your infidelity she won't even speak to me anymore."

"That was your doing!" Richard snapped. "You abandoned this family with your pride and your selfishness."

"And do you know why?" Merek shouted.

Richard flinched.

"Because my father had another son that he loved more than me."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? Lilyanna Falls was the woman you loved, not mother. Broderick was the son you always wanted, not me. You call me selfish? Your such a hypocrite. An selfish, tired, cowardly old man."

Merek lost his balance and fell when his father's fist caught him in the cheek. He landed sprawled in the mud, his world spinning out of control.

"After all these years, still nothing but a drunk and an imbecile," Richard said.

Merek climbed to his feet, gripping the worn old fence for support.

"You turn around and crawl back to your cave," his father said. "I never want to see you here again."

"Father, please."

Richard walked back into the house.

Watching from the door was his stepmother, Beth, dabbing at her eyes with bony fingers.

Merek found his balance. He looked at the house as a sudden rush of hate and self-loathing erupted within him. "Curse the name of Viator! Damn your traditions and damn your name. Curse this forgotten town and its bloody kingdom and all your damn honor!"

Barely aware of what he had said he stumbled back onto the street. For hours he wandered out of town on mucky roads, plodding along on shaky legs.

He came across a musky clapboard tavern and stumbled up the steps, drawing curious stares from the woodsy patrons within. He ordered a drink, but realized he had no money.

He noticed a man next to him slouched against the bar in a long black cloak. He tapped his shoulder and asked for a few coppers. The man turned to face him and stood up straight, extending his massive frame until Merek's eyes were level with his sweaty neck.

"Yeh want a what?" the tower asked.

The man looked strangely familiar.

"Please. I just need a drink."

The tower laughed. "Sure." He thumped a fist on Merek's back, yanked him away from the bar, and dragged him outside. The other patrons laughed. They gathered at the doorway to watch as Merek was lugged across the street and thrown into a gutter.

"Plenty of piss to drink down there," he yelled, and the people watching from the tavern roared with laughter.

The tower stood over him as Merek tried to right himself.

"Hey, don't I know yeh?"

Once Merek had pulled himself out of the gutter, soaked in excrement, mud, and who knows what else, the tower kicked him over onto his back and leaned down close to his face. Merek opened his puffy eyes. Through the rain and his bleary drunkenness he saw a man he had tussled with almost four years prior in a wizard's tower on Efferous. Gall Shea was the man's name.

Merek chocked back his nervousness. He couldn't remember what exactly he had done to the soldier, but judging by the look on the man's face he was hungry for vengeance.

Gall locked his fists around Merek's shirt. "I lost me job 'cause of yeh!" he said, hoisting him to his feet. "Yeh remember? Jumped out the window, yeh did, and pulled a bed down on top of me, broke me jaw and three o' me fingers." He slugged Merek in the stomach. "Yeh slimy li'l bastard." He slugged him again, pushing him up off his feet. "Now I gotta work in the dirt with all of these Turnberrian filths, pushing a bloody plow to make a livin'."

Merek's brain hurt. His eyes shut. The world shook so hard that he couldn't tell from where the blows were coming. He just felt pain—in his ribs, his jaw, his gut.

He vaguely remembered the soldier, or rather he remembered his immense size. The man had been one of the black vipers assigned to protect Versch Leiern, the troublesome wizard from whom Merek stole the shards of the regenstern.

"What did yeh ever do with the gems?" Gall asked, leaning down over Merek. "Keep 'em for yerself, did yeh? Now what have yeh got? Nothing! Gotta ask for a copper just to buy a drink. Gives me a good chuckle, that!" He sent a vicious boot into Merek's ribs.

"Yeh ever heard o' the phrase, 'an eye for an eye?'" Gall asked as he pulled Merek to his feet. "No? That's a'right. Let me show yeh what it means."

He drew his fist back and cracked him in the chin, sending him spinning to the ground.

"That's for me jaw!"

He knelt down on top of him, driving his knee into his ribs. He lifted Merek's right hand and latched onto his three largest fingers.

"And this is for me hand."

Merek's fingers broke at the knuckles as the man yanked them back.

Gall leaned down close to Merek's ear. "And here's the kicker for yeh. Yer li'l bitch sister was always gunna die. We had orders to kill her if we ever did find her. That Ustus fellow, vile scum servant of the high king that he is, always had it out for yeh." He hoisted Merek to his feet. "Even if yeh'd brought the stones back like yeh was supposed to he woulda killed yeh, and that li'l whore, too. Yeh don't make deals with the Ivy of Edhen, didn't yeh know?"

Liquid rage coursed hot through Merek's veins, but his limbs were too numb with alcohol to respond. He tried to latch onto the man's collar, but ended up twisting his already mangled fingers. Gall slugged him a final time and dropped him back in the ditch where he landed in a painful heap.

Blackness swallowed him.

When Merek opened his eyes, or at least the one that hadn't swollen shut, night had settled upon the town. The tower was long gone, and the surrounding air had chilled even more.

Merek strained to pull himself out of the gutter. Then he half limped, half dragged himself across the road to the alley behind the tavern where he collapsed in the dirt and passed out again.

Morning.

He awoke the following morning in a painful haze. His stomach betrayed him and he wretched several times, feeling the agony of every bruise from his beating the night before with each violent clench of his gut.

He staggered out into the woods behind the tavern, following the sounds of running water.

Lapping the edge of a soft mossy bank was a narrow river. He stripped off his clothes and waded out to where it was deepest, relishing the soothing rain-refreshed gurgle of the creek and the invigorating coolness of the water. He submerged himself, letting the shock of the cold bring him to his senses and awaken his mind. He rose, punched through the surface, and gulped air like purifying nectar.

Sitting on the forefront of his mind as if just waiting to be called into focus were the words Gall Shea had spoken to him the day before. The former black soldier had told him the truth about Ustus Rapere. The Ivy of Edhen. That traitorous swine had intended to kill Awlin all along.

Or was that all a dream?

Merek lifted his hand and examined his three broken fingers, now swollen and purple. He took them as evidence that he hadn't imagined what the former black soldier had said.

"Thank you, Gall," he muttered.

Purpose began to form within Merek once again.

Tearing some fabric off his undershirt, he fashioned a crude splint for his broken fingers. He washed his clothes and hung them on some bushes to dry. Then he dressed and wandered back into town.

He swiped a cloak off a fencepost and a pair of leather gloves from a blacksmith's bench. He went to the market of Turnberry where dozens of farmers had gathered to sell bits of their harvest. With the fingers of his dominant hand broken, he had to rely on his left to pick a few pockets, which, for a trained, hungry, and desperate thief like him, wasn't a stretch.

After purchasing a few provisions and stealing a few others, he left town. By mid-afternoon he was well on his way along The Arch, a stretch of road that curved across the southern half of the continent from Turnberry to Perth.

Later in the day a wagon rolled up behind him with an old man seated in the front. He had dusty gray hair along the sides of his head, and the strong rigid jaw of a man who knew the value of a hard day's work. There was an old woman with him, his wife, Merek guessed, and a quartet of young people ranging in age from adolescent to early twenties.

Merek raised his hand to them and the old man drew the horses to a stop. The woman, he noticed, was regarding the bruises on Merek's face with no small degree of concern.

"Can I help you, pilgrim?" the man inquired.

"I was wondering if I might travel with you, kind sir," Merek said. "The road is dangerous, and I can offer you protection. I'll fix your wagon if it breaks, tend to your horses when they need tending, and help you in any other way that I can. All I ask in return is some food."

The man considered this for a moment as his eyes searched Merek's face. Old the man might have been, but Merek could tell that he was no fool. Cautiously he agreed, and allowed Merek to join the children in the back of the wagon.

He journeyed with them for two months, told them his name was John Krullen, and that he was on his way to Perth in search of work. He left out the part about him being a wanted thief, and that he was out to murder one of the top advisors of the high king.

To Merek's relief the old man's wife was a nurse. She helped him tend to his broken fingers along the way.

The family traveled as far as the fertile farming community of Mellow Brook, at which point Merek continued to Perth on foot and arrived forty-two days later.

Sneaking around the cramped, shadowy passages of the capital city of Edhen was easier than he remembered. Compared to the open, sunlit spaces of Efferous, Edhen was to a thief what a playground was to a child.

He spent a couple days lurking among the crowds in the streets surrounding the castle, reacquainting himself with the structure's access points. He had broken into the throne room once before, and so he figured that finding a way into Ustus' chambers shouldn't be half as hard.

But it was.

Aside from the Black King himself, Ustus Rapere was the most protected man in all of Perth. Everywhere he traveled, whether by foot or horse or caravan, a small contingent followed. His entourage usually consisted of a young scribe, an assistant, and anywhere from six to twelve guards. Moreover, his bedchambers were in an area of the castle that was almost impossible to reach from the outside, discretely at least. With the right equipment, Merek knew he could scale the wall, but his fingers, though they had healed on his journey, were still weak and wouldn't hold up to the vertical climb.

Four days later a hard rain came in from the sea.

Merek took advantage of the storm's noise to mask his entry through the castle's kitchen window, smashing it with a broken tree bough. The sound of shattering glass brought a maidservant rushing to see what had happened, but upon finding the tree branch the woman assumed the storm had done the damage.

Merek stashed his wet cloak under a wooden cabinet to avoid leaving a trail of water through the castle. He worked his way up several flights of stairs, glad for the noise of the wind and rain that helped hide the creaks of floorboards and door hinges. Apart from the miniscule sound of his footfalls, Merek moved in perfect silence. He had left behind his armor and leather garments, favoring close-fitting and lightweight black fabrics that made little sound when he moved.

He located Ustus' bedchambers. The door was locked. After waiting for a guard to pass through the hallway, Merek pulled out his lock picks and went to work. Once the door clicked open, he slipped inside.

He pressed himself into a dark corner and waited.

Outside, the storm lingered on, bringing with it sounds of distant thunder and high winds that rapt the castle's windows.

At long last the bedroom door opened and a man in a hooded maroon cloak stumbled inside with the limbs of a whore wrapped around him. She giggled, nipping at his neck and mouth while drizzles of rain trailed down her bare arms. The pair groped their way to the bed where the cloaked man threw the woman down and started pawing at her body through her thin white dress.

Merek crept across the dark room in total silence, a dagger clutched in his right hand. His eyes stayed locked on the outline of the man looming over the woman writhing on the bed. He moved up behind him, the blade poised to thrust between his ribs. He reached.

The pale leg of the whore slammed into Merek's stomach. He doubled over just as the man spun around and knocked him in the ear with a solid fist.

It wasn't Ustus.

Merek lunged at him, tackling him onto the bed and off the other side while the woman ran to the door and called for help. She delivered, not a panicked or frightened cry, but a voice that came easily and controlled. She had been expecting him.

Fear began to build within Merek.

The whore stood at the doorway nipping at her cuticles while Merek tussled across the floor with the man. Fists hit flesh. Knees pummeled ribs. Their bodies lashed against the floor as they twisted and grappled.

Merek knew there was no way he could outmuscle the man, and so he began to kick and claw his way out of his clutches. When he had finally managed to put some distance between him and his opponent, Merek sent a quick jab to the man's face, which broke his nose.

Two more guards barreled into the room.

Behind them, carrying a torch and a victorious smile, was Ustus Rapere. He stepped into the room in a floor length green and brown tunic, its collar, cuffs, and hem fringed with gold patterning. Like a master commanding his dogs, he said, "Grab him!"

Merek went on the defensive. He dispatched one of the guards with little effort, but took more blows than he could avoid from the second. When two other guards stomped into the room, he knew it was over.

"I want him alive," Ustus said.

Three of the guards restrained Merek's arms while the fourth jabbed balled fists into his ribs like hammers. Sparks rushed to his mind like a tide, threatening to white out his brain.

"Harder!" Ustus shouted.

The hammers drove him again and again. His ribs gave, snapping and popping, until he could hardly breathe.

Ustus applauded. He walked up to the man with the hammer fists and patted him on the back. "Well done, sir."

The Ivy of Edhen strolled over to the whore standing in the doorway and caressed her cheek. She had a fascinated grin on her bony face.

"What do you think, my beauty?" Ustus asked.

She practically purred at his words.

"If I were to tell you to hit him, where might you strike?"

The woman touched her chin as she considered her options. Merek thought she looked far too excited by the prospect.

"I want to kick him between the legs," she said.

He waved an open palm toward Merek. "Please. Indulge yourself."

The young whore's blue eyes, rimmed with dark circles, were alive with sadistic curiosity. She readied her leg. Merek grit his teeth and braced for the blow. When her foot connected, he crumpled, but was forced back to standing a moment later by the guards.

"Merek, Merek, Merek," Ustus said. He began walking around the room, lighting candles with his nimble fingers. "I have known some fools in my day, but you surely are the most entertaining of them all. We spotted you two days ago strolling around the streets outside the castle. If the high king were a betting man he would have lost quite a bit of gold to me. He did not think you would be foolish enough to attempt to break into the most fortified castle in all of Edhen, but I—"

"Quit wasting my time," Merek said, blinking against dizziness. "Either kill me or let me go. Either way, shut up."

Ustus went to a wooden bench upon which lay a folded brown blanket. Peeling back the folds, he revealed a wide selection of oddly shaped knives—straight blades, jagged blades, blades with hooked tips, curved edges, prongs, and pincers. His fingers danced over the selection.

"So there is this little question I have been wanting to ask you," Ustus began. Finding the knife he wanted, he declared, "Ah!"

He walked up to Merek, tapping his chin with the small, spoon-like blade.

"It is a question I have been wanting to ask you for more than three years now. Can you imagine that? Three years to ask _one_ question?"

He cut the buttons off Merek's black shirt and peeled it open.

"It is a very reasonable question, considering our history together."

He dragged the flat side of the cold metal blade down Merek's bare chest, teasing his skin. The blade was cold and razor sharp.

Ustus cleared his throat. When he spoke again, he enunciated very slowly. "Where are my gems?"

Merek grimaced, knowing that what he had to say wasn't going to make Ustus very happy.

"I'm curious," he began, hoping to buy himself a little time, "how do you plan to stab the Black King in the back when you get your hands on the regenstern?"

Ustus looked appalled. "You dare call his majesty by that name?"

"I'd call him a fat pig roasting on a spit if I thought there was any difference."

Ustus dug the spoon-shaped knife into Merek's skin and raked it across his chest. His toes curled. His jaw locked. The knife peeled back a layer of skin, leaving a thick red line in its wake that burned like fire.

"Where are they?" Ustus asked again.

"You didn't answer my question," Merek said once he'd caught his breath. "I know you're plotting something, always coming up with ways to use others to get to the top because you're too weak to get there on your own."

The Ivy of Edhen smiled. "You cannot provoke me, Merek. I answer to the high king of Edhen, not my ego. Unlike you. Now where are my gems?"

Merek took a deep breath, resigning himself to a long night, and said, "I spent them. Never was much of a saver."

Ustus drew the knife across his chest again, making an identical line right below the first. Merek tugged against the guards holding him, hoping to get Ustus' neck in his hands for one brief second, just long enough to snap it in two.

"I am assuming you can imagine how that makes me feel."

Merek huffed. "If you want sympathy, you're at the wrong store with the wrong coin."

"You spent all of them?"

"Uh-huh."

"You saved not one?"

"That's what 'all of them' means."

The spoon-shaped knife dug another gash across Merek's chest. This time he cried out through clenched teeth. Had it not been for the guards holding him upright he would've fallen to the floor.

"Do you believe in the Allgod?" Ustus asked.

Merek was too busy shaking the bursts of pain from his eyes to comprehend the absurdity of the question.

"Most believe he has forsaken this land, if he ever even existed to begin with," Ustus went on. "In either case, the way has been paved for forces beyond either of our comprehension to enter this world and have their day."

"What are you blathering about?" Merek asked.

"Lust," Ustus answered, lifting an edifying finger. "Greed. Pride. Violence. All the things that men and women are so very good at. Our own wickedness has awakened something, and there is no standing in its way. Not anymore, at least. We must welcome it, side with it, or burn."

"So it's true. Ustus Rapere has lost his mind," Merek said. "Was it a gradual thing or did you just wake up one morning and say, 'I think I'm going to act insane from now—"

Ustus whipped around and smacked him.

"Oh, what to do with you," he whispered. "At this point you are not worth my time."

"Then quit toying with me and kill me."

"True, I should just kill you, but I would sleep so much better at night knowing you were suffering. So here is what I am going to do." He grabbed Merek by the throat. "I am going to starve you, very slowly, let you waste away to nothing over a period of years. Maybe you will die of sickness. Maybe you will eat your own arm out of madness. Or maybe one day I will get bored, come and fetch you from the dungeons, and throw you to the lions." To the whore, he said, "Sound good?"

She shrugged, indifferent.

Merek took a deep breath, cleared his throat of as much phlegm as he could, and spit it in Ustus' face.

With a smirk Ustus sauntered over to the prostitute.

"Clean it off," he said.

The whore leaned in and lapped at his cheeks, nose, and chin. When his face was clean, she kissed him, biting his lip until he pulled away, bleeding. He chuckled, looking aroused. He backhanded her across the face, sending her toppling onto the bed.

"Get him out of here," Ustus said. He didn't even bother to look at Merek again. His attention was now focused on the woman and the violent passion erupting in her eyes. He tackled her as the guards yanked Merek from the bedroom.

They dragged him down the stairs and out of the castle into the drizzly nighttime air where big raindrops spattered down, hitting the mud with loud plops. His toes dug grooves through the ground as they hauled him across the street. Behind him the dark visage of the castle disappeared behind a thickening black curtain of rain.

The guards brought him to torch lit stairs that plummeted underground into a rectangle of darkness. Merek found himself lost in the shadows as the guards muscled him down the steps. Iron doors creaked open, cages rattled, and men moaned in their shackles. The stench of human waste and death hit him like a squall, and almost made him gag. In the dim light of the underground torches held aloft in their sconces he noticed the decay and misery and days old blood.

The guards roughed him up a bit more, laughing as they rained blows upon his already battered body. They ripped off his outer garments and took his boots, leaving him in his torn undershirt and slacks.

They threw him in a small cell and locked the door, fighting over which one of them would get his boots.

Merek rolled over onto his back, coughing and wheezing. The cold of the stone floor seeped through his undergarments and chilled his skin.

He had tried to keep a brave face while Ustus tortured him, but now, alone in the dark and cold, all pretenses fell and fear and hopeless enveloped him. He rolled onto his side and hugged his throbbing ribs, sobbing out of pain, regret, and worry.

"I'm sorry, Awlin," he whispered.

With a pained grunt he pushed himself to his knees. There was one last torment he had to endure, one last agony that would now be made worse by his broken ribs, scarred chest, and bruised face.

He took a few breaths, preparing himself for what he was about to endure.

Then he shoved his fingers down his throat, as far as he could, and forced himself to vomit on the floor of his cell. His broken ribs shifted and pinched as his stomach convulsed. When he was done he remained still, catching his breath, waiting out the pain that rolled through his body in diminishing waves. When he opened his eyes he looked on the floor, through the puddle of spilled vomit, and saw it lying there. He picked it up, turning it in the dim torchlight of the dungeon.

The last piece of the regenstern.

## Dear Reader

Like many independent authors word of mouth is my primary means of marketing. So if you enjoyed this book please tell a friend, write a review on Amazon, or drop some lines at my blog. It gives me all sorts of good feels to hear from my fans and know what you enjoy about the series.

And if you liked this book—even if just a little—I strongly recommend that you read volume two. These two books serve as an introduction to the series, thus many emotional archs established in volume one reach their conclusion in volume two.

But that doesn't mean we're almost done. Oh-ho, no! Believe me, this party is just getting started.

—Craig

www.cwthomas-fantasy.blogspot.com

www.facebook.com/cwthomasfantasy

AVAILABLE NOW!

Children of the Falls Vol. 2

Where Evil Abides

## About the Author

Craig is an odd duck. He flip-flops between enjoying the high-end signature brands of society's upper-ups to frequenting hole-in-the-wall pizza joints for a slice and a root beer. He enjoys Star Trek and hamburgers, piña coladas at the Four Seasons and scenic vistas. You can find him in Maui, HI, where he lives with his wife Danielle and their son. He'll be the pasty Scottish guy getting sunburned at the beach.

## More great indie fiction

Independent authors are a fun bunch. We band together like nerds at a cafeteria table. We know we're not with the jock authors of our culture and their big six figure contracts, but we don't care. We have our niche and it's awesome! We support each other and promote each other.

So, in the spirit of indie togetherness, if you liked my novel please share it in anyway you can. Like many independent authors, word of mouth is my primary means of marketing, so if you feel inclined to write a review on Amazon or drop some lines at my blog, I'd greatly appreciate it.

And if you're looking for more great fiction, here are some awesome indie authors worth checking out—in alphabetical order (because I'm anal like that.)

Harvey Click — _The Bad Box_

Beth Kanell — _The Secret Room_

John L. Monk _— Kick_

Tanya Sousa — _The Starling God_

J.C. Stockli — _The Nothingness_

