2 - Ghost in the Veils: Ghost Armor
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Ghost Armor#2
Description: When the truth is hidden, unveiling it can be deadly. Caina faces a new enemy - the insidious serpent men and their mysterious Cult of Rhadamathar. Already they are working to incite war and spread chaos, both within and without the Empire. So when the ruler of Istarinmul asks Caina to discover why the Cult tried to assassinate his pregnant wife, Caina has no choice but to agree. But the serpent men have been working in the shadows for centuries...and they have prepared lethal traps for those who seek out their mysteries...

GHOST IN THE VEILS

JONATHAN MOELLER

CONTENTS

Description

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1. Counsels

2. Worlds Beyond

3. Guardians

4. Twins

5. Lord of the Empire

6. An Imperial Request

7. Persuasion

8. Very Different People

9. Razor

10. The Chief of Scribes

11. The Great Royal Wife

12. First Royal Concubine

13. Poetry

14. The Gardener

15. The Corrupted

16. Languages

17. Veils

18. Craft of the Strigosti

19. You Never Understood

20. Valikarion

21. Defender of the Empire

22. The Summons

Glossary of Characters

The GHOSTS Novel Reading Order

About the Author

DESCRIPTION

When the truth is hidden, unveiling it can be deadly.

Caina faces a new enemy - the insidious serpent men and their mysterious Cult of Rhadamathar. Already they are working to incite war and spread chaos, both within and without the Empire.

So when the ruler of Istarinmul asks Caina to discover why the Cult tried to assassinate his pregnant wife, Caina has no choice but to agree.

But the serpent men have been working in the shadows for centuries...and they have prepared lethal traps for those who seek out their mysteries...

Ghost in the Veils

Copyright 2024 by Jonathan Moeller.

Published by Azure Flame Media.

Cover design by Jonathan Moeller.

Ebook edition published March 2024.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

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A map of the western Empire can be found on the author's website here.

1

COUNSELS

Caina gazed at the wrapped bundle in the back of the wagon.

Thankfully, no blood had leaked from it.

Though perhaps she shouldn’t have worried.

Only a few people in Malarae would have recognized the dark green liquid as blood.

The wagon itself was nothing remarkable. A bit old and worn, though none of the planks had rotted and the wheels were in mostly good shape. A pair of placid draft horses pulled the vehicle, the animals well-accustomed to the noises and smells of the Imperial capital.

The only thing unusual was the bundle resting in the back.

It was almost the precise size and shape of the corpse of a grown man.

To be fair, it was a corpse.

Just not of a grown man. Or a grown woman.

Or indeed anything human.

Caina didn’t know what it was, but she intended to find out.

“Will there be anything else, Countess?” said her seneschal, a Saddaic man named Talzain. He wore the formal black clothes of a Nighmarian servant. Combined with his wan complexion, the outfit always made him look a bit corpselike.

“No, thank you,” said Caina. “I should be back in time for dinner with Lord Kylon and Lady Kalliope.”

“Yes,” said Talzain. He cleared his throat. “That ought to be…interesting.”

“You have a gift for understatement,” said Caina.

Kylon and Kalliope had their own errands in the city. When Kalliope had fled New Kyre with her children ahead of the Cult of Rhadamathar, she had taken some money and baggage with them, but she had been forced to leave it behind at the Wrecked Warship near the ocean harbor of Malarae. Fortunately, the innkeeper had kept all of Kalliope’s baggage on hand. Partly because Anastasios was an honest man and partly because he feared the vengeance of Kalliope’s father.

Lysikas Stormblade had a formidable reputation, even among the Kyracians living in Malarae.

So Kalliope had gone with some of Caina’s servants to retrieve her baggage and buy such things as Nikarion and Zoe might need. Kylon himself was keeping watch over the twins. Caina suggested that he take them riding to see the city, and he agreed. The children, in awe of the father they had never known they had, had made no protest.

Ardakh, Sethroza, and the other Cultists were still out there, but if they tried to attack the children in Kylon’s presence, they would regret it bitterly.

If briefly.

And that left Caina free to deal with the thing in the bed of the wagon.

“Are you certain you don’t wish for some of the porters to accompany you, my lady?” said Talzain as Caina climbed into the wagon’s seat and grasped the reins.

“No, thank you,” said Caina.

Talzain had worked for her long enough not to ask questions. He had figured out long ago there were things in Caina's life that he would be better off not knowing.

Caina snapped the reins and eased the wagon into motion.

* * *

Caina mulled over her current challenges as she drove the wagon towards Malarae’s foundries.

She had numerous problems, and she needed advice on how to deal with them.

The biggest problem had come wrapped in a mystery that she had been so far unable to unravel.

An outsider contemplating Caina’s life might decide her present difficulties were related to her family. While this was not an unreasonable conclusion, it was nonetheless wrong. She had been married to her husband Kylon for two years now, and recently they had learned that Kylon had a six-year-old son and daughter with a Kyracian noblewoman named Kalliope Agramemnos, children that Kalliope had kept secret from Kylon at the order of the highest religious authority of the Kyracian people.

To say that Kylon had been angry and betrayed at this revelation would have been an understatement.

Caina had managed to keep the peace between her husband and the mother of her husband’s children, at least so far. It helped that Caina had saved Kalliope’s life on the night they met. It helped a great deal that while Kalliope might not have liked Kylon all that much, she was devoted to Nikarion and Zoe and was clearly a good mother. The welfare of her son and daughter had to come first, and that meant asking for Caina’s and Kylon’s help.

Which led to the other, more serious problem, the one that required advice.

Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble attempting to kill Nikarion and Zoe.

Caina knew who wanted to kill the children. The Cult of Rhadamathar was an obscure religion from southern Anshan that had existed for centuries, and various rumors told conflicting tales of their beliefs. Caina had never heard of them until a member of the Cult had tried to kill her, and she had backtracked her failed assassin’s trail just in time to save Kalliope and the twins. Caina didn’t know why the Cult wanted to kill the children, but she doubted they would give up.

But why? The twins were both six years old and while they both had latent arcane talents that were just starting to awaken, they were no threat to anyone. A logical motive was the succession to House Kardamnos, but Kylon’s cousin Rhamphias was currently the High Seat of House Kardamnos and until the Assembly of New Kyre voted to lifted his banishment, his children could not inherit the leadership of House Kardamnos.

For that matter, Kalliope said the Cult had killed other members of House Kardamnos within New Kyre. Caina could envision the Cult assassinating a few members to raise one of their own followers to the High Seat of House Kardamnos, but the wholesale slaughter of the extended family would not accomplish that. Yet why attack House Kardamnos in the first place?

Why go to such lengths to kill two children who were no threat to anyone?

Caina had tried to find the answer and had failed so far. Her investigation had borne other fruit – she discovered the Cult had built an alchemical weapon that would have killed the Emperor and the Padishah and triggered a war between the Empire and Istarinmul. The weapon would have killed thousands, not least among them Caina’s husband and many of her friends.

She had stopped the weapon before the Cult could use it.

A worthwhile result, though it had left Caina with far more questions than answers. She didn’t know what the Cult wanted, why they wanted to kill the blood of House Kardamnos, why they had tried to start a war between the Empire and Istarinmul, and nor did she know the identity of the mysterious green-clad archer who had helped Caina and Kalliope escape from the Cult’s agents.

Far more questions than answers.

Veils of mystery surrounded the truth, and she hadn’t yet found a path through them.

The thing lying in the back of the wagon, the mostly human-shaped corpse that wasn’t at all human, was perhaps the biggest question of all.

Caina had fought and killed the High Priest of the Cult in Malarae, and her first impression was that he had been a man wearing a helmet wrought in the shape of a serpent’s head. She had swiftly discovered that he actually did have a serpent’s head, that his skin was scaly, and he even had a short tail concealed beneath his heavy robes.

In all her extensive travels, she had never seen a creature like that before. Had the High Priest been a human twisted into a serpent man? Caina had encountered such things before, but that didn’t seem right. The twisted creatures that Caina had faced, the Temnoti priests and the kadrataagu and the mavrokhi shapeshifters and others, had been warped, corrupted things, creatures obviously distorted by the dark powers they had served or summoned. While the High Priest was a strange and alien creature, he lacked the ghastly unnatural appearance of a thing like a kadrataagu or a mavrokhi.

Like he had always been that way.

Like he had been born a serpent man.

Were there such creatures as serpent men?

Caina didn’t know. She didn’t know why the Cult of Rhadamathar wanted to kill her husband’s children, but finding out what the High Priest really was seemed like a good place to start.

And she knew just who to ask.

A short time later, she brought the horses to a stop in front of a house.

It was one of the larger townhouses on the street, large enough to have been a mansion in the provinces, though by the standards of the lords and merchants of Malarae, it was a mere townhouse. It was big enough to have both a courtyard in the front and an inner courtyard within the house itself. A heavyset man stood outside the gate. He had the rough look of a former Legionary, with dark eyes and a receding hairline turning gray. The man’s eyes narrowed as she brought the wagon to a halt.

“Aye, what’s your business here?” said the former Legionary.

“Good morning, Ventrius,” said Caina, speaking with her normal voice.

She felt a bit of satisfaction as Ventrius did a double-take. Caina was wearing one of her disguises – a mercenary soldier with a chain mail hauberk and a leather jerkin, sword and dagger on her belt. She had raked her hair forward so that it hung in greasy curtains alongside her face, and a bit of light makeup created the illusion of stubble.

Best not to let anyone know that Countess Caina Kardamnos was driving the corpse of a serpent man through the streets of Malarae.

Ventrius let out an exasperated groan. “For the gods’ sake! Every time. You fool me every time. Countess. How might I serve?”

“Is Lord Arcion here?” said Caina.

“Aye, in the study,” said Ventrius. “Muravin and some of the others took Lady Tanya to the market. Don’t reckon they’ll be back until dinner.”

“That’s good,” said Caina. “I may need to borrow Lord Arcion until then. Can you keep an eye on the wagon until I get back?”

“I can,” said Ventrius. He glanced at the bed of the wagon. “What’s in that bundle?”

“Carpets,” said Caina.

Ventrius had been in the Imperial Legion for sixteen years, and he had been involved in the occasional fight for the Ghosts since. He knew exactly what a dead body looked like and had no doubt created a number of them himself.

“Carpets,” said Ventrius. “Sure.”

Caina thanked him, crossed the courtyard, strode through the house’s entry hall, and came to the second floor. The door to Ark’s study stood open, and she knocked on the frame and stepped inside. The study was a simple room with a wooden writing table, a chair, an armor stand that currently held a gambeson and a mail shirt, and a chest of drawers for holding records. Ark might have risen to become the Lord of House Arcion, but he had been a Legion centurion before Caina had met him and retained a centurion’s distaste for extravagance and luxury.

Ark sat at the writing table. He was a big, hard-faced man with receding hair and the arms of a blacksmith. His face had the perpetual stern look of a man who had once been the first spear centurion of an Imperial Legion, though it always softened in the presence of his wife and children.

He looked at her, his frown sharpening. “Yes?” But he knew her better than Ventrius, and the frown relaxed as he recognized her. “Caina. I thought you were a messenger about to bring bad news.” He rose to his feet. “Are you bringing bad news?”

“Not yet,” said Caina. “How’s Tanya?”

“Better than I am,” said Ark, casting a rueful glance at his desk. “She went to the market with Muravin and his daughter. Meanwhile, I must answer all these thrice-damned letters.”

“I thought all centurions of the Imperial Legions knew how to read and write,” said Caina.

“We do. Doesn’t mean I bloody enjoy it. Tanya’s right, I should just hire a bloody scribe and dictate my letters,” said Ark. “How are matters with the new stepchildren?”

Caina hesitated, uncertain of herself for a second. People tended to talk about their children a great deal. It wasn’t surprising, given all the effort and worry children required. This was, however, perhaps the first time Caina had been involved in such a conversation, not counting the times she had used it as a conversational ploy while disguised and trying to coax information out of someone.

“Well. All things considered,” said Caina.

“Given that these snake-worshippers were trying to kill them,” said Ark.

“Yes,” said Caina. “Kylon’s watching them. Kalliope went to the market to buy some things that they need.”

“Think she’ll be safe?” said Ark.

“Most likely,” said Caina. “I sent some of the footmen with her. Kalliope is a stormsinger and can keep her head in a fight. I expect she would be very dangerous without the liability of needing to defend two small children. Besides, she’s not of the blood of House Kardamnos, so the Cult doesn’t want her dead. Just Nikarion and Zoe.”

Ark grunted. “Have Kylon and Kalliope tried to kill each other yet?”

“What do you mean?” Though she knew what he meant.

“I saw them talking in Tanya’s garden,” said Ark. “They were polite for the sake of the children, but any fool could see they don’t like each other very much.”

“No,” said Caina. “They don’t. But they won’t try to kill each other. That would mean leaving the children without a mother or a father. They dislike each other, but they’re both still Kyracian.”

Ark frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“They might argue, but they’ll work together in the face of a common foe,” said Caina. “Such as whoever is trying to kill their children.”

“Alongside the Emperor and the Padishah,” said Ark.

“Aye,” said Caina. “Which is why I’m here. I need your help for a few hours.”

“You have it,” said Ark. She felt a wave of warmth at how quickly he had agreed. “Should I bring my sword?”

“It’s a good idea,” said Caina, “but you shouldn’t need it.”

“Have you ever regretted bringing a weapon with you?” said Ark. He crossed to the corner of the room, pulled on his gambeson and mail coat, and then his sword belt with its sheathed Kyracian sword. It was a sword of storm-forged steel, sharper and stronger than normal metal. Ark had taken it from the stormdancer he had killed during the battle of Marsis.

“I haven’t,” said Caina, “and for all I know, we’ll be attacked in the street. But it shouldn’t be that kind of danger.”

Ark adjusted his sword belt. “What kind of danger, then?”

“I need you to help me carry a corpse.”

He considered this and then shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

They descended to the courtyard and came to the wagon.

“No one’s been watching?” said Caina to Ventrius.

“Not as far as I can tell,” he responded.

Ark looked at the bundle in the wagon’s bed and then turned back to Ventrius. “If Lady Tanya comes home early, tell her where I’ve gone. I should be back before dark.”

Ventrius nodded, and Caina climbed into the wagon’s seat and took the reins. Ark settled next to her, adjusting his sword so he could draw it in a hurry if necessary.

“When did you learn how to drive a wagon?” he said.

“You taught me the basics back in Marsis, remember?” said Caina, and Ark snorted. Some of it in Istarinmul. The rest in Ulkaar during the last year of the Umbarian war. We met Theodosia’s theatre company in Vagraastrad and traveled with them to Risiviri. It was a long journey and there wasn’t much else to do. Though compared to driving a wagon in the Ulkaari winter, steering one through the streets of Malarae is easy.”

“Doesn’t snow here very often,” said Ark. “Not compared to the Imperial Pale. Can’t say I miss the snow very much.” He paused, glancing back at the bundle in the wagon’s bed. “I assume you need me to carry that corpse in the back.”

“Yes.”

“Where are we taking it?”

“To someone,” said Caina, “who I hope can tell me what it is.”

Ark thought that over. “What is it? Not who it is?”

“Yes,” said Caina. “The serpent-worshippers in the Cult of Rhadamathar apparently include serpent men.”

There was a long silence. Caina steered the wagon west and turned onto the Via Triumphalis, the central street of Malarae that led from the ocean quays to the gates of the Imperial Citadel, which loomed on its crag to the north of the city proper. After a few hundred yards, she turned the wagon left off the Via Triumphalis and into the richer districts of Malarae, where the lords and the wealthy merchants built their mansions.

And where the priesthoods of the gods of the Empire kept their grand temples.

“You said a serpent man,” said Ark at last.

Caina nodded.

“When I was a centurion, one of my men claimed snakes talked to him,” said Ark. “But he had been hit in the head with a sling stone during an ambush and was never quite right after. So the Cult in Malarae was led by an actual serpent man?”

“I don’t have any good answers for you,” said Caina. “Which is why we’re going to find some. Hopefully.”

The wagon rolled into a forum. Statues of long-dead lords and magi stood in heroic poses upon stone plinths, and temples to four different gods stood on each side of the square. Or, rather, three different gods.

The Prince of Iramis had paid the priesthood of Cursus a handsome sum to move their temple elsewhere.

“The Iramisian embassy,” said Ark as Caina brought the wagon to a halt in front of the former temple. It was a rectangular building of snowy white marble, ringed in an arcade of columns that supported its triangular roof. Two soldiers in purple and gold stood guard at the front doors. “Am I about to learn why the Emperor insisted that the Temple of Cursus give this building to the Iramisians?”

“You are,” said Caina. She dropped down from the wagon and walked to the front door of the former temple, Ark following her. The soldiers watched her warily as she approached and then bowed.

“Liberator,” said the soldier on the right in the Iramisian language. “We greet you.”

“I greet you in turn,” said Caina, also speaking the Iramisian tongue. It came more naturally than it once had, but the words felt strange and alien upon her lips. Caina knew a great many languages, and she had learned most of them in the usual way, but Iramisian had been driven into her skull through the sorcery of a Great Necromancer, like a carpenter hammering nails into a post. It still felt a bit odd to use the language. “Are matters well at the embassy?”

“Peaceful,” said the soldier. “A welcome change after the last few years.”

“Indeed,” said Caina. “Is the loremaster Sophia Zomanek here? I would seek her counsel.”

“Just within,” said the soldier. “Shall we keep an eye on your wagon?”

“Please,” said Caina. “Let no one disturb the cargo.”

She and Ark opened the doors and stepped into the temple.

The main room of the embassy was a large marble chamber with windows of leaded glass. Since Cursus was the Imperial god of oaths, laws, and contracts, the temple had been easily repurposed to serve as the embassy of the Prince of Iramis. The chamber held a dozen scribes’ desks, each one hosting a scribe busily writing letters or checking documents.

A young woman in a white robe was walking past the desks, and she came to a halt as she saw Caina and Ark. The woman was young, no more than eighteen, with dark eyes and dark hair bound back in a severe braid. In her right hand, she carried a slender staff that looked as if it had been fashioned from delicate ghostsilver chains wound together to form a cord.

“Greetings,” said the woman, speaking Caerish with a strong Ulkaari accent. “Do you have a message for the ambassador?”

“Good morning, Sophia,” said Caina, switching to the Ulkaari language. “I hope you are well.”

Sophia Zomanek blinked a few times, and then her eyes went wide, and a huge smile went over her face. “Countess!”

She bounded forward and caught Caina in a hug, and Caina hugged her back.

“I heard you had been assigned to the Malarae embassy,” said Caina. “I was going to come see you, but then I’m afraid the last several days have been busy.”

“Yes, I heard rumors,” said Sophia. “Someone tried to attack Emperor Valerius and the Padishah as they rode into the city.”

“They did,” said Caina.

Sophia grinned. “Since they are still alive and you are standing here, Countess, there is no need to ask what happened.”

Ark cleared his throat.

“This Lord Arcion of Malarae,” said Caina, switching back to the Caerish tongue. Ark knew a good number of languages, but Ulkaar was on the northeastern bounds of the Empire, and he had never been there. “We have known each other a long time. Ark, this is Sophia Zomanek, formerly of the town of Kostiv in Ulkaar and now a loremaster of Iramis.”

“My lord,” said Sophia.

“A pleasure, loremaster,” said Ark. “Forgive my ignorance, but you seem very young to be a loremaster.”

“I’m afraid I am the most junior rank of loremaster, Lord Arcion,” said Sophia. “The high loremasters study the mysteries of the cosmos in the seven Towers of Lore in Iramis. At my rank, I go where I am instructed by the high loremasters.”

“Loremasters have different ranks?” said Ark, nonplussed.

“Aye, it’s like a centurion in the Imperial Legion,” said Caina. “The centurions of the first cohort of a legion outrank those in the tenth, though they all must answer to the tribunes. Though I don’t know why I am telling you that, you know the Legion far better than I do.”

“That’s true, but I don’t know the loremasters well,” said Ark. “You’ve known the Countess long?”

“She saved my life in Ulkaar when we first met,” said Sophia.

“Ah,” said Ark. “It seems half the people who know the Countess tell the same tale.”

“I would like to talk more,” said Sophia, “but I suspect you are here on business.”

“We are, I’m afraid,” said Caina. “I need to use the door. Can you cast the Thought Aegis upon Lord Arcion?”

“Of course,” said Sophia. She extended her pyrikon staff, white light glimmering around its length. With the vision of the valikarion, Caina saw the flows of arcane power glimmering around Sophia as she worked the spell.

“What spell is that?” said Ark, giving Sophia a wary glance.

“A defensive ward devised by the loremasters of Iramis,” said Caina. “It protects the mind from any arcane intrusions for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Useful,” said Ark. “Do you expect intrusions in our thoughts?”

“No, but it’s a useful protection where we’re going,” said Caina.

Ark shook his head. “I remember a time when asking a sorcerer for help, any sorcerer, would have been unthinkable to you.”

“I remember,” said Caina. “But times change. People change.”

“And you married Lord Kylon,” said Sophia.

“That’s right, you wouldn’t have met the Countess before she wed Kylon Shipbreaker,” said Ark. “Back that, she never stepped out of the shadows, her eyes blazed with lightning, and she only spoke to voice her wrath.”

Sophia blinked.

“Very droll,” said Caina. “Sophia, the spell, please.” Sophia nodded and cast her spell. White light glimmered around her pyrikon staff and then surrounded Ark, seeming to sink into him like water into a dry sponge. “You should cast it on yourself as well. We might need your help beyond the door.”

“What door is that?” said Ark.

“Let’s get the bundle from the wagon, and I’ll show you,” said Caina.

They went through the temple doors, Sophia following them, and Caina wrestled the bundle to the edge of the wagon’s bed. It took a good bit of effort. The High Priest had been heavier than he looked. Ark took one end of the bundle, Caina the other, and they carried it into the embassy. Sophia led the way to the far side of the chamber and opened the cellar door, next to what had been the dais that had held the altar and statue of Cursus. They descended to the temple’s cellar, which looked far less ornate than the main chamber, with walls of unadorned stone and pillars supporting the ceiling overhead.

The door set in the wall was the exception.

It was a large rectangle of polished black stone, its surface carved with rows of Iramisian glyphs. Thanks to the sight of the valikarion, Caina saw the powerful spells bound within the door, spells of a skill and subtlety that few sorcerers could ever achieve.

“That looks like the spell-reinforced stone created by the Magisterium,” said Ark, “but those are Iramisian symbols carved on it, aren’t they?”

“Good eye,” said Caina. “That’s one of the doors to the Tower of the Cataphract.”

“Isn’t the Tower of the Cataphract in Artifel?” said Ark.

“It is,” said Caina. “We’ll be there shortly.”

Sophia cast the Thought Aegis over herself, the white glow of the spell surrounding her. Then she touched the stone door with the end of her staff. The pyrikon flashed with white light, and then the massive stone door swung outward without a sound. Beyond Caina saw a corridor of dark stone, its floor made of green marble. More doors of stone carved with Iramisian glyphs lined the hall.

“What is this place?” said Ark.

“The Hall of Gates,” said Caina. “Brace yourself. This will feel a bit strange.”

Sophia went through the door, and Caina and Ark followed, carrying the bundle between them.

As soon as Caina set foot on the other side of the door, she felt the shift. Some of it was the powerful auras she saw bound within the walls and doors. The rest of it was that something beneath her conscious mind knew that she had left the circles of the world, that she had just entered a place halfway between the material world and the netherworld.

Ark grunted and faltered but kept his grip on the bundle.

“That…feels a bit strange,” said Ark.

“It does,” said Sophia. “Like something is trying to push into your head.”

“Exactly,” said Ark.

They came to the end of the corridor, and some of the intense aura faded. The room beyond the Hall of Gates was a round chamber, the ceiling rising in a dome overhead. A spiral iron staircase climbed from the center of the chamber and rose overhead to the apex of the dome. More corridors stretched off from either side.

“We can set it down here,” said Caina, and they laid the bundle on the floor.

Ark looked towards the domed ceiling. “We’re not far enough underground. That dome should rise higher than the Temple of Cursus.”

“We’re not underground,” said Caina. “We’re not actually in Malarae anymore. This place is called the Tower of the Cataphract. The Tower stands in Artifel, but the Cataphract used spells to fold more rooms into his Tower than the interior space would otherwise allow. One of those spells created the Hall of Gates.” She gestured to the Hall behind them. “Those doors open to many of the major cities of the world – Malarae, New Kyre, Istarinmul, Rasadda, and others. It takes twelve days to travel from Malarae to Marsis, and three to six from Malarae to Istarinmul, depending on the weather. Here, you can travel from Malarae to Marsis in less than an hour.”

Ark nodded. “That’s how you did it.”

“Did what?”

“The last battle of the Umbarian war,” said Ark. “I knew you were in Iramis, and suddenly you went from Iramis to Rasadda, and I heard rumors that you were even in Risiviri before the battle of Rasadda.” He shrugged. “I assumed it was some sort of secret of the loremasters that they didn’t want to discuss.”

“Not quite,” said Caina. “The Cataphract was a high magus of the Magisterium during Rasarion Yagar’s reign, but that was a long time ago.”

“So why doesn’t the Magisterium use this place?” said Ark. “Or the Emperor? He could send messages or even soldiers in haste across the Empire.”

“Sophia?” said Caina.

“The Cataphract knew that the Hall of Gates could be misused, so he laid powerful protections upon it,” said Sophia. “Any unprotected mind that enters the Hall goes immediately and irrevocably insane. The only defense is the Thought Aegis that I laid upon you before we entered.”

“And since you’re a valikarion,” said Ark, “I assume you’re immune to it.”

“Aye,” said Caina. “The Tower is a secret known to the Ghosts, the valikarion knights, and the loremasters. The Cataphract will permit them, and no others, to make use of his Hall of Gates.”

“Why did you bring me here?” said Ark.

“Because I trust you,” said Caina, “and I needed someone to help me carry the High Priest. He’s heavier than he looks.” Ark snorted. “I’ve never seen a serpent man before, and I’m hoping the Cataphract might know something about it.”

“Serpent man?” said Sophia.

“Yes,” said Caina. “I need to ask the Cataphract and the Warmaiden some questions.”

She held out her left hand and concentrated, calling to her own pyrikon. It had taken the form of a ghostsilver bracelet around her left wrist, concealed beneath her sleeve. The pyrikon unfolded into a staff, and Caina struck the end of it against the stone floor. There was a ringing clang, far louder than the slender pyrikon staff should have made on its own, and a flash of white light.

“Cataphract!” said Caina. “Warmaiden! I seek your counsel!”

2

WORLDS BEYOND

It was a short wait.

The air in front of Caina distorted, and a woman appeared out of nothingness. Ark flinched and reached for his sword hilt before he caught himself. The woman was a few inches shorter than Caina and wore an Ulkaari dress of white with a red vest and black patterns upon the skirt and bodice. Her hair was white and tied back in a long tail, though despite the white hair, she did not look that much older than Caina. Nevertheless, the woman had something a pinched, gaunt look to her, like she had gone long periods of time without proper food and rest and it had taken its toll. Her eyes were like purple shadows in her pale face, and in her right hand, she held a bronze pyrikon staff.

The vision of the valikarion showed Caina the powerful arcane aura around the woman.

“Warmaiden,” said Caina, offering a bow.

“Liberator,” said the woman, speaking with a sharp Ulkaari accent, and she bowed in turn.

Then she smiled, stepped forward, and hugged Caina.

“I am pleased to see you,” said the woman, “though I fear that your arrival means that trouble will soon follow.” She turned her head and looked at Sophia. “And I note that you have made the first rank of loremaster. I hope you do not find your duties too onerous.”

“I do not mind the duties, my lady,” said Sophia, “though the studies are challenging. I would rather be acting than reading, I’m afraid.”

“I quite understand. Who is your friend?” said the woman, stepping away from Caina.

“This is Lord Arcion, founder of House Arcion,” said Caina. “We’ve known each other a long time. Ark, this is Nadezhda, most commonly known as the Warmaiden of Ulkaar.”

“The Warmaiden?” said Ark. “I thought you were slain in the Battle of Rasadda.”

“I deemed it best that the world thinks me slain,” said Nadezhda. “I should have died a thousand years ago, and the Ulkaari Temple reveres me as a religious figure. That is too much influence for anyone to wield. Like the Ghosts, I can do more good from the shadows.” She gestured at the Hall of Gates. “Of old, the valikarion knights, the loremasters, and the Ghosts were allied in defense against the abuse of sorcery. That ancient alliance has been renewed now that Iramis has returned and the Iron King defeated. Perhaps we can keep evils like the Umbarian Order and Rasarion Yagar from rising.”

“That is why I sought the Cataphract’s counsel,” said Caina. “There is something I need to show him.”

“What is it?” said Nadezhda.

“See for yourself,” said Caina.

Nadezhda knelt next to the bundle, drew a dagger, and sliced through the rough cloth covering the High Priest’s face. The High Priest’s head was large and wedge-shaped, covered in greenish-bronze scales. His black-slit yellow eyes glared up at her in death, his mouth just open enough to reveal white fangs.

“Don’t touch the fangs,” said Caina. “The venom is potent.”

“What the hell is that?” said Ark at last.

“Is it like a mavrokh?” said Sophia. “A human possessed by a spirit and warped into a monster?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina, “which is why I want to speak to the Cataphract. I hope he can tell me more.”

“Why not ask the high loremasters in Iramis?” said Sophia.

“I might,” said Caina, “but Iramis vanished from the world for a century and a half. The Cataphract has been here since the Iron King fell for the first time. The Cult of Rhadamathar has been active in Anshan for at least that long.”

“Rhadamathar?” said Nadezhda. “I have never heard that name, at least that I can recall. But you are right, Aristaces might know more about it. Come, I will take you to him.”

Ark grunted. “Suppose we’ll need to carry that thing again.”

“There is no need, Lord Arcion,” said Nadezhda, and she gestured.

The floor rippled, and a figure wrought of broken pieces of stone rose up like a man emerging from a pool. It was shaped vaguely like a human figure about seven feet tall, and golden fire flickered in the craters of its eyes. The stony figure stooped and lifted the High Priest’s corpse without a hint of strain. Caina’s vision saw the powerful flows of arcane power that bound the figure.

“What the hell is that?” said Ark, gripping his sword hilt.

“A minor earth elemental bound to Aristaces’ will,” said Nadezhda. “Don’t worry, it’s quite safe and will not attack unless attacked first.”

“That’s right,” said Ark, relaxing. “I’ve seen them with the magi since the Magisterium lifted its ban on summoning elementals.”

Caina repressed a grimace. The Magisterium had been banned from summoning elementals since the end of the Fourth Empire, but the demands of the civil war against the Umbarians had reversed that ban since summoned elementals were simply too useful. Caina thought the ban should have been restored after the defeat of the Umbarians, but the Emperor did not agree with her, and that was that. Still, the magi were only allowed to summon lesser elementals, ones with about the intelligence of a dog. Summoning the nobles and lords of the elementals was forbidden to the magi.

Given the kind of destruction an elemental lord could wreak, that was just as well.

“This way,” said Nadezhda.

Nadezhda led the way down one of the corridors, the earth elemental carrying the High Priest’s corpse. From time to time, they passed mirrors built into the walls, but they showed no reflection. Instead, in the dark glass Caina glimpsed the roiling sky and bleak plains of the netherworld. The spells that bound the Tower of the Cataphract drew their power from those gates, maintaining the Tower in its halfway state between the material world and the netherworld.

They came to a chamber that Caina had not seen on her previous visits to the Tower. It was round, with a stone slab set in the middle. On either side of the slab stood wooden tables holding a variety of bottles and metal tools. It looked a bit like an apothecary’s shop, or that of a surgeon.

Aristaces Strato, the ancient magus known as the Cataphract, waited for them.

He wore the black spell-forged armor of a battle magus, a staff of dark metal in his gauntleted hand. Strato had taken off his helmet as they approached, and it floated next to him, suspended in a minor spell. Despite the fact that he was nearly fourteen centuries old, he looked middle-aged, with graying dark hair and a graying beard. His expression was somber, even grim, but it lightened as he looked at Nadezhda.

Given that he had spent over a thousand years waiting for her return, that was not surprising.

“Aristaces,” said Nadezhda, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek, leaning up to do it. “Caina and Sophia are here.”

“So I observe,” said Strato. When he wore his helmet, his voice always sounded deep and sepulchral. Without the helmet, it just sounded deep and contemplative, almost somber.

“This is Lord Arcion,” said Nadezhda.

The armored magus offered a brief bow. “Welcome to the Tower, Lord Arcion. Since the Tower is a secret known only to the valikarion, the loremasters, and the senior Ghosts, I assume you are among the latter number.”

“Correct,” said Ark, “though I am not certain you should know about that.”

“If it helps put your mind at rest,” said Strato, “I have been assisting the Ghosts since before the Empire took its current form.”

“I have trusted Ark with my life many times,” said Caina, “and no doubt I will again. But I have come here to seek your counsel in solving a mystery.”

“What mystery is that?” said Strato, though he glanced at the bundle in the earth elemental’s arms.

Nadezhda gestured, and the earth elemental lowered the High Priest’s corpse to the stone table. Strato released his staff, and it hovered in the air next to him. He pulled open the torn cloth covering the High Priest’s face, gazing down at the alien features. The Cataphract always looked somber, but his expression grew even more serious.

“I see,” he said at last. “Tell me, how did you encounter this creature?”

Caina gave him a brief summary of her recent encounter with the Cult of Rhadamathar, how they had tried to kill Kylon’s children and attempted to assassinate the Emperor and the Padishah as they rode into Malarae.

“The Cult of Rhadamathar,” said Strato. “I have not heard that name in a long time.”

“You know of the Cult?” said Caina. Strato had been a high magus of the Magisterium over thirteen centuries ago. Had the Cult been active even back then?

“Only by reputation,” said Strato. “I never encountered a Cultist in the flesh. It was apparently an obscure religion from the southern regions of Anshan. There were lurid rumors about drug-induced orgies and virgin sacrifices, but such rumors often circulate about unpopular small religions, and I never encountered a worshipper of Rhadamathar.” He glanced at Nadezhda. “Then I met Nadezhda, and the Cult of Temnuzash instead held my attention for the next thousand years or so.” He looked back at Caina. “But you were right to bring this creature to me. I think the situation may be more serious than we know.”

“They tried to assassinate the Emperor and the Padishah,” said Ark. “That is serious enough.”

“Indeed, Lord Arcion,” said Strato, “but as a veteran of the Imperial Legions, you know as well as I do that there is no situation so bleak that it cannot become worse.” Ark snorted. “Our first task is to determine the nature of this creature. Was it once a human or from a race other than mankind?”

“Other than mankind?” said Ark. “Other than humanity and spirits, what else is there?”

“Let us see,” said Strato.

He gestured, and two vaguely human-shaped figures rose from the floor. Both were fashioned of gray mist and smoke that writhed and flowed around itself. Minor air elementals, just as Nadezhda had called the earth elemental to carry the High Priest. Strato gestured again, and the air elementals tore away the rags from the High Priest’s corpse.

“Is he wearing armor?” said Ark.

“No,” said Strato, his voice grim. “That is his skin. I fear we shall have to investigate further to determine what this creature really is. I trust you all have strong stomachs?”

“I am a loremaster of Iramis,” said Sophia.

“I was a first spear centurion of the Eighteenth Legion,” said Ark. “I know what the internal organs of a man look like. Or, at least, what they look like when they’re hanging out of his torn guts.”

“So be it,” said Strato.

With that, he began to dissect the High Priest.

Like Ark, Caina had seen quite a few corpses and had perhaps made more than her share of them. She knew what the interior of a human body looked like, though she didn’t particularly want to see it. Yet while watching Strato dissect the High Priest was unsettling, it wasn’t disturbing, simply because the High Priest’s innards were so strange that Caina’s mind did not know what to make of them.

“Lord Cataphract,” said Sophia, gazing down at the High Priest’s opened torso, “those do not look like human organs.”

“No,” said Strato, pointing. “Behold. A human heart has four chambers. This heart has only three. The stomach is substantially larger than that of a human. Like an actual snake, it appears a serpent man may prefer to swallow his meals whole. When exposed to air, the blood is a dark green rather than red. Let us turn our attention to the head.”

He turned the wedge-shaped head to the right and left, considering the fangs. Then he reached into the mouth and squeezed, holding up a glass vial, and a brownish-yellow liquid spurted out of one of the fangs and into the vial.

“The fangs are hollow,” said Strato, “and are used for delivering venom.”

“I know,” said Caina. “When we fought, he tried to spit venom at me.”

“That would likely have been fatal,” said Strato, holding the venom to the light and considering it. “There is another possibility, one perhaps more worrisome. The venom may also be addictive.”

“Addictive?” said Nadezhda. “What do you mean?”

“Consider strong alcohol. I know you do not approve of heavy drinking, my love, but it is obviously addictive. Yet alcohol is essentially a poison. The effect simply varies upon dosage and the formulation.” He pointed at the High Priest’s fangs. “I suspect that in one dosage, the venom of this creature is near-instantly fatal. But at another dosage, it induces euphoria, a sensation that quickly becomes addictive.”

“Which means,” said Caina, “that the High Priest could have compelled the loyalty of his followers.”

“It is not impossible,” said Strato.

“So what is this thing?” said Ark. “It just tried to kill the Emperor and the Padishah. A sorcerer that twisted itself into a serpent creature?”

“No,” said Strato. “That would be the comforting conclusion.”

Ark grunted. “What’s comforting about that?”

“Because while that is a horror, an abuse of sorcery, it is something that is known and understood,” said Strato. “This is something else entirely. I believe this creature has come from another world.”

“Other worlds?” said Ark, baffled. “There’s just the world. There are others?”

“Yes,” said Caina, voice quiet. “I’ve seen some of them. The djinn of the Azure Court showed me in their visions.” She took a deep breath as some of her darker memories came to the forefront of her thoughts. “I saw others when Kotuluk Iblis and Temnuzash spoke to me. Creatures like them move from world to world, devouring all life and then moving on.” Kotuluk Iblis and his nagataaru had been like hellish locusts, creatures that would consume all life on a world before traveling to the next. Temnuzash, by contrast, preferred order to the ravenous destruction of the nagataaru. His cult would have brought the world to perfect order, his priests sacrificing victims so Temnuzash could feed upon their life force.

The memory of those conversations and visions made her skin crawl.

Caina wondered if Rhadamathar was another such dark lord of the netherworld.

“It is rare, Liberator,” said Nadezhda, “for anyone to survive a single conversation with such a dark power. Let alone two, as you have.”

“Well,” said Caina, forcing down the disquieting memories. “Temnuzash did like to talk.”

“These other worlds,” said Ark. “How is it possible to reach them? Some kind of sorcery?”

“Indeed,” said Strato. “The netherworld is the shadow and reflection of the world, but it is likewise the shadow and reflection of all worlds. It is possible to use the netherworld to travel between worlds, though I know not the spells required. Great power would be necessary.” He gestured at the High Priest upon the table. “But I am certain that this creature came from a world other than ours.”

“Then it is an invasion,” said Ark. “Or the start of one, anyway.”

“Perhaps,” said Strato. “It is also possible that the serpent men have been here for a long time.”

“The Cult is ancient,” said Caina. “I read of it in a book that was written centuries ago. You heard about the Cult over a thousand years ago.”

“At present, we have no way of knowing for certain,” said Strato, “but it is possible the serpent men have been on our world for at least that long, if not longer.”

“So why act now?” said Ark. “Why show themselves? Why try to assassinate the Emperor and the Padishah?”

“Because the time may be right,” said Caina. “Look at everything that has happened over the last ten years. The day of the golden dead. The rebellion in Istarinmul. The civil war in the Empire against the Umbarians. The revolts in southern Anshan. The Empire, Istarinmul, Anshan, New Kyre, all the great powers of the civilized world – they are not as strong as they once were. If you wanted to attack the Empire or Istarinmul, this is the best time to do it in decades.”

“Especially since assassinating both the Emperor and the Padishah would have started another war,” said Nadezhda.

“Do these serpent men have a name?” said Ark.

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “When I spied upon the Cult, they called the High Priest the Chosen of Rhadamathar. I don’t know if that’s a title or what the serpent men call themselves.” She shook her head. “Thanks to your work, Lord Aristaces, I know much more than I did this morning, but I still need to know more.”

“Such is the nature of war, I fear,” said Strato. “No matter how much you learn about your foe, it is never enough. Often, you must make the best guess you can with what information you possess.”

“Are you at war, my lady?” said Sophia.

Ark spoke first. “The Cult of Rhadamathar tried to assassinate Emperor Valerius and his guest the Padishah. Aye, I would say that the Empire is at war with the Cult. I expect the Emperor will issue a decree banning the Cult within days.”

“And the Liberator herself is at war, regardless of what the Emperor decrees,” said Nadezhda. “For the Cult tried to kill the children of her husband. She cannot allow this to stand.”

Nadezhda, Caina reflected, had come to know her quite well during the final months of the Umbarian war. The thought that the Cult wanted to murder two small children would not have sat well with Caina in any event. But Nikarion and Zoe were Kylon’s children. Caina would find a way to save them and make the Cult regret hunting them.

“Both the Cultists and the High Priest spoke of something called the Great Bridge,” said Caina. “Have you heard the term before?”

“I fear not,” said Strato. “As you said, we lack information. It might be a weapon. It could be the means by which the serpent men reached our world. Or it may be a religious or eschatological term within the Cult.”

“The way the priests of the Temnoti predicted and worked towards the Final Night,” said Nadezhda. “At least until Talmania Scorneus usurped the throne of the Iron King for herself.”

Ark snorted. “Only to die at the hands of an opera singer.”

“At the hands of a mother, Lord Arcion,” said Nadezhda, “and a mother who had lost her son to Talmania’s hands. A wise man fears such anger.”

“I will investigate this corpse further and learn what I may,” said Strato, “but I fear I can tell you nothing more at this time. How shall you proceed?”

Caina sighed. “I am not certain. We know more about the Cult than we did, but not nearly enough. I expect the Emperor will summon me soon. He will want to know more details…and I expect both he and the Padishah will ask me to look into the Cult. Capturing one of the Fangs of the Serpent like Ardakh or Sethroza would be a good start. They could tell us quite a bit more.”

“If they could be compelled to talk,” said Strato. “Taking one of them alive would prove difficult.”

“It will,” said Caina, “but we’ve got to start somewhere.”

“I counsel the utmost caution,” said Strato. “If the Cult and the serpent men have been on our world for as long as we believe, and if they have chosen this moment as their time to act, they will prove formidable foes.”

“Aye,” said Caina. “They proved that with the machine beneath the Caerish Gate. Thank you for your counsel.”

“I will investigate further,” said Strato, “and pass on what I learn to you and to the high loremasters in Iramis.” He paused. “I am surprised that you came to me instead of them.”

“The high loremasters are honorable men and women,” said Caina, “but they are…unworldly. And not always as forthcoming with information as I might wish. Or as the Prince of Iramis might wish, for that matter.”

“I will walk with you back to the Hall of Gates,” said Nadezhda.

“Thank you,” said Caina. Sometimes dangerous creatures entered the Tower of the Cataphract and prowled its halls, though they could not stand against the master of the Tower, nor the woman he loved.

Caina, Ark, and Sophia walked with Nadezhda to the Hall of Gates. The Warmaiden bade them farewell and disappeared, leaving them alone at the edge of the deadly ward within the Hall.

“When you said there would be minimal danger, you were right,” said Ark, “though I am left uneasy in my mind.”

“Aye,” said Caina. “I have not been easy in my mind since I saw the High Priest’s face.”

“Serpent men,” said Ark, shaking his head. “We’ve seen many strange things, but serpent men from another world?”

“There are many dangerous things in Ulkaar, Lord Arcion,” said Sophia. “The mavrokhi, men twisted into wolves, are but one. I would have thought the High Priest to be such a creature, but you are right, it is peculiar to think of creatures from another world.”

“Speaking of that,” said Caina to Sophia, “can I ask a favor of you?”

“Of course.”

“Can you have one of the soldiers at the embassy return the wagon to the livery stable on the corner of the Via Triumphalis and the Wayfarer Tavern?” said Caina. “I want to go briefly to Risiviri and back before nightfall.”

Ark snorted. “Yes. Risiviri. Before nightfall. It’s only a thousand miles from Malarae.”

“I will,” said Sophia, “but I should go with you. If the serpent men are hunting you, it is best not to go anywhere alone.”

It was a kind offer. Though Caina knew that Sophia really wanted an excuse to see her homeland again. And to see Seb and Ilona, who had settled in Risiviri after the war. Given that the Cult of Temnuzash had operated in the shadows of Ulkaar for generations, it was unlikely that the Cult of Rhadamathar had been able to gain a foothold anywhere in Risiviri.

Still. Caina had been wrong before.

“Certainly,” said Caina. “Ark, thank you. I am sorry that I’ve had to burden you with this knowledge.”

Ark shrugged. “Since I’ve joined the Ghosts, we’ve worried about the Moroaica, the Kyracian war, and the Umbarians. Why not serpent men?”

3

GUARDIANS

Caina and Sophia Zomanek stepped through the stone door and into the Iramisian embassy in the city of Risiviri.

It was a new building and much less impressive than the former Temple of Cursus in Malarae. Previously, the door to the Tower of the Cataphract had been built into the wall of a warehouse in Risiviri’s outer city. The Ulkaari merchants who had constructed the warehouse had no idea what the door was or why it was there, and so they reacted to the mysterious artifact in the most sensible way possible – saving on the cost of bricks by building it into the wall.

After the end of the Umbarian war and the defeat of Talmania Scorneus, the Boyar of Risiviri had allowed the Prince of Iramis to purchase some of the warehouses, knocking them down to build the new Iramisian embassy.

Given the awe in which the Ulkaari nation held the valikarion knights of Iramis, Boyar Mircea might have been deposed had he decided otherwise, and Mircea Bravlin was nothing if not a shrewd ruler.

The Iramisian embassy in Risiviri looked like a warehouse at the moment, albeit a nicer one than usual. The door from the Hall of Gates opened into a large room with two stone hearths. Caina was amused to see that both hearths had blazing fires in them. Given that Iramis had a much hotter and drier climate than Ulkaar, the Ulkaari winters must have been a shock. Caina greeted the valikarion and loremasters stationed at the embassy, most of whom she had met in Iramis, and then proceeded with Sophia into the streets of Risiviri’s outer city.

It was spring, but spring in Risiviri was colder than in Malarae. Banks of gray snow still rested against the sides of the buildings and a cool wind blew between the houses, though the streets were clear of snow and ice. The sky overhead was leaden, perhaps promising one more blizzard before winter surrendered for the year. Most of the houses Caina and Sophia passed were built on brick foundations, their upper levels built of whitewashed timbers. Unlike most buildings in Malarae, every house in Risiviri had a sharply peaked roof. Given that it was not unusual for Risiviri to get five to six feet of snow in the winter, a flat roof might collapse beneath the weight of the snowfall, to say nothing of leaks when it melted. Numerous men of Risiviri worked with long rakes during the winter, clearing the snow from rooftops in exchange for a few coins.

Many people were on the streets, but no one hindered them. Caina looked unremarkable in her caravan guard disguise, but Sophia’s white robe marked her as a loremaster of Iramis, and people made way for her. A few offered bows as she passed, which Caina knew made Sophia uncomfortable, though she always answered those bows with a grave nod.

“My lady,” said Sophia. “Do you remember when we first came here?”

“Vividly.” Better than Caina might like if she was honest with herself. She and Kylon had almost died here.

Sophia shook her head. “Risiviri was the largest city I had ever seen. I couldn’t imagine anything larger.”

“Then you saw Artifel and Malarae, and then Istarinmul and Iramis,” said Caina.

“It is strange,” said Sophia. “When I was young…”

“You are young. You’re barely eighteen.”

Sophia grinned. “When I was younger, it felt like Ulkaar was the entire world. And now it seems so much smaller than I remember.”

“That is the way of things,” said Caina. “Of course, if someone gets lost in the Ulkaari forests during a blizzard, then Ulkaar will seem large enough. It’s just a matter of perspective.”

They passed through the gate to the inner city and came to the richer and older portion of Risiviri, one dominated by the mansions of the Ulkaari nobles and the more powerful merchants. The Red Horse Palace, the ancient seat of the Boyars of Risiviri, dominated the inner city, its stark crimson towers looming over the surrounding houses. It faced the great dome and spires of the Grand Temple, the seat of the Ulkaari worship of the Divine.

The Magisterium’s chapterhouse, by contrast, looked dour. It was a blocky structure constructed of the spell-worked black stone the magi used for construction. A dome rose over the center of the building, a smaller imitation of the great dome that towered over the Motherhouse in Artifel. Two Magisterial Guards stood before the main doors. They wore spell-worked black plate armor, and they tensed at the sight of Sophia’s white robe. The Magisterium had accepted the Pact of Iramis largely because the Emperor had given them no choice, which allowed the valikarion knights to police crimes of sorcery within the Empire.

That meant the visit of a loremaster to a Magisterium chapterhouse was always cause for concern.

Some part of Caina’s mind, the part that would never trust the Magisterium, noted the soldiers’ disquiet with pleasure, but she pushed it aside.

“Good morning,” she said to the Magisterial Guards. “My name is Countess Caina Kardamnos. This is Sophia Zomanek, a loremaster of Iramis. We were hoping to speak with the Preceptor Sebastian Scorneus and his wife.”

The Guards relaxed a little. Caina recognized them – they had been in Risiviri during the Umbarian attacks on the city, and they likely remembered Caina and Sophia from those battles.

And, of course, she was the half-sister of their preceptor.

“I believe the Preceptor is about to take his noon meal,” said the Guard on the left. “This way, please.”

“Thank you,” said Caina, and she and Sophia followed the Magisterial Guard into the chapterhouse. They walked through the entry hall and into the central chamber, the dome rising overhead. The Guard led them down a corridor of black stone to what had once been the chambers of Aristide Oromaris, the former preceptor of Risiviri’s chapter of the Magisterium. During the Umbarian war, Oromaris had tried to get Sophia forcibly enrolled in the Magisterium, which had led to Caina and her husband and her friends almost dying in the final plots of the previous First Magus. Caina had repaid Oromaris by arranging his ascension to the rank of high magus, which had sent him off to Artifel…and vacated the preceptorship of the Risiviri chapter for her half-brother.

After all, Seb had gotten married at the end of the war, and he needed a place to settle down.

The door to the preceptor’s apartment stood open, and Caina heard familiar voices speaking through them.

“Preceptor?” said the Guard. “You have visitors. The Countess Kardamnos and a loremaster of Iramis.”

Caina and Sophia stepped through the door and into the preceptor’s dining room. It was an austere chamber of dark stone, illuminated by enspelled glass globes set into iron stands on the walls. Despite that, the room had many of the bright colors that the Ulkaari preferred in their decorations – a rug of red and gold beneath the table, and wall hangings of the same colors softening the black stone walls.

Sebastian Scorneus, his wife, and his son sat at the table.

Seb rose to his feet and smiled. Caina’s half-brother looked so much like her that when they had met for the first time two years ago the family resemblance had been obvious, and it had not taken them long to figure out that their mother Laeria Scorneus had abandoned her first marriage before she married Caina’s father. Seb had the same cold blue eyes and black hair as Caina and a similar-looking face, though his jaw and brow were heavier and his shoulders considerably wider. If Caina had been born a man, she would have looked like Seb, and if Seb had been born a woman, he would have looked like her.

Her grandfather Hyraekon Scorneus had apparently been a brutal and vicious man, but his blood ran true.

“Caina,” said Seb, stepping around the table. He habitually wore the black armor of a battle magus of the Imperial Magisterium, but at the moment he wore a black gambeson and trousers. He kissed her cheek and smiled. “Welcome. This is an unexpected surprise.” He had a deep voice with a hint of weariness to it and spoke Ulkaari well. Better than Caina did, in fact.

“Though it might be trouble,” said Seb’s wife. She smiled, her dark eyes flashing. “Because we know trouble follows the Balarigar sure as thunder follows the lightning stroke.”

“I never look for trouble,” said Caina. “There’s no need. It finds me whatever I do.”

Ilona laughed and rose to her feet. She laughed a lot more now. Marriage to Seb and the birth of their son had softened some of her harder edges, though Caina suspected that anyone who tried to push her would discover that the Bronze Witch of Ulkaar had not softened very much at all. She wore a long blue Ulkaari skirt and a loose white shirt with a high collar. Her pyrikon was in its bracelet form and looked like a piece of bronze costume jewelry around her left wrist.

Caina’s nephew rested in her arms. He was nearly a year old now and watched Caina with curious blue eyes. Niran Scorneus had inherited his father’s eyes and features, though he had his mother’s brown hair.

Seb paused. “Did you bring trouble?”

“If I did, I would also have brought Kylon and a dozen valikarion knights with me,” said Caina. “No, I needed to ask the counsel of Strato and Nadezhda. Since I was already in the Tower of the Cataphract, I thought I would stop by…and perhaps give you a warning. I didn’t bring any trouble with me, but more may be coming.”

“Then I hope you and Sophia will stay for lunch,” said Seb. “It’s fortunate you came today. Tomorrow, I’m riding out with the battle magi and some of Boyar Mircea’s men.” His expression hardened. “The Temple reported that the barrier to the netherworld grew thin along the road north to Vagraastrad, and some undead have arisen and are attacking travelers. We’ll have to deal with them before the problem gets worse.”

“The final curse of the Iron King upon our people,” said Ilona with a hint of bitterness. “Talmania Scorneus might have devoured him, and she might have been slain in turn, but the barrier between the material world and the netherworld in Ulkaar is forever abraded. We shall always have dangerous creatures entering our lands and reckless sorcerers seeking to exploit that for their own ends.”

“Aye, but the Temple’s witchfinders and the valikarion will stand against that,” said Seb. “And so long as I am preceptor in Risiviri, the Magisterium will aid them. I will not allow a repeat of the crimes of the Umbarian Order in Ulkaar.”

Caina often thought it regrettable that her half-brother had been born with sorcerous talent. Seb had grown up on tales of the valikarion knights. He had wanted to be a gallant Arvaltyri knight with a shining sword. Instead, he had become as close as possible to that as a magus of the Magisterium could.

“We should be glad to eat with you,” said Caina.

Ilona smiled. “The Balarigar and the Liberator of Iramis dining with a Magisterium preceptor. That’s hardly in keeping with the legends. I wonder what Morgant the Razor would say?”

“I suspect, my lady,” said Sophia, “that we needn’t wonder, for you have already said it.”

Ilona burst out laughing. “By the Divine, I’ve missed you, girl.”

They spoke of trivial things as they waited for Seb’s servants to bring lunch. Ilona transferred Niran to Caina, and she held the little boy. He looked at her with confusion for a moment and then occupied himself by trying to stuff his entire left hand into his mouth.

“He has teeth now,” said Caina.

“Aye, and the maids and I have to watch him like a hawk,” said Ilona. “Or else he’ll stuff everything he can fit into his mouth.” She smiled. “I am just glad he is healthy. He had a fever last week, and for a while, I feared…well, he is better now.”

Caina knew what she feared. Now that Niran had almost finished his first year, the odds were in his favor, but many deadly diseases could carry off young children. Niran’s mother gave him an advantage. Ilona knew the spells of the Words of Lore, passed down from Bronze Witch to Bronze Witch across the centuries, and one of those spells was a shield against disease. It allowed a small child to catch a weakened version of the disease, letting them survive the illness while building up an immunity to it.

But the spell was not infallible.

The servants arrived with lunch, bread and cheese and winter sausages flavored heavily with salt and garlic. The Ulkaari loved garlic, and used it in practically everything they ate, sometimes rather more than was wise. Rumor held that the powerful vyrkolaki undead were repulsed by garlic, which Caina knew was not true, else not a single vyrkolak would ever have been able to set foot within Ulkaar.

“I take it Calvia is still in New Kyre?” said Ilona.

“Yes,” said Caina, taking a sip of a wooden cup of beer. In Malarae, everyone drank weak wine. In Ulkaar, everyone drank weak beer. Caina did not particularly care for either wine or beer, but there was definitely no coffee in Risiviri, and drinking the water from the river would lead to all sorts of unpleasant ailments. “She said in her last letter that she visited you about six weeks ago, I think.”

“It was about that,” said Ilona. “I thought when she lost the power of her shadowsight she would be somewhat…saner, but...”

“I’ve had the advantage of knowing Calvia all my life,” said Seb. “Alas, she’s always been this way. I’m afraid House Scorneus has never been known for our sanity.”

“Given how many of you I’ve met by now,” said Ilona, “I’m inclined to agree.” She cut some of the cheese into tiny pieces and fed them one by one to Niran, who did not care for the bread but very much enjoyed the cheese.

“And yet you still married me,” said Seb.

“Well, I am Ulkaari, and Ulkaar is the land of madness and nightmares,” said Ilona. She smiled. “You fit in quite well. Though there is less madness and fewer nightmares now that the Cult of Temnuzash has been defeated.”

“Speaking of cults,” said Caina, “I have some news.”

“The warning,” said Seb.

“Yes,” said Caina, and she gave a brief summary of events in Malarae – Kalliope, Nikarion and Zoe, and the alchemical machine the Cult of Rhadamathar had tried to use to assassinate the Emperor.

“Gods of the Empire,” said Seb. “We just finished the war with the Umbarians. If you hadn’t been there, the Empire and Istarinmul would be preparing for a new war against each other.”

“That is why I wanted to warn you,” said Caina. “The Cataphract thinks that the serpent men have been here for a long time and have finally decided that the time has come for them to act. Ulkaar is far from the heart of the Empire, I know…”

“But if the Cult of Rhadamathar wanted to build up its power quietly,” said Seb, “then the hinterlands of Ulkaar are a good place to do it. Especially now since the Temnoti have been driven into hiding.”

“Have either of you encountered the Cult before?” said Caina.

“Until a few minutes ago, I had never even heard the name Rhadamathar,” said Seb.

“Nor have I,” said Ilona. “The Empire has many religions, but in Ulkaar, there have always been only two. The worship of the Divine and the faith of the Temple that the Warmaiden founded among us…or the bloody sacrifices and necromancy of Temnuzash in the shadows.” Her face grew troubled, her arms tightening a little around Niran. “And yet…”

“What is it?” said Seb.

“I have heard tales of serpent men before,” said Ilona.

“In Ulkaar?” said Caina.

“In the mountains to the west,” said Ilona. “Some of the peasants who live there claim to see serpent men in the valleys. They avoid them, for it is said the serpent men can kill with their gaze, and their touch is poison.”

“Truly?” said Sophia. “I grew up in northern Ulkaar, and I never heard of serpent men until the Countess put one on the Lord Cataphract’s table.”

“You came from Kostiv in the forests of northern Ulkaar,” said Ilona. “This tale is from the west, from the mountains. Truly, I never believed it. I thought it only a legend. Some villagers saw a Temnoti priest from a distance and mistook the creature for a serpent man. Certainly, I never saw a serpent man with my own eyes.” She shrugged. “Yet now it seems that such creatures are indeed real. Though I cannot say if the serpent men have visited Ulkaar or if the tale is only a fable distorted in the retelling.”

“Well, we can only remain vigilant,” said Seb. “We survived the Umbarians and Talmania Scorneus, we can survive the Cult of Rhadamathar.”

“Though I am curious about one thing,” said Ilona.

“Yes?” said Caina.

“You are a stepmother now,” said Ilona. “What do you think about that?”

Stepmother. In truth, Caina had not thought much about the title at all, but merely accepted the reality of it. Life had taught her, sometimes brutally, that it was best to acknowledge the reality of a situation as soon as possible.

But there were so many stories about wicked stepmothers.

“They are Kylon’s children, and the Cult is trying to kill them,” said Caina.

Ilona smiled. “I suspect the Cult may bitterly regret the day they failed to kill you.”

“We have done a lot of dangerous things together,” said Seb, “so I fear I must ask you a blunt question.”

“Of course,” said Caina.

Seb looked her in the eye. “Do you fear that Kalliope will try to displace you at Kylon’s side?”

“Of course not!” said Sophia at once. “Lord Kylon is an honorable man and would never do such a thing.” Sophia had a mild crush on Kylon that he had been careful not to encourage and that Sophia had tried (however futilely) to hide from Caina, and in her eyes Kylon could do no wrong.

“No, I don’t,” said Caina. “He and Kalliope…do not agree on many things.”

Seb drew in a long breath. “Forgive my bluntness, but…”

“But Kalliope gave him children, and I cannot?” said Caina.

Seb sighed and looked at his son. “Children change a man’s thinking about many things…and I would do you no service by not speaking plainly with you.”

“I know,” said Caina. “I appreciate it. At times, it takes great courage to speak the truth. But, no, I don’t worry that Kylon will leave me for Kalliope.”

“I fear you misunderstand Caina’s situation, husband,” said Ilona.

Seb frowned. “Kylon and I fought alongside each other often enough against the Umbarians. I think I know him rather well.”

“You do,” said Ilona, “but do you recall how he mistrusted me once he learned that I was the Bronze Witch of Ulkaar? The deception grated on him, and he could never quite let it go. Kalliope never told him about the children, even though she had years to do it. The fact that the Surge ordered her to remain quiet matters not because Kylon already hates the Surge for not warning him about the Red Huntress.”

“Yes,” said Caina. She wasn’t surprised that Ilona had worked it out. Ilona had spent a long time traveling with both Caina and Kylon, and she was very observant.

“So Caina doesn’t fear that Kylon will leave her for Kalliope Agramemnos,” said Ilona. “What she fears is that Kylon and Kalliope will go to war against one another and that the children will become the battleground between them.”

“I see,” said Seb. He looked at his son and sighed again. But Niran saw him looking and smiled a big gap-toothed grin, and Seb smiled back. Ilona rose and passed her son to her husband, and Seb settled the boy in the crook of his arm. “I hope to give Niran, and any other sons and daughters that might come, what Ilona and I did not have as children. A father and a mother who love each other and hope to advance their children in the world. The scars from not having that…well, those can be profound. As you know as well as I do.”

“Indeed,” said Caina, thinking of her mother.

“If your stepchildren are to have that kind of life, I’m afraid it will be up to you,” said Ilona. “Kylon may forgive Kalliope in time, but he will never trust her. And Kalliope…I suspect that she is used to her independence. She will resent any influence Kylon has over her and the twins. If peace is to be kept between them for the sake of the children, I think it will have to be your doing, Caina.”

“I know,” said Caina.

“I suppose you won’t have to worry about secret children turning up from me,” said Seb. Ilona reached over and squeezed his hand. Talmania had murdered Seb’s first wife in an act of petty cruelty, annoyed that Seb had rebelled against her control. The murder had been a monstrous act, but only a drop in the ocean of blood Talmania spilled once the Umbarian war had begun.

Well, the Umbarian war was over, and Talmania was dead.

That was the past. Caina had to concern herself with the future now.

“Unless, of course,” said Ilona in a light voice, “you went to Anshan and sired children on seven of the Shahenshah’s concubines without his knowledge.”

Seb gave her a flat look, and then snorted. “That was one of the plays you and Theodosia were putting on when we first met.”

“Yes, and it was very popular,” said Ilona. “The Temple didn’t quite approve, of course, but everyone in the play remained fully clothed, so the Temple didn’t ban the performance.”

“I don’t think I’d want to see a play where the actors were unclothed,” said Sophia.

“That’s because you have good taste, dear,” said Ilona. “Not everyone can say the same.”

“If you have need of me, just send word,” said Seb. “And I will ensure the Risiviri chapter of the Magisterium remains vigilant about the Cult of Rhadamathar.”

“Thank you,” said Caina.

She had the feeling it would take all the help she could find to unravel the mystery around the Cult.

4

TWINS

After lunch with Seb, Ilona, and Niran, Caina and Sophia passed back through the Hall of Gates and returned to the Iramisian embassy in Malarae.

“Your nephew, my lady,” said Sophia, “is very cute.”

“He is,” said Caina. “Thinking of having one yourself?”

She said it half-teasingly, but Sophia considered the question gravely.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Some of the older loremasters say that it is better to marry and have children when you are young and strong and most likely to carry the child to term. Others say that it is better not to have children and devote yourself entirely to your studies and the service of the Words of Lore.”

“What did Annarah say when you talked to her?” said Caina. Annarah, of course, had chosen the first side of that debate, with three children, and she was hoping to have at least a fourth one with her husband while she was still young enough. Though given that she had helped save Iramis from Callatas, no one could doubt that Annarah had been devoted to the service of the Words of Lore.

“Annarah says I shall have to make up my own mind,” said Sophia.

Caina laughed. “That sounds like her.”

They returned to the embassy’s main chamber. The clerks still worked at their rows of desks.

“Thank you for your help, Sophia,” said Caina.

“I was glad to give it.” She paused. “My lady, if you’re going into danger, or you need more help, call upon me again. If you ask it, the ambassador will gladly send me to help the Liberator of Iramis.”

Caina paused. Her first instinct was to say no. Sophia was too young, and she ought to focus on her duties and studies. Yet she wasn’t a child anymore, was she? And she had spent a lot of the last several years in deadly danger, ever since Razdan Nagrach had chosen her to run in his twisted Boyar’s Hunt. If Caina encountered another Chosen of Rhadamathar or more Fangs of the Serpent, she could use the skills of a loremaster.

“I might at that,” said Caina. “It would be very helpful having someone whom I can trust.”

Sophia smiled at that. “I am ever at your service.”

Caina bade farewell to Sophia and the valikarion guarding the embassy and set off through the streets of Malarae, walking on foot back to her home. She supposed she could have borrowed a horse from the embassy, but the walk gave her time to think, and it was more anonymous. The High Priest might lie dead on Strato’s table, but Ardakh and Sethroza and the other members of the Cult had escaped. Perhaps they had fled Malarae to report to the High Priest’s masters. Maybe they were hunting Caina, hoping to take revenge for their slain leader.

Or perhaps they had continued their mission and were even now watching Caina’s mansion, waiting for a chance to kill Nikarion and Zoe.

Yes, better to walk alone through the streets, one more anonymous caravan guard in the Empire’s teeming capital.

She took a more roundabout route home, walking past several locations where it would make sense for watchers to keep an eye on her house. Yet she saw no sign that anyone was watching, whether members of the Cult or anyone else. Perhaps they had decided to go into hiding, wait until Caina and Kylon’s vigilance had relaxed, and then strike.

If that was the Cult’s plan, Caina promised herself, she would make sure they were disappointed.

After the Umbarian war, Caina and Kylon purchased the mansion of a former member of the Magisterium who had joined the Umbarians and gotten himself killed in the fighting. By the standards of the nobles of Malarae, it was small, only two stories tall, with a high tower where the magus had once conducted studies of the stars. A small garden surrounded the house, ringed with a stone wall that was just a little too high to be easily climbable.

They had gotten the house cheaply. The new Emperor had seized the assets of the Umbarian Order and had sold quite a few of them to help fund the war effort. Two guards waited at the gate to the mansion’s grounds, and Caina greeted them.

“Do you know where Lord Kylon is?” said Caina.

“In back with Lady Agramemnos and the children,” said one of the guards. “Cornelia is with them, too.”

That was good. Cornelia had proven to have a good knack for managing children, and Kalliope would refuse to argue with Kylon in front of the servants, considering it beneath her dignity. Caina walked through the gate, circled through the gardens, and found her husband.

Kylon of House Kardamnos stood with a wooden practice sword in his hand. He wore boots, trousers, and a loose tunic, a sword belt wrapped around his waist, and a sheathed Ulkaari saber upon his left hip. Facing him was a six-year-old boy who looked a great deal like Kylon must have at that age. He held a wooden practice sword sized to his small hand, and Nikarion gazed up at his father with somber intensity.

Kalliope Agramemnos stood near the doors to the kitchen, arms folded across her chest, lips pressed together in a tight line. She was a striking woman, about Caina’s height but wider in hip and bust, with large green eyes that seemed luminous and brown hair that had been shaped in artful ringlets. Currently, she wore the simple dress of a Kyracian noblewoman, sleeveless with a flowing skirt and belted around the waist. It wasn’t hard to see why she had caught Kylon’s eye seven years ago, and no doubt they would have gotten married and had more children save for the simple fact they couldn’t stand one another.

Kalliope seemed angry right now, but Caina knew it was more than that. She was afraid that Nikarion would get hurt practicing swords with Kylon. Kalliope had lived in fear for weeks as the Cult of Rhadamathar chased her from New Kyre to Malarae, and Caina supposed this was just one more fear.

Zoe sat on the grass next to her mother, collecting pebbles and arranging them in neat lines. Cornelia squatted next to her, gathering more pebbles. The sight of Caina’s rigid, imperious maid arranging pebbles next to a little girl was so incongruous she almost laughed.

Kalliope stirred as Caina approached, seeming to shake off her dark thoughts. “Caina. You’re back.” She offered a rueful smile. “I thought you were a caravan guard at first.”

“That was the point,” said Caina.

Kalliope hesitated. “Did you learn anything from your friends?”

“Some,” said Caina. “Not as much as I hoped, but more than I would have expected. I should tell both you and Kylon at once.”

Kalliope nodded. “I will tell him to stop with this foolishness and come inside.” She drew breath and started to step forward.

That wouldn’t go well.

“Wait,” murmured Caina, laying a gentle hand on Kalliope’s forearm. The Kyracian noblewoman flinched at her touch. Caina supposed that was partly because her fingers tended to run cold. Mostly it was because the touch let Kalliope sense her emotional aura, which had to come as a sudden shock.

People who had the ability to perceive emotional auras had told Caina, more than once, that hers was rather unsettling.

“But,” said Kalliope in a low voice, “but he’s going to hurt Nikarion.”

“No, he won’t,” said Caina. “Just watch.”

“Again,” said Kylon.

Nikarion smiled and swung his sword, and Kylon parried the blow.

“Use the grip I showed you,” said Kylon.

“But, father,” said Nikarion, and Kalliope tensed a little at the title. “This lets me swing stronger!”

“Show me,” said Kylon.

Nikarion grinned, yelled, and swung his sword with all his young strength. As Caina expected, the boy overbalanced with the wild swing, leaving himself wide open.

Kylon’s sword blurred in his hand.

Kalliope flinched next to Caina.

Gently, Kylon’s sword came to rest atop Nikarion’s right shoulder.

The boy blinked at the wooden blade and gaped up at his father.

“You see?” said Kylon, and Nikarion nodded. “You can hit all you want, but you don’t want to get hit yourself. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Nikarion.

“Do you remember the parry I showed you?” said Kylon. Nikarion nodded. “Use it now.”

Kylon swung his sword at the boy. Once again Kalliope’s breath hissed through her teeth, but Caina was not alarmed. Kylon had only swung the wooden sword with a fraction of his considerable strength and speed behind it. If it struck Nikarion, it would sting a bit, but it wouldn’t even leave a bruise.

As it happened, the blow didn’t hit Nikarion at all. The boy’s parry was slow and a bit shaky, but it was otherwise executed correctly. Kylon’s blade struck Nikarion’s with a resounding crack, and while Nikarion flinched, he held his feet, and a delighted smile went over his face.

“I did it!” he said. He looked at Kalliope and smiled. “Mother, I did it, did you see?”

“I did,” said Kalliope. “You did very well.”

“We shall practice that more later,” said Kylon. “But move your hands a little on the grip…yes, like that.”

“He is too rough with him,” whispered Kalliope.

If anything, Caina thought Kylon was too gentle. For Nikarion’s sake, it was probably just as well that his father had entered his life. Kalliope was a good mother, but she tended to coddle Nikarion and Zoe. Once they reached adolescence with all its innate rebelliousness, Kalliope would likely have a hard time asserting authority over them.

“Nikarion is a noble of New Kyre and of the blood of House Kardamnos,” said Caina. “He will need to learn swordplay and all the other skills required of a Kyracian noble.”

“Yes, but…” Kalliope sighed. “My father is the greatest stormdancer in New Kyre. He could teach Nikarion.”

“Beyond a doubt,” said Caina, “but your father is not here. Kylon is. And Nikarion and Zoe are his children. He has the duty and the obligation to teach them.”

Kalliope sighed but offered a nod.

By then, Kylon had finished, and Nikarion sprinted across the grass and came to a stop in front of Kalliope. “Mother, did you see?”

“Yes, you did very well,” said Kalliope. Kylon walked up to join them. “Do not be rude to Lady Caina.”

Nikarion blinked and then looked up at Caina. He sometimes failed to notice that she was there. Caina suspected that was a result of his latent arcane ability. No doubt he could sense a measure of the emotions of those around him, if only subconsciously, but he couldn’t sense a valikarion. But the manners Kalliope had tried to instill in him took over, and Nikarion offered a bow.

“Lady Caina,” said Nikarion. “I greet you this day and hope you are well.”

He sounded so formal that Caina felt herself smile.

“I am very well, thank you,” said Caina. “You did well to listen to your father. Your mother should be proud that she has such a strong son.”

Nikarion smiled at her, pleased at the compliment.

“Nikarion,” said Kalliope. “Go with Cornelia and Zoe for a little while. I have to talk with Lady Caina and with…with your father.”

“But Zoe’s boring!” said Nikarion. Zoe raised her head and stuck out her tongue at her brother.

“None of that now, my young lord and lady,” said Cornelia. “We’ll make a contest of it.” She pointed at the wall encircling the grounds. “We’ll see if you can throw pebbles farther than your sister.”

“I’m much stronger than Zoe!” said Nikarion. “I’ll throw them farther!”

“No, you won’t,” said Zoe in a singsong voice.

“Just don’t break any windows,” said Caina. She looked at Kylon. “I have news.”

“Then let us hear it,” said Kylon. He threaded his arm through hers. They walked with Kalliope through the grounds until they were far enough that the children could not overhear the conversation, though Caina could hear their excited shouts.

“You said you were going to take the High Priest’s corpse to some friends of yours,” said Kalliope. “What did they tell you?”

“The High Priest wasn’t human,” said Caina. “He wasn’t a human twisted into a monster through sorcery like the mavrokhi or the kadrataagu. He was another race of creature entirely. My friends think he came from another world.”

Kylon frowned, but Kalliope only looked baffled.

“Another…world?” said Kalliope. “But there’s…just the world. And the netherworld, of course…”

Caina shook her head. “There are other worlds like this one, scattered among the stars. It is possible to travel between them using the proper spells in the netherworld, though the journey is dangerous. The High Priest likely came from one of those worlds.”

Kalliope blinked. “Then you are saying that serpent men from another world want to kill my children?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Caina. “And, apparently, all the blood of House Kardamnos.”

“But why?” said Kalliope.

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “Not yet.”

Kalliope considered this. Someone else might have panicked or demanded more information. Yet while she was much more open with her emotions than Caina and tended to say whatever popped into her head, she was no coward.

“Then what must we do?” she said.

“You said the Cult of Rhadamathar was ancient,” said Kylon. “That old book in the library mentioned them, and it was written centuries ago. If the serpent men have been here that long, why are they only acting now?”

“I don’t know that either,” said Caina. “Strato and Nadezhda thought it was because the Empire, New Kyre, Istarinmul, and Anshan have all been weakened by the upheavals of the last few years.”

“The lords of New Kyre would never yield to any invader!” said Kalliope.

“Perhaps not,” said Caina, “but the lords of New Kyre have fewer ships and less money than they did ten years ago. The Empire has not recovered from the Umbarian war, and likely will not for at least another generation. If you had to go to war, would you rather fight the Empire as it is now or as it was ten years ago?”

“That is a good point,” said Kalliope, “but why would the serpent men wait so long to act?” She blinked as if annoyed that she had found herself in agreement with Kylon.

“We don’t know,” said Caina. “Maybe they weren’t ready. Maybe they have acted in the past, and we just don’t know about it. Or perhaps they simply didn’t have the numbers. I don’t know the details of how they travel from their world to ours, but it must take immense sorcerous power.”

“What if…what if they were simply patient?” said Kalliope.

“What do you mean?” said Caina.

“Well,” said Kalliope, “they are serpent men, aye? Snakes can live for a very long time if they’re fed properly. Or the tortoises that live on the shores near New Kyre. They can live a hundred and fifty years, maybe two hundred. What if the serpent men are like that? If they can live longer than us, they might be more patient.”

That was actually a good point and not one that had occurred to Caina.

“Like the Temnoti,” said Kylon. “The Temnoti priests were immortal unless something happened to kill them, and they waited centuries to summon the Iron King. And even then, they spent a long time manipulating Talmania and Rania Scorneus into finding the relics for them.”

“The Temnoti?” said Kalliope.

“Priests of Temnuzash,” said Caina. “A cult that was active in Ulkaar. They sided with the Umbarians at the end of the war, which didn’t work out well for them. But, aye, I think you’re both right. If the serpent men live for a long time, they might work in the shadows the way the Temnoti did, using agents and duped puppets to carry out their will.”

“Then we need to find those agents and puppets,” said Kylon, “and follow them back to their masters.”

“Aye,” said Caina. “The difficult part is that they’ve all gone into hiding. When we stopped the High Priest’s machine, the rest of the Cult scattered. If we could find Ardakh or Sethroza and make them talk, we could learn a great deal.”

“What about the green woman?” said Kalliope.

“The green woman?” said Kylon.

“The archer in the green cloak who drove off the Cult by the Shrine of Tethene,” said Kalliope. “She’s an enemy of the Cult, that much is clear. Surely, she must be on our side. Perhaps if we could find her, she would tell us more.”

“If we can find her,” said Caina. Though she wasn’t even sure that the green-cloaked archer had been a woman. “You saw how she moved. She’s at least as quick as a stormdancer drawing on the sorcery of air. If she doesn’t want to be found, locating her will be difficult. I think that…”

A flicker of motion caught her eye. Caina turned her head, fingers flexing as she prepared to summon her valikon. But no foe approached. It was simply her seneschal Talzain, his dark clothing and wan complexion making him look almost spectral as he walked through the garden.

Rather more briskly than he usually did, come to think of it.

“Countess,” he said. “Lord Kylon, Lady Kalliope. I apologize for the interruption, but there is a messenger at the gate.”

“From who?” said Caina.

“The Emperor of Nighmar,” said Talzain with somber pomp. “The messengers are Imperial Guards.”

“I should speak with them at once,” said Caina.

“Best leave the children here,” said Kylon. “They may not be Imperial Guards but imposters in disguise.”

Kalliope opened her mouth to argue with Kylon on reflex, realized that he was right, and closed it again.

“Nikarion, Zoe,” called Kalliope. “Stay with Cornelia. Mother has to speak with Countess Caina and your father some more.”

The twins were by now wholly absorbed in Cornelia’s pebble-throwing game, and seemed quite happy to remain where they were.

Caina and Kylon followed Talzain through the mansion’s garden to the front gate, Kalliope trailing a few steps behind. The gate stood open, and four Imperial Guards in their black armor and purple cloaks sat atop their horses. Caina’s eyes flicked over them, finding no trace of spells, and she recognized two of the men from the battle against the High Priest and his undead in the catacombs beneath Malarae.

One of the Guards had dismounted and offered her a polite bow.

“Countess Kardamnos,” said the Guard. “The Emperor Valerius Hadrazon bids you to attend him tomorrow at noon to offer your counsel and advice.”

“I shall be there,” said Caina.

“Additionally, the Emperor requests the presence of Lord Kylon Shipbreaker and the Lady Kalliope Agramemnos, along with their children Nikarion Kardamnos and Zoe Kardamnos.”

“They shall surely attend as well,” said Caina.

The Imperial Guard bowed, presented her with a sealed scroll, returned to his saddle, and the horsemen rode away towards the Imperial Citadel.

“The Emperor wants to meet me?” said Kalliope. “And my children?”

“So it would appear,” said Caina. The scroll had been sealed with the Imperial sigil of an eagle, and Caina broke it and unrolled the document. It was the same invitation that the Guard had just extended but in far more formal High Nighmarian. No doubt one of the Emperor’s scribes had produced it.

“How does the Emperor even know that I am here? And my children?” said Kalliope.

“Because he is the Emperor of Nighmar,” said Kylon. “People tell him things.”

Kalliope turned an irritated glance towards Caina’s husband.

“He’s right,” said Caina, rolling the scroll back up. “Remember, we saved the Emperor’s life by stopping the High Priest’s machine. Tribune Karevas of the Imperial Guard was with us. He’s already told the Emperor everything, and I did warn you the Emperor would summon us to hear the account.”

“So we are to meet the Emperor of Nighmar?” said Kalliope. “What should I wear?”

Caina shared a look with Kylon.

“It’s just as well,” said Caina, “that you went shopping already today.”

5

LORD OF THE EMPIRE

The next morning, Kalliope Agramemnos’s nerves all but thrummed with tension.

She was frightened, and she had been frightened for a long time.

Kalliope tried to keep those feelings hidden from her children and had even taken to keeping a mild spell of water sorcery around her mind to suppress her emotional aura, lest their nascent arcane abilities detect her fear. It wouldn’t fool another stormsinger, and it wouldn’t even fool Kylon, but Nikarion and Zoe were still too young to sense it.

But she had been frightened ever since the murders had begun in New Kyre, ever since she had realized that her father, the High Seat of House Agramemnos and the greatest stormdancer of the Kyracian people, might not be able to protect her children from the assassins of the Cult of Rhadamathar. That terror had caused Kalliope to flee across the Cyrican Sea to Malarae, to throw herself on the mercy of Kylon’s wife, in hopes that at least some of the legends about the Balarigar were true, that Caina would take pity on the children and help them.

She had expected Caina to treat her with disdain, with contempt, or perhaps even to have her thrown out of Malarae. Few women would react well to the news that their husband had sired children with another woman, children that had been kept secret from him.

In all the many dire outcomes that Kalliope Agramemnos had imagined, she had never dreamed that Caina would become her friend.

Even though she was still a bit frightened of Caina.

Kylon could probably sense how scared Kalliope was. Caina didn’t need to bother with anything as obvious as sorcery. She would simply look at Kalliope with those frozen blue eyes, and she would know everything, would deduce it all from a few flecks of dust or the drape of Kalliope’s clothing.

But Kalliope realized that she had acted wisely by seeking Caina’s help. She had obtained a powerful protector for her children. Caina would guard Nikarion and Zoe because they were Kylon’s children and Caina loved her husband.

“Can you tell me anything about the Emperor?” Kalliope had asked that night after dinner. “How should I speak with him?”

They were in the mansion’s library, which was one of the largest collections of books that Kalliope had ever seen. Kylon was not the sort of man who would read for enjoyment, so Kalliope assumed that the library was really Caina’s. Though, to be fair, Kalliope didn’t read for enjoyment either. The only books she read were medical texts, seeking to improve her skills and knowledge of the physician’s arts.

She was surprised to see that Caina had several books on medicine, some of them even written in Kyracian.

“Valerious Hadrazon is a soldier,” said Caina in a distracted voice, paging through one of her books. She was looking for more information about the Cult of Rhadamathar, and to judge from her look of mild annoyance, she hadn’t found anything. “Before the Imperial Curia elected him as the new Emperor, he was the Lord Marshal of the East, and before that, he was the Lord Commander of a Legion in the Imperial Pale. He started as a junior tribune, which is usually the position given to nobles who enter the Legion. Junior tribunes are often useless, or so the Legionaries have told me, but Valerius was wounded twice and rallied his men to hold off barbarian raiders.” Caina closed the book and returned it to the shelf. “He disdains flattery and is forthright and blunt in his speech to the point of rudeness. He expects those around him to achieve results, and if they do not, he dismisses them and replaces them with more competent men.”

“Such a man must make many enemies,” said Kalliope. “How has he held his throne?”

Caina drew another book from the shelf, considered it, and put it back. “Because his blunt manner conceals a very shrewd mind. He is an excellent judge of character and rewards loyalty and competence well. If you speak with him – when you speak with him – simply answer his questions with direct speech. So long as you don’t lie, try to flatter him, or insult the Empire, you’ll be fine.”

“Why does he even wish to speak with me?” said Kalliope. “Or to see my children?”

“Because he is friends with Kylon.”

“Why?” said Kalliope, baffled why the Emperor of Nighmar would be friends with a disgraced Kyracian noble who had charmed his way into the bed of the Liberator of Iramis.

“Because Kylon saved his life several times,” said Caina. She took a new book from the shelf and paged through it. “The first time on the road to the Imperial Curia. The second time at Valerius’s coronation. Half the lords of the Empire saw Kylon shatter Talmania’s armor and knock her from the air. Besides, as I said, Valerius is a soldier, and he appreciates soldierly skill. Kylon is one of the greatest swordsmen of the current age, and Valerius saw him fight.”

“If you say so,” said Kalliope, still unable to imagine how the arrogant young noble who had impregnated her during their dalliance had managed to impress someone like Valerius Hadrazon.

Caina turned those cold blue eyes toward her, and Kalliope felt a chill. She couldn’t read anything from Caina’s expression, whether irritation, anger, or amusement. And since Kalliope couldn’t sense Caina’s emotional aura, she couldn’t tell if Caina had taken offense.

But Caina only offered a brief smile. “There’s no need to persuade you. You will see with your own eyes tomorrow.”

“What about the children?” said Kalliope. “Will we need to teach them anything before tomorrow?”

“I doubt it,” said Caina. “They’re still young enough that the Emperor will find any of their lapses charming. Remember, he despises flattery and prefers honest speech, and few people are as honest as a six-year-old who doesn’t know any better.”

“Gods of storm and brine,” said Kalliope, “but you have the right of it. What about the Padishah? Is he not your adoptive brother?”

“In a sense,” said Caina. “He adopted me into House Tarshahzon after the defeat of Grand Master Callatas. I married Kylon a few months after that, and right after we were wed, I found out my mother had been part of House Scorneus. Therefore, I can announce myself as Caina Scorneus Amalas Tarshahzon Kardamnos. It is a gifted herald who can get through all that without needing to pause for breath.”

“What is the Padishah like?” said Kalliope.

Caina paused, considering the question. “Scholarly. Thoughtful. But blessed with vision. He has been slowly undoing the institution of slavery within Istarinmul. By the time Nikarion and Zoe are old enough to have children of their own, it will be all but gone.”

Kalliope had to admit she found that baffling. The gods had ordained some men to rule and some to be slaves, and that was that. If Istarinmul freed its slaves, who would do all the work? How would the Padishah’s realm keep from starving without slaves to work the fields and harvest the crops? Yet Kalliope knew better than to voice those thoughts. The topic of slavery was one of the very few that seemed to rouse anger in Caina.

Since rumor held that Caina had destroyed the Slavers’ Brotherhood of Istarinmul and slaughtered all its masters, perhaps that was no surprise.

“He would have preferred,” said Caina, “to have been a poet.”

“A poet?” said Kalliope.

“Have you ever been to Istarinmul?”

“No.”

“The Istarish are mad for poetry,” said Caina. “The coffee houses of the city compete to attract the best composers of epic poetry, and will listen raptly as the poets recite their latest works.”

“What a peculiar thought,” said Kalliope. “We Kyracians prefer songs and plays or to watch contests of athletic prowess.”

“Which I believe are conducted nude,” said Caina.

Kalliope frowned. “Not for any prurient reason. The gods wrought the human body, so it is only with the human body that the athletes should contest. Anything else would be an affront to the gods.”

“Don’t mention that to the Emperor,” said Caina.

“Would he take offense?”

“No, but the only thing he enjoys more than blunt speech is a bawdy joke,” said Caina, “and he would not be able to resist.”

Kalliope tried to imagine the Emperor of Nighmar telling a salacious joke and decided she hoped it would not actually happen.

“I see,” she said at last.

“You will be fine,” said Caina. “You are a Kyracian noblewoman and have been trained on how to speak with foreign nobles since you were a girl. I don’t think you will need to worry about this.”

“Has anyone ever stopped worrying because you told them to?” said Kalliope.

“Not yet.”

Kalliope saw the children go to bed and then went to her own guest room. It was fortunate that Caina and Kylon had a large mansion with many guest rooms. Both Nikarion and Zoe would have their own rooms, and the house did have space for numerous more guests. The room that Caina had given Kalliope was luxurious, with a large bed, a carpet, chairs, and shuttered windows that looked towards the gardens and the sea to the south. Kalliope prepared for bed and lay down, trying to clear her mind for sleep.

That proved fruitless, so instead, she reached out with her arcane senses, using the sorcery of water to seek for the minds of her children. She sensed the faint emotional auras of Nikarion and Zoe, subdued with the flickering emotions that came with deep sleep. Kalliope also sensed the emotional auras of Caina’s servants as they did their work or went to sleep. Suddenly, she brushed the edge of Kylon’s aura, and it was inflamed with focus and purpose…

Mortified, Kalliope realized what Kylon and Caina were doing together, and she drew back her arcane senses, hoping that Kylon hadn’t noticed or that Caina’s strange vision of the valikarion had seen the spell. Though remembering how single-minded Kylon became during…certain activities, she doubted that he would notice. She vaguely wondered why Caina, who possessed both great physical courage and a mind that could unravel deep mysteries, would tolerate the indignity of an oaf like Kylon grunting and thrusting away atop her.

Well, no one was perfect.

Eventually, Kalliope did manage to get to sleep.

The next morning, she dressed to meet the Emperor of Nighmar, the ruler of the most powerful state in the civilized world. Kalliope had fled New Kyre in haste, but she had still brought a great deal of baggage with her. Thankfully, the innkeeper Anastasios at the Wrecked Warship had been a man of integrity and hadn’t sold Kalliope’s baggage when she had fled into the night with her children, and Caina’s servants had retrieved it. Consequently, Kalliope was able to dress appropriately in formal clothing suitable for a Kyracian noblewoman. She wore a gown of bluish-green, which left her shoulders and arms bare, a golden chain glittering around her throat, and bracelets upon her wrists. Earrings wrought of gold and pearls went into her ears, and she arranged her hair into an elaborate crown of ringlets, a few strands left to fall across her face.

Thankfully, the indefatigable Cornelia helped Kalliope get dressed. She might have been Nighmarian, but she spoke passible Kyracian, and she hummed to herself as she helped with Kalliope’s hair.

“I would like to ask you a question,” said Kalliope.

“Of course, my lady,” said Cornelia.

“Have you ever met the Emperor?” said Kalliope.

“Three times…no, I’m sorry, four times,” said Cornelia. “I accompanied the Countess and Lord Kylon to the Imperial Citadel three times, and once the Emperor called upon the Countess and Lord Kylon here on his way out of the city.”

“The Emperor came here?” said Kalliope. “That must have been a great honor.”

“Oh, it was, though it was a brief visit,” said Cornelia, adjusting some hairpins. “The Emperor rightly values the Countess’s advice, as he should. And he respects Lord Kylon.” Kalliope sat before the mirror on her guest room’s dressing table, so she saw something like a scowl of hatred flash over Cornelia’s stern face. “The Emperor and all the lords of the Empire saw Lord Kylon fight that murdering devil Talmania Scorneus on the day of the coronation. If she hadn’t scuttled away so fast, the Umbarian war would have ended right then and there.”

To judge from the anger that pulsed through Cornelia’s emotional aura, Kalliope guessed that she had lost some relatives in the Umbarian war, possibly at Talmania’s own hands. She had not paid close attention to the Umbarian war, but Talmania likely had not earned the nickname “Skullspeaker” through acts of charity and kindness.

“What do you think of the Emperor?” said Kalliope, hoping to turn Cornelia’s thoughts from those dark directions.

“Oh, he’s a hard man but a fair one,” said Cornelia. “He speaks sternly to all his servants and doesn’t tolerate loafers and idlers, but he’s not cruel as some lords are.” She nodded in approval. “The Empire needs a hard man to rule it. Emperor Alexius Naerius, the gods rest his soul, was a good man, but he was too old. A pity he didn’t live to see the end of the Umbarian war.”

Kalliope asked a few more questions, hoping to learn more about the Emperor and his court, and Cornelia proved most forthcoming with answers. Once she was prepared, Kalliope went to see how Nikarion and Zoe fared. She had, of course, packed formal clothing for both her children and thought they both looked splendid, the very image of young Kyracian nobles. Though Nikarion kept tugging at his collar and grimacing at his boots, and Zoe had a bad habit of gripping her skirt with both hands and pulling it up.

“Do I have to wear this?” said Nikarion.

“Yes,” said Kalliope. “We are meeting the Emperor of Nighmar, and we must make a good impression. You are nobles of House Agramemnos and must show your dignity. You will make your grandfather proud.”

“Will Father be there?” said Zoe.

A wave of resentment went through Kalliope. She had raised Nikarion and Zoe. She had cared for them as babies, watched over them as small children, and fled with them to a foreign land to escape the assassins of the Cult. Yet they had only known their father for a few days, and already they craved his attention and approval.

Kalliope forced the emotion to the side. Did she not admire her own father? Yet Lysikas Agramemnos was the greatest stormdancer of New Kyre and one of the most prominent nobles of the Kyracian people. Kylon was an exile who had only managed to survive by marrying a foreign noblewoman. Though she knew her children had always been curious about their father, had wanted to know more about him.

“Yes,” said Kalliope. “And you will need to be on your best behavior so he isn’t disappointed.”

She may have sought Kylon’s help out of desperation, but when it came to helping her children behave in public in front of the most powerful men in the Empire…well, she would take any help that she could get.

“Both Father and Grandfather will be proud of us, Mother,” said Nikarion with as much solemnity as he could manage. Kalliope carefully kept the smile from her face.

“I know,” said Kalliope. “Come, let’s go downstairs.”

She took Nikarion and Zoe to the stairs, taking care to keep her balance in her heeled sandals. Tripping and falling on her face would not uphold the dignity of House Agramemnos. They descended to the mansion’s entry hall, which Kalliope thought looked very Nighmarian, with a mosaic floor and marble walls, niches holding busts of long-dead Emperors. Kalliope wondered if Caina and Kylon had picked those busts or if they had come with the mansion when they bought it.

Kalliope reached the bottom of the steps and faltered.

A Nighmarian noblewoman she did not recognize stood near the doors.

She was beautiful but in an aloof, imperious sort of way and wore a rich blue gown with black scrollwork upon the sleeves and bodice, the flowing skirt hanging to within an inch of the floor. A belt of black leather wrapped around her narrow waist, a sheathed dagger with a silver hilt upon her left hip. A delicate silver circlet rested on her head, and her long black hair framed a pale, angular face with cold blue eyes…

“Caina?” said Kalliope.

The Nighmarian noblewoman smiled. “Ready to leave?”

Kalliope suddenly felt foolish. Of course it was Caina. Yet the dramatic transformation from the disguise of the caravan guard to the aloof noblewoman who stood before her was startling, even unsettling. Was this the real Caina Kardamnos? Or was the real Caina the one who disguised herself as a male caravan guard and moved comfortably among thieves and rogues?

Or was the real Caina the one sheathed in that strange black armor, shadow-cloak swirling around her as she hunted her enemies?

Come to think of it, the black bracelet Caina used to summon that armor rested upon her left wrist.

“Of course,” said Kalliope. “I…apologize for my surprise.”

As far as she could tell, Caina seemed amused, not offended. “This is the first time you’ve seen me dressed as a noblewoman of the Empire. I imagine the change is somewhat startling. But people see what they expect to see, do they not?”

“Indeed,” said Kalliope, since she could think of nothing clever to say.

Kylon emerged from a side door. She had half-expected him to dress as a lord of the Nighmarian Empire and was somewhat relieved that he had not. He wore trousers, boots, and a cuirass of leather armor. Admittedly, it was a very expensive-looking cuirass of leather armor, and a curved sword rested upon his left hip.

“Are you coming with us to see the Emperor, Father?” said Zoe.

Again that stab of jealousy went through Kalliope, and once again she forced it down. It wasn’t fair to her children, and she needed to keep the goodwill of Caina and Kylon for the sake of Zoe and Nikarion.

“Yes,” said Kylon. “Be sure to listen to your mother, and to Cornelia.”

“Shall we?” said Caina.

A few minutes later, they loaded into a coach that waited outside the mansion’s gates. It was a large vehicle with four wheels pulled by a team of surly-looking horses. The interior had two benches that faced each other. Caina and Kylon sat on one side, Kalliope and the children on the other. Cornelia rode in the front with the coachman, who Kalliope gathered was a relative of hers, a cousin or perhaps a nephew.

The coachman snapped the reins, and the coach rolled into motion.

The children were delighted with this new experience and looked out the windows at the grand mansions and great temples of this part of Malarae. Kalliope was glad they enjoyed it because she found the ride less than pleasant. It seemed that every jolt and bump on the street traveled up the wheels directly to her backside and hips, and she felt a headache coming on. This was such an uncivilized way to travel – the canal boats of New Kyre were so much faster and smoother. But Malarae lacked New Kyre’s canal system, and Kalliope did not want to show any weakness before Kylon.

Nikarion and Zoe had many questions as they drove through the city, asking about this building and that. Kalliope was half-tempted to shush them, but Caina answered them all. It seemed that she knew every house and building in the sprawling Imperial capital, and she also was immune to the tendency of small children to ask endless questions simply because she knew all the answers.

Finally, the coach climbed, their pace slowing as the horses labored, and Kalliope knew they had reached the causeway that led to the gates of the Imperial Citadel, the residence of the Emperor and the ancient fortress of the Empire. She had to admit that it was an impressive building, almost as impressive as the great Pyramid of Storms in the heart of New Kyre. The Citadel stood on an outthrust spur of the mountains that loomed over Malarae and the Bay of Empire. Its great curtain walls of white stone encircled the edges of the spur, and within its courtyards rose a bewildering assemblage of towers and keeps and spires. The Citadel was supposedly the oldest building in the Empire, though of course it had been rebuilt and expanded across the millennia. Nevertheless, Kalliope supposed it was impressive that the Empire had been able to build such a strong fortress so early in its history.

Though her own civilization was no less storied. Once the Archons of Old Kyrace had ruled the entirety of the western sea, and every kingdom and tribe of the coastlands had paid them homage. Old Kyrace had fallen, and New Kyre was but an echo of the ancient strength of the Kyracian homeland, but that echo was still very strong.

“Does the Emperor live here?” said Nikarion.

“He does,” said Kalliope. “And we will go meet him soon.”

The coach stopped before the enormous gate to the courtyards of the Citadel. Kylon leaned his head out the window and spoke to the black-armored Imperial Guards, and the soldiers waved them through. The coach rolled through the gate and turned, coming to a stop at the foot of the curtain wall. Kylon got out first and held Caina’s hand as she descended.

He did not offer to hold Kalliope’s hand, thankfully.

The children scrambled after her, looking with amazement at the great towers and spires of the Imperial Citadel. Cornelia jumped down from the coachman’s seat with surprising agility for a woman of her age and said something to the coachman, who raised his hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. She walked to join them and stood straight, hands clasped before her, clad in the stark black formal dress of a Nighmarian servant. Servants in Malarae always seemed to wear formal black, as did the noblemen.

“Lord Kylon, Countess Caina?” An Imperial Guard stood before them, a stark and intimidating figure in his black (of course) armor, purple cloak, and plumed helm. “This way, please. The Emperor and his guest the Padishah await you.”

“Please, Guardsman,” said Caina, her voice the cool tones of a Nighmarian noblewoman accustomed to command. “Lead the way.”

The Guard bowed and turned, striding away across the courtyard. Kalliope and the others followed him. A cool breeze came from the mountains rising over the Citadel, and Kalliope found herself wishing she had brought a cloak or at least a mantle. The Guard’s purple cloak rippled in the wind.

“Where are we going?” murmured Kalliope. “The audience chamber?”

Caina shook her head, her black hair likewise stirring in the wind. “When the weather allows for it, the Emperor prefers to conduct business in the Citadel’s western courtyard. He always prefers the outdoors, when possible.”

Ahead a stone bridge divided the courtyard, connecting the curtain wall with one of the great towers. Statues of armored soldiers stood on the railing over the bridge, and Kalliope spotted Imperial Guards walking along it. Great stone arches supported the bridge. It vaguely reminded her of some of the aqueducts she had seen elsewhere in the city.

They passed beneath the stone arches and into the western courtyard.

The rest of the Citadel had been austere white stone, weathered and ancient, but Kalliope was surprised to see vegetation here. Some of the flagstones had been removed to create squares of grass and trees, which had the pleasant effect of blocking the wind from above. Clusters of Nighmarian nobles stood talking, and Imperial Guards stood at regular intervals, keeping watch.

Four Imperial Guards moved in their direction, and with them came a magus of the Imperial Magisterium. He wore a black robe bound about the waist with a crimson sash. This magus was a sallow-faced man in his middle thirties, dark circles beneath his eyes, which narrowed with suspicion as he looked at her.

“Lord Kylon, Countess Caina,” said the magus. “Your guest is maintaining an active spell of water sensing.”

Kalliope blinked. The magus had detected the spell she used to sense emotions?

“This is Lady Kalliope Agramemnos,” said Caina. “The Emperor invited her here.”

“He did,” said a familiar voice. Kalliope turned her head to see a grim-faced man wearing the armor and plumed helmet of a tribune of the Imperial Guard. She recognized him at once – Tribune Karevas, who Caina had persuaded to enter the catacombs and fight the undead raised by the High Priest to defend his machine. “And she fought well against the assassins who prepared a trap for the Emperor.” He nodded to Caina. “Countess, Lord Kylon. This way, please.”

Karevas led them deeper into the courtyard. To Kalliope’s surprise, she saw another group of soldiers. Unlike the Imperial Guards, they wore brightly polished cuirasses and helmets, white cloaks hanging from their shoulders and white plumes upon their spiked Istarish helmets. They carried spears and round shields that had been polished until they looked like golden mirrors.

“Radiant Guards,” murmured Caina in response to Kalliope’s unspoken question. “The bodyguards of the Padishah of Istarinmul.”

She and Kylon exchanged greetings with many of the nobles and Imperial Guards they passed. Kalliope felt their emotional auras, and to her surprise, she sensed respect. Not that she was surprised that they would respect Caina, but there was a great deal of respect for Kylon. Especially from the Imperial Guards, who seemed to hold him in great esteem.

What had he done to win their admiration?

Karevas stopped a few yards from two men sitting on wooden chairs. The only chairs, Kalliope realized, in the entire courtyard.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” said Karevas. “May I present Countess Caina Kardamnos, Lord Kylon Kardamnos, Lady Kalliope Agramemnos, and the children Nikarion Kardamnos and Zoe Kardamnos.”

Caina offered a deep bow, as did Kylon, and Kalliope followed suit, urging Zoe and Nikarion to do the same. Fortunately, they had seen enough formal ceremonies in New Kyre to catch on quickly.

The Emperor of Nighmar turned an indulgent smile on the children, and then his hard gaze turned to Kalliope, Caina, and Kylon.

Caina had described Valerius Hadrazon as a soldier, and she had been right. Come to think of it, he looked a bit like Caina’s friend Lord Arcion. The Emperor had hard features with a heavy jaw and a thick brow over dark eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He did not wear armor, but Kalliope thought his dark clothing was what the Imperial Guards would wear beneath their black plate. The Emperor was somewhere in his early middle years, she judged, but he still looked strong and fit.

The man sitting next to him in the second chair was quite different. He was Istarish, and about the Emperor’s age, but much thinner and less burly. He wore a gleaming white robe and a white turban set with a single pale blue gemstone. A black beard that was well on its way to gray shaded his features, and his black eyes were wise and deep and sad. The Padishah of Istarinmul, Kalliope guessed.

From both the Emperor and the Padishah Kalliope could sense nothing at all. She suspected both monarchs would carry enspelled relics that would defend them from any sorcerous intrusions or attacks.

“Caina Kardamnos,” said the Emperor in Caerish. He had a hoarse, rough voice, one that sounded accustomed to bellowing commands on the field of battle. “It seems you’ve saved my life once again.”

“And mine,” said the Padishah. “Along with many other lives.” His voice was just as deep as the Emperor’s, but softer, more contemplative.

“I was fortunate to be warned of the danger in time,” said Caina.

“Aye, half of any battle’s luck, but you seem to have the luck of the gods at times,” said Valerius. He looked at Kylon and grinned. “And here’s the man who burned my western fleet.”

Kalliope tensed at the words. Kylon had been in command of the battle that had destroyed the Empire’s western fleet, though she assumed others had done the work and Kylon had simply taken credit for it. But was the Emperor still angry about it? And had he summoned Kalliope and the children here to inflict his revenge upon them?

“I did burn your Imperial Majesty’s fleet,” said Kylon, “though, I fear, at the time, Your Imperial Majesty had not yet become Your Imperial Majesty.”

Dread roiled up in Kalliope at his impudent words.

But the Emperor threw back his head and barked a laugh. “Aye! That is so, it cannot be said otherwise. But that’s the way of things. Enemies can become friends when necessity arises. As I recall, you tried very hard to kill your wife the day you met her.”

“That is correct,” said Caina. “Or only half-correct. I tried very hard to kill him, but he was just a little too fast.”

The Emperor snorted and looked at Kylon. “Couldn’t kill her, so had to bed her, aye?”

“Something like that, yes,” said Kylon.

Kalliope could not sense Caina’s emotional aura and so could not know for certain, but she thought the amused flash of warmth that went through her eyes was entirely unfeigned. Though Caina had not been wrong that the Emperor seemed to have a taste for blunt speech and bawdy humor.

“It is well for us all that events transpired as they did, Emperor Valerius,” said the Padishah. “Else Cassander Nilas would have burned my city to ashes, the Umbarian fleet would have passed through the Starfall Straits, and even now, the banners of the Umbarian Order would fly over the Imperial Citadel.”

“That is so,” said Emperor. “I don’t take such things lightly. In the Legion, the darker the day, the more jokes we told.” The stern, shrewd eyes shifted to Kalliope. “And you, I guess, must be Lady Kalliope Agramemnos.”

“Emperor of Nighmar,” said Kalliope with a bow. She glanced at Nikarion and Zoe as she straightened up. So far they had been behaving, but she could tell they were getting bored. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“You’re old Lysikas Stormblade’s daughter, aren’t you?” said the Emperor. “From what I understand, the only reason the Shahenshah of Anshan doesn’t rule New Kyre today is because of your father.”

“My father had the honor of defending the Kyracian people,” said Kalliope. Before Kalliope had even been born, it had been the efforts of Lysikas Agramemnos, the greatest stormdancer of New Kyre, that had defeated an attempted Anshani invasion and driven the Shahenshah’s armies back long before they had even dared to lay siege to the walls of New Kyre.

It was bitter that Kalliope had been forced to flee to foreigners rather than relying on her family and her father to protect her.

“I see we have something in common,” said the Emperor.

“Your Imperial Majesty?” said Kalliope.

“The Cult of Rhadamathar came after us both,” said the Emperor. “Why they might want to kill me and the Padishah, well, that’s easy enough to understand. Every damn fool with a grievance wants to kill his monarch, though most of them can’t build an alchemical weapon to do it. But why would the Cult come after you and your children? Especially since you seem to have kept them secret from their father?”

Kalliope tried to keep the tension from her face. Caina had been right that Valerius Hadrazon, despite all his bluff speech and rough humor, was a clever man. His questions held several currents beneath the surface. He wanted to know why she had come to Malarae instead of remaining in New Kyre. And Kylon was indeed his friend, and he wanted to know why Kylon hadn’t been told about the children.

“The Surge, the chief religious authority of our nation, commanded me not to speak of the children to Lord Kylon,” said Kalliope. She did not even have to try very hard to sense the pulse of anger from Kylon, though his face remained impassive. “Since it is neither prudent nor safe to disregard the counsels of the gods, both my father and I thought it wisest to obey. As to why the Cult has come after us…I confess I do not know. If I knew, I would tell you freely. The Cult began targeting members of House Kardamnos in New Kyre. I feared I would not be able to escape them. I came to Malarae in hopes of evading the Cult and asking for the help of Countess Caina and Lord Kylon.” It was hard to say those final two words, but she made herself do it. “It seems that was the correct choice.”

“Since I’m not dead, I’m inclined to agree,” said Valerius. “Tribune Karevas tells me you conducted yourself well in the final fight against this serpent High Priest.” He raised his voice. “Lord Quintus!”

One of the Nighmarian nobles detached himself from the clusters of conversation and came to join them. He was a man of middle years, with icy gray eyes and graying black hair, clad in the formal black coat of a Nighmarian lord. “Sire?”

“Since Lady Kalliope has done us a service, it is only proper that we show our gratitude,” said the Emperor. “She is to have a gift of gold from the Lord Exchequer.” He gazed at Nikarion and Zoe. “And…three, no, four sets of clothing, I think, for the children. A bit larger than they are now. They grow like bloody weeds at that age.”

“They do, indeed,” said Kalliope. “Thank you, Emperor.” She had brought a good bit of money with her to Malarae, which thankfully had not been stolen, but her funds were not unlimited.

Valerius rose to his feet, as did the Padishah.

A sudden silence gripped the courtyard.

“Lord Quintus, please see to Lady Kalliope’s gift and provide some refreshments for her and the children,” said Valerius. “Meanwhile, I think the Padishah and I shall take a walk along the ramparts with Lord and Lady Kardamnos.”

6

AN IMPERIAL REQUEST

Caina strongly suspected that the Emperor was about to ask her for a favor.

She, Kylon, and Lord Corbould had worked to put Valerius Hadrazon on the Imperial throne after Alexius Naerius died. There had been a real danger that the new Emperor would become a puppet of the Umbarian Order, but Valerius had been an implacable opponent of the Umbarians ever since the war had begun.

His ascension to the throne had been the death knell of the Order. The Umbarians had already been on the verge of collapse, weakened by defeats at Istarinmul and Artifel and further crippled by their chronic inability to control their infighting. Valerius’s grand offense had retaken the eastern provinces held by the Umbarians, and the Order’s final army had been broken at the walls of Iramis, with Talmania slain in the last battle before the gates of Rasadda.

Caina had no regrets about putting Valerius on the throne, but she had no illusions about him.

The Emperor was the master here, and Valerius Hadrazon knew the full limits of his authority and used them. Caina would have it no other way. The Empire required a strong ruler, and she had seen too often the dire results of weak or corrupt governance. Lord Governor Nicephorus had almost driven Rasadda to revolt with his avarice. Lord Haeron Icaraeus had let the necromancer Maglarion conduct his malignant experiments for years, which had almost destroyed Malarae. Sulaman’s father had looked the other way for too long, giving Grand Master Callatas a free hand.

No, the new Emperor was neither corrupt nor weak and would wield his authority as he saw fit.

The downside, of course, was that when he made a request, Caina could hardly say no.

She and Kylon followed the Emperor and the Padishah as they crossed the courtyard and climbed the stairs to the rampart on the outer wall. Caina took care to keep her balance in her high-heeled boots as she climbed the stairs since there was no railing and it was a long way down to the courtyard. They reached the ramparts, and from here, they had a stunning view of Malarae stretching to the south until it reached the blue expanse of the Bay of Empire, the River Megaros flowing past the city.

Caina looked at one of the watch towers further down the wall. In his final days, Emperor Alexius had preferred to conduct business out of the highest room of that tower, saving himself from the long walk through the Citadel’s maze of corridors.

He had died in that tower, a combination of old age and overwork finally catching up to him. Not even the Emperor could defeat time.

“So,” said Valerius to Kylon, “that must have been a shock when some woman from your past turns up with two of your children in tow.”

“If anyone suggests that I am going to divorce Caina to marry her,” said Kylon, voice like granite, “then we shall have a quarrel.”

Valerius laughed. “Peace! I’ll suggest no such thing. If I banished from my presence every lord and magistrate who had a bastard or three from youthful misadventure, I would have no one to fill all the many damnable offices that ruling the Empire seems to require.” His gaze shifted to Caina. “Though is Lady Kalliope going to have an ‘accident’ in a few days?”

“No,” said Caina. “She is a good mother to the children. And in my judgment, you were right to reward her. She may not have come to Malarae to warn us about the Cult of Rhadamathar, but she did. And if she had not, we would all be dead right now.”

“Very sensible of you both,” said Valerius. “Lady Hadrazon had no wish to live in Malarae, so she visits three times a year. I don’t flaunt my mistresses in her face when she arrives, and she doesn’t bring any of her lovers with her to Malarae. It’s only civilized.”

That was rather more civilized than Caina wanted to live. Thankfully, Kylon agreed with her.

“The Emperor told me you brought the High Priest’s corpse to the Cataphract,” said Sulaman. Caina met his dark eyes and remembered the first time she had met him in Istarinmul, when she thought he had simply been an Istarish poet who earned his bread reciting epic poems in the city’s many coffee houses. “Was he able to tell you anything of the creature?”

“Not as much as I might wish, but yes,” said Caina. “The High Priest wasn’t a mutated human like the kadrataagu or the mavrokhi or the Temnoti priests. He was simply a serpent man, a different race. We think he came from another world.”

“Another world?” said the Emperor, frowning.

Caina had seen that baffled expression a lot lately.

“Perhaps it is not so strange a thought,” said Sulaman. “The Alchemists of Istarinmul have long studied the stars and believe that other worlds revolve around them, just as our world revolves around our sun.”

“I thought sorcerers all believed that the sun went around the world,” said Valerius, his tone making it clear he didn’t really care much either way.

Caina shook her head. “Most scholars believe the world goes around the sun, and the moon goes around the world.”

“The nagataaru that almost consumed Istarinmul,” said Sulaman. “They travel from world to world, gorging themselves and then leaving dead worlds in their wake. Or so they boasted. Which implies that there are many worlds upon which they can feed, and ours is but one.”

“So how the devil did these serpent men get here?” said Valerius. “I assume they didn’t walk.”

“The Cataphract believes certain spells can use the netherworld to travel between worlds,” said Caina. “It must be very difficult, else we would have heard of it already, or one of the magi would have discovered it.”

“I see,” said Valerius. “So since the Cult of Rhadamathar is an ancient religion, we can assume the serpent men have been here for a long time. Since, as far as I know, they haven’t acted directly before now, they must have decided that this is the time to attack.”

Caina supposed it was a good sign the Emperor had deduced the nature of the problem so quickly.

“There has been much upheaval in the last ten years,” said Sulaman. “If the Cult had succeeded and slain us both, it would have been a disaster for the Empire and Istarinmul. Your realm is exhausted from the Umbarian war, mine from the predations of Grand Master Callatas and his disciples. We would both already be at war with the Shahenshah of Anshan, save that the Shahenshah’s realm was disordered by revolts and uprisings after the day of the golden dead.”

Some part of Caina’s mind pointed out that she had played a role in most of those upheavals. It was sometimes strange to think how much chaos she had survived.

“Well, if I can work my will, the Cult of Rhadamathar shall do no further mischief in Malarae,” said Valerius. The Emperor scowled as he thought about it some more. “Or, at least, less mischief. I have asked Lord Aeolus and the Ghosts to begin hunting for the Cult, and the civic militia has been instructed to arrest any adherents of the Cult they find within Malarae.”

Caina was tempted to say that the Ghosts ought to start by investigating Countess Livia Moranea and any connections she might have had. That was what Caina had done, which had led her to Ardakh and the other Fangs of the Serpent, and she had followed them to Kalliope. But she held her tongue. Caina had no doubt that Lord Aeolus knew all that already and had said as much to the Emperor. And while she was on reasonably friendly enough terms with Aeolus, she knew the chief circlemaster of the Ghosts did not entirely trust her. With Caina’s adoption into House Tarshahzon and her status as the Liberator of Iramis, she was too powerful and influential for Aeolus to control. She knew that unsettled him, but so far, they had kept the peace between each other.

“Will you outlaw the Cult entirely?” said Kylon.

“I’ve considered it, but Lord Aeolus and Lord Corbould advised against it,” said Valerius. “They think it might drive the Cult too far underground.”

“Would not the events in Malarae have already done that?” said Sulaman.

“The Empire is a large place, my friend,” said Valerius. “I’m the bloody damned Emperor, and I still don’t find out what’s happening in the provinces until weeks have passed.” He paused, rapped his knuckles against the battlements a few times, and then turned back to Caina. “As ever, Countess, I am grateful for your advice. I expect you will refuse all reward, though you can call upon me whenever you might wish.”

“That is gracious, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Caina with a bow.

She expected the request for a favor was about to follow.

“And it is just as well that you were the one to find out about the Cult,” said the Emperor. “You see, I’m going to ask a service of you. And Lord Kylon, possibly, though it’s more the sort of thing suited to your talents.”

“I am at your service,” said Caina.

Valerius gestured to Sulaman. “My good friend, the Padishah of Istarinmul, has a problem. I would like you to help him solve that problem. Neither of us wants war between Istarinmul and the Empire, or Istarinmul and Anshan.”

“Anshan?” said Caina. “Did something happen to Lady Azar?”

Valerius blinked in surprise, and then a hard smile went over his face. “Then you are the right choice. My lord Padishah?”

“Someone tried to poison Lady Azar,” said Sulaman. “Balarigar, I fear I must again call upon your aid to find the one who tried to kill her.”

Caina frowned, her mind racing through the chains of logic. Last year, Sulaman had wed Azar Valshahzon, the daughter of the Shahenshah himself. The Padishah of Istarinmul and the Shahenshah of Anshan had gone to war many times, and indeed House Tarshahzon was an offshoot of House Valshahzon. Neither Istarinmul nor Anshan wanted war with the other right now, and a marriage alliance between the Padishah and the Shahenshah would go a long way to keeping the peace.

Azar was now the Padishah’s Great Royal Wife, and Caina had met her several times and thought well of her. She was a diminutive woman, almost tiny, with enormous black eyes and a perpetually somber expression. Azar took her duties seriously, and right now her greatest responsibility was to birth an heir to the Padishah’s throne.

“What happened?” said Kylon.

“As I suppose I have asked you so many times before,” said Caina, “please start from the beginning.”

A faint smile went over Sulaman’s face. “And I so often told you very little. For in those days, I was in hiding, working to undermine Grand Master Callatas without drawing his attention. Yet it was through your aid that Callatas was defeated at last, and it was at the hands of Lord Kylon that Cassander Nilas and the Red Huntress were slain. But this time, I shall tell you everything I know, with nothing held back. And if you consent to help me, the full resources of my throne will be at your disposal.”

“Of course I shall help you,” said Caina, and Kylon nodded. “We have all been through too much together.”

“Then I shall start at the beginning,” said Sulaman. “Or, at least, at the beginning of this particular problem. Lady Azar is pregnant.”

“Congratulations,” said Caina. “How far along is she?”

“Four months now,” said Sulaman. “Her pregnancy brought much relief to the nobles of Istarinmul. If she bears a son, one day a Padishah of both Tarshahzon and Valshahzon blood shall sit upon the Most Divine Throne of Istarinmul.”

“He will not be your firstborn, though,” said Caina.

“No,” said Sulaman. “My concubine Zerada gave birth to a child last year, but she is a merchant’s daughter. The nobles and the other nations will be more likely to accept a Padishah descended from the blood of House Valshahzon than one descended from a merchant.”

In theory, a Nighmarian lord could only marry one woman, though it was fairly common for them to have mistresses. A noble of Istarinmul, however, could marry as many women as he could support, and keep as many concubines as he could afford as well. When Sulaman had succeeded his father, he had been the very last scion of House Tarshahzon since Callatas had killed all the others. Among all the other reforms Sulaman had undertaken in Istarinmul, one of his primary duties had been to father an heir as soon as possible.

It was a grim sort of irony that Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon, probably one of the most ascetic-minded men that Caina had ever met, had been compelled for the sake of his realm to impregnate as many women as possible.

The opposite side of that coin, of course, was that in the long history of Istarinmul, there had been multiple civil wars between royal princes attempting to seize the throne, aided and backed by their rival mothers.

“Hopefully the nobles will accept her son as heir,” said Caina.

“That is my hope as well,” said Sulaman. “Though I fear that not everyone in Istarinmul feels the same way.”

“Which is why someone tried to kill Azar,” said Caina.

“Aye,” said Sulaman. “Or to induce a miscarriage.”

“Tell me what happened,” said Caina.

“Lady Azar, as you know, does not have a robust constitution,” said Sulaman. “Ever since she became pregnant, she has not felt well enough to travel. Fortunately, she is fond of both poetry and musicians. To keep her from suffering boredom, I have arranged prizes for poets and musicians who perform before her. Azar will recline in the northern terrace, the musicians will perform and the poets will recite, and those she favors will win the prize I have provided.”

That was actually rather sweet.

“Does she enjoy that?” said Valerius, baffled.

“Quite,” said Sulaman. “The Anshani, as you know, love poetry as much as the Istarish, though their poetry tends to revolve around battle and lovers fated to an inescapable doom.”

To judge from the expression on the Emperor’s face, he didn’t know that, nor was particularly interested in either Istarish or Anshani poetry.

“Please continue, my lord Padishah,” said Valerius instead.

“The day before I was set to depart for the Empire,” said Sulaman, “Azar was listening to poetry, and I was sitting with her. A poet was reciting a comedic composition, and while Azar is rather somber, she laughed merrily at the poem. I confess I thought the poem quite bad, though it lifted my spirits to see her laugh. When the poet finished his composition, Azar’s stomach troubled her, so I bade the servants to bring her tea and cucumbers.”

“Her stomach was unsettled because of the pregnancy,” said Caina, “and I assume cucumbers are one of the things that will stay down.”

“As ever, your insight is keen,” said Sulaman. “One of her slaves approached with a tray holding the tea and the cucumbers.”

“Azar has her own slaves?” said Caina.

“Yes, she brought her own household with her from Anshan,” said Sulaman. “The slave carrying the tray was an Anshani man named Rithram. He had just stepped onto the terrace when my Oath Shadow Mazyan and a khalmir of the Radiant Guards named Artuk reacted with alarm.”

“What happened then?” said Caina.

“Rithram dropped the tray and ran,” said Sulaman. “Artuk and the Radiant Guards pursued him, and Mazyan remained behind to guard us. I demanded to know what was happening, and Mazyan said he smelled poison on the tray.”

“Your bodyguard can smell poison?” said Valerius.

“He is exceptionally skilled in many fields,” said Sulaman, which was both an oversimplification and a gross understatement. “He was also correct. One of my court Alchemists examined the tray and determined that the tea had been poisoned.”

“What kind of poison?” said Caina.

“The Desert’s Kiss.”

Valerius grunted. “Haven’t heard of that one.”

“It grows on the edges of the Sarbian Desert,” said Caina. “In the proper dosage, it is fatal within a minute.” She let out a breath, starting to see the scope of the problem. “In smaller dosages, it can induce a miscarriage and sometimes destroy a woman’s ability to conceive any further children. Though given that Azar is a small woman, almost any dose would be likely fatal.”

“So the poison would either kill Lady Azar,” said Kylon, “or would leave her barren, forcing you to set her aside as the Great Royal Wife.”

“You grasp the nature of the attack,” said Sulaman. “As for who might wish such a thing…well, there are too many choices. My grasp on the Most Divine Throne is secure, as far as I know, and most of the nobles and merchants support me. Yet there are many who lost fortunes when Callatas fell. They might wish vengeance upon me, as Ozgur son of Ulvan did when he allied with the Umbarians in hopes of revenge for his father and the Slavers’ Brotherhood.”

“Then he ought to have gone after the Umbarians,” said Caina with a bit of annoyance. She hadn’t been the one to destroy the Slavers’ Brotherhood of Istarinmul. That honor had fallen to Cassander Nilas of the Umbarian Order, who had allied with the Brotherhood and then let the Red Huntress slaughter the slavers once he had no further use for them. Given the calamitous events that had followed the destruction of the Brotherhood, most people assumed that Caina and Kylon had been responsible for their downfall.

“And the attack may not have even been aimed at me,” said Sulaman. “Perhaps one of my nobles has no wish for an heir who has Valshahzon blood or simply dislikes the idea of the Great Royal Wife being an Anshani noble and a daughter of the Shahenshah. Or maybe it is an enemy from Azar’s past. Or perhaps an enemy of the Shahenshah wishes to strike at him through his blood.”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said Caina. “There are too many potential suspects. The Anshani slave who brought her the poisoned tea, Rithram. What happened to him?”

“He fled from the Golden Palace and escaped,” said Sulaman. “All the city watchmen have been instructed to hunt for him, and the Grand Wazir has placed a bounty upon his head.”

Caina blinked. “He escaped from the Golden Palace?”

“And from Mazyan?” said Kylon. “I saw your Oath Shadow fight during the Istarish civil war. There is no way an ordinary man could outpace Mazyan.”

“Mazyan remained behind to defend Azar and me from any further attackers. There were none, though we did not know it at the time. Rithram eluded us and vanished into the city,” said Sulaman. “It seems he had a long prepared escape route. The Radiant Guards found a rope hidden on the Golden Palace’s outer wall, and Rithram went down the rope and fled into the city.”

“Then it is clear that he was not an ordinary man,” said Caina, “but a trained assassin. The Kindred, perhaps?”

“We do not know,” said Sulaman. “And so we come to the crux of the matter. Mazyan and the Radiant Guards searched the Golden Palace, and a thorough examination was made of Rithram’s room.” Sulaman reached into his robe’s sash and drew out a small object. “They found this among his possessions.”

The Padishah held out a bronze medallion of good workmanship, its surface adorned with an elaborate twisted-knot symbol.

A symbol Caina had seen for the very first time on the dagger Livia Moranea had carried.

The sign of the Cult of Rhadamathar.

“Oh, hell,” muttered Caina.

“The Alchemists told me that the symbol was that of Rhadamathar, a serpent-god worshipped by an obscure religion in southern Anshan,” said Sulaman. “Even Azar, who is well-educated in all aspects of the Anshani nation, had only vaguely heard of them. We did not know if Rithram tried to assassinate Azar at the command of the Cult or if he simply worshipped Rhadamathar and acted for payment or revenge or some other reason. I did not wish to delay my visit to the Empire, so I instructed Mazyan to remain behind to defend Azar from any further assassination attempts. Then the Emperor and I reached Malarae, and we learned that the Cult of Rhadamathar had tried to kill us both.”

“I very much doubt any of this is a coincidence,” said Caina.

“Nor do I,” said Sulaman.

“So we come to the favor you’re going to do for me, Countess and Lord Kardamnos,” said Valerius. “It displeases me greatly that the Padishah of Istarinmul, my brother monarch, was almost assassinated in my own capital. It displeases me even further that someone tried to murder his Great Royal Wife, who is no doubt young and lovely and the paragon of Anshani womanhood. So I would very much like you to use the Tower of the Cataphract to travel to Istarinmul, find the assassin, and perhaps wipe out the Cult of Rhadamathar in Istarinmul.”

“That’s all?” said Caina.

Valerius smiled. “Countess Kardamnos, as the Umbarian Order, the Slavers’ Brotherhood, the Cult of Temnuzash, my western fleet, and Cassander Nilas could all testify, you and your husband are very good at wiping things out. Or they would testify if they weren’t all dead.”

“Cassander Nilas wiped out the Slavers’ Brotherhood, not us,” said Caina.

“No one cares,” said the Emperor. “Or Lord Kylon here killed the dog Cassander, so he inherited the credit. Winning credit by combat, I suppose. But we all know you’re going to do it. The Padishah adopted you into his house, and you won’t turn him away. And everyone says the surest way to have the Balarigar fall upon you like a storm is to harm a child, and the Cult of Rhadamathar tried to kill your beloved husband’s children. And now that Lord Kylon is a father and you are a stepmother, the favor of both the Emperor of Nighmar and the Padishah of Istarinmul will go a long way to securing the future of the children. I could command you to help find the assassin…but we all know there’s no need for me to give such a command.”

“Lord Corbould once told me a wise commander does not give orders he knows will not be obeyed,” said Caina.

Valerius inclined his head. “Nor does he give orders when there is no need.”

Caina met Sulaman’s eyes. “I will go to Istarinmul and see what I can learn.”

7

PERSUASION

Caina spent the rest of the afternoon and that night deep in thought.

The Emperor gave another dinner to welcome the Padishah and his escort to Malarae. Not quite as lavish as the dinner he had given when Sulaman had first arrived at the Imperial capital a few days ago, but Caina knew that the demands of diplomacy required a vigorous display of hospitality for a visitor of Sulaman’s rank and prestige.

Naturally, Caina and Kylon were expected to attend. And so was Kalliope, much to her discomfort. Despite her unease, Kalliope was a noble of House Agramemnos and used to ceremony and speaking with men and women of high rank, so she conducted herself well. The children swiftly grew bored, and at Caina’s suggestion, Kalliope sent Nikarion and Zoe off with Cornelia to explore the public areas of the Imperial Citadel. Caina discreetly asked two of the Imperial Guards to follow at a distance. She didn’t think the Cult of Rhadamathar would attempt anything here, not with the Imperial Guard defending the Citadel. For that matter, powerful and ancient wards protected the Imperial Citadel from sorcerous attack. Caina didn’t know how they all worked, but she suspected they were part of the reason the Citadel had never fallen throughout the Empire’s long and frequently violent history. A normal warding spell could block a summoner from calling elemental spirits. If a summoner tried to call an elemental here, the backlash from the ward would kill him and burn his corpse to a twisted husk.

No, the children were probably safer here than they had been anywhere else for months.

But Caina had been wrong before, and her mistakes had nearly gotten both her and Kylon killed at various times. Her visit to Risiviri yesterday had reminded her of one of those miscalculations, when she had underestimated just how far Talmania Scorneus was willing to go. Kylon had nearly gotten killed for that misjudgment, and Caina still regretted it.

How much more regret would she carry if she miscalculated and Kylon’s children died?

Best to be cautious.

As she spoke with the lords and magistrates of the Imperial court, Caina’s mind dissected the new problem the Emperor and Sulaman had laid before her. Or, rather, the monarchs hadn’t given her a new problem but presented a new facet of the difficulties she had already considered.

The challenge was threefold.

First, she needed to protect Kylon’s son and daughter from harm, which would remain her primary task.

Second, she had to learn more about the Cult of Rhadamathar and its goals.

Finally, Caina would need to find the disappeared Rithram and discover his motivations for attempting to poison Lady Azar.

The ideal outcome, she supposed, would be to find Rithram and use him to locate the leadership of the Cult, which she could then destroy, which would guarantee the safety of Nikarion and Zoe from the Cult’s attacks.

She knew it would not be that easy or that simple.

Caina had many allies and resources she could call upon in Istarinmul, ranging from the Grand Wazir himself, the chief magistrate of Istarinmul and the Padishah’s right hand, down to the network of Ghost spies and informants she had established during her time as the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul. Of course, almost certainly they were all looking for Rithram already, and if they hadn’t found him, Caina wasn’t sure she would have any more luck.

The Emperor preferred the outdoors, but for dinner, they retreated to one of the smaller dining halls of the Imperial Citadel. It was a hall built of marble with a floor of polished granite, the vaulted ceiling rising overhead. Pillars supported a balcony that ran along the hall, and Imperial Guards stood watch there. Iron chandeliers overhead held glowing glass spheres enspelled by the initiates of the Magisterium, providing pale light throughout the chamber. The Emperor dined at the high table with the Padishah, the rest of the guests at the long tables below the dais, and since Caina was an adopted member of House Tarshahzon, she and Kylon and Kalliope sat near the Emperor.

It turned out that the Emperor had more questions for Kalliope.

“So these Cult assassins have been attacking members of the blood of House Kardamnos?” said Valerius.

“They have, Emperor,” said Kalliope. “Why, I cannot say.”

Valerius’s eyes shifted to Kylon. “I don’t suppose you know why. If the Cult of Rhadamathar and these snake men have been on our world for a long time, perhaps House Kardamnos made enemies of them at some point in the distant past.”

“I know the history of my House dating back to the fall of Old Kyrace,” said Kylon. “Yet I cannot recall any of my ancestors fighting against the Cult of Rhadamathar.”

“Who is the High Seat of House Kardamnos now?” said Valerius, though Caina knew that the Emperor was well aware of the politics of New Kyre.

“My cousin Rhamphias,” said Kylon. Caina had met Rhamphias briefly after Sulaman’s coronation in Istarinmul. The Surge had summoned Kylon back to New Kyre, telling him to come alone and leave Caina behind. Kylon, who had never forgiven the Surge for the death of his first wife, had refused the summons and married Caina instead. In the two years since they had been married, Kylon had never once suggested going back to New Kyre, had never even hinted that he wanted to challenge the Assembly’s sentence of exile.

“Do you think Rhamphias is up to the task of defending House Kardamnos from the attack?” said Valerius.

Kylon hesitated. So did Kalliope. She would be just as familiar with the nobles of New Kyre, and no doubt she had come to the same conclusion as Kylon.

“Rhamphias is a better man of business than a warrior,” said Kylon.

“I understand he’s not even a very good merchant,” said Valerius. “When you were High Seat, House Kardamnos was a power in its own right. As it was under your sister Andromache.”

Kylon grimaced at the mention of his elder sister. “Andromache built the power of House Kardamnos. I just inherited it. And she squandered some of that power starting the pointless war with the Empire, a war that cost us all dearly and gained nothing for anyone.”

“I remember when she traveled to Istarinmul to persuade my father and Rezir Shahan to join that war,” said Sulaman, voice quiet. “Her charisma was like a thunderbolt in the darkness, and much as I wished otherwise, she persuaded my father and Lord Rezir to join the attack.” He offered a faint smile to Kylon. “I know her death grieved you, my friend, but perhaps it will please you to know that she persuaded my father and the nobles of Istarinmul to battle against the will of even Grand Master Callatas himself.”

Kylon sighed. “Andromache could persuade anyone of anything. Which led to her death. She persuaded us all that her plan was a good one, even when it was not.”

“A blunt question for you,” said the Emperor.

“In all the time I have known you, Your Imperial Majesty, I have never heard you ask another kind.”

“I’m the Emperor, that’s my prerogative,” said Valerius with a smile, though his expression grew more serious. “Suppose your cousin gets assassinated by the Cult. I expect he’s a rather easier target than you. Will you return to New Kyre and take up your rightful place as High Seat of House Kardamnos again?”

Kylon shook his head. “That’s not going to happen. The Assembly of New Kyre would have to vote to lift my banishment, which is unlikely.”

Caina said nothing, taking a sip from her wine goblet instead.

It was…rather less unlikely than Kylon thought.

She had been working on it for a year, along with Calvia. Caina’s older half-sister had devoted herself to the destruction of the Umbarian Order in repayment for all the pain that Talmania and Rania had inflicted upon her as a child. It had been the machinations of Calvia Scorneus that had bankrolled the Empire’s war against the Umbarian Order, though few other than the Emperor and Lord Corbould knew the entirety of the truth.

Calvia had achieved her vengeance to her great personal satisfaction. Some people found that claiming vengeance had left them feeling hollow and empty. Caina had experienced something similar after she had killed Maglarion. Calvia felt something rather different after she had helped accomplish the catastrophic downfall of the Umbarian Order and its provosts.

She was bored.

So when Caina suggested a new task, Calvia rather eagerly embraced it.

They weren’t quite ready yet, but…the Assembly might be more willing to lift Kylon’s exile than he thought.

Caina had tried telling Kylon about it a few times, letting him know that Calvia was investing some of Caina’s money in merchant ventures in New Kyre. Before Caina could tell Kylon the entire plan, he usually changed the subject, saying that she could invest her money how she wished.

The fact remained that he was too angry about the murder of his first wife to discuss New Kyre.

Caina suspected that the arrival of Kalliope and the children might have changed that.

“Best start thinking about it,” said Valerius. “Desperate times make men consider things they might not have otherwise. Ten years ago, if I had told the Magisterium that they would have to accept the Pact of Iramis, they would have started a war.”

“They did start a war,” said Caina. “The faction of the Magisterium that was part of the Umbarians, anyway.”

“Aye, they did, and look how that bloody turned out for them,” said Valerius. “You must recall. You were there, I believe.”

“As ever,” said Caina, “I appreciate Your Imperial Majesty’s wit.”

Kalliope’s eyes widened, but Valerius laughed. “A lie! But you and Lord Kylon have bigger stones than half the nobles and magistrates in the Empire.” Kalliope let out a startled laugh and covered it with a hasty drink of wine. “You’ll tell me the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it.”

When the dinner was finished, Caina, Kylon, Kalliope, Cornelia, and the children loaded back into the coach and drove through the streets of Malarae to the mansion. Night had fallen by then, and the enspelled lamps on the main avenues of the Imperial capital had come on. Caina instructed the coachman to keep to the main streets and avoid any of the side ones. She didn’t think the Cult would attack them now, but she had been wrong before, and it would be hard to spring an ambush on the well-lit main avenues as opposed to the darker side streets and alleyways.

Considering that Caina had set some ambushes there over the years, she ought to know.

Nikarion and Zoe fell asleep almost at once, leaning against their mother. The dinner had kept them up past their usual bedtime, and Caina suspected they had not fully recovered from the strain of their rapid escape from New Kyre.

“I hope I did not embarrass myself,” said Kalliope.

“You didn’t,” said Kylon. “I expect there will be gossip about how you turned up with two of my children, but the lords of the Empire are used to such things.”

A shadow of fear went over Kalliope’s face, all the starker in the dim light. “Will that put the children in danger?”

“The Cult already knows they’re here,” said Caina. “The Emperor could have had heralds proclaim it from the towers of the Citadel, but it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“The Emperor,” said Kalliope. “He is a masterful lord, isn’t he? Very…genial and informal in his manner, if bluff. Yet he does not seem a man that one should cross.”

“No,” said Caina. “He is not.”

Kalliope hesitated and then looked at Kylon. “He truly seems to regard you as a friend. How did you meet?”

Kylon paused, and Caina knew he was looking for a trap in the question.

“It was during the Umbarian war,” said Kylon at last. “He was on his way to Malarae for the Imperial Curia. Talmania Scorneus tried to assassinate him along the way with a lot of undead soldiers. I helped drive them off.”

“And then again during the Imperial Curia, when Talmania tried to use that unfinished Ascendant Bloodcrystal,” said Caina.

Kylon shook his head. “That miserable woman. If I had managed to kill her in Risiviri, much evil would have been averted.”

“Maybe,” said Caina. “Or maybe things would have turned out worse. With Talmania dead, Rania would have taken control of the Umbarian Order, and she might have been more effective. But the Umbarians are gone.”

“Other things must concern us now,” said Kylon, looking at where Nikarion and Zoe slumped against Kalliope.

“Yes,” agreed Kalliope. She looked at Caina. “I would fear that the Emperor laid a heavy task upon you. An impossible one, even. Yet…you looked at me, and deduced who I was and why I was there in a matter of seconds. You found the Cult in their lair beneath the city, and you slew the High Priest. If anyone can find this traitorous slave, it is you.”

“Let us hope that you are right,” said Caina.

They returned to the mansion. Kalliope looked at the sleeping children and started to wake them.

“No,” said Kylon. “You take Zoe, I’ll take Nikarion. No need to wake them.”

Kalliope looked at Kylon. Her face was unguarded enough that Caina could see the sequence of emotions. Annoyance that Kylon would presume, the realization that he was right, and then weary gratitude that she did not have to do all the work by herself.

“Very well,” said Kalliope.

Kylon took Nikarion while Kalliope lifted Zoe, and they carried the children through the mansion to their bedrooms. Kalliope bade the children good night and then went to her bedroom, while Caina and Kylon went to their own room. She shut the door behind them and turned to face Kylon. The room was mostly dark, with only some dim light leaking through the balcony doors.

“What do you think?” said Caina.

Kylon sighed. “About what? Kalliope and the children? The Cult of Rhadamathar? The task the Emperor has for us?”

“My gown,” said Caina.

Kylon blinked. “Your gown? What about it?”

“It’s so heavy and cumbersome. Wouldn’t I be more comfortable without it?”

She saw his eyes glint as he understood. “And your feet must hurt in those boots. You would be more comfortable lying down, I think.”

“Well,” said Caina, “we shall have to find out.”

A very satisfactory amount of time later, Kylon rolled off her, breathing hard. Caina hooked his left leg with her right and pulled herself against him, feeling the flushed heat of his sweaty skin against hers. For a while she simply lay against him, catching her breath, warm and content and happy. After a while she began running a finger over his chest, tracing the outline of the muscles.

“You’re thinking,” said Kylon.

“No, I’m not,” said Caina. She yawned. “Perhaps your prowess has utterly destroyed my capacity for rational thought, my lord Kylon.”

He snorted. “High praise. Except I don’t think anything could do that.”

She leaned up and kissed him. “I would wager you’re thirsty.”

Caina disentangled herself from him, rose, and crossed to a table against the wall. A carafe of mixed wine waited there, along with wooden cups. She poured two cups of wine and walked back to the bed, feeling Kylon’s eyes on her as she did.

Caina didn’t think she had worn him out quite yet.

But she did have to talk to him. Kylon was right. She had been thinking.

Kylon sat up, his back against the headboard, and Caina settled cross-legged next to him.

“I think,” said Caina, “I had better go to Istarinmul through the Tower of the Cataphract, and I should take Kalliope with me.”

Kylon frowned. He knew her well enough to understand that she rarely did anything without a reason, but she could tell he did not like the idea. “Why?”

“Because I am going to have to question many people,” said Caina, “and I would prefer to do it with someone who can use water sorcery to sense emotions.”

“I can do that,” said Kylon, “and unlike Kalliope, I actually speak Istarish.”

“That’s true,” said Caina. “It’s also true that you’re the better fighter than Kalliope. She handled herself well when the Cult came after us, but she’s not on your level. Neither am I, for that matter. If you had been with us when Ardakh and Sethroza attacked us at the Shrine of Tethene, you would have cut them down like wheat, and probably you would have taken one or two prisoners we could have interrogated.”

“All the more reason I should come with you,” said Kylon.

She looked into his eyes, shadowed in the dim light. “I would rather go with you. But answer me this honestly. If the Cult comes for Nikarion and Zoe again, who would you rather defend them? Kalliope? Or you?”

Kylon let out a long breath and took a drink of wine. “You know the answer to that.”

“We both do. And for whatever reason, the Cult has decided to attack the blood of House Kardamnos. Those two children are the single easiest targets of that bloodline right now. Out of all of us, you’re the one best equipped to keep them safe. Meanwhile, Kalliope and I will find the assassin who tried to kill Lady Azar, and hopefully we will also find some answers.”

Kylon grunted. “You should take more than just Kalliope with you. Aye, she can handle herself in a fight, I’ll concede that. She’s also never been to Istarinmul before and doesn’t speak the language. And you’ll need more than one pair of eyes to watch your back.”

“I know,” said Caina. “I will ask Sophia Zomanek to come with me. She’s been assigned to the Iramisian embassy in the old Temple of Cursus, but if I ask for her help, the ambassador will let her go. She’s spent enough time in Iramis that she has a good grasp of the Istarish language.”

“And you spent all that time teaching it to her when we traveled from Kostiv to Risiviri,” said Kylon.

“There wasn’t much else to do on that journey,” said Caina. “Well, that and learn to drive a wagon.”

“Sophia can handle herself,” said Kylon, “but you’ll need more help. Someone who knows Istarinmul well. Maybe Malcolm and Nerina. Or…”

“Morgant.”

There was a pause.

“You’re going to ask Morgant for help?” said Kylon, half-amused, half-incredulous.

“No one knows Istarinmul as well as he does,” said Caina. “Or how assassins operate. Sophia isn’t intimidated by him. And if we get into a fight…well, we’re more likely to win with his help.”

Much more likely, if she was honest.

“All that is true,” said Kylon. “You just have to listen to him talk. And talk. And talk.” He paused. “Do you think he knows about the Cult of Rhadamathar?”

“He might,” said Caina. “He walked around with all those secrets inside his head for decades and never told any of them to anyone. Maybe he ran into the Cult of Rhadamathar when he was younger.”

“Will he even help?” said Kylon. “He claimed he just wants to paint.” The amusement turned to exasperation. “To continue being the greatest modern painter in the civilized realms.”

“He’ll help,” said Caina. “I suspect he’s more bored than he lets on. And it will amuse him that I’m traveling with the mother of your children.”

“Gods,” said Kylon. He shook his head, finished his wine, and set the cup on the table next to the bed. “Don’t let him irritate Kalliope into doing something foolish. She can be a bit short-tempered.”

Caina said nothing, gazing into her cup. Both Kylon and Kalliope tended to reflexively assume the worst about each other. Kylon thought Kalliope was arrogant and short-sighted. Kalliope hadn’t said anything, but Caina could tell that she had been shocked that Kylon was friends with both the Emperor and the Padishah and that the Imperial Guard held him in high respect. Kalliope had said that she had seen Kylon fight during the day of the golden dead, but Caina was not so sure.

The Emperor, the Padishah, and the Imperial Guard had all seen Kylon fight.

“I will,” she said instead.

Kylon sighed. “When will you leave?”

“Tomorrow, as early as possible,” said Caina. “The faster I can find Rithram, the sooner we can get some solid answers about the Cult.” She paused. “The Emperor will want you to go riding with him and the Padishah tomorrow. I think you should take the children with you.”

“Is that wise?” said Kylon.

“You can bring Cornelia and some of the maids with you,” said Caina. “I think her nephew Marcus is a groom, he can help with the horses. They can help look after the children. Kylon, whatever happens, someday Nikarion and Zoe are going to grow up to become nobles of New Kyre. Maybe nobles of the Empire. The more you can prepare them now for that life, the better for them.”

“I know,” said Kylon. “They’re at an age where they need at least some time with a tutor. Kalliope and I talked about it, but we didn’t come to an agreement.” He grimaced. “We only seem to come to an agreement when you’re there to talk sense into the both of us. I am sorry I brought her into our lives.”

Caina squeezed his hand. “Don’t be. If she hadn’t sought our help, the children would be dead. I would be dead, and so would you and the Emperor and the Padishah and thousands of other people. I know you don’t like her, but you cannot deny that she is no coward.”

“No,” conceded Kylon. “She’s not. But I married you. I certainly did not want to spend so much time with a former lover.”

“Just so long as she remains a former lover and not a current one,” said Caina. She finished her wine, set aside the cup, and began tracing her finger over his chest again.

“There’s no fear of that,” said Kylon. “Gods, but she was…” He trailed off, perhaps deciding that comparing a former lover to his wife was a bad idea.

“No, go on,” said Caina, grinning.

“Boring,” said Kylon. “She was boring. She would lie there with her arms and legs splayed and wait for me to finish. You’re more…enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic?” said Caina. She slid her hand down his chest, then his stomach, and her fingers curled around what she sought. “Why, however can I show my enthusiasm?”

“I have an idea about that,” said Kylon, his voice a growl, and she laughed as he eased her back down onto the bed.

8

VERY DIFFERENT PEOPLE

After they finished for the second time, Caina was thoroughly spent, and she fell into a deep and contented sleep next to her husband.

And in her sleep, dreams flared to life with vivid force.

Caina usually had two kinds of dreams.

There were the nightmares. She had seen far too many terrible things in her life – her mother’s betrayal, Maglarion’s necromancy, the fury of Kotuluk Iblis, and the endless hunger of Temnuzash. Those experiences had left scars on her mind, and some scars never fully healed.

But as time passed and as she settled into her life with Kylon, the nightmares came with less frequency. Time did not heal all things, but it did erode the rough edges. And she was happy with Kylon, happy that she had found a family with Seb and Calvia and Ariadne. It was something to counterbalance the horrors she had seen.

The second kind of dreams were more dangerous.

Because they were true.

Sorcerers and spirits alike could use dreams to communicate, and Caina’s mind had frequently been visited by both. The Moroaica had haunted her dreams. Samnirdamnus, the djinni Knight of Wind and Air, had frequently visited her dreams, guiding her to the point where she would be able to stop Callatas.

Ever since she had become a valikarion, those dreams had happened much less frequently. The thoughts of valikarion were proof against any mind-altering sorcery, and if someone wanted to speak into her dreams, she had to let them in.

Or the dream had to be sent by an ally she had previously invited into her mind.

One such ally spoke to her now.

In the dream, Caina stood in the Hall of Gates within the Tower of the Cataphract, the green marble of the floor gleaming beneath her boots, the black walls of stone rising on either side. The Iramisian glyphs cut upon the doors seemed to shine brighter, the white light almost piercingly bright in the gloom. Caina wore her Veilplate armor, the helmet retracted, the shadow-cloak of a Ghost nightfighter hanging from her shoulders. Her valikon gleamed in her hand, the ghostsilver blade burning like a torch.

Her pyrikon stood a short distance away, watching her.

As ever, the spirit of defense had taken the form of a warrior made of solid light, shaped like a figure wearing full plate armor with a masked helmet. A massive tower shield rested upon the armored warrior’s left arm, a glowing Iramisian falchion in its right.

Most people who encountered the loremasters of Iramis assumed that the pyrikons they carried were staffs designed to focus and augment their powers. A few people knew the pyrikons could change shape. Caina customarily wore hers as a bracelet, though for dinner with the Emperor, she had changed it to a ghostsilver diadem upon her brow. Even fewer people knew the real truth, that the pyrikons were spirits of defense who voluntarily took physical form and joined those they deemed to be worthy.

Caina’s pyrikon had appeared in her dreams several times, warning of dangers to come.

The difficulty was that while the spirits of defense were benevolent and dedicated to the defense of mankind, they were creatures of the netherworld without physical forms of their own. They didn’t understand how the material world worked, and Caina suspected they had only a vague grasp of the nature of linear time.

The spirit was here to give her a warning, but Caina wasn’t sure she would be able to understand it.

“Balarigar,” said the pyrikon, its voice like the blast of thunder or the ring of a trumpet.

“You warned me against the High Priest and his weapon,” said Caina. “Thank you.”

She wasn’t sure the spirit could understand the concept of gratitude. The pyrikons were creatures of duty and purpose, and they would carry out those duties regardless of what any mortals might think about them.

Despite that, it was always wise to be polite.

To her surprise, the pyrikon inclined its armored head in a shallow nod. Perhaps it understood more of the material world than she thought.

“Now you come to warn me again,” said Caina.

“Beware,” said the pyrikon.

“Show me,” said Caina.

In response, the pyrikon pushed against the nearest stone door. It swung open, brilliant white light shining through it. The pyrikon beckoned to Caina, and she followed the spirit through the door.

The white light cleared, and Caina found herself standing in the cistern beneath Malarae that had housed the High Priest’s alchemical weapon. The scene was frozen before her. She saw herself, clad in the black Veilplate armor and shadow-cloak, the High Priest’s torn cowl falling back to reveal his serpentine features.

“Beware,” said the pyrikon.

“I have already faced this foe,” said Caina.

The pyrikon said nothing.

“There are more of them coming?” said Caina.

“Beware,” said the pyrikon.

She supposed that was a yes.

“Can you tell me anything about them?” said Caina.

“Beware. They are not of your world. You must defend.”

That was one of the longest things she had ever heard her pyrikon say.

“They are outside. You must defend. But others come from outside. They may be allies.”

The cistern dissolved into white light, and suddenly Caina found herself standing on a rooftop at night. After a moment’s confusion, she realized where she was. The alleyways near the Shrine of Tethene, where she and Kalliope had fled with the children from the Fangs of the Serpent. In fact, as Caina looked into the alley below, she saw her past self, along with Kalliope, Nikarion, and Zoe, frozen in the moment of their flight as Ardakh, Sethroza, and the other members of the Cult pursued them.

The green archer knelt at the edge of the rooftop, bow in hand.

It was the closest look that Caina had been able to take at the mysterious woman. The archer wore a hooded cloak of forest green, leather armor of green and brown visible beneath the garment. Between the shadows of her cowl and the mask of green and gold that concealed her face, Caina could make out nothing of her features.

The bow she held was a magnificent weapon. Caina was not an archer, and when she had to use a missile weapon, she usually preferred a crossbow. Despite that, she saw that the longbow had been crafted with masterful skill, golden inlays set into the polished dark wood.

“Do you know who she is?” said Caina to her pyrikon, which glowed a few paces away.

“Ally,” said the pyrikon.

“And she is not from this world, either?” said Caina.

“Outside,” said the pyrikon.

“Then she is not from our world,” said Caina. “But she is an enemy of the serpent men.”

She contemplated that for a moment. The idea that the Cult of Rhadamathar and the serpent men had come from another world had been shocking, though not as stunning as it might have been. Thanks to her visions in the past, Caina knew that there were other worlds, that creatures like the nagataaru traveled from world to world in search of prey.

Perhaps the serpent men had attacked other worlds before this one, and whoever dwelled on those worlds had fought back.

“The green archer,” said Caina. “Does she come from the same world as the serpent men?”

“They come from outside,” said the pyrikon.

That was less than helpful.

“When I encountered the green archer and the High Priest,” said Caina, “you were in your bracelet form, and you buzzed against my wrist. Will you warn me in a similar fashion if I encounter a creature from a different world?”

“I will defend,” said the pyrikon.

Caina supposed that was a yes. Or at least as close to one as she was likely to get.

“Then I thank you for your aid yet again,” said Caina.

“I will defend,” said the pyrikon.

The dream ended.

Caina woke up.

She blinked her eyes to clarity, confusion and a sense of dislocation gripping her. After a few seconds, her mind began to settle, and she recognized her bedroom in the mansion at Malarae. She was still naked, the blankets pulled tight against her. Caina sat up and looked at Kylon’s side of the bed. It was empty, and to judge from the pale sunlight that leaked through the windows, it was just past sunrise. Probably Kylon had gotten up already.

Caina rose and pulled on a robe, thinking. Too many different thoughts and worries jangled through her head. The strange dream of her pyrikon, the green archer, Rithram, Lady Azar, the Serpent’s Kiss, the High Priest’s serpentine features.

She needed clarity, and had so far been unable to find any way path the veils that surrounded the truth of the Cult of Rhadamathar.

Well, she might not be able to find answers, but she could at least clear her mind.

* * *

“What shall we do today, Mother?” said Nikarion, swinging his legs as he sat in a chair at the table in the dining hall.

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” said Kalliope.

“Will we go to the Emperor’s house again?” said Zoe.

“Perhaps,” said Kalliope, though she did not know.

She sat across from Nikarion and Zoe in the dining hall of Caina’s and Kylon’s house. It had a long table of dark wood and wooden chairs surrounding it. Kyracians often ate while reclining, and Kalliope had to admit that she found that preferrable to these chairs, which were somewhat uncomfortable. Cornelia and a younger maid named Anya stood near the table. Kalliope gathered that Anya was Ulkaari and had come to Malarae after the defeat of the Umbarians and ended up in Caina’s employ.

“Do you think Father will be with us today?” said Nikarion. “I want to practice swords again.”

“Perhaps,” said Kalliope. “We shall see when I talk to him.”

Kalliope was uneasy. The Emperor had more or less commanded Caina to find whoever had tried to murder the Padishah’s Great Royal Wife and her unborn child. Kalliope assumed that Caina would take ship to Istarinmul as soon as possible and that Kylon would go with her.

That raised two possibilities, neither of which she liked very much.

Either Kalliope and the children would have to go with them, or they would remain behind in Malarae. The Cult’s failure to assassinate the Emperor had driven them into hiding in Malarae, but the Cultists in Istarinmul would be more active. If Kalliope took the children there, perhaps the Cultists of Istarinmul would attack.

Then again, the Cultists in Malarae were only in hiding. Once Caina was out of the city, perhaps they would decide to attack again.

The prospect filled Kalliope with dread.

Suddenly she could bear it no more.

“Cornelia,” said Kalliope, “do you know if the Countess has risen yet?” Kylon had awakened first and was currently speaking to a group of Imperial Guards at the mansion’s gate.

“Aye, of course,” said Cornelia. “The Countess is not one for sleeping late, not unless His Imperial Majesty has set her a task that keeps her out at night. She’ll be in the armory this time of day if you wish to speak with her.” She pointed, anticipating Kalliope’s next question. “Down the hall, the final door on the right. We can keep an eye on the children.”

“Thank you,” said Kalliope, and she rose to her feet. She wore a simple dress of blue that left her arms bare, the sort of garment a Kyracian noblewoman typically wore for daily use. Though it did tend to be chillier in Malarae than in New Kyre, at least this time of year. If they went out today, Kalliope would need a cloak or perhaps a mantle.

She strode down the corridor and came to the final door on the right, which stood open. Kalliope stepped through it, looking around for Caina, and froze in surprise.

The armory was a good-sized room with three windows looking towards the garden, sunlight spilling through them. One wall held racks of swords, spears, and crossbows. A pair of ropes hung from the ceiling, knotted every few inches. Thick mats covered the floor, and Kalliope supposed that Kylon sometimes sparred in here with the footmen.

Caina stood alone in the center of the room, wearing only loose gray trousers and a shirt stained with sweat around the collar and armpits. She was balanced upon one bare foot, her left leg drawn up so that her left foot was nearly parallel with her ear.

If Kalliope tried to bend like that, she would dislocate her hip.

What happened next was even more astonishing. Quick as lightning, Caina whirled, her leg sweeping down. She landed in a squat, one arm drawn back in guard, the other outthrust as if she had just dealt a sharp blow.

She was practicing some sort of unarmed combat.

Caina was a little shorter and noticeably thinner than Kalliope but considerably stronger. It had never occurred to Kalliope to wonder how Caina had gotten so strong, but she supposed the answer was before her now.

“Good morning,” said Caina in Kyracian, glancing up at her.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” said Kalliope.

“Not at all,” said Caina. She changed position, moving into a deep squat with her arms braced against each other. Sitting in a squat that deep looked uncomfortable, even painful, but Caina did not even seem strained. “We can talk, though I might be a little out of breath.”

“When are you going to Istarinmul?” said Kalliope.

“Today,” said Caina. “As soon as I finish here, bathe, and get dressed.” She suddenly changed position again, springing lightly to her feet and spinning. Her foot blurred in front of her face in a high kick.

“That would be a powerful blow,” said Kalliope.

Caina shook her head. Her black hair had been tied back in a loose tail, sweat glittering on her brow and dripping down her face. “A kick like that is usually impractical in a real fight. Leaves you too open, and if someone’s paying attention, they can see it coming a mile off. Good for exercise, though. But I would like to be in Istarinmul by this afternoon. Hopefully I can speak with Lady Azar before the day is out.”

“Yes,” said Kalliope, and then her brain caught up to the statement. “Wait. What? It is five or six days’ sailing to Istarinmul from here, longer if the wind is against you.”

“That’s true,” said Caina, moving through unarmed forms with fluid speed and grace. “But I will be there this afternoon.”

“How?” said Kalliope, baffled. “Is this some secret art of the valikarion?”

“Something like that, yes,” said Caina. “You will see the truth of it soon enough. I would like you to come with me to Istarinmul.”

“Me?” said Kalliope. “Why? I’ve never been to Istarinmul. I don’t even speak the language. Surely Lord Kylon would do better to accompany you.”

“Funny, Kylon said much the same thing.”

Kalliope found it annoying to agree with Kylon.

“What about Nikarion and Zoe?” said Kalliope.

“They’ll stay here with Kylon,” said Caina. “He’s talking to the Imperial Guards right now. The Emperor is going riding with Sulaman, and Kylon and the children will accompany him. Nikarion and Zoe will be surrounded by Imperial Guards and Radiant Guards, and their father is probably the most dangerous stormdancer in the world. They will be as safe as they can be.”

Kalliope did not quite agree with that. Her father Lysikas was the most dangerous stormdancer in the world. But Caina’s larger point stood. Kylon was apparently capable enough as a fighter to impress Valerius Hadrazon, who did not seem to be a man easily impressed. And Kalliope had seen the Imperial Guards in battle against the High Priest’s undead.

“Perhaps I should remain here with the children,” said Kalliope.

Caina shook her head and moved through one last unarmed form. “It would be better if you accompanied me to Istarinmul.”

“Why?”

Caina turned towards one of the knotted ropes and jumped. She caught it and pulled herself up using only the strength of her arms. “I need someone with me who can use water sorcery to sense emotions.”

“Kylon can do that.”

“Kylon is well-known in Istarinmul,” said Caina. She dropped to the floor and scaled the rope again. “You are not. That will be an advantage.”

“I don’t speak Istarish.”

“I do, and I can translate,” said Caina. “But you speak Anshani and Caerish, and many people in Istarinmul speak those tongues. There are other, more urgent reasons you should accompany me.”

“What are those?” said Kalliope. It was strange to have a conversation with someone who was exerting herself so much because Caina kept climbing the rope and dropping back to the floor.

“We stopped the High Priest from killing the Emperor and the Padishah,” said Caina, more sweat standing out on her reddening face, “but that also drove the surviving Cultists underground. The Fangs of the Serpent have probably cleared out of Malarae entirely. The Ghosts and the civic militia might find them, or they might not. But the Cultists in Istarinmul are bold enough to attempt to kill the Great Royal Wife.”

“Which means they might be easier to find,” said Kalliope, following Caina’s reasoning.

“That’s the goal.” Caina dropped back to the floor, breathing hard, and put her hands on her hips. “Our other options are for Kylon to come with me or for you to accompany all of us to Istarinmul. I don’t like either of those.”

“Why not?” said Kalliope.

“Kylon is more dangerous in a fight than either of us,” said Caina. She sucked in a deep breath and scrambled up the rope again. “If you’re here with the children, the Cult might decide it’s worth the risk to come after you again. If we take the children with us to Istarinmul, the Cultists there might decide to go after them. And if we do take the children, we will have to take ship to Istarinmul.”

Kalliope frowned. “This secret technique of the valikarion for traveling. It will not work on children?”

“It would,” said Caina, “but it’s far more dangerous for them than it is for an adult.” She hit the floor again, pulled in a few more deep breaths, and hauled herself back up the rope. “If you told Nikarion or Zoe to close their eyes and not look at something, how long do you think they would obey?”

“For a little while,” admitted Kalliope, “but they would open their eyes sooner rather than later.”

“Even if opening their eyes meant their deaths?”

Kalliope blinked. “Just what is this method of travel?”

“Not one I would use with a child who is too young to understand consequences, and they are far too young for it.” Caina dropped down to the floor again, her face as red as Kalliope had ever seen it. “No. We should leave the children here with Kylon. They will be safe. Then you and I and a few friends of mine will go to Istarinmul and find Rithram and the Cult of Rhadamathar. And when we do, perhaps we will learn why they want to kill the blood of House Kardamnos…and maybe we will even find their leadership and defeat their plans.”

“That much success is unlikely,” said Kalliope.

“You’re right. It’s not impossible, though. But we will learn more. We’re at war with the Cult, Kalliope, and this won’t be over until we defeat them. The more we learn about them, the better our chances.” She pulled in a long breath. “One more.”

“One more what?” said Kalliope, but Caina was already climbing up the rope. Not quite as fast as she had been a few moments ago, but still faster than Kalliope could have managed. Caina dropped back to the floor and let out a satisfied sigh, her face glistening with sweat.

“Done,” said Caina, wiping her face on the loose shoulder of her shirt.

“I confess,” said Kalliope, “that when we first met, I wondered how you were so much stronger than I was. I do not even need your skill at deduction to unravel that mystery.”

Caina grinned. “It comes in handy. It’s also good for chasing the shadows out of your mind. The only other thing that works as well is…ah, not something you want to hear about, I expect.”

Kalliope realized what Caina was talking about and repressed a grimace. Though given Caina’s physicality, maybe she enjoyed lovemaking rather than regarding it as the tedious chore that it really was. Some physicians thought that peasant and commoner women, who generally did more physical labor than noblewomen, derived greater enjoyment from intercourse. Though how something so undignified could ever be enjoyable, Kalliope had no idea.

“Yes,” said Kalliope.

Caina offered a smile. “We’re very different people, aren’t we?”

“That’s none of my business, certainly,” Kalliope said.

Caina nodded. “We’ll leave in an hour.”

“How do you know I’m coming with you?” said Kalliope. “I never said.”

“Because you know as well as I do we’re at war with the Cult,” said Caina. “Your children will never be safe until they are stopped. You’ve been fleeing from them, but as you’ve said many times, you’re the daughter of Lysikas Stormblade. You want to take the fight to the enemy as much as he would.”

As always, Caina’s logic rang true.

“What should I pack?” said Kalliope with a sigh.

“Only what you need,” said Caina. “If necessary, we can return to Malarae at once. Oh, be sure to wear a headscarf. Istarish custom is that a woman who goes about in public with her hair uncovered is a prostitute.”

“What charming people,” muttered Kalliope. “You’re going to disguise yourself as a man, aren’t you?”

“You may not have my skill at deductions yet,” said Caina, “but you’re learning.”

With that, she left the armory, and Kalliope went to say goodbye to Nikarion and Zoe.

9

RAZOR

An hour later, Caina and Kalliope hired a wagon and rode in the back through the streets of Malarae to the Temple of Cursus. Kalliope wore the same dress she had this morning, though she had added a headscarf of the same blue-green fabric. It was hot enough in Istarinmul that a garment that left her arms bare would draw no notice. Caina had resumed her caravan guard disguise – leather armor, trousers, dusty boots, a ragged brown cloak, sword and dagger on her belt. She had applied some makeup to give her jaw the illusion of stubble, and she looked little different than the many other mercenary soldiers and caravan guards that came and went from Istarinmul.

“I confess,” said Kalliope, “that I am coming with you halfway out of curiosity.” She glanced at the wagon driver, but the man was watching the traffic on the Via Triumphalis and couldn’t have heard their conversation over the rasp of his own wheels anyway. “Because I cannot think how we might go from Malarae to Istarinmul in the space of an afternoon.”

“It won’t even take that long,” said Caina. She hesitated. “There is a little bit of danger. Not much, but some. I wouldn’t take you with me if time were not so urgent. Rithram tried to kill Azar nearly two weeks ago. That is a lot of time for a trail to go cold.”

“Perhaps we shall arrive to find that Rithram has already been captured or slain,” said Kalliope.

“It is a possibility,” said Caina, “but I doubt it. He prepared his escape from the Golden Palace. When I robbed Grand Master Callatas’s palace, I barely got out alive. No, if Rithram had the foresight to escape so swiftly, then he will have prepared a hiding place somewhere within Istarinmul.”

“You robbed an Istarish palace?” said Kalliope.

“More like the laboratory under the palace,” said Caina. “You will see that palace soon enough with your own eyes. Or what’s left of it, anyway. Sulaman ordered it torn down and the various treasures within sold to help rebuild Istarinmul from Callatas’s ravages.”

By then, the wagon reached the square before the Temple of Cursus. Caina thanked the driver and paid him, and she and Kalliope descended from the wagon.

“He thought I was your wife,” said Kalliope, bemused.

“All the better, then,” said Caina. “He’ll be less likely to remember us.” It was the reason Caina had decided to disguise herself as a man. A man and a woman walking the streets of Istarinmul would be less remarkable than two women.

“It’s just…when we met the Emperor, I thought you looked beautiful, albeit in an imperious sort of way,” said Kalliope.

“Thank you?”

“But I see nothing of that now,” said Kalliope. “You’re even walking like a man. Given your frame, the difference is slight, but it is noticeable.”

“It’s best to remain unnoticed when doing this sort of thing,” said Caina as they walked towards the doors to the Iramisian embassy.

“And you do it without a trace of self-consciousness,” said Kalliope. “It is…really quite remarkable.”

“Let’s hope it serves us well,” said Caina.

The guards at the door stopped them and asked their business in the Caerish tongue.

“My name is Caina Kardamnos,” said Caina in Iramisian, and the guards’ eyes widened. “I am here to see the loremaster Sophia Zomanek.”

The guards let Caina and Kalliope pass, and they walked into the main room of the temple. The clerks remained busy at their desks, and Sophia awaited them in the aisle. She had changed from the white robe of a loremaster to traveling clothes not all that different from the ones she had worn during their long journey from Kostiv to Iramis. Boots, trousers, a white shirt, and a long brown coat. Unlike Caina, Sophia made no effort to masquerade as a man and so wore her hair tied back, a headscarf tied over her head. She smiled when she saw Caina.

“I am glad it is you, my lady,” said Sophia in Ulkaari. “If you had turned out to be a strange man the guards had let into the embassy for some reason, I would be very concerned.”

“It is good to see you again, Sophia,” said Caina in Ulkaari. She switched to Caerish since that was the only language Sophia and Kalliope would have in common. “This is the Lady Kalliope Agramemnos, a noble of House Agramemnos of New Kyre.” Sophia offered a polite bow. “Kalliope, this is Sophia Zomanek, a loremaster of Iramis.”

“A loremaster!” said Kalliope. “You are the first of that order I have met. And you are so young! To become a loremaster at your age must be a great achievement.”

Sophia smiled, pleased at the compliment. “Less of an achievement than you might think, Lady Kalliope. I am the lowest rank of loremaster, a humble servant of the Words of Lore. Will Lord Kylon be joining us?”

Caina shook her head. “He will remain behind to guard the children. The Emperor wants his presence anyway. Are you ready to go?”

“I am.”

“Then let’s be on our way.”

Sophia gestured, and they crossed the chamber to the cellar door. “It’s awful about Lady Azar. We met her in Istarinmul, I remember, right after you and Seb met Calvia for the first time. She seemed so serious. It is hard to imagine someone wanting to kill her.”

“She is the Great Royal Wife of Istarinmul and carrying the Padishah’s probable heir,” said Caina. “I’m afraid that makes her a target.”

Though why the serpent men wanted her dead, Caina did not know. The only explanation she could fathom was that the Cult wanted to throw Istarinmul into chaos in preparation for conquest, just as killing the Emperor and the Padishah would have pushed the Empire and Istarinmul to war.

“Being a noble can be cruel,” said Sophia.

“It can,” said Kalliope, voice quiet.

Sophia glanced back at her. The young loremaster’s face was impassive, but Caina knew her well enough to see the curiosity burning there. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. Sophia had been a good and reliable friend to Caina during the final year of the Umbarian war, and the younger woman was mildly infatuated with Kylon. For another woman to show up with Kylon’s children, children that Kylon hadn’t known he had fathered, well…that could not help but inspire curiosity.

“We’re going to the cellar?” said Kalliope as Sophia opened the door.

“Yes,” said Caina. “I will explain shortly.”

They descended the stairs and came to the brick wall with the door to the Hall of Gates. The Iramisian glyphs cut into its surface shone with pale white light. Kalliope stared at it for a few seconds and then gestured as she cast the spell to sense sorcerous forces.

“The spells upon that stone door are very strange,” said Kalliope.

“They are,” said Caina. “The Tower of the Cataphract stands in Artifel. A long time ago, the Cataphract used his spells to fold the Tower’s interior partially into the netherworld. That allows the Tower to hold much more space than the actual exterior size would allow.”

“How much more space?” said Kalliope.

“A lot,” said Sophia. “I don’t think we saw more than a tenth of it when we went to Artifel.”

“The Cataphract’s spells,” said Caina, “also allow the interior to touch the material world in different locations. He created a place that he calls the Hall of Gates.” Caina pointed at the slab of dark stone. “This door opens to Malarae, obviously. Within the Hall are doors that open to New Kyre, Istarinmul, Marsis, Artifel, Rasadda, Risiviri, and a score of other cities throughout the civilized world.”

“Then…with this Tower…you can indeed travel from Malarae to Istarinmul in the space of a day?” said Kalliope.

“Less than that,” said Caina. “A few steps. The Cataphract has unlocked the Hall of Gates for the valikarion knights to use as they enforce the Pact of Iramis.”

“With such a power as this,” said Kalliope, “why has the Empire not conquered the world? Or Iramis? If you and I could move through the Hall in a few steps, an army could go from Malarae to New Kyre in a day.”

“Because the Cataphract does not allow it,” said Caina. “He left a powerful defense on the Hall. Anyone who sets foot in the Hall goes instantly and irrevocably insane. Their minds are totally destroyed, and they will stand there until they collapse from thirst and die.”

“Which you are immune to since you are a valikarion,” said Kalliope. Caina nodded. “Since I am not a valikarion, and I do not wish to go insane and drop dead, what should I do?”

“Sophia is going to cast a spell of the Words of Lore on you and then on herself,” said Caina. “It’s called the Thought Aegis. So long as the spell lasts, the defenses of the Hall of Gates will not harm you. But.” Caina lifted a finger. “You absolutely cannot use any aspect of your sorcery while in the Hall of Gates.”

“Why not?” said Kalliope.

“Because it will collapse the spell, and you will die,” said Sophia, voice quiet.

“Gods of storm and brine,” said Kalliope. “I almost wish we had taken ship to Istarinmul.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

Sophia nodded and began gesturing, the bronze bracelet of her pyrikon glowing on her left wrist. She cast the Thought Aegis over Kalliope, the white light sinking into her, and then cast it again on herself. Caina watched the flows of power with the vision of the valikarion, noting that Sophia’s skill had improved.

“We are ready,” said Sophia.

Caina nodded. “Follow me. We’ll walk quickly to the door to Istarinmul. Remember, don’t try to cast a spell, and don’t even touch your power.”

Kalliope swallowed but gave a somber nod.

Caina crossed to the door and pushed, and the stone slab swung open, revealing the dark walls and the green marble floor of the Hall of Gates. At once, she saw the mighty flows of arcane power around her, the spells that bound the Tower of the Cataphract and empowered the doors. Sophia and Kalliope followed her, and Kalliope stumbled.

“Oh,” said Kalliope. “Oh, that feels very strange. Like something scratching at my head…”

“Come on,” said Caina, gripping Kalliope’s arm. “Sometimes people with water sorcery feel the presence of the defenses even through the Aegis.” She steered Kalliope down the Hall of Gates to the appropriate door. Caina pushed it, and the door swung open. She eased Kalliope through it and then went through herself, Sophia following a half-step behind.

The door swung shut behind them. It was always a little surprising how such a massive slab of stone could be so very quiet. Caina found herself in an underground room illuminated by enspelled glass spheres upon iron stands. Three Iramisian soldiers in polished shirts of scale mail were looking at her in surprise. Sophia stepped closer to them and began to speak in Iramisian while Caina peered at Kalliope.

“You’re all right?” she said.

“Yes,” said Kalliope in a thick voice. “Yes, I think so.” She straightened up and shook her head. “Oh, but that felt strange. Like a great weight was upon my skull, threatening to crush it.”

“The ward on the Hall must have responded strongly to your talent for water sorcery,” said Caina.

“Can…can I use spells now?” said Kalliope.

“It should be safe.”

The faint silvery-blue glow of watery sorcery appeared around Kalliope, and the white light of the Though Aegis collapsed.

“I think I would rather have taken a ship,” said Kalliope.

“This was quicker.”

Kalliope offered a wan smile. “I’m Kyracian. We always prefer to take a ship.”

The soldiers took them upstairs to the main floor of the Iramisian embassy, a newly constructed building wrought of white stone. Caina greeted the noble in command of the embassy, who she knew from her time in Iramis. He was kind enough to lend them three horses.

They stepped outside into the heat of the Istarish sun, and Caina watched as Kalliope turned in a circle, taking in the sight of the city for the first time.

To the north stretched the Starfall Straits, the blue water rippling in the sunlight. From this vantage point, Caina could see Istarinmul’s Tomb Quarter and the fortified lighthouses that commanded the Straits, allowing the Padishah to cut off half the world’s commerce from the other if he chose. To the south of the embassy rose the broken shell of a ruined palace. All the fine marble and granite had been stripped away, and only the concrete and brick cores of the walls remained. More of the broken walls had been torn down since the last time Caina had visited, and she saw a gang of workmen busily tearing down one of the brick columns.

Beyond the ruined palace rose the spires of the Emirs’ Quarter. The great dome and towers of the Padishah’s Golden Palace dominated the skyline, along with the many smaller domes of the palaces owned by Istarinmul’s noble families.

At least those who had survived Istarinmul’s civil war, anyway.

“Welcome to Istarinmul,” said Caina.

“I confess I did not think it would be so big,” said Kalliope. Sophia’s face twitched for just a second at the accidental innuendo, but Kalliope was too focused on the splendors of the palaces to notice. “It’s at least the size of New Kyre.” She pointed at the broken walls. “What are those ruins? I assume the building with the golden dome is the Padishah’s palace, so it is strange that the ruins are so close.”

“That was once the palace of Grand Master Callatas,” said Caina. “Sulaman ordered it torn down and the treasures within sold, and his workers have been dismantling what’s left for the last two years. Once it’s knocked down, Sulaman intends to turn the ground where it stood into a public garden, with a monument to all those Callatas murdered.”

“Are we going to the Golden Palace first?” said Kalliope.

“Eventually, but not yet,” said Caina. “We’re going to visit an artist first.”

“An artist?” said Kalliope.

“He really is an artist, my lady,” said Sophia. “A painter. Fear not. He will tell you all about it, at great length.” She paused. “Perhaps more than you might really wish to know on the subject.”

They mounted the horses, and Caina settled into the saddle.

“Follow me,” she said, and they set off from the ruins of Grand Master Callatas’s palace and into Istarinmul. Caina led them around the gleaming wall of the Golden Palace, its gates and ramparts defended by Radiant Guards in their polished armor. They headed south through the Emirs’ Quarter and then into the Old Quarter and the Tower Quarter, past the ruins of the Crows’ Tower, the fortress that had once housed the Teskilati, the secret police of the Padishah. Both the Teskilati and the Crows’ Tower had been destroyed during Cassander Nilas’s attempt to burn Istarinmul to ashes, and while Sulaman had no interest in restoring the Teskilati, he had started rebuilding the Crows’ Tower as a fortress for the city watchmen.

It was midday, and the streets were crowded with people going about their business. The Istarish wore brighter colors than the people of Nighmar. Most of the men wore turbans, the women head scarves. Every single building was whitewashed to reflect the intense heat of the sun, the roofs flat since it didn’t rain that much here.

No one paid them much attention. As Caina had expected, Kalliope and Sophia looked like two moderately prosperous women escorted by a bodyguard. It was hardly an unusual sight in the bustling streets of Istarinmul.

As ever when she came here, Caina marveled at the changes that the years had wrought. When she had first come to Istarinmul, she had been exhausted and half out of her mind with grief from the deaths of Corvalis and Halfdan, and her initial impression of Istarinmul had been bleak. The streets had been thronged with toiling slaves and beggars, most of them with the eerie blue eyes caused by wraithblood addiction. Sulaman’s father had been an imprisoned captive, and the corrupt Grand Wazir Erghulan Amirasku and the Slavers’ Brotherhood ruled the city, but in truth, they had been puppets of Callatas, cogs in the wheels of his sinister plans.

Yet Istarinmul was different now. There were still slaves, and still beggars on the streets, but far, far fewer, and none of them had the disturbing blue eyes caused by Callatas’s wraithblood. The city still had its rich and its poor with a wide gulf between them, but Sulaman had forbidden the buying and selling of slaves and had offered a remission of taxes to anyone who freed a sufficient number of their slaves. The city now had more free merchants and workers than it had ever before in its long history, and Istarinmul was thriving.

A far cry from the stagnant, grim place she had seen on her first arrival all those years ago.

It always amazed Caina whenever she returned here. Kylon said that it shouldn’t, that she had been the reason for many of those changes, but she doubted it. The legend that had grown up around Caina said that the Balarigar, the Liberator of Iramis, had overthrown Callatas, destroyed the Slavers’ Brotherhood, and restored the rightful Padishah to the Most Divine Throne.

That was the legend, anyway.

Caina had lived those events, had seen what had really happened, and knew that she had only been one woman, frightened and half-crazed with grief for much of it, one woman who had tried to navigate the storm as best she could.

It was the mercy of the Divine that things had turned out as well as they had.

They left the Old Quarter, riding past the proud stone halls of the merchants, and came to the Cyrican Quarter, the westernmost point of the city. If the Emirs’ Quarter was the richest part of the city, and the Anshani Quarter the poorest, the Cyrican Quarter was solidly in the middle. Merchants of moderate prosperity lived here, and most of the city’s smiths and armorers worked in the Cyrican Quarter.

Caina headed to the southern edge of the quarter and reined up before an older house. It was a bit rundown, the plaster cracked and crumbling in places to show the stone of the walls. The house stood three levels tall, large enough to have a small interior courtyard.

“Where are we?” said Kalliope as Caina dismounted.

“The house of the artist,” said Caina as Kalliope and Sophia dropped from their saddles. A stone hitching post stood in front of the house, and Caina and Sophia took a moment to secure the reins.

“Forgive me,” said Kalliope, “but I am uncertain how an artist will help with the task the Emperor has set you.”

“He has other skills,” said Caina, and she knocked at the door.

A few moments later, it opened a few inches, and Caina found herself looking at an elderly Caerish woman clad in a simple blue dress, a headscarf of similar color bound over her iron-gray hair. She had a gaunt, almost withered face, with dark suspicious eyes surrounded by deep wrinkles.

“Good afternoon,” said Caina. “I am…”

The old woman grunted. “I know who you are. You’ll want to talk to him, I expect.”

“Is he here?” said Caina.

The maid grunted and jerked her head to the side, opening the door all the way. Kalliope frowned a little at the rudeness, but given what the maid had seen in the years she had been employed by the man who went by the name “Markaine of Caer Marist,” Caina knew there was little likely left that could daunt her.

Caina stepped through the door and into a painter’s workshop.

All the interior walls of the lower floor had been knocked out, save for the pillars supporting the upper levels, creating an open space that smelled of canvas, paint, dust, and turpentine. High windows that faced the inner courtyard admitted a great deal of light, and wooden worktables held jars of paint, rolled canvases, stacked brushes, and the other tools of a painter’s trade. A large easel stood in the center of the room, holding a pinned canvas. A half-finished painting filled the canvas, and Caina was both amused and a little irritated to see that it was a painting of her.

Or, at least, a painting of the myth of the Balarigar that had grown up around her. It showed a woman in tight-fitting black clothing, face concealed beneath a mask, the cowl of a shadow-cloak drawn up to conceal her face, a pair of icy blue eyes gleaming in the darkness beneath the hood.

She had never worn clothing that tight as a nightfighter. Too constricting.

The man known as the painter Markaine of Caer Maerist, but who was in truth the legendary assassin Morgant the Razor, turned from the canvas as Caina and the others approached.

He looked to be in his middle fifties, lean and wiry with faded blue eyes, close-cropped gray hair, and a sardonic twist to his thin mouth. Given that he was actually well over two hundred years old, Caina supposed he looked good for his age. He wore boots, black trousers, a white shirt, and a leather apron that had been spattered with layers of old paint.

Those faded eyes met Caina’s, and his mouth twitched in something that might have been amusement.

“You’ve visitors,” said the maid.

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” said Morgant. He spoke with a thick Caerish burr to his voice. “Might be a good time for you to go to the bazaar and buy whatever we need.”

“What we need is to hire a half-dozen workers to give this place a good cleaning,” grumbled the maid. “But you won’t pay for them. Cheap old devil.” Kalliope’s eyes widened at the disrespect, but Morgant grinned, and the maid left and closed the front door behind her.

“So, Caina Scorneus Amalas Tarshahzon Kardamnos,” said Morgant. “The Balarigar, Liberator of Iramis, amirja of Istarinmul and friend of the Emperor.” He offered a grand flourishing bow that had more than a hint of mockery to it. “You honor my humble abode with your radiant presence.”

“I’m glad you realize that,” said Caina.

“I wondered where your maid had acquired her impudent tongue,” said Kalliope, “and now I see.”

“We must make allowances for him, my lady,” said Sophia with a perfectly straight face. “In Ulkaar we honor our elders, and he is venerable with years. Even ancient.”

Morgant pointed at her. “You’ve grown a bit of a backbone, haven’t you, girl? Makes me wonder what they’ve been teaching you at the Towers of Lore.” He turned back to Caina. “I admit I wasn’t all that surprised to see you walk through my door. Though I didn’t expect you to come through my door with a Kyracian noblewoman who looks like she wants to freeze my blood with a spell.”

Kalliope started to draw breath to respond.

“This is Lady Kalliope of House Agramemnos of New Kyre,” said Caina. “Kalliope, this is Markaine of Caer Marist, considered the best painter in Istarinmul and possibly the Empire.”

“Possibly?” said Morgant, shaking his head. “You still have no artistic taste.”

“His real name,” said Caina, “is Morgant the Razor, legendary assassin.”

“Assassin?” said Kalliope, taken aback.

“Former assassin,” said Morgant. “Retired. And pardoned. I even have an official decree of pardon from the Most Divine Padishah for everything I ever did before he took the throne.” He paused. “So where’s the Kyracian? You know how this works. I make a joke about how you look like you want to rip off all your clothes and fling yourself at the Kyracian, he scowls at me, and then we get down to business.”

“Kylon,” said Caina, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, “is in Malarae guarding his children.”

It hadn’t happened all that often, so she enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing Morgant the Razor taken off-guard by a piece of news.

But he was old and devious and had survived for a very long time in the face of powerful enemies hunting him, and he put the pieces together quickly.

“Ah,” said Morgant. “Let me guess. The Kyracian had a lover or three or four or five before you captured his heart, and one of them bore his child. Then Lady Kalliope ran into trouble, and so, in turn, ran to you and Kylon for help.” He scratched his chin. “Though I wonder why she didn’t tell him about the child.”

Kalliope drew herself up, the image of an offended Kyracian noblewoman. “The reason I did not tell him, painter, is because the Surge, the supreme oracle of the Kyracian people, commanded me not to do it.”

“Oh, dear,” said Morgant. “Given how our Lord Shipbreaker feels about oracles, I can’t imagine he was very pleased.”

“And you are not as clever as you think,” said Kalliope.

“That’s true. Though I do think I am very clever.”

“It was not a child,” said Kalliope. “It was twins.”

“Ah. It’s the small details that trip you up,” said Morgant. He turned back to Caina. “But I’m going to guess that you’re not here to talk about the Kyracian’s past indiscretions.”

“No,” said Caina. “I assume you’ve heard about what happened to Lady Azar?”

“Not really,” said Morgant. “I haven’t been to the Golden Palace for a few months. I heard someone tried to poison her, but nothing came of it. The Grand Wazir put a bounty on the assassin’s head, but I am a simple painter and don’t do that sort of work any longer.”

“The assassin was apparently a member of the Cult of Rhadamathar,” said Caina.

A brief look of confusion went over Morgant’s lined face, and then he laughed. “The Cult of Rhadamathar? Truly?”

“You know of them?” said Kalliope, her distaste for Morgant suddenly drowned in curiosity.

“Not much,” said Morgant. “Snake worshippers, aren’t they? I’ve heard all sorts of rumors about them. Their priests are supposed to be the sort of depraved lechers who enjoy corrupting young girls like Sophia here, preferably five or six of them at a time in the same bed. Why would an obscure serpent cult want to kill the Great Royal Wife?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “They also tried to kill me and Lady Kalliope’s children. A few days ago, they tried to assassinate the Emperor and the Padishah with an alchemical weapon that would have also killed several thousand other people at the same time.”

“I was not expecting to hear that,” said Morgant. “So why does a cult of snake-shaggers want to kill you and some children and the Padishah?”

“That’s a very good question,” said Caina. “The Emperor and the Padishah asked me to find the answer.”

“And you want my help,” said Morgant. “Why should I care?”

Kalliope bristled a bit, but Caina raised a hand for her to remain quiet.

“Are you going to talk to me about duty and honor?” said Morgant.

“Of course not,” said Caina. “We know each other too well for that. No, you already know you’re going to help me, and you’re going to do it for two reasons.”

“That so?” said Morgant.

Yet he took off the leather apron and tossed it onto a nearby table.

“You put a lot of work into keeping your word to Sulaman’s father,” said Caina. “Years and years of work. You wouldn’t want that to go to waste.”

“Everyone dies eventually,” said Morgant, drawing on a black waistcoat.

“That’s true,” said Caina, “but after all the work to keep Sulaman alive in Callatas’s time, I think you’d prefer that he die of old age instead of an assassin’s blade or poison. An insult to your professional pride otherwise.”

Morgant grunted and picked up another garment from the table. “And your second reason?” He pulled on a black coat that hung to his knees, adjusting the lapels as he did.

“You’re bored,” said Caina.

“I most certainly am not.” He gestured at the wall, where several finished canvases leaned, showing a variety of scenes of Istarinmul. “I have plenty to occupy my time.” Morgant reached into the pocket of the coat, drew out a bronze ring, and slid it onto the third finger of his right hand. To the vision of the valikarion, the ring gave off an aura of arcane power, and Kalliope blinked as she suddenly could no longer sense Morgant’s emotional aura.

“You like to paint,” said Caina, “but no one as rich as you paints that much unless he has nothing better to do.”

Morgant said nothing as he buckled a sword belt around his waist and then hooked two weapons to it. On his left hip went a sheathed scimitar in a black leather scabbard. On his right rested a dagger with a black hilt and pommel, a red pearl set into the pommel like an angry crimson eye. To Caina’s eye, both weapons had arcane auras.

The aura around the scimitar was potent.

The aura surrounding the dagger was much stronger.

“You know,” said Morgant, “you’re really rather clever. Especially when the Kyracian isn’t here to shag your brains out every night.”

Kalliope made a scoffing sound. “That is very inappropriate. She is a noble of the Empire, and you cannot speak to her that way.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Caina. “One of Morgant’s techniques is to irritate those around him and see how they react.”

“It’s surprisingly instructive,” said Morgant. “I remember a time…”

Caina sighed. “Here we go.”

“Our daring valikarion here – though she wasn’t a valikarion at the time – was trying to find me,” said Morgant. “Thought I might have information that would decide the fate of the world, a secret that I, Morgant the Razor, and Morgant the Razor alone, knew. Anyway, she tracks me down at the Ring of Cyrica, that’s one of our gladiatorial arenas, and she’s questioning me. I admit, I’m amusing myself at her expense. It’s something we venerable ancients prefer to do with the young.”

“I had noticed,” murmured Sophia.

Morgant glanced at her for a second, eyebrow raised, and continued his story. “And the gladiators are fighting below. Single duels. Not to the death, since gladiators are expensive. But the gladiator prevailed and took off his helmet, and Caina saw Kylon of House Kardamnos. The look on her face when she recognized him! I thought she was going to tear off her clothes, fling herself onto the sand, and beg him to take her there and then.”

“You’ve used the same joke twice,” said Caina. “You’re slipping.”

Kalliope’s jaw dropped. “Kylon was a gladiator? A gladiator?”

“Anyway, that’s not the point.” Morgant paused. “What was the point?”

“It’s all right if you don’t remember,” said Sophia in a gentle voice. “The physicians at the Towers of Lore say it gets harder to remember things as one gets older, and as you’ve said, you’re deserving of respect because you’re older than anyone.”

“A gladiator?” said Kalliope again, aghast.

“He made quite a lot of money from it,” said Caina.

“Oh, yes, that was my point,” said Morgant.

“The money?” said Kalliope.

“No, not the money,” said Morgant. “Our mighty valikarion knight here is much cleverer when Lord Kylon isn’t around, since her overwhelming lust for him clouds her thinking.”

“I also don’t have Kylon around to save my life when I get into trouble,” said Caina.

“But you wouldn’t get into trouble if he wasn’t here, which means that he wouldn’t need to save you since he wouldn’t be here,” said Morgant.

“Well-reasoned indeed. I see why you’re a painter, not a logician,” said Caina. “Ready to get to work?”

“Following the Balarigar on a fool’s errand across Istarinmul,” said Morgant. “It will be just like the good old days.”

10

THE CHIEF OF SCRIBES

Kalliope had no idea why Caina had sought out the aid of that annoying artist.

He seemed an uncouth man, arrogant and acerbic, and unwilling to give proper deference to noble birth and rank. In the entire time that Kalliope had known Caina, no one had spoken to her that way, at least no one who knew who she really was. Even the Emperor of Nighmar, as blunt-spoken as he was, had not been so rude.

Morgant must have some abilities or skills that Caina would find useful, though Kalliope could not imagine what those might be. What, was Morgant going to paint a picture at the Cult of Rhadamathar? Perhaps mock the Fangs of the Serpent with cutting sarcasm? That would be useful.

And yet…

That bronze ring he had donned must have some sort of protective ward upon it because she had not been able to sense his emotional aura once he put it upon his hand. Yet she had sensed some of his aura before, and it had been…strange. In some ways, people’s emotions grew harder and more rigid as they aged, less changeable and volatile. Not always, but often enough that it was noticeable to anyone with sufficient skill in water sorcery.

Morgant’s emotions had felt ancient.

This was a man, Kalliope suspected, who would not be turned from his course once he had decided upon it.

Something else tugged at her thoughts, and she realized that Morgant reminded her a little of her father. Granted, Morgant the Razor looked nothing like Lord Lysikas Agramemnos. Nor was his irreverent attitude or mocking speech anything like the solemn dignity of the High Seat of House Agramemnos. Yet the comparison nagged at her, and she finally realized it. Kalliope was a physician, and she observed details about the way people moved and stood and carried themselves.

Morgant moved a great deal like her father. Much like Kylon, come to think of it. The same economy of movement, the same precise balance.

The mark of a skilled fighter.

Maybe Morgant the Razor would prove more useful than Kalliope expected.

They left the painter’s house and walked a block, leading their horses to a nearby stable. Morgant had a horse kept there, and the grooms led the animal out. He climbed into the saddle with ease, settling into place. Kalliope vaguely wondered why he was not sweating. It was very hot out, and he was wearing a black coat and a black waistcoat that looked far too warm for the climate. Maybe he had some sort of illness that induced a constant chill.

They rode north through the streets. Caina started telling Morgant about the Cult of Rhadamathar and what they had learned.

“Serpent men?” said Morgant. “From another world?”

“That’s what the Cataphract said,” said Caina.

“He wasn’t one to exaggerate,” said Morgant.

“I saw the corpse with my own eyes,” said Sophia. “It was indeed a serpent man.”

“And you were never one to tell lies,” said Morgant. “A failing I never managed to train out of you, alas.” He fell silent for a few moments, which was something of a relief. “I’ve traveled all through the Empire and Anshan.” He glanced at Kalliope and grinned. “Even visited New Kyre on occasion. Pleasant enough, though it does rather smell of fish.”

Kalliope drew breath to answer him, remembered that Caina had said he liked to irritate people to observe their reactions and controlled her temper. “Fish is an abundant and healthful food. A man of your venerable years should consider it more.”

Morgant laughed and looked at Caina. “She catches on quick, doesn’t she? But I’ve traveled all over the civilized world before any of you were born, and I’ve never seen or heard of a serpent man. When I thought about the Cult of Rhadamathar at all, which wasn’t often, I assumed they took hallucinogenic drugs and fornicated on the floor of their temples.”

“Did you ever meet any of the Cultists?” said Kalliope.

“A long time ago on the Great Southern Road from Istarinmul to Anshan,” said Morgant. “An old drunk who kept ranting about someday the mighty serpent Rhadamathar would devour us all, that one day he would cross the Great Bridge and descend upon mankind in power and judgment.” Morgant snorted. “The rest of the time, he kept begging for coins to buy wine.”

“The Great Bridge?” said Caina. “Did he really say that?”

“I think so,” said Morgant. “Well, he said in it Anshani while slurring his speech, but close enough.”

Caina shook his head. “The High Priest talked about the Great Bridge. So did Ardakh and Sethroza and the other Cultists.”

“Doubt they want to build a bridge over the River Megaros,” said Morgant.

“I would be very surprised,” said Caina. “It sounded like…something they were working towards. Some quest they sought to achieve.”

“Like the Final Night and the Temnoti,” said Sophia. Unlike Morgant, she had nothing protecting her emotional aura, so Kalliope sensed the old dread that went through her at the mention of those names.

“Or the Apotheosis,” said Morgant.

Kalliope blinked, uncertain if she had heard that right. They were speaking Caerish, and her grasp of the language was not as firm as she might have wished. “The…Apotheosis? What is that?”

“It was what Callatas planned to do to Istarinmul,” said Caina, voice distracted. No doubt she was still thinking about the Great Bridge, whatever that was. “He would create a new race of humanity possessed by nagataaru, and they would wipe out the old humanity.”

“That…sounds like a very foolish plan,” said Kalliope.

“Well, in all fairness to Callatas,” said Morgant, “it was a deeply stupid plan. Which our dear Balarigar told him to his face. At considerable volume. He was less than amused. Besides, I always knew Callatas was a scoundrel. He never did pay me for that mural in the Tarshahzon Gardens.”

“Ah…yes,” said Kalliope, uncertain if Morgant was telling the truth or not. She turned to Caina instead. “Where are we going now?”

“The House of Agabyzus,” said Caina, shaking off her reverie.

“Who is Agabyzus?” said Kalliope.

“The Chief of Scribes of the Padishah,” said Caina.

“Ah, we are going to a scriptorium,” said Kalliope.

“Coffee house, actually,” said Morgant.

“The honored elder is correct,” said Sophia. “It actually is a coffee house. Do they have coffee in New Kyre?”

“Some,” said Kalliope. She was indifferent to the beverage herself, though she had drunk it on occasion. She preferred wine or tea. “Enough Istarish and Anshani live in New Kyre that there are coffee houses.”

“I never had coffee until I went to Malarae with the Countess for the first time,” said Sophia. “We went to the coffee house she owns in the Imperial Market, the House of Kularus. I confess that I did not care for it at first, but after living in Iramis, I have a taste for it. Though I still think Istarish coffee is better than Iramisian.”

“Don’t let Annarah hear you say that,” said Morgant. “She’ll have you thrown out of the Towers of Lore.”

“Loremaster Annarah,” said Sophia, “is far too wise and moderate to do such a thing.”

“Unless she’s pregnant,” said Morgant. “Which she is again, by the way. Isn’t three children enough?”

“Given how long she was separated from her children,” said Caina, “you can hardly blame her.”

Kalliope looked at them, listening to the conversation, and to her surprise, a wave of deep melancholy went through her. Caina had taken charge and saved Kalliope’s life and the lives of her children during the Cult’s hunt for them in Malarae. Yet from the easy, almost bantering conversation of Caina, Morgant, and Sophia, it was clear they had gone into danger together many times before, and they spoke of people and places Kalliope had never met or seen.

She was far from home, in a foreign land she did not understand, and her children were under the care of a man she did not entirely trust.

Gods, gods, what was she even doing here?

Kalliope took a deep breath, steeling herself. She might not trust her children’s father, but she did trust his wife. If not for Caina, Kalliope and the children would have died that first night in Malarae. And Caina was right. The only safety for Nikarion and Zoe was to hunt the Cult, find their leaders, and destroy their plans.

Her father had often said that once a fight began, the only way out was to win it.

Morgant had started telling a rambling story about something that had happened in Risiviri, with Sophia politely correcting him on various points. But Caina was looking back at her, and Kalliope realized that while Morgant and Sophia might not have noticed her sudden emotional turmoil, Caina had.

“You all right?” said Caina.

“Yes,” said Kalliope. “I am, thank you.” She tried to think of something to say to cover her moment of weakness. “Was Kylon really a gladiator?”

Caina offered a brief smile. “Yes. He had no money when he was exiled from New Kyre, and free men can volunteer to fight in gladiatorial combats. So he did and made a good deal of money as he traveled east across Anshan to New Kyre.”

“I suppose his water and air sorcery made him undefeatable,” said Kalliope.

Caina’s smile became almost fond. “No. He refused to use it in the arena. Said it would have been dishonorable. He won by skill alone.”

Kalliope didn’t understand that. If he had an advantage, why not use it?

“I know,” said Morgant. “I don’t understand it, either.”

“We should put the horses at the public stable at the end of this street,” said Caina. “The Cyrican Bazaar will be far too crowded this time for day for them.”

“So long as you’re paying for it,” said Morgant.

Kalliope heard a murmur of voices coming from further up the street and suspected that it ended in a large public square. Caina turned off at a stable on the left side of the street. An Istarish man in a ragged brown robe and turban emerged, and a spirited negotiation in the Istarish tongue followed. Kalliope didn’t know the language, but she did know some Anshani and the two languages were at least somewhat similar. It sounded as if a combination of threats and boasts were exchanged and at last, Caina handed over some coins. More Istarish men emerged from the stable, and Kalliope and the others dismounted as the men led the horses into the building.

“That sounded unpleasant,” said Kalliope.

“It really wasn’t,” said Caina. “That sort of forceful haggling is the Istarish way. He would have been offended if we had simply taken his first price.”

“No, he would have thought we were bloody fools,” said Morgant.

“He’s not going to steal our horses, is he?” said Kalliope.

“Burzan the stablemaster will squeeze you for every copper coin you have,” said Caina, “but he won’t steal a horse. Considering what the Istarish traditionally do to horse thieves, he wouldn’t dare.” She gestured. “The Cyrican Bazaar.”

They walked to the end of the street, and the market square opened before them.

It was one of the largest markets that Kalliope had seen, as large as some in New Kyre. Shops lined the square, and rows of booths and stalls filled the square itself, selling a bewildering array of goods. Nearly all the merchants looked Istarish or Cyrican, but the customers seemed to come from every nation under the sun – Istarish, Anshani, and Cyrican dominated, but Kalliope saw plenty of Kyracians and numerous peoples from the nations ruled by the Empire to the north.

She had no choice but to release her water sorcery, reducing her ability to sense emotional auras. The presence of so many people with so many different emotions in a relatively confined space was nearly overwhelming. Kalliope sensed love and hate, boredom and greed, lust and confusion, and a score of other emotions from the crowds of merchants and their customers. If not for the mental discipline required to wield spells, it would have overwhelmed her swiftly. It brought to mind the unpleasant lessons of her childhood when her abilities had first manifested, when she had been overwhelmed by the emotions of those around her.

Hopefully, when her own children manifested their arcane talents, Kalliope could help them through it, give them an easier time with it than what she had experienced.

Caina led the way through the Bazaar, past booths selling pots and knives and carpets and skewers of meat sizzling over braziers of hot coals. The murmurs of a thousand different voices came to Kalliope’s ears, along with an array of smells, spices and perfumes and cooking food.

And, she suspected, her own sweat.

It was really rather hot.

They came to the far side of the Bazaar and to a whitewashed building. It stood three stories tall with whitewashed walls and a flat roof. All the shutters on the ground floor were open, and within Kalliope saw the common room of an Istarish coffee house. Booths lined the walls, and dozens of low, round tables dotted the floor, ringed with low cushions. Despite the time of day, Kalliope saw a good number of people drinking coffee and eating.

“The House of Agabyzus,” said Caina, and she pushed open the door.

Kalliope took a deep breath, the smell of coffee and cakes filling her nostrils, and followed Caina inside.

* * *

A lot of memories went through Caina’s mind as she stepped into the common room of the House of Agabyzus.

This had been the very first place she had come in Istarinmul after her exile to the city. That first night, she had drunk enough that she had blacked out, the first and only time in her life she had ever consumed that much alcohol. Once she had recovered enough to stand up, Caina had gone to the House of Agabyzus, only to discover that the sons of the owner Damla had been kidnapped by the Slavers’ Brotherhood to sell to Grand Master Callatas. Despite her grief and despair, Caina’s mind had locked onto the new task – to rescue Damla’s sons from their imprisonment.

She had done it. And that decision had led to her discovering the awful truth of the wraithblood and Callatas’s plot, to the Istarish civil war and the destruction of the Slavers’ Brotherhood at the hands of Cassander Nilas, to Sulaman claiming his rightful throne.

To meeting Kylon again.

All of that had come from Caina’s first meeting with Damla, because Damla had been kind to her.

Like the first rattling pebble that presaged an avalanche.

Kylon had asked Caina to marry him in this room.

Most of the House’s booths were empty at this time of day, though there were a good number of merchants sitting at the low tables, drinking coffee and discussing business. An Istarish woman in a bright dress of yellow and green hurried over, her hair bound beneath a headscarf of the same color. She was about forty, still fit and trim with dark eyes that sparkled beneath her brows.

For a half-second, Caina did not recognize Damla. In her memories, Damla always wore widow’s black.

But a year earlier Damla had remarried to her chief baker Tomazain. Damla had nearly always been calm, almost always polite, but now she looked…

Happy. Yes, that was it. She looked happy.

“Welcome, welcome, to the House of Agabyzus,” said Damla in Istarish. “Master Morgant, Lady Sophia, welcome. I…”

Her dark eyes fell over Caina, confusion going over her expression for a second, and then she smiled.

“Caina!” she said, and she hugged Caina. “Every time. You fool me every time.”

Caina hugged her back. “I don’t mean to do so. But I’ve practiced disguises so often that it’s hard to stop.”

“Well, I am pleased you are here,” said Damla. “Very pleased, indeed.” Her face sobered. “Though you must have returned to Istarinmul because of the troubles.” She lowered her voice. “My brother told me all about it. Someone tried to poison Lady Azar while she was great with child? A dreadful crime. As wicked as anything in the bad old days when Grand Master Callatas and Erghulan Amirasku plotted their evils.”

“Aye, I spoke to the Padishah when he came to Malarae,” said Caina. “He was gravely troubled and asked me to look into the matter.”

“Then the Most Divine Padishah acted wisely,” said Damla. “Whoever is wicked enough to attack a Great Royal Wife while she is with child will not long elude you.”

Caina hoped she would live up to Damla’s confidence.

“And the Living Flame has already favored you with good fortune,” said Damla. “My brother is coming to coffee shortly.”

“Is he?” said Caina, pleased. She thought it would take more time to meet with Agabyzus.

“Aye, he takes coffee here every other afternoon,” said Damla. “A respite from his duties as Chief of Scribes. And from his other duties, of course. He also likes to check on his nephews. I think he wants to lure Bayram into royal service among the scribes.”

“It is fortunate that Agabyzus is coming here,” said Caina. “I need to speak with him.”

“Of course,” said Damla. “Please, wait here. I shall have coffee and food brought. You will not insult me by offering to pay.”

Caina laughed. “As you wish.” They had been arguing about that for years.

Damla smiled, and for the first time seemed to notice Kalliope, who had been watching the conversation with a polite smile. “Forgive me, I do not know your friend.”

“This is Lady Kalliope of House Agramemnos,” said Caina, switching to Caerish. “Kalliope, this is Damla, owner and proprietor of the House of Agabyzus.”

“A pleasure,” said Kalliope in her somewhat awkward Caerish.

“An honor, Lady Kalliope,” said Damla. She turned back to Caina. “Is Lord Kylon here?”

Caina shook her head. “He stayed in Malarae to protect his children.”

“Children?” said Damla.

She glanced back at Kalliope, her eyes narrowing a bit.

“Yes, I have much news for you,” said Caina, “and much to discuss with Agabyzus when he arrives.”

“Then please, come, sit,” said Damla.

She escorted them across the room to one of the booths. Morgant and Sophia sat on one side while Kalliope slid into the other. Caina moved to sit next to her, but Damla put a hand on her shoulder and steered her away a few paces.

“Just a moment,” said Damla in Caerish to the booth.

“What’s wrong?” said Caina.

“This woman, Kalliope of House Agramemnos,” said Damla, switching back to Istarish and speaking in a low voice. “The children Lord Kylon protects. Did he have them with her?”

“Yes.”

Damla frowned. “That does not seem like Lord Kylon. I cannot imagine that he would have betrayed you like that.” She paused. “Is she lying about it? Are the children truly his?”

“It was before we met,” said Caina. “Before he married his first wife that the Huntress murdered. Even before the Empire’s war with New Kyre. Kylon’s sister and Kalliope’s father thought they would be a good match. They weren’t.”

“But she became pregnant during the process,” said Damla. “Did he not know of the children before?”

“No,” said Caina. “Kalliope would have told him, but the Surge ordered her not to say anything.”

“The Surge?” said Damla. “What is a Surge?”

“The chief oracle and religious authority of New Kyre,” said Caina.

“Oh,” said Damla. “We are a long way from New Kyre, and Malarae is even farther away. Why would Kalliope speak of the children now?”

“Because the same people who tried to kill Lady Azar,” said Caina, “have been trying to kill Kalliope’s children. She was so desperate that she left New Kyre and asked me for help.”

“Oh,” murmured Damla. She looked at Kalliope, seeming to consider the Kyracian noblewoman in a new light. Damla, too, knew what it was like to be so desperately afraid for her children that she was willing to take risks she never would have considered otherwise. “But why would someone wish both to kill the Great Royal Wife and the children of a Kyracian noblewoman? That doesn’t make any sense. Ah, but that is why you are here, is it not? To discover the truth, as you did in the days of Callatas.”

“I hope so, anyway,” said Caina.

“Sit, sit,” said Damla. “I will bring food and coffee. Nor will I poison Lady Kalliope’s coffee for attempting to steal Lord Kylon away from you.”

Caina laughed. “That’s very kind of you, but unnecessary.”

It was unnecessary because Caina suspected that her husband and the mother of his children could not stand to be in the same room together if she was not with them.

Damla hurried off to the kitchen, and Caina sat next to Kalliope in the booth. Sophia waited with her hands folded on the table, the picture of a loremaster’s serene calm. Morgant had produced a small leather-bound notebook from somewhere within his coat and was scribbling in it with a stub of a pencil.

“Your friend, Damla,” said Kalliope in a low voice. “I don't think she liked me very much.”

“Kylon saved her life during the Istarish civil war,” said Caina, “and she thought you were attempting to steal Kylon from me.”

The look of horror that went over Kalliope’s face was so stark that it took all Caina’s self-control not to laugh.

“You…you do not think that, do you?” said Kalliope.

“No.”

“But then you said something else to her, and her emotional sense changed,” said Kalliope. “To…sympathy?”

“She knows what it is to be frightened for her children,” said Caina.

“Oh, aye,” said Morgant. “Have you heard the story of the Balarigar and Ulvan of the Slavers’ Brotherhood?”

Caina sighed.

“No,” said Kalliope.

“Ulvan kidnapped Damla’s sons and was going to sell them to Grand Master Callatas,” said Morgant. “Our bold Countess here set herself to the task of freeing them. That ended with all Ulvan’s slaves freed and Ulvan himself dangling upside down and naked from his own balcony.”

“Truly?” said Kalliope.

Caina sighed again. “I needed a distraction so I could escape.”

“That would be distracting, yes,” agreed Kalliope.

“Ulvan wrenched his hip so badly that he never walked again,” said Morgant. He considered the page of his notebook for a second and then flicked his pencil across it. “And then a few years later, the Balarigar wiped out the entirety of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. No great loss, really.”

Caina pointed at him. “Cassander Nilas did that, not me. You ought to know, you were there.”

“I had thought when we first met that my circumstances were unusual to you,” said Kalliope. “But I see now that you have met many people and helped them.”

Caina shrugged, uncomfortable with the admiration in Kalliope’s tone. “I did the best I could at the time.” She frowned at Morgant. “What are you drawing, anyway?”

Morgant did not answer but turned the notebook to face them. With only a few lines, he had captured a scene of Kalliope Agramemnos sitting at the booth, gazing pensively into the distance. Somehow, he had even created the play of light and shadows across her features.

“Oh!” said Kalliope. “That’s me!” She leaned forward. “That’s very good.”

“How nice it is to meet a noble who has taste,” said Morgant. “Some nobles have no appreciation for painting, only for sculpture.”

“I never really gave much thought to either,” admitted Kalliope.

Damla returned with her husband, a middle-aged Saddaic man named Tomazain. When Caina met him, Tomazain was a former Legionary turned mercenary. But the Legion taught a skill to every man who entered its ranks, whether they wanted one or not, and Tomazain had spent a great deal of time baking bread. After the defeat of Callatas, he had started working in the kitchens of Damla’s coffee house and had been baking ever since.

“Lady Kardamnos, welcome!” said Tomazain. “It is good to see you again. Especially since the city is more or less at peace. Here, you must try these.” He carried a tray, and set a plate covered with small cakes on it. “A new recipe. Lemon with Sarbian dates.”

Caina took a bite and realized that she had neglected to eat today. “Delicious.”

“Good,” said Tomazain, pleased. “Well, I must return to work. Be sure to pass my greetings to Lord Kylon. Aye, but I would rather sit in peace and drink coffee than hold the gate for Lord Tanzir’s soldiers as we did!”

With that, he headed back to the kitchens.

Damla watched him go with a fond smile. “He bakes constantly now. I swear half of our revenue for the last year came from his cakes. Before much longer, I suspect we shall be known as a bakery of delicacies instead of a coffee house.”

“Perhaps you shall be known for both,” said Caina, taking a sip of coffee. It was strong and bitter, a pleasant contrast with the sweetness of the cake.

She spent the next half-hour talking with Damla while Kalliope sat in silence and Morgant scribbled in his notebook, Sophia occasionally interjecting with questions. It seemed that despite the attempt on the lives of Lady Azar and her unborn child, Istarinmul was mostly at peace. There were the usual squabbles over power and prestige between the nobles, the efforts by the merchants to evade taxation, and complaints from the commoners. Yet Sulaman’s reforms had brought enough prosperity to Istarinmul that the powerful had too much to lose to rebel, and the commoners were not hungry enough to revolt.

And everyone in Istarinmul still remembered the civil war, remembered Cassander Nilas nearly burning the city to ashes and Callatas unleashing his nightmarish creations. No one wanted to return to those frightening days.

Caina had just finished her coffee when Agabyzus, Chief of Scribes and the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul, walked through the door.

He was older than Damla and looked too thin for his age, with deep lines in the bronze-colored skin of his face. Dark eyes watched beneath gray brows, and he had a beard that had turned mostly gray, though some black remained. He wore a scribe’s robe of blue and gold, with a turban of the same colors that denoted his rank as Chief of Scribes in the Padishah’s court.

Agabyzus took a single step into the common room, stopped, and looked at Caina.

Damla rose to her feet, and Agabyzus strode to join them.

“Brother,” she said in Caerish, “Caina has come to visit.”

“So I see,” said Agabyzus, and he offered a bow. “Amirja, welcome. It is good to see you again.”

“You as well,” said Caina. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

“No. The Most Divine Padishah said he would seek your counsel when he visited the Emperor,” said Agabyzus. “Since you are here, I must assume that you have agreed to help him.”

“I have,” said Caina.

“Then I invite you and your companions to come with me to the Golden Palace at once,” said Agabyzus. “Lady Azar left instructions that she wished to speak with you immediately, regardless of the hour.”

11

THE GREAT ROYAL WIFE

A short time later, Caina and the others retrieved their horses, and they rode through the streets of Istarinmul back to the Emirs’ Quarter and the Golden Palace. Agabyzus, since he was the Chief of Scribes, traveled in the company of two stern-faced Radiant Guards in their gleaming armor and white cloaks. They brought up the back, and Caina drew her borrowed mount up next to Agabyzus and his horse.

“Have you been able to learn anything about the Cult of Rhadamathar?” said Caina.

“Less than I would like,” said Agabyzus. “I had heard of them, of course, but mostly as the subject of inappropriate jokes about amorous young women. We have since made inquiries in the city, especially among the residents of the Anshani Quarter. Unfortunately, as far as we have been able to determine, there are no priests of the Cult in Istarinmul and precious few adherents.” He shook his head. “It has been vexing. As far as I know, I’ve never even met a follower of Rhadamathar.”

“I have,” said Caina. “I’m afraid the Cult tried to kill both the Emperor and the Padishah as they entered Malarae, and a few days before that, they tried to kill me.”

“What?” said Agabyzus, taken aback.

Caina gave him a brief sketch of what had happened in Malarae – her hunt for the Cult, Kalliope and the children, the alchemical weapon beneath the city, and the High Priest.

Agabyzus grunted. “You have learned more than I have.”

“Well, they did try to kill me,” said Caina. “I had rather urgent motivation.”

“Speaking of motivation,” said Agabyzus, glancing back at where Kalliope rode next to Sophia. Morgant remained a little apart from them, his pale eyes seeming to look at nothing and everything all at once. “The motivation for these serpent men to kill the Padishah and the Emperor is obvious. If they intend to conquer, strife between Istarinmul and the Empire will only benefit them. They could derive the same results on a lesser scale by harming Lady Azar and her unborn child. But why try to kill Lord Kylon’s children?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina, “and I don’t like not knowing.”

“Have you considered that Lady Kalliope might be lying to you?” said Agabyzus.

“How so?” said Caina.

“I am not familiar with the internal politics of New Kyre,” said Agabyzus, “but even here, we have heard of Lysikas Stormblade, and House Agramemnos is powerful. Why come to you for help?”

“Desperation, I expect,” said Caina. “Kalliope said so herself. And the Cult did try to kill her and the children. I would have died with them if I had been a little slower or a little less lucky. No, I don’t think she’s deliberately lied to me. Either she is completely unskilled at deception, or she’s the greatest master of it I’ve ever met.”

“I have observed,” said Agabyzus, “that some nobles refuse to lie simply because it is an affront to their pride. Lady Kalliope strikes me as one such noblewoman.”

“She may well be,” said Caina. Kalliope took great pride in her birth and heritage, and in House Agramemnos. “Yet I wonder. She might know something and not yet know that she knows it.”

“Perhaps she witnessed something and doesn’t know its importance,” said Agabyzus. “Certainly there is no reason for the serpent men to target House Kardamnos.”

“Oh, there’s a reason, all right,” said Caina. “We just don’t know what it is yet.”

They rode in silence for a short time.

“Do you find being a stepmother to your liking?” said Agabyzus.

“There hasn’t been time to consider it,” said Caina. “I suppose keeping the children safe from the Cult is a good place to start.”

Her feelings about the situation were more mixed than she would have expected. For most of her life, Caina had wanted children, and the fact that she could not have them had been a source of pain. She had come to terms with it, though. Meeting her aunts Talmania Scorneus and Rania Scorneus had helped, though in a decidedly negative way. If House Scorneus had spawned monsters like Talmania and Rania, what would happen if Caina bore a child like that? The family resemblance between Caina and Talmania, both physically and mentally, had been closer than she liked to consider. For that matter, she had seen Theodosia’s lingering sorrow after her son had died. Caina might not know the joys of motherhood, but neither would she know its seemingly endless griefs.

Maybe that was for the best.

Nikarion and Zoe weren’t Caina’s children.

But they were Kylon’s. And as much as Kylon might wish they weren’t Kalliope’s, as angry as he was at the Surge and Kalliope’s deception, Caina knew her husband well enough to tell that he had been pleased to learn that he was a father.

Which was not something she would be able to give him.

Caina dismissed the entire line of thought as futile. What was done was done and could not be changed. She might have wanted children of her own, but the fact that she was alive at all was astonishing, given some of the enemies that she had faced. And it wasn’t as if she faced doubts about her proper path. The children were Kylon’s, whom she loved, so she would protect them. Nikarion and Zoe had a mother who loved them, unlike Caina, so she would protect Kalliope as well.

There had been times in Caina’s life when she had been uncertain about the proper course, but this wasn’t one of them.

No, what was uncertain was the nature and motivations of her enemy.

Perhaps she could find some answers here.

A short time later, they reached the Golden Palace and rode into the Court of the Fountain.

The outer wall of the Golden Palace was sheathed in snowy marble and rose nearly eighty feet over the surrounding street. Caina and the others rode into a vast courtyard dominated by a massive fountain. A three-tiered plinth from the center of the fountain, supporting statues of naked women holding amphorae. Water poured from the amphorae, splashing into the fountain’s basins. Caina noted with amusement that Morgant shook his head in disapproval at the sight of the fountain, as he always did whenever they came here together. Not out of disapproval of the nude statues but because he considered sculpting to be an inferior artistic form to painting.

Though Caina had to concede that statues were generally less prone to water damage.

Her amusement faded as she remembered one of her previous visits. The Red Huntress had almost killed Caina in the Court of the Fountain, and Caina had only escaped by chance. The Huntress’s resultant rampage had killed dozens, and she had finally caught up to Caina a year later at the town of Rumarah. Caina remembered the feel of the Huntress’s blade ripping into her flesh, the way she had gloated that Kylon would see two women he loved die in front of him.

If not for Kylon, Caina would have died that day.

Yes, she would protect his children.

“My lady.” Caina blinked out of the dark reverie and looked at Sophia. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said Caina. “Old memories, that’s all.”

“Come, my friends,” said Agabyzus. “Lady Azar will be on the northern terrace this time of day.”

They dismounted from their horses, and royal grooms came to take them in hand. That was another significant change from the first time Caina had come to the Golden Palace, other than the lack of a bloodthirsty, supernaturally-powered assassin trying to kill her. There were no slaves here. Sulaman had forbidden the buying and selling of slaves, but he had not ordered anyone to free their slaves, fearing catastrophic social upheaval if he did. Despite that, he had attempted to lead by example. No slaves worked in the Golden Palace, only free servants. The men wore blue robes and turbans, and the women blue dresses and headscarves. Men and women alike had the crown and sword sigil of the Padishah and House Tarshahzon sewn upon the breast of their garments.

The servants took the horses in hand, and Caina and the others followed Agabyzus into the Golden Palace. They strode through pillared galleries, the floors covered with elaborate mosaic designs. More servants moved about their tasks, attending to the work necessary to maintain the vast building, and Agabyzus led them up a broad flight of stairs to the highest level of the Palace.

They stepped onto the Palace’s northern wall, which had been converted into a wide terrace. From here, Caina saw the rippling blue waters of the Starfall Straits and also the fortresses that secured the Padishah’s control of the only passage from the Cyrican Sea to the Alqaarin Sea. The terrace itself had been converted into a garden. A large rectangular pool filled about half the space, its waters placid and calm. Grasses and flowering bushes dotted the rest of the garden, along with a few small trees, and Caina heard the faint twittering of songbirds.

A group of people stood clustered near the edge of the pool, surrounding a cushioned wooden chair. Caina spotted four Radiant Guards, all maintaining a close watch on their surroundings. She also saw Mazyan, Sulaman’s Oath Shadow, a short, scowling man with a bearded face and arms like tree trunks. A scimitar hung at his belt, and he looked like a truculent blacksmith. In truth, he was almost as dangerous in a fight as Kylon and had been Sulaman’s protector and bodyguard since the Padishah had been a boy.

Mazyan stirred, his dark eyes moving over them, though he scowled slightly less when he saw Caina.

“My lady,” he said to the figure in the cushioned chair. “The Chief of Scribes approaches. And he brings guests.”

“Let them approach,” said a woman’s voice, soft and melodious.

Caina circled to the front of the cushioned chair and offered a bow to its occupant, and Morgant, Sophia, and Agabyzus followed suit. Kalliope hesitated for a half-second, observing the proper movement, and then offered an identical bow of her how.

Azar, daughter of the Shahenshah of Anshan and Great Royal Wife of Anshan, reclined in the cushioned chair, gazing up at them.

She did not look well.

Azar was a diminutive woman, just barely over five feet tall, with golden-brown skin that reminded Caina of the ancient Maatish she had seen in the visions the Moroaica had inflicted upon her mind. She had enormous black eyes, deep and luminous, and jet-black hair. When Caina first met her, Azar possessed an ethereal sort of beauty, but now she looked wan and tired.

The reason was not hard to spot. She was so diminutive that the swollen belly of her pregnancy seemed almost shocking by contrast. Despite her obvious fatigue, Azar wore a rich gown of royal purple, a golden diadem glittering over her purple headscarf.

“Chief of Scribes,” said Azar in Anshani, voice grave.

“Great Royal Wife,” said Agabyzus. “I wish to present the amirja Caina Kardamnos, Sophia Zomanek of the loremasters, the master artist Markaine of Caer Marist, and Lady Kalliope of House Agramemnos.”

“Sister of my husband,” said Azar, gazing up at Caina. “It is good to look upon your countenance again. It seems that once again, I must call upon you for the defense of my life.” A thin hand rested upon her stomach. “And that of my unborn child.” She looked at Kalliope. “I perceive that you are surprised by my words, Lady Agramemnos.”

“Ah…your pardon, my lady,” said Kalliope, speaking Anshani precisely but carefully. “It is just that I have known Lady Kardamnos only a short time, yet everywhere we go, we seem to meet people whose lives she has saved.”

Azar offered a smile. “Should you continue your travels together, you may grow accustomed to it, for the amirja has saved many lives. In fact, we first met after she had saved mine. The Umbarians, in desperation at the threshold of their defeat, tried to assassinate me, my husband, and my uncle.”

“I can hardly take credit for averting that,” said Caina. “I played only a small part. Many others did more.”

“So would say many who have done great deeds and yet possess wisdom,” said Azar. “Did my husband ask you to speak with me?”

“He did,” said Caina. “I would have come to Istarinmul in any event, but I have reasons of my own. The Cult that tried to slay you also tried to kill me a few days past and attacked the Emperor and the Padishah in Istarinmul.”

A cloud of worry went over Azar’s face. “Is my husband well?”

“He is,” said Caina. “The attack was foiled. But I am very eager to speak with you, for it seems we share a new enemy.”

“Then let us speak and learn what wisdom we may,” said Azar. A group of servants stood near her chair, waiting for instructions, and Azar turned to them and began speaking in Istarish. “Please bring chairs and refreshments for my guests at once.”

In short order, wooden chairs had been placed before Azar’s seat, and Caina and the others sat. She had already eaten and drunk coffee at the House of Agabyzus, but she accepted another cup. A flicker of amusement went through her mind as she tasted it – it seemed the Golden Palace had been buying some of its coffee from the House of Agabyzus.

Given that Sulaman had once recited epic poetry in the common room of the House, with a scowling Mazyan keeping time on a drum, perhaps that was not surprising.

“Is the coffee good?” said Azar.

“Excellent,” said Caina. “From the House of Agabyzus, is it not?”

Azar offered a brief smile. “It is. I confess I prefer coffee prepared in the Anshani style, as you might expect, but it is still quite good. Though I have not been able to drink coffee for some weeks now. My stomach is simply too unsettled. Tea is better.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Caina. “Has the pregnancy been difficult?”

“Yes.” Azar shifted a little in her seat. “The Padishah sent for both Alchemists knowledgeable in medicine and loremasters of the Seven Towers of Lore skilled in healing spells. They say I shall most likely be delivered of a healthy son, but I must rest and not tax my strength overmuch.”

“Then it is better to rest for now, my lady,” said Kalliope. “I was quite ill in the final two months of my twins’ pregnancy. As vexing as it was to stay abed, it was for the best.”

“I know,” said Azar. “But that is the difficulty of following the path of wisdom, is it not? The path of folly is so much easier and more comfortably trod, though it may end in destruction.” She paused. “But I suppose it is my pregnancy and the tea that has brought you here today.”

“Please,” said Caina. “Tell me what happened.”

Azar paused, gazing at the Straits as she collected her thoughts.

“Soon after I became pregnant,” said Azar, “it became apparent that I would have a difficult time of it. I was not surprised. My mother was one of the Shahenshah’s concubines. A great beauty, which drew the Shahenshah’s eye. But like me, she was slight of frame and not blessed with a robust constitution. Still, she bore the Shahenshah one daughter and three sons, all of them healthy, though only one of my brothers survived childhood. It seems I am destined to follow in my mother’s path and undergo difficult pregnancies. But I will do my duty to my nation and my husband and bear a son.” A wry smile went over her face. “Though given what others must face in the course of their duties, I suppose sitting in a chair and waiting for the child is not so onerous.” She took a deep breath. “But I am rambling. I fear that since I have been with my child, my thoughts have grown cloudy, and it is often hard to focus.”

“It is a common occurrence in pregnancy, my lady,” said Kalliope.

“And you are the Great Royal Wife,” said Caina. “If you want to ramble, it is your prerogative to do so as long as you might wish.”

Azar let out a startled laugh, and raised a hand to her mouth, as if embarrassed by her own mirth. “Perhaps. But let us come to the point. One thing that both the Anshani and the Istarish have in common is a love of poetry. The Alchemists and the loremasters suggested that the sea air would be good for me, so long as I stayed out of the heat of the day, so often I have sat here and listened to the poets recite. We have even had competitions, with a prize of golden coins awarded to the winner.”

“Do you choose the winner?” said Caina.

“Only when there is a tie,” said Azar. “My servants and the slaves of my household will vote upon the poems, and then I present the prize. A poem may speak to the heart of one man and remain silent to another, so it does not seem just for me to make the decision alone. But I do have my favorites. One of them is Kuradin, a young man who composes the most delightful comic poems. I am not given to easy mirth, but his compositions make me laugh.” Her expression grew somber. “Shortly before he had to leave for the Empire, my husband sat with me and listened to Kuradin recite. My stomach was unsettled, so I asked the slaves to bring me tea.”

“One of your slaves brought you the tea,” said Caina. “A man named Rithram.”

“Yes,” said Azar.

“Tell me what happened next,” said Caina.

“In truth, I am not entirely certain,” said Azar. “We were between recitations. I felt a bit light-headed and started to doze. Then I heard shouting, which snapped me awake. I looked to see Kuradin and Artuk confronting Rithram. The tray had been knocked from Rithram’s hands, and both Kuradin and Artuk were shouting.”

“Who is Artuk?” said Caina, though Sulaman had mentioned that a Radiant Guard named Artuk had pursued Rithram into the palace.

Azar turned her head, and one of the Radiant Guards stepped forward.

“I am, amirja,” said the Guard in a deep, rumbling voice. He was a huge man, nearly seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and a heavy build that indicated a lot of muscle. Caina guessed he was about thirty, with a somber face beneath his spiked helmet. “I have the honor of serving as a khalmir in the Radiant Guard of the Most Divine Padishah.”

Caina had seen him before, and then the recollection clicked. Artuk had once been an Immortal. Many former Immortals had joined the Radiant Guard once the Padishah had disbanded the previous guard of the Most Divine Throne.

“What exactly happened, khalmir?” said Caina.

“I was standing watch with the other Guards under my command,” said Artuk. He nodded towards the archway that led back into the Palace proper. “I saw Rithram return with a tray bearing the tea, and I confess I thought nothing of it. Rithram came to the Golden Palace with Lord Arsakan and Lady Azar for the betrothal and remained here after Lady Azar became the Great Royal Wife. In that time, I have seen him carry out his duties admirably and found no fault in his conduct.”

Mazyan growled. “Many a master assassin can play a long game.”

“Indeed,” said Artuk. “Rithram paused just within the doorway. At the time, I thought he was adjusting his grip on the tray, for it was heavy with the tea and refreshments. But the poet Kuradin approached Rithram. He said that he thought Rithram had sprinkled something into the tea and demanded that I speak with Rithram about it.” He shrugged. “This seemed a reasonable precaution, so I did as he bid. As soon as I drew near to Rithram, I could smell it.”

“Smell what?” said Caina.

“Desert’s Kiss,” said Artuk. “Once prepared, it smells strongly of lavender. The tea that Lady Azar drinks usually smells of cinnamon and cloves. My face must have betrayed my thoughts because Rithram froze. And he changed in that second. He had always been diffident and respectful, as slaves usually are. Suddenly I felt that I faced another warrior, an equal.” He grimaced. “But Kuradin started shouting that the tea had been poisoned, and Rithram flung the tray at me. By the time I knocked it aside, Rithram sprinted away. I pursued with half my Radiant Guards while the other half remained behind to defend the Padishah and the Great Royal Wife.”

“As did I,” said Mazyan. “The first duty of the Oath Shadow is to defend the Padishah.”

“What happened then?” said Caina.

“Rithram was fast,” said Artuk. “We Radiant Guards do not let our training lapse, whether with sword, spear, and shield. Yet Rithram ran with the strength of a much younger man.”

“I imagine the prospect of confronting an angry Radiant Guard could inspire anyone to haste,” said Caina.

“He was not panicked,” said Artuk. “We followed him to the southern wall of the Golden Palace, and he ducked into a watch tower. I thought we had him trapped, for the tower’s entrance was guarded, but he had prepared his escape. A rope was hidden there, and he climbed down it and fled into the Emirs’ Quarter. By the time we had emerged from the gate to pursue him, he was long gone.” Artuk gave an angry shake of his head, his anger at his own failure plain. “We searched the city, but he vanished. Either he has fled, or he is hidden somewhere within Istarinmul with his allies and is waiting to strike again.”

“I see,” said Caina, considering what she had heard. “You were certain the tea was poisoned?”

“Beyond all doubt,” said Azar. “The Alchemists cast their spells over the tea, and as you know well, they are experts in poisons and elixirs of all kinds. The tea was indeed poisoned with the Desert’s Kiss. We do not know if Rithram intended me to miscarry,” she placed a hand over her belly again, “or if he wished to slay me.”

“How much do you know about Rithram?” said Caina.

“He was a slave of Anshani birth,” said Azar. “The seneschal of the Shahenshah’s household purchased him some years ago, and he has been part of my own household for…ten years, ever since I had my first moon’s blood and was presented to the Shahenshah’s court.”

“Ten years,” said Caina. “Why try to poison you now?”

“I cannot say,” said Azar. “I was shocked by what had happened. I know you have…strong opinions on slavery, amirja, ones shared by my husband. Yet I do not think I am a harsh mistress.” She shrugged. “Of course, I understand that even the mere fact of enslavement might have caused Rithram to view me as a foe. Yet he was always kind to me. More than just a slave desiring to please his mistress. The Shahenshah’s court is often a frightening place, especially for a young girl.”

“Even if she is the daughter of the Shahenshah himself?” said Caina.

Azar offered a brief smile. “The Shahenshah has many wives and concubines, and therefore very many sons and daughters. But Rithram was always kind to me. I always felt that he was watching out for me. Yet perhaps I deluded myself.”

Caina thought that over. Azar had always struck her as intelligent and considerate, lacking the sort of cruel willfulness or thoughtlessness that many noblewomen displayed towards their servants. Yet perhaps Rithram had been playing a long game, just as Mazyan had said. Certainly the Cult of Rhadamathar had shown a great deal of patience in their plots.

But that didn’t make sense, did it? Rithram had been given to Azar ten years ago. Back then, Sulaman’s father had still ruled Istarinmul, albeit as a puppet of Grand Master Callatas. There was absolutely no way to predict that one day Azar would become the Great Royal Wife of the new Padishah.

Or perhaps Rithram was a recent convert to the Cult, and to show his devotion to Rhadamathar, had volunteered to kill Azar.

“I assume you searched his living quarters,” said Caina.

“Yes,” said Mazyan. “Rithram had his own small room in the residence of the Great Royal Wife. I searched the room myself with Artuk and the Radiant Guards, and we found the pendant that carried the sign of Rhadamathar on it.”

“This one,” said Caina, drawing out the pendant. “The Padishah gave it to me in Malarae.

“You have seen such an amulet before,” remarked Azar.

“Yes,” said Caina. “The Cultist who tried to kill me bore one, and I have seen others like it since.” She looked at Azar. “Have you ever heard of the Cult of Rhadamathar before this?”

“Only vaguely,” said Azar. “It was an obscure religion in the southern satrapies of the Shahenshah’s lands. I assumed it was a primitive religion that had died out as the holy truth of the Living Flame grew dominant in the dominions of Anshan. I do not believe I have ever met a follower of Rhadamathar, even in the Shahenshah’s court, where men from all nations and tribes under his rule come to present their petitions.”

“It’s possible Rithram was hired by someone else,” said Caina. “Can you think of anyone who would go to these lengths to kill you?”

“I fear I cannot,” said Azar. “My husband has enemies, of course. But if we are to be blunt, you crippled or destroyed most of the Padishah’s enemies when Grand Master Callatas fell. Those who are left seem more likely to grumble, not to attempt the murder of a pregnant woman. The Shahenshah has enemies as well, but he has many sons and daughters. Why come after me to get at the Shahenshah?”

“That is so,” said Caina, “but you are the only daughter of the Shahenshah married to the Padishah of Istarinmul. I fear that makes you, or your children, targets for anyone who might wish a war between your father and your husband.”

“I have a suspicion,” said Mazyan.

Azar sighed. “Mazyan, we’ve discussed this.”

“Who?” said Caina. Mazyan, she knew, was suspicious to the point of paranoia, and viewed almost everything as a potential threat to the Padishah. Likely it had taken some persuading on Sulaman’s part to convince Mazyan to remain behind to guard Azar rather than accompanying him to Malarae. When they had met, Mazyan had been suspicious of Caina, and she often had the feeling that Mazyan had been calculating whether or not he should kill her as a potential threat to Sulaman.

But that paranoia had helped keep Sulaman alive during the dark days of Callatas’s dominance.

And just because Mazyan tended towards paranoia, that didn’t mean he was wrong.

“Zerada,” said Mazyan.

“Who is Zerada?” said Caina.

“The First Royal Concubine,” said Azar.

“Forgive my ignorance, my lady,” said Kalliope, “but what is the difference between a Great Royal Wife and a First Royal Concubine?”

Artuk, Mazyan, the Radiant Guards, and even the servants and the slaves looked surprised at Kalliope, as if she had just asked whether the sun was going to rise in the north or the south. Kalliope swallowed and started to look embarrassed.

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Azar. “The ways of the Kyracians are not the ways of the Anshani or the Istarish. As the Great Royal Wife, I am the preeminent of any of the Padishah’s wives and concubines. Any sons that I bear are first in line to inherit the Most Divine Throne.” Her expression grew somber. “But as you may know, Istarinmul was on the edge of ruin when the Padishah claimed his throne. Cassander Nilas had nearly destroyed the city, and the misrule of Grand Master Callatas and his puppets nearly ruined all the Padishah’s realm. Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon was the last of his line, with no heirs or cousins. If he died without an heir, Istarinmul would most likely fall into a catastrophic civil war. Therefore, after he claimed the Most Divine Throne, he took several concubines in hopes of having an heir of Tarshahzon blood as soon as possible.”

Caina remembered those days well. Another man might have rejoiced that it was necessary, indeed, even his solemn duty, to attempt to impregnate as many beautiful women as possible to sire an heir to save his realm from catastrophe. Yet Caina suspected that Sulaman would have been happiest as a monk who composed poetry, which would have allowed him to pursue his ascetic tendency towards self-denial. But Sulaman was also the sort of man who would not turn from his duty, so by the time Caina and Kylon had been caught up in the final year of the Umbarian war, Sulaman had already taken a half-dozen concubines in hopes of fathering an heir.

“Then the First Royal Concubine,” said Kalliope, “is the concubine who first gave birth to a son of the Padishah?”

“You see keenly,” said Azar. “Zerada became pregnant and gave birth to a son before I became the Great Royal Wife.”

“And in the long history of Istarinmul,” said Mazyan, “there have been many civil wars between the sons of the Padishah by different mothers.”

“It is the same in Anshan,” said Azar, “but I do not believe Zerada sent an assassin after me.”

“She does not like you,” said Mazyan.

“And I confess I am not particularly fond of her, either,” said Azar. “There is a long bridge between dislike and murderous hatred, however.”

“Aye,” said Mazyan, “and that can be crossed by ambition. Or by a mother’s desire to see her son upon the Most Divine Throne of Istarinmul.”

“A bridge crossed by ambition?” said Azar. “Most noble Mazyan, we shall have to hear you recite poetry yet!”

Mazyan grunted. “My concerns are serious, Great Royal Wife.”

“I know they are, and I am grateful for your devotion to duty,” said Azar. “Nevertheless, when it comes to Zerada, I fear your suspicions are misplaced. I have seen many such intrigues in my father’s court, and Zerada simply has too much to lose should she fall under suspicion. She is happiest with the way things are now.”

“I would like to speak with her if it can be arranged,” said Caina. “I would also like to speak with the poet Kuradin. Is he staying in the Golden Palace?”

“No, he is staying at the Gilded Throne in the Masters’ Quarter,” said Azar.

Morgant spoke for the first time. “An expensive inn for a poet.”

“Not so if the poet has the favor of noble patrons, Master Markaine,” said Azar. “And Kuradin has won the prize at our poetry competitions several times. He has a brilliance for comedic poetry without veering into vulgarity, though his personal tastes tend towards the extravagant. Like many artists, I expect he will die in poverty through poor choices.” She smiled. “A fate it seems you have avoided.”

“Ah, well, I’m told that wisdom comes with age, so I must be wise indeed,” said Morgant. Sophia raised a hand to her face to cover a smile.

“Then you have a plan of investigation, amirja?” said Azar.

“I do for now,” said Caina. “I would like to start by examining Rithram’s room.” She nodded to Mazyan and Artuk. “I know you searched it already, but I would like to look at it. Perhaps that will give me an idea of where else to search.”

“Khalmir Artuk,” said Azar, and the big Radiant Guard bowed. “I would like you to accompany the amirja and offer whatever assistance she requires.”

Artuk glanced at Caina, and for just a second, she saw a flicker of some emotion on his face, something she could not identify beneath the shadows of his helm. Then he bowed to Azar again. “It shall be as you command.”

“Countess Caina,” said Azar, and she gestured to one of her servants, who stepped forward and gave Caina a rolled document. “Before he left, the Padishah prepared a writ commanding any of his nobles, officers, and magistrates to give you any assistance that you might require.”

Caina unrolled the document and looked at it. It was thorough, and Sulaman had essentially given her the legal authority to do whatever she saw fit in pursuit of the assassin. Caina supposed it showed how disturbed Sulaman had been by the attempt on Azar’s life.

And that was even before the Cult of Rhadamathar had tried to kill him in Malarae.

“I will endeavor to justify the Padishah’s trust in me,” said Caina, rolling the writ back up.

“I know you shall,” said Azar. “When I was a child, I heard the tales of the ancient valikarion knights. Tales that came even to Anshan, where it was said the only thing the occultists feared was the keen edge of the shining sword in the hand of a valikarion. I thought such tales legends, and then you saved our lives from the Umbarian conspiracy, and I saw that the legends had much truth to them.” Azar leaned back in her chair, and Caina saw the effort of speech had tired her. “Should you have any further questions, please call upon me.”

Caina rose and offered a bow. “I shall. Thank you, Lady Azar.” She turned to Artuk. “Khalmir, if you could show the way to Rithram’s room in the residence of the Great Royal Wife?”

Agabyzus bade them farewell, returning to his duties as the Chief of Scribes, and Caina and the others followed the khalmir.

* * *

Artuk strode through the corridors of the Golden Palace, and Kalliope walked with Caina and the others.

Truth be told, Kalliope found the Golden Palace to be a little intimidating. The noble houses of New Kyre lived in their own fortified pyramidal towers, and the Tower of Agramemnos was a strong and splendid house.

Yet it would have fit comfortably within the complex of the Golden Palace.

Kalliope pushed aside the thoughts. She was here for a purpose, and it was best to focus on that.

“What have you sensed?” murmured Caina in Kyracian.

“That Radiant Guard,” said Kalliope. “Artuk. He is afraid of you.”

“I know,” said Caina. “There’s a chance I fought him before Sulaman took the throne as the Padishah. What else have you observed?”

“Lady Azar is very tired, and frightened,” said Kalliope. “Though the fear does not show. She is indeed born to command. She is frightened more for her child than for herself. Which is not surprising. Her hips are narrow, even narrower than…”

Caina glanced at her with faint amusement.

“Even narrower than yours,” admitted Kalliope. “Childbirth will be very difficult for her, with much possibility for something to go wrong.”

“She will have the most skilled physicians in Istarinmul on hand to help when the time comes,” said Caina.

“That is well,” said Kalliope. “I fear that she will need it. At least she is taking proper rest. That is the best approach.”

“You’ve delivered many babies,” said Caina.

“How did you know?”

“You told me you were a physician.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Kalliope. “I am not sure how many. Five hundred, at the very least. Certainly every one among the slaves and servants of House Kardamnos, and many among the lesser merchants allied with us.” She sighed. “I only lost a few of them in the process, though there were some stillbirths. And some were carried off by illness soon after. It is regrettable that a woman so ill-suited to childbirth as Lady Azar should have to serve as a…as a brood mare.”

“Best not to say that in Anshani within anyone’s earshot,” said Morgant.

“Lady Azar’s path was chosen for her,” said Caina, “but if she could have chosen her own, I suspect she would have picked this. She was born to marry a powerful man and raise his heirs. Do you believe the next ruler of Istarinmul will be the worse for having Azar Valshahzon to guide him?”

“No,” conceded Kalliope. Belatedly she realized this might be a painful topic for Caina, but she seemed wholly absorbed by the problem at hand.

“But we’re here to make sure Azar lives long enough to become a mother,” said Caina. “What do you think of what we have heard so far?”

Kalliope shrugged. “Certainly the First Royal Concubine seems to have the most motive for sending an assassin. I fear Lady Azar might perhaps underestimate the lengths a mother will go to for her son.”

“Such as sailing across the Cyrican Sea and begging for aid from the father’s wife?” said Morgant.

Kalliope gave him a sidelong glance. He really was an irritating man, and Kalliope wondered again what possible use Caina found in him. Probably best to respond to his jibes with aloof silence, as befitted a daughter of House Agramemnos.

“I think Azar is a good judge of character,” said Caina, “but she could be mistaken. And it could have nothing at all to do with Zerada. If the Cult wanted to start a war between the Empire and Istarinmul, why not start a war between Istarinmul and Anshan by assassinating Azar?”

“That makes a grim amount of sense,” said Kalliope. However, it did not explain why the Cult had tried to kill our children.

“We’ll need to talk to Lady Zerada anyway,” said Caina. “And to Kuradin the poet. Ah, here is the Great Royal Wife’s residence.”

The grand corridor terminated in double doors of polished wood, guarded by a pair of Radiant Guards in their gleaming armor and white cloaks. Artuk gave instructions to them in Istarish, and the Guards opened the door.

They walked into a colonnaded courtyard of remarkable beauty. A square pool occupied the center of the courtyard, a fountain of white marble rising from its center. A garden ringed the pool, holding grass and flowering bushes. The pillars of the colonnade gleamed in the sunlight. Artuk opened a door, and they stepped into a stone corridor that looked far less impressive, though windows on the right-hand wall looked towards the streets surrounding the Golden Palace. Kalliope guessed they were somewhere within the western part of the palace complex, assuming she had not gotten turned around entirely. The left-hand wall had closed wooden doors every so often.

“Rithram’s chamber,” said Artuk, and he opened the door.

The room beyond was small but clean. The walls had been whitewashed, the floor covered in flagstones. A narrow window looked into another courtyard, albeit one without any flowers, bushes, or pools. A cot rested against one wall, a wooden chest at its foot. In one corner was a simple wooden chair, and in another rested a clay pot with a lid that Kalliope assumed served as a chamber pot.

She wondered what Caina had possibly hoped to find here. It wasn’t as if Rithram would have left behind detailed notes describing his plan to assassinate the Great Royal Wife. Most slaves couldn’t even read or write, for that matter.

Caina stood in the doorway, eyes flicking over the room.

“Where was the pendant found?” said Caina.

“At the bottom of the chest,” said Artuk. “Beneath his spare clothing. The room was thoroughly searched, but we found nothing else of interest. No weapons, no documents, nothing.”

“The floor is scratched here,” said Caina, pointing at one of the flagstones.

At first, Kalliope couldn’t see it. But then she observed the faint scratches on one of the flagstones, just barely visible against the dark stone.

“Many soldiers have come through here recently,” said Kalliope. “No doubt they have left marks upon the stone.”

“They have,” said Caina. “This looks different.”

She stepped into the room, dropped to one knee, and produced a dagger. Before Kalliope could ask what she was doing, Caina slipped the dagger into the gap between the flagstones and started to pry.

The scratched flagstone eased up a few inches, and Caina got her fingers beneath it and moved the stone aside.

Revealing a hidden space beneath the flagstone, along with the gleam of metal.

Artuk said something in Istarish. Anshani and Istarish were distinct enough that Kalliope couldn’t always follow along, but the two languages shared many of the same curse words, so she caught the gist.

Caina reached into the hidden space and drew out a gleaming golden chain. It was the work of a master goldsmith, delicate and flowing, with several sapphires set along its length.

It seemed that Rithram was a thief as well as an assassin.

“Is that a necklace?” said Kalliope.

“I don’t think so,” said Caina. “It’s a head chain meant to be worn around the brows and forehead. You see this largest sapphire? It’s supposed to rest against the center of the brow.”

Artuk let out an angry breath. “And I recognize it.” Caina looked up at him. “It belongs to the First Royal Concubine Zerada.”

“I see,” said Caina, pushing the flagstone back into place. “Khalmir, I think we should speak to Lady Zerada immediately.”

12

FIRST ROYAL CONCUBINE

Caina and the others followed Artuk from the residence of the Great Royal Wife to that of the First Royal Concubine. She knew the way, of course – she had spent enough time in the Golden Palace that she had memorized the layout, and Sulaman had told her some of the palace’s secrets, such as hidden passageways that moved unseen through the complex or opened out into the city.

But she let Artuk lead the way because it gave her time to organize her thoughts.

The obvious conclusion was that Zerada had hired Rithram to kill Azar with poison. But the assassination had gone awry, and Rithram had been forced to flee before the Radiant Guards and Mazyan killed him, leaving behind his payment in his haste.

An obvious conclusion, but also an amateurish one.

It overlooked one simple fact.

Caina was almost entirely certain that the scratches on the stone had appeared after Artuk and the other Radiant Guards had searched Rithram’s room and found the Cult pendant.

The scratches on the stone were new. So fresh, in fact, that Caina had seen the faint rock dust around them. She suspected that someone had used a dagger to pry up the flagstone, only for their hand to slip and carve those scratches in the stone. If those scratches had been there when the Radiant Guards had searched the room, that dust would have been scattered across the floor.

This meant that sometime in the two weeks since the attempt on Lady Azar’s life, someone had stolen Zerada’s chain, slipped into Rithram’s room, and concealed it there.

The question was why.

Or, perhaps more relevantly, who?

“Kalliope, I need to ask you something,” said Caina in Kyracian.

“Of course,” said Kalliope in the same language.

“When I converse with Lady Zerada, it will likely be in Istarish,” said Caina. “I want you to keep a careful watch on her emotions, how she reacts to my questions.”

Morgant scoffed. “Surely you don’t think she sent an assassin after Azar? That chain was planted recently. Perhaps even this very day.”

“It was,” agreed Caina. “Zerada may not have even realized it is missing. Since she has a young son, that may be taking all her attention. But she may well know something important, even if she hasn’t realized it.”

“So if the chain was planted, who left it in Rithram’s room?” said Kalliope.

“That’s a very good question,” said Caina. “Hopefully we can learn more.”

“But if the chain was planted,” said Kalliope, “then that means Rithram still has allies somewhere within the Golden Palace. Should we not warn Lady Azar’s guards?”

“Mazyan is already on alert,” said Caina. “If Rithram has allies in the Golden Palace, I suspect they are cursing his name. His failed attempt on Azar’s life put the Radiant Guards on the defensive. It will be much harder to get at Azar now.”

That assumed, of course, that Rithram had been the one to attempt to poison Lady Azar. The chain had been planted in his room. It was just as likely that the Cult of Rhadamathar pendant had likewise been put in his room without his knowledge. Of course, that overlooked the cool-headed escape that Rithram had executed from the Golden Palace while pursued by the Radiant Guards. Caina knew firsthand the abilities of the Radiant Guards. Most men would not have been able to escape from them.

Rithram had. Which meant that even if he had not poisoned the tea, even if he had no knowledge of the attempt on Azar’s life, he was not an ordinary household slave.

“The residence of the First Royal Concubine,” said Artuk, coming to a stop.

The corridor ended in another set of double doors, though not as grand as those in the entrance to the Great Royal Wife’s residence. A pair of Radiant Guards stood before the doors, and they bowed and thrust them open. Beyond was a small courtyard with a fountain splashing in the center, though no garden. A group of women sat on the edge of the fountain, most of them wearing the blue of royal servants.

One of them rose and approached. She was an older Istarish woman, with a matronly sort of look, and she wore a silver pendant that identified her as the seneschal for the household of the First Royal Concubine.

“Mistress,” said Artuk. “The Lady Kardamnos wishes to speak with Lady Zerada.”

The seneschal blinked and then bowed. “Of course, khalmir.”

Caina and the others followed the seneschal to the fountain.

Zerada, the First Royal Concubine of the Padishah of Istarinmul, sat on the edge of the fountain, the firstborn son of the Padishah upon her lap. She was an Istarish woman in her early twenties, taller and wider than Azar, but with a strikingly beautiful face. She wore a sheer red and gold gown of silk, a headscarf of the same color across her hair. Her eyes were like gleaming dark jewels, and they gazed up at Caina with frank curiosity. The boy in her lap was about eight or nine months old, with dark eyes and thick dark hair, his attention mostly on a stuffed animal that he was trying to stuff into his mouth.

“My lady,” said the seneschal. “Lady Kardamnos wishes to speak with you.”

“Of course,” said Zerada, her voice pleasant and musical. “Please have chairs brought out.”

The seneschal gave orders, and soon more servants emerged from the doors in the walls, placing chairs near the fountains.

“You know,” said Zerada as Caina and the others sat, “for all that I’ve heard about you, I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“I don’t believe so,” said Caina, watching the other woman closely. She seemed utterly unconcerned, even relaxed. Sulaman had not spoken much about his concubines to Caina, largely because he found the topic uncomfortable to discuss. Nevertheless, he had said that Zerada had a gentle nature and would be a good mother to his firstborn.

“I did see you once, though,” said Zerada. “On the day Sulaman was crowned the Padishah, after all that dreadful business with the civil war and the demons in the sky.” She smiled. “Later, my father heard that the Padishah was seeking concubines for an heir, so he suggested I present myself to the hakims of the Golden Palace. Well, it seems I caught their eye, and I was able to give the Padishah his firstborn son.”

“You have my congratulations,” said Caina. “The knowledge that he had an heir took a great deal off the Padishah’s mind. What is his name?”

“Murad,” said Zerada. She smiled down at the boy. “I wanted to name him after the Padishah’s father, but he suggested one of the great Padishahs of the past, the one who defended Istarinmul from Sarbian invaders in ancient days. Murad, say hello to the Lady Kardamnos.”

She gently took the boy’s arm and waved it, and Caina smiled despite herself. Murad gave Caina a smile and let out a burbling sound, no doubt amused at his mother waving his arm.

“He seems a healthy boy,” said Caina.

“Oh, he is,” said Zerada. “Very vigorous. Mighty strong lungs, too. The Padishah has some of those Iramisian loremasters come by to cast spells on him, to help protect him from illness.” Her face clouded, and then she smiled again. “It must be working because he’s very healthy. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” said Caina.

“You’re dressed very strangely,” said Zerada. “Do all women of the Empire dress that way? I don’t really know. I’ve never been outside of Istarinmul.”

“No,” said Caina. “I wished to enter the city in disguise. The fewer people who know that I am the city, the better.”

“Oh.” Zerada’s eyes widened. “Is this a…courtly intrigue? My mother warned me about those.”

“You’ve heard what almost happened to Lady Azar, I assume,” said Caina.

“Oh, yes,” said Zerada. She shuddered. “An awful thing. The curse of the Living Flame falls upon one who kills a pregnant woman, for such a man kills two lives with one blow. If I had drunk Desert’s Kiss while I was pregnant, it would have been awful, just awful.”

“I agree very much,” said Caina. “Do you know anyone who might wish to harm Lady Azar?”

“I can’t think of anyone,” said Zerada. She sighed. “I suppose everyone will think I hired an assassin to kill her. That’s what always happens in the poems, aye? The evil concubine hires a deadly assassin to kill the trueborn son of the Great Royal Wife so her son can become the Padishah.”

“Did you?” said Caina.

Zerada let out a started laugh. “No. I wouldn’t even know how to hire an assassin. Do they have guilds? Or factors who handle their accounts? My father is a timber merchant who buys lumber from the forests near the free cities and ships them through the Cyrican Sea to Cyrica Urbana and Istarinmul.”

“Well,” said Morgant, “from what I understand, to hire an assassin, you have to take a piece of blank parchment and then write the name of your intended victim upon it in blood. Roll up the parchment, seal it with wax made from the tears of a virgin who has never known the embrace of a man, and leave it at a crossroads on a moonless night. Seven nights later, an assassin will appear at midnight and listen to your petition.”

Caina gave him a look. Morgant grinned.

Zerada leaned forward, fascinated. “Does that really work?”

“No,” said Caina. “You’ll have to forgive Master Markaine. His sense of humor sometimes runs away with his tongue.”

“Oh!” said Zerada in delight. “You’re Markaine of Caer Marist? You painted those murals in the Tarshahzon Gardens. Those are delightful.” She looked at Caina. “You kind of look just like the way you do in Master Markaine’s murals.”

Caina repressed a sigh. The Tarshahzon Gardens were a public space maintained by the Padishahs for the populace of Istarinmul. By ancient tradition, which often carried more force than any law, the Tarshahzon Gardens were open to any subject of the Padishah, from the highest noble to the lowest slave. After the defeat of Callatas and the return of Iramis, Sulaman commissioned Morgant to paint those historical events in a great mural. Caina featured prominently in that mural, much to her vast annoyance.

“You flatter a humble artist, my lady,” said Morgant.

“How do you do it?” said Zerada. “How do you make a painting that looks so much like the real thing.”

“I look at what I see,” said Morgant, “and then I use paint to put it upon the canvas.”

Zerada nodded, fascinated, as if Morgant had just said something profound. “That is astonishing.” She straightened up. “You must paint both me and Murad! Yes, once you have finished helping Lady Kardamnos find the assassin, I must commission you to paint both me and my son. I think we should be sitting on the southern wall of the Golden Palace, with the city behind us. Oh! Or would it be better to have us on the eastern wall so you can see the sea? The sea always looks very dramatic.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather prefer a sculpture?” said Morgant.

Zerada wrinkled her nose in disgust. “A sculpture? Why on earth would I want a sculpture? They’re so much less colorful than a painting.”

Morgant rose and offered a bow. “Lady Zerada, I see now that you are a woman of keen artistic insight and taste.”

Zerada all but beamed at him.

“But before Morgant can paint you,” said Caina, “we need to find the assassin. Do you have any idea if anyone might wish to hurt Lady Azar?”

Zerada shrugged. “Well, I imagine all sorts of people might want to hurt her. She’s the Great Royal Wife and a daughter of the Shahenshah. But I don’t know anyone specifically. Everyone in their right mind wants her to have a healthy son. We all remember the last few years before the Padishah took the Most Divine Throne.” Zerada shuddered, a shadow of fear going over her face. “Those were bad years. My father talked about leaving for Cyrica, maybe even for the free cities.”

“Then you don’t wish for Murad to become Padishah someday?” said Caina.

Zerada shifted a little, her arm tightening around her son. “Not really. No. I know that doesn’t sound believable. When I was pregnant, I did daydream about it. Wouldn’t it be grand to be the mother of the Padishah? Then those Umbarians tried to kill the Padishah and Lady Azar at the Ring of Valor.”

“I remember,” said Caina.

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” said Zerada. “Anyway…that made me badly frightened. I thought about what would happen if the Padishah were killed. It would be like the bad days under Callatas all over again. Then I thought about what would happen if Murad became the Padishah. There would always be people who wanted to kill my little boy. That was when I started praying that Lady Azar would have a healthy son. That way, he could become the Padishah and face the danger, not my son. When Murad is old enough, I think I will ask the Padishah to help him find a place in Anshan or perhaps the Empire. Someplace where no one will try to kill him because he is the Padishah’s son.” She looked at Caina, anxious. “Would you help him find a place in the Empire?”

“If you still wish it when he is old enough, then yes,” said Caina.

“Thank you,” said Zerada. Murad continued trying to eat his stuffed toy, oblivious to his mother’s fear.

“A few more questions,” said Caina. “Do you know a slave in Lady Azar’s household named Rithram?”

“No,” said Zerada. “I don’t think so. That’s an Anshani name, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She blinked and then laughed. “Well, of course, it would be an Anshani name, wouldn’t it? Lady Azar is Anshani.”

“Do you get along well with Lady Azar?” said Caina.

“We’ve only met a few times,” said Zerada. She shifted. “I suppose I’m frightened of her, and she doesn’t like me very much.”

“Why not?” said Caina.

“Well…she is the daughter of the Shahenshah and the Great Royal Wife,” said Zerada. “I might be the First Royal Concubine, but I’m only a merchant’s daughter. She’s always very polite when I talk to her, but I am beneath her, and we both know it.”

Under less urgent circumstances, Caina would have laughed. Azar thought that Zerada didn’t like her, and Zerada thought that Azar disliked her. Doubtless, the boundaries of Istarish royal protocol prevented the two women from ever having an actual conversation.

“You might be mistaken about that,” said Caina. “Azar, too, fears for the life of her child.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Zerada. “No one tried to kill me when I was pregnant. It all must be very frightening.” She brightened. “Perhaps I should call upon her.”

“That might be a good idea,” said Caina. “She could use the company. I imagine one can only listen to so much poetry. Speaking of that, do you know her favorite poet? A man named Kuradin?”

“I do,” said Zerada. “I don’t like him very much.”

“Why not?” said Caina.

A look of acute discomfort went over Zerada’s face. “It’s…not polite to say such things when you don’t like someone. Mother always said so.”

“I would appreciate it if you could tell me,” said Caina.

“Well…” Zerada sighed. “He’s too clever. I’ve heard some of his poetry recitations on the terrace when the entire court gathers for the poetry competitions. The Padishah loves poetry, so I try to pay attention, but some of the poems are so long. I like songs better.” She smiled at Morgant. “And paintings!”

“Go on,” said Caina.

“I think some of his poems are mean,” said Zerada. “Like he’s mocking us, but hiding it behind clever words. He’s too…smug. And too pretty.”

“Pretty?”

“He’s a very pretty man,” said Zerada. “I don’t think a man should be pretty. He should either be lordly and dignified, like the Padishah, or stern and rugged, like the Radiant Guards. I think Kuradin is entirely too clever for his own good.”

“I see,” said Caina. “Have you ever heard of a religion called the Cult of Rhadamathar?”

“The…what?” said Zerada, baffled.

“The Cult of Rhadamathar,” said Caina.

Zerada shook her head. “What a funny name. No, I’ve never heard of it. What do they worship?”

“Snakes,” supplied Morgant.

“Snakes?” said Zerada, taken aback. “Who would worship a snake? Everyone knows the only true god is the Living Flame.”

“Only a few more questions,” said Caina. “Do you have a golden head chain adorned with sapphires?”

“Why, yes,” said Zerada. “It was a gift from the Padishah when I became pregnant with Murad. I wear it on formal occasions at the court.”

“Is this the chain in question?” said Caina, holding it out.

Zerada stared at the chain, and a look of pure confusion went over her face.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Let me have a closer look at it.”

“Kalliope,” said Caina, and she nodded. Caina and Kalliope rose, and Caina handed over the chain to Zerada. The First Royal Concubine took it, and her look of confusion only intensified.

“I don’t understand,” said Zerada. “How did you get this?”

Caina looked at Kalliope, who nodded. Zerada’s confusion was unfeigned. Caina might not have the ability to use water sorcery to sense emotions as Kalliope did, but she knew how to use her eyes and ears, and she would have said either Zerada was genuinely baffled or she was the greatest actress in the history of Istarinmul.

“I found it hidden beneath the floor in Rithram’s room before I came here,” said Caina.

“But I don’t understand,” said Zerada again, her confusion now mixed with a hint of growing fear. “I wore this chain three days ago.”

“Did you?” said Caina.

“Yes, an emir from Istarish Cyrica came to the Golden Palace,” said Zerada. “The Grand Wazir held a dinner for him, and I attended. I wore this very chain then, I swear it on the Living Flame.”

Caina glanced at Kalliope, who nodded again.

“Surely you do not believe I gave this chain to Rithram?” said Zerada.

“No,” said Caina. “I don’t.”

“But it looks like I did,” said Zerada.

“It does,” said Caina, “but I believe it to be an effort at deception and a poor one at that. After Rithram fled the Golden Palace, the Radiant Guards searched his room. The signs that something had been hidden beneath the floor were obvious. I cannot believe the Radiant Guards would have missed it.”

“So what does it mean?” said Zerada. “How did my chain get there?”

“I’m afraid the answer is simple,” said Caina. “Sometime in the last three days, someone broke into your residence, stole the chain, and planted it in Rithram’s room to cast suspicion upon you.”

For a second, Zerada’s mouth formed a near-perfect O of pure astonishment.

“But who would do such a thing?” said Zerada.

“I don’t know,” said Caina, “but I intended to find out. With your permission, my lady, I would like to look over your rooms. Perhaps the assassin stole something else, or perhaps he left something behind.”

* * *

Caina’s and Zerada’s conversation was entirely in Istarish, which Kalliope could not follow.

Well, she could follow it, albeit a little bit. Istarish and Anshani were closely related, and she could often pick out the meaning of individual words, though the grammar and sentence structure were often different. Yet Kalliope could still sense emotions, and Zerada’s were an open book. They also closely matched her expressions.

Her overall impression was that Zerada was not terribly bright but nonetheless kindly and well-meaning.

Kalliope was almost entirely certain that Zerada had nothing to do with the Cult of Rhadamathar or the attempt on Lady Azar.

A short conversation later, Caina bade Zerada farewell, and they left the residence of the First Royal Concubine, the Radiant Guards closing the doors to the courtyard behind them.

“What do you think?” said Kalliope in Caerish.

“Let’s walk for a little while,” said Caina. “I need to clear my head. And I want to go where we won’t be overheard.”

“The Court of Justice should be empty this time of day, amirja,” said Artuk.

“Lead the way, please,” said Caina.

They walked through the grand corridors of the Golden Palace, and a short time later came to an enormous courtyard lined with a colonnade. The afternoon sun blazed like an inferno in the sky overhead, but thankfully Caina chose to walk in the shadows of the columns. She strode a few paces and came to a stop.

“Kalliope,” said Caina. “What did you sense from Zerada?”

“Her confusion was genuine when you showed her the chain,” said Kalliope. “She truly believed that it was still locked in the jewelry chest in her bedroom. The confusion and fear from each of her servants was likewise real. I think they feared they would be blamed and punished. Just as Zerada feared that she would receive the blame.”

“Aye, it’s just like a song, isn’t it?” said Caina. “The First Royal Concubine, scheming to put her son on the Most Divine Throne, willing to poison anyone in her way.”

“Except real life isn’t a story,” said Kalliope. “Caina, I really don’t think Zerada has anything to do with this. She’s…well, I don’t think she’s smart enough for that kind of intrigue.”

“Fools can do foolish things,” said Morgant.

“Aye, but my father always says you can’t cheat an honest fool,” said Kalliope. “I don’t think she has an ounce of malice in her heart.”

“I suspect you’re right,” said Caina. “I doubt Zerada hired Rithram or had anything to do with the assassination attempt. Whoever stole the chain put it in Rithram’s room to throw us off the real trail.”

“Whoever did it knows their business,” said Morgant.

“What do you mean?” said Kalliope.

“Rithram’s room was unlocked, any fool could have wandered in there,” said Morgant. “But the First Royal Concubine’s residence is guarded night and day, and the Radiant Guards aren’t idlers. You saw the lock on that jewelry chest. Caina’s better with locks than I am, but she’d still have to work to get through it.”

“You’re right,” said Caina. “It was one of Nerina Strake’s locks.”

“Was it?” said Morgant. “I didn’t notice.”

“Who is Nerina Strake?” said Kalliope.

“Best locksmith in Istarinmul,” said Caina.

“Bit eccentric,” said Morgant.

“You’re one to talk,” said Caina, but she sounded distracted, like the banter was more of a habit while she thought hard on other matters.

“Where should we go now, my lady?” said Sophia. “Are we going to speak to the poet?”

“It was strange that Lady Azar likes him so much and Lady Zerada dislikes him,” said Kalliope.

“It may not be strange,” said Caina. “As Zerada said, she is a merchant’s daughter and Azar comes from ancient royal blood. From the perspective of an artist, Lady Azar simply provides more opportunity for lucrative patronage than Zerada. If Kuradin becomes the favorite poet of the Great Royal Wife, the opportunity for profit is great.”

“We artists are a mercenary sort,” agreed Morgant.

“So Kuradin may be the sort of man who toadies to his social superiors and is cruel to his inferiors?” said Kalliope. “Such a man is untrustworthy to the extreme.”

“I quite agree,” said Caina. She looked at Artuk. “Khalmir, let us proceed to the Gilded Throne. I think it’s time I spoke with Kuradin in person.”

13

POETRY

They returned to the stables, and Caina and the others rode from the Golden Palace and to the Masters’ Quarter.

It was a short ride. Once, the Masters’ Quarter had held the palaces of the cowled masters of the Slavers’ Brotherhood. As time passed, various wealthy merchants and minor nobles moved into the palaces, which were often smaller (but relatively more affordable) than the grand structures of the Emirs’ Quarter.

Then Cassander Nilas killed all the cowled masters, and the Slavers’ Brotherhood collapsed. Since Cassander and the Red Huntress had also killed nearly all the heirs of the cowled masters, many of the palaces in Istarinmul had reverted to the Most Divine Throne. Sulaman had been selling them to various minor nobles or merchants who could afford them. He had offered one to Caina at a discounted price, and she had contemplated it for a few moments, but the thought of owning a palace built by one of the odious cowled masters turned her stomach.

Besides, when she came to Istarinmul, she had many other places to stay and no need for an ostentatious palace.

A flicker of memory went through her as she looked at the palace once owned by Ulvan, cowled master of the Slavers’ Brotherhood.

She had met Grand Master Callatas there for the first time, though Callatas had not remembered the encounter until years later.

“That balcony,” said Morgant in Caerish.

Caina repressed a sigh, knowing what was coming.

“The balcony on that abandoned palace?” said Kalliope. “What about it?”

“That was the one where the daring Balarigar hung Ulvan upside down and naked,” said Morgant. “Maybe we could ask Kuradin to make a poem about it.”

“I need a distraction so I could escape,” said Caina. “And Ulvan had been kidnapping people from Istarinmul to sell them to Callatas so he could murder them. I have done things I regret in my life, but destroying Ulvan’s reputation and crippling his business was not one of them.”

“Nor should they be,” said Artuk, his grim face somber beneath his gleaming helm. “Grand Master Callatas was a very wicked man, and so were his servants.”

“Perhaps you could make a painting of the scene,” said Sophia.

“For the Divine’s sake,” muttered Caina.

“Trust me, girl,” said Morgant. “No one would buy it. No one wanted to see Ulvan unclad.”

Thankfully, the conversation ended as they reached the Gilded Throne.

It was the most expensive inn in Istarinmul, and the building had once belonged to one of the cowled masters of the Brotherhood. Before Caina came to Istarinmul, the cowled master in question had gotten involved in the politics of Istarinmul’s nobility and ended up executed for his trouble. Some enterprising fellow had purchased the palace in question and transformed it into Istarinmul’s most expensive and luxurious inn.

Caina and the others rode through the gate and into the courtyard, an expansive place with a fountain and flowering bushes. Servants hurried to meet them. None of them recognized Caina, but the armor and cloak of a Radiant Guard of the Padishah commanded instant respect. In short order, their horses were stabled, and one of the servants led them through the corridors of the Gilden Throne to Kuradin’s room. The servant in question was a fat, balding little man named Hamad, and he kept apologizing with every other step.

“I must offer great apologies, most honored khalmir of the Radiant Guard,” said Hamad. “The poet is in residence in his rooms right now, yes. But I’m afraid he was rather the worse for wear last night, and he may not be…er, lucid.”

“That is all right,” said Artuk with glacial calm. “The Radiant Guard requires him to answer questions, so answer questions he shall. Whether he wishes it or not.”

“He was up late reciting for our guests,” said Hamad. “The master of the Gilded Throne gives Kuradin a discount if he recites. He is very good. His poems are so somber and martial. The Istarish guests most definitely enjoy them.”

“Somber?” said Caina. “I thought Kuradin was a comedic poet.”

Since Caina had not bothered to disguise her voice, Hamad gave her a startled look, decided that her identity was none of his business, and shrugged. “I cannot say. Perhaps he recites in multiple schools of poetry. Many poets do. Give the audience what they want, yes?”

Hamad came to a closed door of polished wood and knocked.

No one answered.

He knocked again, much louder and longer this time.

“Go away,” came a man’s muffled voice, followed by a long string of Istarish curses.

“The poet is indeed in residence,” said Hamad. “Er…if you want to…”

“I will wake him,” said Artuk. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Without any further hesitation, he opened the door and stepped inside, and Caina and the others followed him.

They stepped into a large, well-furnished bedroom. An archway led to a balcony overlooking the courtyard below, rays of afternoon sunlight slanting across the floor. A bed dominated one side of the room, the blankets tousled. It was hot and stuffy, and the air smelled of wine and sweat.

“What the devil is the meaning of this?” roared a male voice in Istarish. “I’ll gut you…”

A man erupted from the bed, a dagger in hand, and he came to a sudden halt as he saw Artuk’s armor and white cloak.

He was Istarish, with bronze-colored skin and dark hair, and Caina put his age at about thirty. The man was in good shape, which she could tell because he wore only a pair of loose trousers, revealing a well-muscled torso shaded with dark hair. He had one of the most handsome faces that Caina had ever seen, with a strong jaw, large, expressive eyes, and a close-cropped beard. Though at the moment, the eyes were bloodshot and dark-circled from a hangover.

Several expressions went over his face in rapid succession, finally settling on respectful calm.

“It is unwise to hold a weapon in the presence of a Radiant Guard, master poet,” said Artuk.

“Khalmir Artuk,” said Kuradin, tossing the dagger aside. “How might I serve? Has Lady Azar summoned me again?”

“What’s going on?” came a woman’s voice, and Caina saw a head with tousled black hair lift itself from the pillow. “Kuradin, what…”

She fell silent as she saw the newcomers.

“Get dressed and go, woman,” said Kuradin. “I’ve already paid you. Take your clothes and leave.”

Kalliope’s mouth twisted in disgust.

The woman, who did not look that much older than Sophia, rolled to her feet, hastily wrapping herself in the blanket. She snatched up her clothing and was out the door in the blink of an eye. Kuradin watched her go, smirked to himself, and then picked up a green coat with gold trim from the floor. He pulled it on, leaving the front of the coat open, and walked barefoot to the sideboard.

“Wine, khalmir?” said Kuradin, pouring himself a cup.

“I do not drink unmixed wine or strong spirits while on duty,” said Artuk, “and I can smell that wine from here.”

“As you will,” said Kuradin, taking a long drink. “So if you aren’t here because Lady Azar has summoned me…why are you here?” He looked Kalliope and Sophia over and grinned. “Did you bring me a present? A Kyracian woman and a…Saddaic girl, is that it?”

“Ulkaari,” said Sophia.

“Wherever the hell that is,” said Kuradin. He finished his cup of wine and filled it again. “They’re both pretty enough, so that’s quite a nice present. Don’t know why you didn’t keep them for yourself, though.” He belched, wiped his mouth, and took another drink of wine. “I know the Padishah doesn’t make his Radiant Guards become eunuchs.”

“The Countess Kardamnos wishes to question you,” said Kuradin.

Kuradin blinked at Caina several times. So far he had ignored her, save for a perfunctory glance when she had first walked into the room with the others. It seemed her skills had disguise had not waned, despite the year of relative peace that had passed after the fall of the Umbarian Order.

“And I thought I was drunk,” said Kuradin. “That’s not the Lady Kardamnos, that’s some ragged caravan guard. Or…” He paused, leaned closer, and blinked several times. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Damn me, you’re a woman dressed up as a man, aren’t you?”

“Was it a good disguise?” said Caina, not bothering to mask her voice.

“By the Living Flame, I’m not drunk enough for this yet.” Kuradin refilled his wine cup.

“You will remain sober enough to answer the amirja’s questions,” warned Artuk.

“So you’re her, aren’t you?” said Kuradin, turning back to Caina. “The Balarigar, the Liberator of Iramis, and all that?”

“People have called me that, yes,” said Caina.

“So, uh, then why are you dressed as man and standing here with a Radiant Guard?” said Kuradin.

“You know why,” said Caina. “Someone tried to poison Lady Azar. Maybe to kill her unborn child, maybe to kill her.”

“Oh,” said Kuradin. “So why are you here?”

“I want to find who did it,” said Caina.

“Well, that’s easy,” said Kuradin. He took a drink of wine. “It was Rithram.” He blinked, and then turned a beaming smile in Caina’s direction. It was like he had suddenly remembered that she was a woman and had decided to use his charm. “But I’m being rude. Would you like a drink? I suppose it’s a bit early in the day for it…”

“It’s two hours from sunset,” said Artuk with some disgust.

“Is it? Time just flies by when you’re having fun.”

“Rithram escaped,” said Caina, watching the poet.

“Aye. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone run that fast,” said Kuradin.

“I’d like you to tell me what happened,” said Caina. “The day that Rithram tried to poison Lady Azar.”

“Why?” said Kuradin. “I suppose Lady Azar, may the Living Flame smile upon her, already told you everything. And Artuk, as well. Rithram should be lucky he ran faster than Artuk.”

“Imagine this,” said Caina. “In the bazaar, two merchants crash their wagons into each other. Ten different people see it. How many different versions of what happened will you hear?”

Kuradin blinked. “Well…ten, I suppose. Oh, I see what you mean. You want to hear it in my own words. As you wish, then. Though I can’t imagine I can tell you anything you don’t already know.”

“Tell me anyway,” said Caina.

Kuradin blew out a long breath. Even across the distance separating them, Caina could smell the wine fumes. “As you wish, my lady. I’ve been a poet for…oh, some time now. Started out in the coffee houses, and then I did well enough that I drew the attention of the nobles. When the Most Divine Padishah started having poetry recitations for Lady Azar, I presented myself to the hakims, and they let me enter the competitions.” He grinned his charming smile. “I was humbly honored that Lady Azar found my poetry to her liking, and I won several of the competitions.” He gestured at the room with his wine cup. “Paid for all this splendor you see around me.” He winked. “And for the companionship.”

“The day of the attempted poisoning,” said Caina. “What happened?”

“Well.” Kuradin scratched his chin. “I had a new composition I was reciting for Lady Azar. The Padishah was there as well. I suppose he’s worried about her health or something. Anyway, I had just finished reciting my newest poem, and Lady Azar liked it. The Padishah called for a break, and he asked the servants to bring out some refreshments. So I was wandering around the terrace while the food was brought out.”

“Why were you wandering around the terrace?” said Caina.

“I wasn’t hungry,” said Kuradin, “and I knew the servants weren’t going to bring out any wine, only tea.” He grinned. “And some of the female servants sometimes get lonely, you know. Like a nice little tumble in the bushes.”

“No doubt,” said Caina. Her initial impression of Kuradin was that of a debauched fool, a man who was making his way through life with a combination of charm and his skill at poetry. Caina couldn’t imagine that the poetry from someone like Kuradin would appeal to either Sulaman or Azar, both of whom tended towards the thoughtful and somber. Yet Azar was in poor health and exhausted from the pregnancy, and if Kuradin’s poems made her laugh, no doubt the Padishah would welcome the distraction for the Great Royal Wife. “I have heard from others that you were the one who warned that the tea was poisoned.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Kuradin. “Good thing that I did, too. Else I would have lost Lady Azar’s patronage.” He paused, perhaps realizing how that made him sound. “And it would have been a tragedy if she had lost the baby, of course.”

“Of course,” said Caina. “How did you know that the tea was poisoned?”

“Because Rithram is in love with Lady Azar, obviously,” said Kuradin.

Artuk scowled at that. “Are you accusing the Great Royal Wife of an affair?”

“No, no, no, of course not,” said Kuradin, a flicker of fear showing on his handsome face for the first time. “That kind of accusation gets your head chopped off. And I don’t believe it, anyway. But I think Rithram is in love with Azar, or at least obsessed with her. He was always watching her, always staring at her.”

“He is a dutiful slave, attentive to his mistress,” said Artuk.

“Maybe. Maybe,” said Kuradin. “But perhaps he’s in love with her, or maybe he’s just obsessed. He’s not wise like me.”

“What wisdom is that?” said Caina.

Kuradin shrugged. “One woman is much the same as another. So long as she’s not too ugly or not too fat, what difference does it make? One is just as good as another.” He winked at her. “At least for what I need a woman to do.”

“I trust you have not shared those opinions with Lady Azar,” said Caina. “Or with the Padishah.”

“Of course not,” said Kuradin with a hint of asperity. “I’m not stupid. I want to keep Lady Azar’s patronage. If she wants me to write a poem about some fool pining so badly for a woman he keeps himself chaste for her, that’s her business.”

“Indeed,” said Caina. “So you were suspicious of Rithram, which is why you were watching him.”

“Yes,” said Kuradin. “And it’s a good thing that I did, too, because I saw him sprinkle something into Lady Azar’s tea. At first, I couldn’t believe what I had seen. Then I tried to tell myself that he had sprinkled extra cinnamon or cloves or something into the tea. But that’s stupid. Lady Azar’s stomach is always upset because of the baby. There’s no way she’s going to ask for spicy tea, and Rithram knows it.” He glanced at Artuk. “So I walked up to Rithram to ask what he had put in the tea. He got angry with me. Started speaking more impertinently than he should have, a slave speaking to a free man. And a noble, to boot.”

“I wasn’t aware that you were Lord Kuradin,” said Caina.

Kuradin made a dismissive gesture, a little wine slopping over the rim of his cup from the motion. “The son of a concubine of a minor emir. It’s not something that concerns me much. But a slave should speak more respectfully to a free man. Anyway, the noise drew Artuk’s attention, and the most noble khalmir came to see what was happening.”

“That was when I smelled the Desert’s Kiss in the tea,” said Artuk. “The odor had not yet dissipated.”

“I told Artuk I had just seen Rithram sprinkle something into Lady Azar’s tea,” said Kuradin. “So Rithram just threw the tray into Artuk, turned around, and started running. By the Living Flame, I didn’t know the wiry little bastard could move that fast. Everyone started shouting, and Artuk was running after Rithram.”

“What happened then?” said Caina.

“I don’t really know,” said Kuradin. “Once everything calmed down, the Padishah had some of his Alchemists test the tea. Turns out it really was poisoned.” He beamed. “The Padishah even thanked me for the warning and gave me a purse of gold.”

“Which you have put to good use, I see,” said Sophia. Her expression was calm but stiff. Caina was not surprised that she had taken a dislike to Kuradin.

“For all you know, we could all die tomorrow,” said Kuradin. He winked at Sophia. “Might as well enjoy life while it lasts, aye? Both you and the Kyracian woman look like you could use a good hard…”

“Have you seen Rithram anywhere else outside the Golden Palace?” said Caina before Kuradin could finish the question.

“Eh?” said Kuradin.

“You’ve only been staying at the Gilded Throne since the Padishah awarded you that purse of gold,” said Caina.

“How could you possibly know that?” said Kuradin, baffled.

“Because I’m familiar with the Gilded Throne,” said Caina. “It’s expensive, and the owner will only let you stay here as long as your gold lasts. Once you run out of coins, you’re going to have to find cheaper accommodation.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” said Kuradin. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Everyone else I have spoken with is part of the royal court,” said Caina. “You’re not. I assume you were staying elsewhere in the city before the Gilded Throne. Which means you might have seen Rithram somewhere else.”

It was a stab in the dark, but it paid off.

“You know, I think I have,” said Kuradin. “I have seen Rithram at the Shahenshah’s Seat. Do you know it?”

“It’s an inn and a tavern on the southern edge of the city,” said Caina. “At the Anshani Bazaar before the southern gate.”

“That’s where I was staying when I first came back to Istarinmul,” said Kuradin. “It’s new enough and clean enough. I suppose it burned down during the Istarish civil war and it was rebuilt.”

“I heard that some renegade sorcerer summoned a fire elemental to burn it down,” said Morgant.

Caina glanced at him. That was, in fact, what had happened. Cassander Nilas had summoned a fire elemental to kill her, and in the process the Shahenshah’s Seat had burned to the ground. Kuradin didn’t need to know that, though.

“Who knows?” said Kuradin. “But now that I think back, I’m pretty sure I saw Rithram there several times. I suppose it makes sense. An Anshani man would want to drink in the Anshani Quarter.”

“Why did you not mention this earlier?” said Artuk with a scowl.

Kuradin shrugged. “I didn’t think of it. No one asked me. But if someone did, I would say that Rithram’s hiding somewhere in the tenements of the Anshani Quarter. He wouldn’t stand out there.”

“We shall consider that,” said Artuk.

“Have you ever met Lady Zerada, the First Royal Concubine?” said Caina.

“Once or twice,” said Kuradin. He shrugged. “I haven’t bothered to pay much attention to her. She’s a breeding cow.”

“I suggest you moderate your words,” said Artuk, “for that is a member of House Tarshahzon, even if she is not the Great Royal Wife.”

Kuradin offered a hasty bow. “That was a poor choice of words. What I meant to say is that…she doesn’t matter as much as the Great Royal Wife, does she? Lady Zerada was the first woman to have a child for the Padishah, but she’s the daughter of some money-grubbing timber merchant. Not the daughter of the Shahenshah like Lady Azar. Lady Zerada is there to pop out backup heirs for the Padishah. Lady Azar’s opinion matters much more. So I don’t concern myself with the First Royal Concubine.”

“Thank you for your time, Lord Kuradin,” said Caina. His lip twitched in amusement at the title, but he said nothing. “One more question.”

“Of course, Lady Kardamnos,” said Kuradin.

“Have you ever heard of the Cult of Rhadamathar?”

Kuradin laughed. “The Cult of Rhadamathar? The snake-kissers? They’re a bunch of bored Anshani women who have nothing better to do. Or who can’t be satisfied by their husbands, so they dream of something thicker and longer, if you catch my hint.”

“Alas, you have left little room for misinterpretation,” said Caina.

Kuradin grinned and winked at Kalliope. “Though that’s not a problem I have. Let’s just say that your Kyracian and Ulkaari friend would be very satisfied indeed.”

“If he is saying uncouth things to me,” said Kalliope in Kyracian, “I shall freeze the blood in his veins.”

“If you think of anything else,” said Caina, “please contact one of the Radiant Guards. They will arrange for you to speak with me.”

“I hope you find Rithram, my lady,” said Kuradin.

“Because you might lose your patron?” said Caina.

“Of course,” said Kuradin without hesitation. “But…she really is rather kindly. Most high nobles will skin you just as soon as look at you. But Lady Azar deserves better than to have a wretched slave like Rithram kill her.”

* * *

Kalliope held her tongue as they walked back to the courtyard of the Gilded Throne and their waiting horses. She had liked Lady Zerada, even if the First Royal Concubine did not seem to be the sharpest sword in the armory, and had been relieved when she could honestly tell Caina that there had been nothing suspicious in Zerada’s reactions.

The same could not be said of Kuradin.

“What did you think?” said Caina in Kyracian once they returned to the courtyard.

“That odious little man!” burst out Kalliope before Caina had even finished speaking. “He spent the entire time leering at me and Sophia. At me, a daughter of House Agramemnos and a child of Lysikas Stormblade! And Sophia is far too young for such things. And all this after he had just defiled with a whore!”

Artuk turned a look of mild alarm towards Kalliope.

“Let us switch to Caerish,” said Caina. “I take it you did not care for the master poet?”

“Not in the least,” said Kalliope. “The lust was radiating from him like the heat from an oven. I have no doubt all sorts of lecherous thoughts were constantly running through his head about both me and Sophia.”

“But not the Balarigar?” said Morgant in a dry voice.

Kalliope blinked, wondering if Caina would take offense. Which was absurd. Why should Caina be offended that some debauched fool had been lusting after Kalliope and Sophia but not Caina?

“No,” said Caina. “I was dressed as a man, and I still have the stubble makeup. That threw him off. And he was a little afraid of me, or at least of my reputation.”

“He was,” agreed Kalliope.

“Do you think he lied to you, my lady?” said Sophia.

“Oh, I’m certain he lied about something,” said Caina. “Probably to make himself look better. I don’t think he cares what happens to Lady Azar.”

Artuk growled. “Then he plots against the Great Royal Wife?”

“I don’t know,” said Caina. “I doubt he cares about Azar, but that’s not the same as plotting against her. The fact is that if she dies, he loses his patron. No more expensive whores at the Gilded Throne. He’ll have to go back to reciting comedic poems at coffee houses.”

“I thought the Istarish did not like comedic poetry,” said Sophia.

“Not really,” said Artuk. “We prefer epics of many verses where the heroes die nobly but victoriously at the end.”

“Lady Azar is Anshani, and her tastes are different. But we’re getting away from the main point,” said Caina. “What did you sense from Kuradin during our conversation?”

“Lust, mostly,” said Kalliope. “And a lot of anger.”

“At me?” said Caina. “For questioning him? Or at Artuk?”

“At…well, everything,” said Kalliope. “He seems a very angry man. Angry at the world, I would have to say. I think that if Lady Azar were not the Great Royal Wife, she would see a much sharper side of his tongue.”

“Would he have put the poison in the tea?” said Artuk, scowling in the direction of Kuradin’s room.

“Perhaps? But I very much doubt it,” said Kalliope. “He strikes me as an utterly selfish man. He would only take such an enormous risk if it offered equally enormous gain. And what would he gain from poisoning Lady Azar? Like Caina said, he would lose his patron. I suspect he has much more to gain from Lady Azar's survival.”

Artuk growled. “Those who serve the Padishah should do so out of love for him and his honor.”

“That would be ideal,” said Caina. “But if they do not love him, then we can at least settle for not betraying him.” Artuk inclined his plumed helmet to concede the point. “Meanwhile, I think we should go to the Shahenshah’s Seat next.”

“Why?” said Morgant. “A thousand different people must have come and gone from the Seat since Rithram fled the Golden Palace.”

“If Rithram tried to poison Azar for some personal reason, if he has the wit the Divine gave a flea, he’ll be halfway to the free cities by now,” said Caina. “But if he’s part of the Cult of Rhadamathar, he might have stayed nearby to prepare a new plan.” She tapped her temple. “I have the vision of the valikarion, and I know what the aura of a shrine to Rhadamathar looks like. We might be able to learn something.”

“Just don’t burn it down this time,” said Morgant.

“Wait,” said Kalliope, confused. “I thought you said a fire elemental burned down the Shahenshah’s Seat.”

“Oh, it did,” said Morgant. “It was there to kill Caina. Our bold Balarigar has a habit of burning down buildings.”

“It wasn’t that many,” said Caina as the servants brought their horses out.

“The Widow’s Tower,” said Morgant, ticking off points on his fingers. “The Craven’s Tower. The Shahenshah’s Seat. That inn in Rumarah. The Inferno…”

Artuk did not move, but when Morgant mentioned the Inferno, whatever that was, a dark spike of emotion that Kalliope could not identify went through his aura. The Inferno had left a deep impression on him.

“Oh, and the tower of the Slavers’ Brotherhood,” continued Morgant, “and you burned down the entirety of Pyramid Isle.”

“You burned down an island?” said Kalliope, both fascinated and horrified.

“I didn’t burn down an island,” said Caina. “I happened to set fire to the forest on the island. It…got slightly out of hand.”

“The mill in Kostiv when we first met,” volunteered Sophia.

Caina sighed. “Not you, too.”

“Sophia Zomanek!” said Morgant, pleased. “And to think I was beginning to despair of the younger generation. There is hope for you yet.”

14

THE GARDENER

Caina and the others left the Masters’ Quarter and rode south. They left the richest portions of the city around the Golden Palace and the Emirs’ Quarter, crossed south through the Tower Quarter and the Old Quarter, and finally came south to the Anshani Quarter.

It was the poorest region of the city, filled with many looming tenements of questionable construction. The main street leading to Istarinmul’s southern gate was safe enough, but Caina would not have ventured into the side streets and alleys alone during the day unless she had a good reason.

Or a very good disguise, which she had done several times.

They reached the Anshani Bazaar, the great market lying before the city’s southern gate. Merchant booths filled the square, selling a bewildering array of goods. Most of the shops and booths and stalls catered to the endless stream of caravans that traveled along the Great Southern Road to the realms of the Shahenshah and the city of Anshan itself.

Since most of the caravans that arrived in Istarinmul from the south came from Anshan, the main inn and tavern overlooking the bazaar had taken the name of the Shahenshah’s Seat, half in tribute, half in mockery, since many of the Anshani who made their way to Istarinmul had fallen out with the ruler and nobles of Anshan in one way or another.

The Shahenshah’s Seat was an impressive building, rising four stories above the bazaar. The white plaster covering its stone walls still gleamed bright and fresh. As Morgant had said, the building was relatively new. The previous inn had burned down, and it had been fully rebuilt soon after Sulaman had claimed the throne of his father. The large stable along one side of the building was new. Servants came out to take their horses, and Caina paid them, her eyes on the bulk of the Shahenshah’s Seat itself.

“Will these innkeepers look well after our horses?” said Artuk, turning a stern look upon the grooms.

“Yes,” said Caina, listening with half an ear. “I know the owner of the Shahenshah’s Seat. He doesn’t approve of laxness.”

Her eyes moved over the walls of the inn, seeking.

Her breath hissed through her teeth.

Yes. There it was.

“My lady?” said Sophia, who had noticed Caina’s reaction.

“There’s an arcane aura on the top floor of the Shahenshah’s Seat,” said Caina. “I can just make it out.”

“What kind of arcane aura?” said Morgant, his hands drifting to the sheathed dagger and scimitar upon his belt.

“Similar to a shrine to Rhadamathar I saw in Malarae,” said Caina.

“Like the temple beneath the catacombs?” said Kalliope.

“No,” said Caina. “More like the small shrine that I saw in the house of Livia Moranea. It’s not powerful, but it might be dangerous enough.”

“What manner of danger?” said Artuk.

“I’m not entirely certain how it works,” said Caina, “but there are various rites the followers of Rhadamathar use to give themselves a minor level of arcane power. When Livia Moranea tried to kill me, she did so with a dagger that had been enspelled with poison.”

“Then let us enter and investigate,” said Artuk.

“No. I should go alone,” said Caina. “A Radiant Guard’s cloak will draw attention.” Indeed, a few people in the crowded bazaar had given Artuk curious looks, wondering why a Radiant Guard had come to the Anshani Bazaar.

“She’s right, but she still shouldn’t go alone,” said Morgant. “I’ll come.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” said Caina.

Morgant shrugged. “If you get killed, then I’ll have to explain to the Kyracian how you died. And the Padishah, and the Prince of Iramis, and on and on and on. It will get very tedious very quickly.”

“Your concern is touching,” said Caina. She turned to Kalliope, Sophia, and Artuk. “Wait here. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

None of them looked happy with her instructions, but they nodded.

“I assume we’ll not be taking the front door?” said Morgant.

“No,” said Caina. “This way.”

She and Morgant walked towards the Shahenshah’s Seat, and Caina led the way into the alley behind the stables. It was a narrow, dark space, and it smelled of urine. Back when Callatas had ruled Istarinmul, a place like this would have been full of wraithblood addicts. Now it was empty, though Caina spotted a few rats skittering to their hiding places as she and Morgant approached.

“Just like the old days,” murmured Morgant.

“Aren’t you old enough that all your days are the old days?” said Caina. They circled into the courtyard behind the inn. She looked back and forth but did not see anyone watching them. “I suppose when you and I met, it was recent for you.”

“Recent for you, too,” said Morgant. “It wasn’t that long ago. I assume we’re going to use the secret door?”

“Yes,” said Caina, scrutinizing the stones of the wall. She hadn’t been lying when she said she knew the owner of the Shahenshah’s Seat. The owner, in fact, was Prince Nasser of Iramis, and after the first building had burned down, he bought the land and rebuilt the inn.

With a few additions, of course.

Caina pressed one of the stones, and the hidden door swung open, revealing a narrow shaft built into the wall. A metal ladder had been affixed to the stone. Caina gestured with her left hand, sending a mental command to her pyrikon, and the bracelet shifted, giving off a pale white light. She went through the doorway and jumped onto the ladder, and Morgant followed, closing the door behind him. That would have plunged the shaft into darkness, but the pale glow from Caina’s pyrikon drove back the gloom.

They climbed until they came to the top floor of the Shahenshah’s seat. Caina pushed at the wall, and the hidden door swung open. She moved through it in silence, and Morgant followed, closing the door behind him. His black dagger was in his right hand, and to the vision of the valikarion, the weapon gave off a harsh glow of arcane power.

Far stronger than the faint yet strange aura Caina saw ahead.

Faint it might have been, but it was there, and it was similar to the one that she had seen around Livia Moranea’s hidden shrine in Malarae.

She looked at Morgant and pointed, and the assassin nodded. Caina led the way forward, a throwing knife in her right hand, ready to fling the weapon or stab as need be. She went around a corridor, the aura glimmering before her eyes, and she finally stopped before a closed wooden door leading to one of the guest rooms.

Morgant looked at her, a question in his eyes, and she nodded. He stepped back and leaned against the wall, the black dagger hidden in the shadow of his coat. Caina pressed her ear to the gap between the door and the jamb and listened. She heard the faint murmur of voices from the Anshan Bazaar below, the creak of the building, the distant conversations in the common room of the inn, the rasp of her own breathing, which always sounded too loud in situations like this.

But from behind the door, she heard nothing.

She looked at Morgant and shook her head, and he gave a faint nod.

Caina dropped to one knee, drawing a lockpick from her belt. The lock on the door was decent but comparatively simple, and she made short work of it. The bolt released, and Caina opened the door, stepping to the side just in case someone was waiting on the other side with a loaded crossbow.

The room beyond was simple. A wooden bed against one wall, a wooden chair in the corner, and a small table. Caina had stayed in similar rooms countless times during her travels.

Most rented rooms, however, did not have the twisted-knot sign of Rhadamathar painted in dried blood on the far wall. The faint arcane aura surrounded it, and Caina knew that someone had used that shrine to call on the power of Rhadamathar.

She looked back at Morgant, which saved their lives.

Caina and Morgant had done this kind of thing before numerous times. Both were experts at stealth, they knew the folly of unnecessary conversation when breaking into somewhere you weren’t supposed to be, and they could communicate by gesture and expression. So she looked back at Morgant just in time to see a door further down the hall swing open on silent hinges and a man spring into the hallway. He was short, wiry, and middle-aged, and that was all Caina noticed before she saw the weapon blurring in his hand, a spinning cord with small weights on either end.

A bola. A cumbersome weapon, but in the hands of a skilled wielder, absolutely deadly. A properly thrown bola at short range could snap the neck and crush the windpipe of a strong man or bind his arms and legs in entangling cords.

Caina had only ever faced one group of foes who wielded bolas.

She flung herself against the wall, ducking her chin to protect her neck, but Morgant was already moving. His dagger made a dark blur in his hand, and the severed cords of the bola shot past him to smack against the floor with a clatter. He leaped forward, a black shadow in his coat, and the wiry man moved to meet him in a blur of punching hands and kicking feet.

He was good. Very, very good.

Morgant the Razor was better.

A few seconds later, the wiry man was on his knees, his right arm wrenched behind his back at a painful angle, Morgant’s black dagger rock-steady at his throat. Caina moved closer, taking a good look at him. Middle-aged, Anshani, with dark skin and dark hair, an old scar that slashed across his nose and the right side of his jaw. He was lean to the point of gauntness, but Caina saw the wiry strength in his muscles, the strain as Morgant held him in place.

He perfectly matched the description of Rithram.

“Your name is Rithram,” said Caina in Anshani, not bothering to disguise her voice.

A brief look of confusion went over Rithram’s face, and then the angry defiance returned.

“Dogs of Rhadamathar!” he hissed. “May the Living Flame blast and damn you!”

Caina shared a confused look with Morgant.

Rithram thought they were adherents of Rhadamathar?

Caina dropped to a squat so she could look Rithram in the eye. The little man glared at her.

“I denounce Rhadamathar,” she said, “and defy all his servants and his works.”

“Rhadamathar can go bugger himself with a hot poker for all I care,” said Morgant.

Again the look of confusion went over Rithram’s face, but the defiance returned.

“Lies and deceptions,” he hissed. “Draw your blade over my throat, snake-kissers. I will not yield!”

“Get him inside,” said Caina.

Morgant nodded and propelled Rithram forward. The little man tried to break free, but Morgant had leverage, and he pushed Rithram into the room with the shrine of Rhadamathar. Caina followed, looked up and down the hall, and closed the door behind them.

“I am not a servant of Rhadamathar,” said Caina, “and I am going to prove it to you.”

“Lies,” said Rithram. “You are…”

His voice trailed off as Caina held out her right hand and summoned her valikon. The blade assembled itself out of shards of silver light, and Rithram’s dark eyes widened in amazement. Caina turned and slashed the ghostsilver blade through the sign of Rhadamathar on the wall. The hilt warmed beneath her fingers, and the dark aura around the symbol unraveled.

Morgant kept his grip on Rithram and his dagger at the smaller man’s throat, but Rithram no longer struggled.

“A valikon,” he whispered. “You are a valikarion knight. But a woman? Who are you?”

Some instinct told Caina that the truth would serve her best here.

“My name,” she said, “is Caina Scorneus Amalas Tarshahzon Kardamnos, amirja of Istarinmul, adopted sister of House Tarshahzon, and I’m trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”

Morgant released Rithram, and he fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor at Caina’s feet.

“Forgive this slave,” said Rithram. “I did not recognize who you truly were.”

“I noticed,” said Caina.

“Slave?” said Morgant as Rithram rose back to his feet. “This one’s no slave.”

Rithram turned an impassive look at Morgant. “You speak of things you do not know. I am a slave, and there can be no greater honor or service than being the slave of my master.”

“There is only one group of men who can use a bola like that,” said Morgant. “The Bostaji assassins.”

“The Gardeners of the Shahenshah of Anshan,” said Caina.

“You know of us?” said Rithram, frowning.

“I have never been to Anshan,” said Caina, “but I have heard that the Shahenshah keeps vast gardens of stunning beauty around his palace. When someone displeases him or betrays him, the Shahenshah releases the prisoner into his gardens at night. If the prisoner can cross the gardens to the gate, he is permitted to leave with his life, his sentence commuted and his crimes pardoned. But they never do. The Shahenshah’s gardeners, his Bostaji, always hunt down the prisoners and strangle them before they escape.”

Rithram drew himself up with pride, something like fanaticism shining in his eyes.

“You are almost correct, amirja,” said Rithram. “But the Bostaji are not paid assassins. We are indeed the gardeners of the Shahenshah, for we uproot the weeds of treason that sprout in his realm. We are his joyful slaves, for the Shahenshah is the chosen of the Living Flame, the holy anointed one selected to rule the world, the representative of divinity upon this earth. What greater honor could there be than to serve as the slave of such a man?”

“I know well your skill,” said Caina, who had almost been killed by a Bostaji assassin once. “Did the Shahenshah send you to kill Lady Azar?”

A shiver of anger went through Rithram’s frame, but he controlled it.

“You speak of what you do not know,” said Rithram.

“Everyone at the Golden Palace seems to think you tried to kill Azar,” said Caina. “There’s a Radiant Guard outside who will cut off your head if he gets a chance. The Padishah himself asked me to find you. So if you’re not here to kill Lady Azar, then what are you doing?”

“I will not betray my master’s secrets,” said Rithram. “I will not betray my duty.”

“If you do not speak with me, you will fail your duty,” said Caina, her mind racing.

Rithram frowned at her. “You make bold claims.”

“My claims are not bold, they are simple logic,” said Caina. “If you are not here to kill Lady Azar, then you’re here to protect her. And if you didn’t try to kill her, that means whoever did make an attempt on her life is free to act while we stand here arguing with one another.”

“It is said,” said Rithram, “that the valikarion knights of old could perceive deep mysteries. I see that at least some of these tales are true. You are right. I am here to protect Lady Azar.”

“So why does the Shahenshah send a Bostaji assassin to protect his daughter?” said Morgant.

“Because my lord the Shahenshah loved Lady Azar’s mother,” said Rithram. “He loved many women, of course, for it is an honor for a woman to bear a child of the holy blood of the Shahenshah. But he loved Azar’s mother dearly, and her death grieved him. So when her child went north to wed the Padishah, the Shahenshah decreed that one Bostaji would accompany Lady Azar to protect her from the intrigues of the Istarish court. I was given this great honor by the Shahenshah himself.”

Caina watched him, wishing that Kalliope was here. She could see several things in Rithram’s face and posture – she could tell that he was dangerous, that while Morgant might have been able to take him in hand-to-hand combat, Caina doubted that she could manage the same feat. Utter sincerity, even fanatic sincerity, all but glowed on his face.

Or he was an excellent actor.

“If that is your duty,” said Caina, “then why does Lady Azar think you tried to kill her?”

“Because,” said Rithram, “the vile Cult of Rhadamathar has decided to slay her and her unborn child. Why, I do not know, but they have set themselves against her.”

“Explain,” said Caina.

“The Cult is one of the religions of Anshan,” said Rithram. “A minor one and of little consideration. Yet of late, they have been raising discord in the realm of the Padishah.”

“What manner of discord?” said Caina.

“Assassinations of minor nobles,” said Rithram. “The death of a khadjar, for instance, before he can sire an heir. The inheritance falls into dispute, and there is war. Such is the nature of things, of course, but the Cultists have been deliberately causing such strife. I received word from my brothers in Anshan that an attempt was even made upon the life of the most holy Shahenshah himself. The skill of the Bostaji defeated it, but I received a message to remain on my guard.”

“Then you knew that the Cult might be planning an attempt upon the life of the Lady Azar,” said Caina. “What did you do to prepare?”

“I began coming to the Shahenshah’s Seat to feign drunkenness,” said Rithram. “Lady Azar, with her generous heart, allows her slaves such liberties when they are not on duty. It seemed a logical course, for I had only heard of the Cult in the southern reaches of Anshan, and therefore Rhadamathar’s followers would most likely gather in the Anshani Quarter.”

“Go on,” said Caina.

“I soon realized that there was indeed a small group of Cultists within the city,” said Rithram. “They were led by a man named Ardakh who possessed arcane powers.”

Only long practice kept the surprise from Caina’s face.

One of the leaders in the Cultists in Malarae had been an Anshani man named Ardakh. He had been one of the Fangs of the Serpents, who were high-level agents of the Cult. Ardakh had acted as the High Priest’s chief lieutenant, commanding the other Cultists and preparing them for the assassination attempt on the Emperor and the Padishah.

That said, Ardakh was a very common Anshani name, a shortened version of Ardashir or Ardakhan. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for there to be a thousand men named Ardakh in Istarinmul.

Yet it was a disturbing coincidence.

“Describe this Ardakh to me,” said Caina.

“A tall man of lordly bearing,” said Rithram. “Black hair, black eyes, and black beard. His voice is pleasant and strong.” That sounded disturbingly like the Ardakh that Caina had met and fought in Malarae. “More, he was known to me as a troublemaker.”

“How so?” said Caina.

“He was one of the sons of the lord khadjar of Lagash,” said Rithram. “It was said he had an interest in strange and esoteric religions, and practiced sorcery that even the occultists of the Shahenshah’s court found undesirable. Ardakh fled into the southern satrapies some years ago and disappeared. No doubt that is where he became a follower of the serpent god.”

“Perhaps,” said Caina. “If you had your suspicions of Ardakh and the Cultists, why didn’t you go to Lady Azar? Or to the Radiant Guards?

“I had no proof,” said Rithram. “In Istarinmul it is not a crime to pray to a god of your own choosing. For that matter, I was commanded to remain in secret, nothing more than a slave of the blood of the Shahenshah. The Gardeners do their work in secrecy, and all continued to think me a domestic slave and nothing more.” He paused. “Perhaps, in hindsight, the path of wisdom may have been to seek aid.”

“Oh, perhaps,” said Morgant with a sardonic edge to his voice.

“What’s done is done,” said Caina. She did not want Morgant to try his usual technique of irritating someone on a Bostaji assassin. Perhaps Morgant likewise realized the danger, for he said nothing more. “I assume you kept watch on the Cultists?”

“I did,” said Rithram. “As much as I could. I am, but one man and I was often needed at the Golden Palace when Lady Azar required my presence. And I did not see any cause for much alarm, at least not at first. Ardakh had but a half-dozen followers, and they met either at the Shahenshah’s Seat or at a warehouse several blocks east of here. I observed all his followers, but none of them worked in the Golden Palace nor anywhere near it.” He sighed. “Yet for days at a time, I could not spy on them. No doubt Ardakh prepared some evil then.”

“The day you were accused of poisoning Lady Azar’s tea,” said Caina. “Tell me what happened.

“Lady Azar and her husband the Padishah were listening to poets on the terrace,” said Rithram. “The last one was that Kuradin fellow, a fool who has far too high of an opinion of himself.”

“You don’t care for poetry?” said Caina.

“Kuradin talks too much,” said Rithram. “He had finished his recitation, and so I went to the kitchen to retrieve the tea and cakes for Lady Azar.”

“Which kitchen?” said Caina. “There are several in the Golden Palace.”

“The nearest one to the terrace,” said Rithram. “If you turn left off the corridor leading to the northern terrace, you will come to the kitchen.”

“I know it,” said Caina. “Tell me exactly what happened when you tried to serve the tea.”

“I went to the kitchen,” said Rithram. “The other household slaves of Lady Azar were there. They had prepared the tea and poured it into an appropriate kettle, and the cucumbers were there as well. I took the tray and carried it to the terrace.”

“Did you notice anything wrong with it?” said Caina.

“Nothing,” said Rithram. “I would not have carried it to Lady Azar if I had noticed anything amiss.”

“When you reached the terrace, did you stop to sprinkle anything into the tea?” said Caina. “Spice, perhaps?”

“Or the Desert’s Kiss?” said Rithram. “No. I did not. I reached the terrace, and that poet stormed up to me and demanded to know what I had put into the tea. I had no idea what he was talking about, but he began shouting about poison, and khalmir Artuk approached. That was when I smelled it for the first time – the Desert’s Kiss. It is a sharp smell, much like lavender, and not one easily forgotten after you have smelled it for the first time.”

“And you know that smell?” said Caina.

“I am a Gardener of the Shahenshah,” said Rithram. “Our education in such things is extensive.”

“You threw the tray and ran,” said Caina. “Why?”

“I realized at that moment I had made a grave error,” said Rithram. “The Cult had indeed come to Istarinmul to kill Lady Azar. They must have noticed my investigations and then arranged matters so that I would be framed for attempting to poison the Great Royal Wife.”

“Why not explain this?” said Caina. “Why run?”

“The Radiant Guards would have cut me down before I could speak,” said Rithram. “They are trained to use deadly force when confronted with threats to their lord, as is proper. For that matter, even if I convinced the Radiant Guards not to slay me, Mazyan surely would. He is a fighter whom even a Bostaji should fear. At that moment, my duty was clear. To defend Lady Azar, I had to escape and capture the leaders of the Cult. I flung my tray at the khalmir and ran.”

“You had an escape prepared already,” said Caina. “The ropes in the tower along the outer wall.”

“Of course,” said Rithram as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I had several escape routes prepared for fleeing the Golden Palace. Perhaps one day, it would be necessary to take Lady Azar from the palace and flee to avoid some deadly peril. It is only prudent.”

“It’s been nearly two weeks since that day,” said Caina. “What have you been doing since then?”

“Hunting Ardakh and the leaders of the Cult,” said Rithram. “They have a shrine in this inn, and another in a warehouse several blocks east of here. I watched and waited, knowing that the leaders would come back soon. And my vigil has been fruitful. Earlier this afternoon I saw Ardakh enter the warehouse.”

“Did you, now,” said Caina.

Perhaps that was proof he was lying. Ardakh had been in Malarae until recently. A ship could travel from Malarae to Istarinmul with relative speed. But even if Ardakh had left Malarae aboard a ship the second the High Priest had fallen to Caina’s valikon, there was no way, no way at all, he could have gotten to Istarinmul until tomorrow at the absolute earliest.

And yet…

Several disturbing thoughts occurred to Caina.

She didn’t think Rithram was lying to her.

Caina could be wrong, but she suspected that he was telling the truth, or at least the truth as he thought it had happened.

And Caina had been able to travel from Malarae to Istarinmul in an hour using the Tower of the Cataphract.

What if the Cult of Rhadamathar had a similar method?

What if Ardakh was here now, right now, and planning something similar to what the Cult had attempted in Malarae?

“Morgant,” said Caina, watching Rithram. “Go downstairs and tell the others to join us. Please keep khalmir Artuk from killing Rithram on sight.”

“Are you sure you want to be left alone with him?” said Morgant.

“I am,” said Caina. “I think Rithram is a man of honor in his own way, and I suspect we are on the same side.”

Morgant gave her a hard look, turned it toward Rithram, and then shrugged. “Very well. You should know, though, that her husband is almost as good a swordsman as I am. If you kill her, he will hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

“As I would expect,” said Rithram. “Kylon Shipbreaker has a mighty reputation.”

Morgant left without another word, leaving Caina alone with Rithram.

“You know that Lady Azar thinks you’re part of the Cult of Rhadamathar,” said Caina.

“I thought as much,” said Rithram. “I assume evidence was planted within my room to reinforce that impression.”

“A pendant of Rhadamathar,” said Caina. “Hidden at the bottom of your chest, beneath your spare clothing.”

“Ah,” said Rithram. “A clever stratagem. These are indeed formidable foes.”

“Have you ever spoken with the First Royal Concubine?” said Caina.

“No, that would not be proper,” said Rithram. “I am a household slave of the Great Royal Wife, not the First Royal Concubine.”

“What is your impression of the relationship between Lady Azar and Lady Zerada?” said Caina.

“I do not believe there is one,” said Rithram. “Lady Azar believes that Zerada hates her. In truth, I suspect Zerada is daunted by Lady Azar’s high birth and mistakenly believes that Lady Azar looks down upon her.” He shrugged. “Lady Azar has a kindly heart. No doubt that must be why she can tolerate that preening poet.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and Morgant returned with Kalliope, Sophia, and Artuk. The Radiant Guard went rigid at the sight of Rithram, his hand dropping to his scimitar hilt. For his part, Rithram remained motionless, his expression somber.

“So, amirja,” said Artuk. “You have found the would-be assassin.”

“Wait,” said Caina. “I don’t believe he tried to kill Azar.”

Artuk’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Why?”

“Because he is a Gardener of the Shahenshah, devoted to protecting Azar from any threats,” said Caina. “Much as Mazyan is devoted to protecting the Padishah.”

“That is not your secret to give,” said Rithram.

“No, it’s not,” said Caina. “But we’re past the point of secrets. What matters more, Gardener? Your own honor, or saving the life of Lady Azar from the Cult?”

Rithram sighed. “My honor is my life, and my life is but dross without my honor.”

“It is said that the Gardeners of the Shahenshah are masters of disguise and deceit,” said Artuk. “Perhaps Rithram has deceived you, amirja.”

“Maybe,” said Caina. “Or maybe not. We shall put it to the test. He claims to have been lying in wait here for any emissaries of the Cult, and that the Cult has another shrine in a warehouse east of here.”

“Then you wish to investigate this warehouse?” said Kalliope.

“We will,” said Caina. “And we will put Rithram’s words to the test.”

“So be it, amirja,” said Rithram. “I have told you the truth. If I have led you false, you shall kill me.”

15

THE CORRUPTED

Caina lowered her valikon, the blade dissolving back into shards of silver light. Artuk blinked at that.

“I have not led you false,” said Rithram, “but I suspect we are about to go into danger. You must be prepared for violence.” He looked at Kalliope and Sophia. “Perhaps it would be better to leave the woman and the girl behind.”

“She’s a stormsinger of New Kyre,” said Caina, “and she is a loremaster of Iramis. If we encounter any of the Cult’s sorcerers, we may need their aid.”

“Indeed?” said Rithram. “I perceive, amirja, that this is not the first time you have encountered the Cult of Rhadamathar.”

“It’s not,” said Caina. “I suspect even you, Gardener, do not realize how dangerous they are. If the Ardakh you encountered here is the same one I fought in Malarae, he will have sorcerous powers.”

“Ardakh?” said Kalliope. “Ardakh is here?”

“Or so Rithram claims,” said Caina. “As Rithram himself said, we shall put his words to the test soon enough.”

They headed back into the corridor. By mutual unspoken agreement, Morgant and Artuk hung back to walk behind Rithram. For his part, the Bostaji assassin remained calm, seemingly relaxed. Caina and Kalliope walked in the front, and after a second’s hesitation, Caina told Sophia to walk behind Morgant and Artuk. If she was wrong about Rithram, then Caina did not want Sophia to pay the price for her folly.

But Caina didn’t think she was wrong.

As she had in Malarae, she felt that she was on the edge of something that she did not quite comprehend, something large and dangerous.

All these different pieces, and she did not yet see how they connected.

The attempted poisoning of Lady Azar, the seeming effort to frame her bodyguard Rithram for it.

The machine in Malarae built to kill the Padishah and the Emperor.

It was like the Cult was trying to unleash chaos, trying to start a war between the Empire and Istarinmul and Anshan all at once. If the serpent men were truly from another world and they wished to conquer this one, such chaos made sense and would weaken their targets before the conquest.

But why try to kill Kylon’s children in the midst of all that?

Caina didn’t know. She had found some answers, but not nearly enough.

Perhaps more could be found in the warehouse.

They went downstairs and strode through the common room. The main room of the Shahenshah’s Seat was spacious, thick wooden pillars supporting the rafters of the ceiling. Wooden benches and tables worn from use stood in rows on the floor. It looked a great deal like the common room of the original Shahenshah’s Seat.

The white cloak and gleaming armor of a Radiant Guard drew a few stares, which Caina disliked. If the Cult had spies in the Shahenshah’s Seat, they would be forewarned. Still, Caina intended to act at once, hopefully reaching the warehouse before any Cultists there could scatter.

They left the Shahenshah’s Seat and headed east, following Rithram’s murmured directions. This part of the Anshani Quarter was mostly warehouses, with the towers of the tenement apartment blocks rising in the distance. They passed a warehouse that Caina knew held bales of flax and finally came to the building that Rithram had mentioned.

“This is the warehouse,” said Rithram. “I have seen Ardakh come here many times.”

Artuk scowled at him. “If you have seen this villain walking the streets, why have you not apprehended him?”

“Because I am but one man,” said Rithram, unperturbed, “and Ardakh always walked with three or four companions. I have never seen him alone. I know you think evil of me, Radiant Guard. As you should, for all the choices before me were evil, and yet it was still my duty to choose.”

Artuk only grunted.

Caina cast a critical eye over the warehouse. It was one level, built of tan stone with a flat roof, most of the plaster flaked away with age and wind. A large pair of double doors faced the street, wide enough for a wagon and a team. If Caina had to guess, the building had been abandoned for some time.

She looked deeper, drawing on the vision of the valikarion, and she spotted it.

“There is a spell on the doors,” said Caina.

Kalliope frowned and cast the spell to sense arcane forces. “I can’t feel anything.”

“Focus on the doors,” said Caina. “On what you are not sensing.”

Kalliope’s frown intensified, and then her eyes widened as she drew in a startled breath.

“What is it?” said Artuk.

“Some kind of ward,” said Kalliope. “I’ve never detected anything like it before.”

“It’s very subtle,” said Caina. “It’s intended to divert the power of a spell around it. Anyone casting a detection spell nearby won’t sense anything. Not unless they’re specifically focusing on the warehouse, and even then, they might not notice anything.”

“What does it mean?” said Artuk.

“That Rithram was right,” said Caina. “Someone doesn’t want anyone to know about this warehouse.”

Or that Rithram was leading them into a clever trap.

Best to be careful either way.

Caina eased forward, watching the warehouse for any sign of movement, but the building was quiet. She looked at the doors, examining the locks, and saw that they had been chained shut, the chain bound with a heavy padlock.

“Morgant,” whispered Caina.

He nodded, produced his dagger, and flicked it through the padlock. The black blade sheared through the thick steel as if it had been made of butter, and the broken lock fell to the ground, its cut edges glowing white-hot. Both Kalliope and Artuk looked startled at that, and Caina gently drew the chain through the handles, taking care to make no sound, and placed it on the ground.

“I’ll go first,” she murmured. “Morgant and Artuk, you go next. Then Rithram, and then Kalliope and Sophia. Understand?”

No one disagreed. Caina summoned her valikon, the sword settling into her right hand, and eased the right-hand door open. She slipped through, and the others followed, spells and weapons ready.

Caina’s first thought was that this had been a waste of time, that Rithram had led them astray, or that the Cult had abandoned the warehouse once their attempt to poison Lady Azar had failed.

It was empty.

The floor was hard-packed dirt, the air heavy with the trapped heat of the day. A few skylights had been built into the ceiling, letting shafts of dim sunlight through panes of cheap, cloudy glass bound in rusting iron frames.

Caina spotted movement at the far end of the warehouse, accompanied by a flare of yellowish-green light.

The vision of the valikarion showed her a sudden powerful arcane aura, one that had been masked by the ward laid over the warehouse.

Her material eyes saw a man standing in the glow. He wore the robes and turban of an Anshani commoner, and he had a well-trimmed dark beard. In his right hand, he held a staff fashioned from a metal that looked like bronze, one that had been topped with a serpent’s head with jaws yawning wide, the eyes like gleaming emeralds.

Caina recognized the man’s features.

Ardakh, Fang of the Serpent, who had nearly killed her in Malarae and had helped the High Priest build his alchemical weapon.

“Stop him!” said Caina. “He’s casting a spell.”

Even as she shouted, Ardakh struck the end of the staff against the floor and finished his spell. Sorcerous force lashed out from the staff, and Caina realized that Ardakh had used the staff’s power to cast a spell that would have been beyond his own native ability.

For a second, it looked as if a giant mirror hovered behind him, one wide enough to cover the entire far wall of the warehouse.

Then the mirror changed, becoming something else.

A gateway. A portal.

Caina’s first impression was that it was a portal to the netherworld similar to ones she had seen many times before, but that was wrong. It was more like the gateways to Sigilsoara that Talmania Scorneus and the Temnoti had opened. Sigilsoara had been caught halfway between the material world and the netherworld.

Ardakh had just opened a gateway to a place like that, and he took a long step backward into the portal. Through the gate, Caina glimpsed something that looked like a dim-lit hall built of somber black stone. Dark-armored figures stood just within the portal, dozens of them.

One of them stepped through the gateway.

Caina had traveled through much of the Empire and its neighbors. She had even survived trips to the netherworld and had managed to escape the haunted corridors of Sigilsoara. During those journeys, she had seen many strange and terrible things.

Yet in all that time, she had never seen a creature like the thing that stepped through the gateway.

No. That wasn’t right. She had seen something like it recently, hadn’t she?

It had been during the fight in the catacombs below Malarae when the High Priest had flung scores of the undead at Karevas and his Imperial Guards. One of the undead had been a huge, hulking thing, eight feet tall, wider in the shoulder than a human, and beneath its shattered helm, Caina had seen a distorted face with pointed ears, a heavy jaw, and a mouth filled with fangs. At the time, Caina assumed it had been an undead horror created through necromantic spells. The Umbarians had created many such creatures, and so had the Great Necromancers of Maat in ancient days.

But Caina realized that she had been wrong.

The giant undead hadn’t been a mutation of necromantic science.

It had looked like that when it had been alive.

The armored warrior that stepped from the gateway stood about seven or eight feet tall yet somehow looked hunched. It wore a strange mixture of armor – a ragged chain mail hauberk reinforced with jagged plates of black metal, and pauldrons, greaves, and bracers of the same metal. The creature carried a heavy sword, and it wore no helmet, which was unfortunate because Caina could see its face.

Its features were like something out of a nightmare. The skin was grayish-green, threaded through with black veins like corruption in rotten meat. Yellow fangs filled the mouth, and its ears rose in sharp points alongside its head. A few wisps of greasy white hair clung to the mottled gray-green scalp. The eyes were perhaps the worst of all, solid black except for a venomous yellow iris.

Everything about the creature’s appearance seemed uncanny and twisted and profoundly, deeply wrong. Like Caina was looking at something that had been corrupted and defiled.

Her pyrikon buzzed against her wrist, a sense of alarm coming from it.

Whatever that twisted creature was, it had come from another world.

“The Living Flame preserve us!” hissed Rithram. “What devils are these?”

The creature pointed its sword and said something in a harsh language that Caina did not recognize, its voice like gravel rasping against stone.

Then, with a roar, a dozen of the creatures burst from the gateway and charged towards them, swords, axes, and spiked maces in hand.

* * *

Kalliope stared frozen in shock at the black-armored warriors, horrified beyond anything she could express.

She had studied and practiced as a physician for years in New Kyre, had attended to hundreds if not thousands of patients. In that time, she had seen every possible variation and shape of the human body, from strong and healthy to old and sick to damaged by wounds and illness. The sight of a hideously wounded man or one hollowed out by illness could still inspire her to pity, but it could no longer shock her.

But these things, these twisted horrors…

Whatever they were, they weren’t human.

They had never been human.

The distorted emotional aura that surrounded each of them was worse than their nightmarish features.

Human emotions always had an ugly edge to them, whether subconscious or consciously suppressed. Every human mind had murder and rage and lust and hatred and greed simmering away within it, like silt at the bottom of a pond. Some minds were more susceptible to those darker emotions than others, and some had been consumed by them.

But the emotional aura that surrounded the creatures was a seething mix of rage and hatred and bloodlust and unadulterated sadism. Kalliope had never felt anything like it from a human mind, and the malignant aura shocked her to her core.

Caina had told her that the High Priest had come from another world, one far away. Kalliope had accepted the explanation but hadn’t really thought about it. That made the High Priest and his fellow serpent men enemies, but she had given it no further consideration beyond that.

But now she knew it was true.

These creatures were indeed from another world, and they were about to kill her.

She would never see her children again, would never hug Nikarion and Zoe.

“Kalliope!” shouted Caina. “Ice!”

Kalliope’s instincts and training overrode her shock. She was the blood of House Agramemnos, the daughter of Lysikas Stormblade, and she would not surrender her life without a fight!

The sorcery of water and air rolled through her, and she shouted and flung out her hands.

A thin layer of mist rolled over the floor, cooling into a coating of mirror-smooth ice that stopped a few yards in front of Kalliope and her companions. The black-armored creatures were sprinting forward as the ice formed beneath them, and suddenly they lost all their traction. They hit the ground hard and slid, flailing for purchase and bellowing curses in some malevolent-sounding language, though some of the creatures kept their balance and kept running.

Artuk and Rithram sprang into motion, Artuk’s scimitar sweeping from his scabbard, Rithram holding wicked-looking knives in either hand. Caina gestured, and suddenly she was encased from head to foot in that strange black armor she had used in Malarae.

Morgant was already moving.

Kalliope had wondered why Caina had insisted on bringing Morgant with them. He seemed like an eccentric, dirty-minded old painter, one prone to making long, rambling speeches and making inappropriate jokes about Caina’s and Kylon’s marital bed. Caina herself seemed to regard Morgant with weary amusement, like a curmudgeonly uncle or elder brother to whom she had long ago grown accustomed.

Then Morgant closed with the creatures who were still on their feet, and Kalliope saw just why Caina had insisted on bringing him along.

His crimson scimitar blurred in his right hand, moving through a dizzying series of strokes, and one of the creatures fell dead. Black slime spurted from the wounds Morgant inflicted, a slime that filled the air with a faint yet nonetheless foul stench. Another black-armored warrior slashed at Morgant, and he danced around the blow with casual ease, the blood-red scimitar ripping across the creature’s throat.

Another raised a spiked mace for a massive two-handed blow, one that would crush Morgant beneath it.

He calmly stepped closer and stabbed the black dagger in his left hand into the creature’s stomach.

That creature wore chain mail reinforced with ragged black plates of metal. The dagger should have failed to pierce the armor, yet Kalliope had just seen it slice through a padlock without slowing. The twisted creature’s armor offered no more resistance, and Morgant yanked the dagger up. The black blade sliced through steel, corrupted flesh, and bone without slowing, opening the warrior from its stomach to the crown of its head.

The wound sizzled, cauterized by whatever spells had been placed upon the weapon. The smell was horrid. Kalliope had treated burns several times, some of them quite severe, so she had the misfortune to know what burned flesh smelled like. This odor was far worse. Like someone had flung filth upon a fire.

Sophia’s pyrikon unfolded into its staff form, and she shouted and struck the end of it against the floor. Kalliope didn’t recognize the spell she cast, but a ring of white light lashed from the staff and struck the nearest creatures. The white light seemed to pain them, and they reeled on their feet, briefly stunned. Morgant, Artuk, and Rithram seized the opening, Morgant cutting down two of the creatures, Artuk and Rithram each killing one more.

More and more of the creatures emerged from the strange portal on the other side of the warehouse.

Suddenly a black-armored form appeared out of nothingness behind one of the creatures. For an awful second Kalliope thought the creatures had the ability to turn invisible as well, but the figure was much smaller than the hulking creatures. No, it was Caina in her Veilplate armor, using its power to turn invisible, and she slashed a dagger across a creature's throat, the black slime of its blood spurting down the front of its chest.

“Kalliope!” called Caina. “I’m going to try and dispel the gate! See if you can distract them with more ice.”

Without another word, she vanished.

Kalliope turned back to the portal, summoning more arcane power as freezing mist danced around her fingers. She had already covered much of the floor in ice, but it was hot enough that the ice had already melted. The creatures were converging on Morgant, Rithram, and Artuk, seeing them as the greatest threats, and Kalliope cast her spell, shaping the ice so it would throw off the charging enemies.

* * *

Caina sprinted across the warehouse, keeping close to the wall.

She hadn’t been sure if the invisibility of her Veilplate armor would work on the creatures, if their strange yellow-black eyes could pierce its power. But she had crept up and killed several of the black-armored warriors while invisible, and so far, none of them had been able to see her, save when attacking caused her invisibility to collapse.

She raced across the warehouse, drawing closer to the massive portal that Ardakh had conjured. Caina had never seen a spell quite like it before, but it wasn’t very different than the ones that the Temnoti had used to reach Sigilsoara.

Which meant that the Cult of Rhadamathar had a stronghold hidden in the netherworld. Or caught halfway between the netherworld, like the Tower of the Cataphract or Sigilsoara.

Neither possibility was good.

As Caina drew closer, she had a better view of the place on the other side of the gate.

It was a lofty hall of dark stone, illuminated by beams of gloomy light from recessed windows on the walls. At the far end of the hall was a looming altar of the same dark stone, and over it rose a massive sculpture of a serpent with its coils arranged in the same twisted knot design she had seen on the Cultists’ pendants.

Presumably the great statue was meant to represent Rhadamathar himself.

Details flashed through Caina’s mind.

Ardakh stood not a dozen paces on the other side of the gate, the serpent staff grasped in both hands. Caina considered going through the gate and cutting him down. Ardakh clearly was high in the ranks of their enemies, and perhaps the loss of a leader would demoralize the Cult, or at least throw them into some level of disarray until another Fang of the Serpent took Ardakh’s place.

But she thought he was maintaining the spell on the gate. If Caina killed him, she might be trapped on the other side.

Hundreds more of those twisted creatures were swarming forward. It looked like some nightmarish vision of hell that awaited the wicked. If Caina was caught on the other side of the gate, almost certainly she would die.

If those creatures poured through the gate and into the warehouse, her friends were going to die.

Caina summoned her valikon, the ghostsilver sword appearing in her right hand. Ardakh saw her, his dark eyes widening, and he started to shout a command.

Too late.

Caina slashed the valikon through the portal.

She felt the valikon’s hilt grow hot beneath her hand, so hot that she could feel the heat through the gauntlet. The spells holding the gate open resisted for a half-second and then unraveled with a flash of light, a thunderclap, and a gust of hot air. Caina stumbled back a few steps, and the gate snapped out of existence, the image of Ardakh and the strange dark temple vanishing.

As one, every single one of the twisted creatures still in the warehouse whirled to face Caina.

By the Divine, there were at least two dozen of them, maybe more. Artuk and Rithram both looked as if they had taken wounds. If not for Kalliope’s and Sophia’s spells, they would have been surrounded and slain.

They still might be, even if the creatures could no longer expect reinforcements through the gate.

Then an idea came to Caina.

“Morgant!” she shouted. “The Widow’s Tower! The flax warehouse!”

Morgant stared at her, a look of exasperation passing over his face, but he nodded.

The creatures started after Caina.

Perhaps Ardakh’s final command to them had been to kill her.

“That’s right, you ugly bastards!” yelled Caina, pointing her valikon at them. “I’m the Balarigar! Come and get me!”

She sprinted for the far wall of the warehouse, and with bellows of rage in their harsh language, the creatures pursued her.

There was a smaller door on the far wall, one that had been hidden by Ardakh’s portal. Caina slammed into it at full speed, her armor digging gouges in the wood, and flung it open. She dashed into the alley behind the warehouse and ran to the end, gauging the time in her head, the valikon glowing in her fist.

A few seconds later the first of the creatures rushed from the warehouse in pursuit.

Caina whirled and ran down the street, praying that no one else would stumble upon them. But it was past twilight by now, the last of the sunlight vanishing beneath the buildings to the west. She gritted her teeth and ran faster, coming to the double doors to the flax warehouse they had passed earlier.

Caina dropped to one knee. The lock was large but simple, and she opened it with ease, which was just as well because while Ardakh’s minions might have been twisted horrors, they were damned fast. Caina wrenched one of the double doors open and ran inside.

Her valikon vanished as she dismissed it, and she called on her Veilplate’s power of invisibility as she ran.

The warehouse was crammed full of bales of flax, no doubt shipped from the great farms of Istarish Cyrica. A layer of flax dust covered the floor, and a single aisle went through the warehouse to a smaller door on the far side.

Perfect.

Caina ran to the far door, pulling a dagger and a piece of flint from her armor.

The creatures rushed into the warehouse behind her. Caina glanced over her shoulder, gauging the distance. The timing was going to be tricky, but she should be able to pull it off.

She began striking sparks from her dagger. On the second try, the nearest bundle of flax caught flame, and Caina moved to the next. The flax was dry, and the fire was already spreading rapidly.

Maybe a little too rapidly.

The double doors slammed shut behind the last of the creatures, and Caina heard a clang as someone dropped a bar in place. She hurried to the smaller door and wrenched it open. Some of the creatures saw her and started running after her, and Caina darted through the door and closed it behind her.

She stumbled into an alleyway and looked around. The usual sort of detritus lay in the alley, and Caina seized a broken wagon axle and jammed it against the door.

A second later she heard the thump of a blow. The black-armored warriors were trying to smash their way through the door. Smoke was already rising from the warehouse ceiling. In another few seconds, the entire building would be ablaze. Whatever those things were, they were creatures of flesh and blood. Caina’s dagger of steel had killed them, as had Artuk’s sword. Fire would do the same.

Assuming she could keep the creatures from escaping.

Another blow struck the door, one of the boards splintering. Flames began to leap through the roof. At the same time Caina heard running footsteps, and Artuk raced around the corner to join her.

“The old man said you would need to hold the door,” said Artuk in Istarish, taking his scimitar hilt in both hands. Black slime dripped along the shining blade.

“You’re hurt,” said Caina. More dark blood spattered his cuirass and his bracers, but some of it was red.

“Later,” grunted Artuk. “If those devils get loose, they will kill us. Or they will rampage through the city and kill many. I do not think they will get through the other entrance, but…”

The door smashed open, ripped free from its hinges. A wave of heat rolled out, along with a plume of billowing black smoke. The interior of the warehouse had been transformed into a blazing inferno of hellish fire. Some of the creatures had already succumbed, flames consuming their bodies.

The stench was nightmarish.

But the surviving creatures rushed out, eager to escape.

Thankfully, it was only wide enough for one of the black-armored warriors to come through at a time. Artuk bellowed and leaped to the attack, his scimitar flashing. Caina called her valikon and fought as well, driving the ghostsilver blade at gaps in the creatures’ armor. Artuk killed two of the creatures, and Caina struck down another. But there were just too many of them, and they began to force Caina and Artuk back.

Something hissed past Caina’s shoulder, missing her head by perhaps a few inches, and an arrow slammed into the throat of the creature fighting Artuk. The thing staggered, falling into the burning warehouse, and more arrows plunged into the fiery doorway, striking with inhuman accuracy. Soon a barrier of dead creatures blocked the doorway, and Caina saw no more movement within, save for the wall of roiling flames.

Caina turned her head and looked up.

A figure in a hooded green cloak stood atop the nearest building, the cowl drawn up to shade the face. Caina glimpsed a mask of green and gold and fine leather armor, a massive composite bow in the figure’s left hand.

The green archer who had saved Caina and Kalliope in Malarae, who had helped Kalliope and the children in New Kyre.

Before Caina could call out, the green archer whirled and vanished from sight.

Artuk let out a grunt, his scimitar lowering. Caina noticed the spreading red stain on his side and wondered just how much blood he had lost. She got an arm around him as he wobbled on his feet.

“I’m fine,” growled Artuk. “I’m fine. The heat…I just need to get my breath back…”

“Come on,” said Caina.

She helped Artuk around the corner and back to the main street. By then the flames were leaping from the rooftop of the warehouse. Sooner or later the growing fire was going to draw notice, and Caina and the others needed to be gone by then.

Morgant, Kalliope, Rithram, and Sophia stood before the main doors to the warehouse. The doors themselves had taken a battering, but they were still closed. Kalliope knelt as Caina approached, binding a wound on Rithram’s side. Like Artuk, he had been wounded, and he also had an ugly bruise on the right side of his face. One of the creatures’ fists must have caught him.

“Looks like you burned down another building,” said Morgant. “Just imagine what the Kyracian will think.”

“Given what was inside, I think he’ll approve,” said Caina.

“We need to get off the street,” said Kalliope. “Rithram’s hurt, and…gods, so is Artuk. They might both bleed out if I can’t look at them properly.”

“And that Ardakh fellow went…well, wherever he went,” said Morgant, “but the Cult might still have spies nearby.”

“Back to the Golden Palace,” rasped Artuk.

“We might not make it back to the Golden Palace,” said Kalliope. “Especially if we have to go on foot.”

Caina hesitated. There were hidden rooms in the Shahenshah’s Seat that she could use, but if the Cult had been operating out of the inn, there was every chance they might have found them. Going there with two wounded men was a serious risk. She needed a place they could lay low for a while, hopefully evade the attention of the Cult, and plan their next steps.

“Bind up the wounds as best as you can,” said Caina. “I know a place we can go. Hurry.”

16

LANGUAGES

Caina led them on a winding path through the back alleys of the Anshani Quarter, hoping to throw off any potential pursuers. By then, night had fallen, and the various gangs that controlled the Anshani Quarter were on the prowl. Caina dealt with that problem by remaining in her Veilplate armor, the masked helmet concealing her face, and shifting her pyrikon to its staff form.

Even the boldest thieves in the Anshani quarter did not want to confront a figure sheathed in black armor, white light shining from a silver staff in its hand.

It took longer than Caina would have liked, and the worried agitation all but rolled off Kalliope and Sophia. Artuk and Rithram grew slower, and Caina suspected that only sheer willpower kept both men on their feet, the pride and iron discipline of a Radiant Guard and a Gardener of the Shahenshah.

Finally they came to the Tower Quarter. Apartment houses occupied most of the nearby neighborhoods, considerably nicer and better built than the tenements of the Anshani Quarter. Watchmen lived here, and so had the officers of the Teskilati, the Padishah’s secret police.

Until Cassander Nilas had killed them all.

At least Caina did not get the blame for that one.

She led the way to one of the apartment houses, came to the front door, and after a moment’s thought, retracted her helmet. Caina raised her free hand and knocked at the door steadily and insistently.

“Where are we?” said Kalliope. Artuk leaned upon her, breathing heavily.

“Where do you think?” said Morgant. “Someone who owes the Balarigar a favor.”

The door opened a few inches, revealing a Istarish man of middle years. He had grown a bit of a gut since Caina had seen him last, but he was still big and strong, with the lumpy nose and cauliflower ears of someone who had gotten hit in the head a lot. In fact, he had been a gladiator, fighting in the arenas of Istarinmul. He hadn’t made very much money but he hadn’t been killed, either.

“Good evening, Kuyat,” said Caina. “Remember me?”

“By the Living Flame,” murmured Kuyat. He opened the door the rest of the way, and Caina saw that he held a small crossbow. “I know you said you might call upon me one day, but…you are the Padishah’s own sister now, and I never thought to see you again.”

“But you have kept the apartment ready?” said Caina.

“Of course,” said Kuyat, his dark eyes flicking over the others behind Caina. “Sometimes the Chief of Scribes sends his men to rest or hide here. I never ask questions. I am paid too well for that.”

“I need to use it now,” said Caina. “And for you to ask no questions.”

“As you command,” said Kuyat. “Since I would be dead or still a slave if not for you, I shall do whatever you ask.”

That was for the benefit of Kalliope and the others. In truth, Kuyat was a Ghost. Caina had recruited him years ago, and he had run this safe house for the Ghosts of Istarinmul ever since.

“Let’s get off the street,” said Caina.

“This way,” said Kuyat, turning.

The apartment house had a small interior courtyard that opened to the sky. Doors led into the two ground-floor apartments, and flights of stairs led to the two on the upper floor. Kuyat lumbered up the stairs on the left, produced a set of keys, and opened the door.

“What are your commands for me?” said Kuyat.

“No one should know that we are here,” said Caina. “If anyone comes looking for me, pretend to know nothing, and then come warn me.”

“It shall be as you command,” said Kuyat. He bowed and went back down the stairs, and Caina led the way into the apartment. It had a central room with two bedrooms on either side. A pair of the Magisterium’s enspelled glass spheres rested on iron stands, illuminating the room. A half-dozen cots stood in a row next to several chests holding supplies and tools.

“Get Artuk and Rithram on the cots,” said Caina. “We can look at their wounds. Morgant, I think you had better watch the door. Kuyat’s a solid man, but two pairs of eyes are better than one.” For once, Morgant did not argue, but remained close to the door to the balcony.

Like Caina, he no doubt recognized just how narrow their escape had been.

“What is this place?” said Kalliope. Rithram sat on one cot, Artuk on another. At Kalliope’s direction, Rithram began pulling off his armor and gambeson.

“A safe house,” said Caina. “Kuyat started as an Istarish soldier during the attack on Marsis and ended up an enslaved gladiator back in Istarinmul. He helped me with some problems. After the woman who owned this house died, she left it to him, and he’s kept it as a safe house for the men of the Chief of Scribes ever since.”

“I see,” said Kalliope. “Do you have a physician’s supplies…”

“Yes,” said Caina, opening one of the chests.

Caina, Sophia, and Kalliope set to work. Rithram had a nasty gash on his right forearm, a cut across his ribs, and another wound in his left thigh. Caina had feared that Artuk was hurt badly, that his abdomen had been pierced, which would increase his chances of death a great deal. Gut wounds were a bad way to die. But he had a cut across his hip and a long one across his ribs, but nothing more serious.

Kalliope cleaned the wounds, and Sophia cast a spell of the Words of Lore over them, one that would help protect them from infection or putrefaction. Caina hoped that none of the creatures' blood had gotten into the wounds. At Kalliope’s bidding, Kuyat brought several pots of boiling wine. Artuk and Rithram grimaced as the wounds were cleaned, though they endured the treatment in stoic silence.

Caina and Kalliope set to work sewing up the cuts.

“It seems,” said Artuk in a heavy voice, “that I misjudged you, Rithram. You have kept to your duty as a man of honor should.”

“Only the Shahenshah and the Living Flame may judge my duty,” said Rithram. He paused. “But…thank you.”

“You fought well against the devils,” said Artuk.

“Those devils. What are they?” said Rithram. He remained stoic as ever, but a leaden weariness had entered his tone. “I have never seen such a creature before.”

“Nor have I,” said Caina.

“I have traveled farther than any of you children,” said Morgant, standing by the door, his eyes on the narrow window that overlooked the courtyard, “and I have never seen anything like them.”

“They must be corrupted monsters created with forbidden sorcery,” said Sophia. “Like the mavrokhi in Ulkaar.”

“I don’t know what they are,” said Kalliope, “but I could sense their emotions.”

“You could?” said Artuk, blinking.

“Water sorcery,” said Caina.

“Ah,” said Artuk. Caina wasn’t sure if he understood or was too tired to ask further questions.

“Their emotional auras were…wrong,” said Kalliope, voice tight, though her fingers moved with deft skill as she stitched up the wounds. “Every man and woman has darkness within them. Rage that can turn to murder. Ugly lust. Avarice and greed.”

“The cowardly treachery that could lead a man to poison a pregnant woman,” said Artuk.

“Yes, exactly,” said Kalliope. “But within the emotional auras of those…those things….there was nothing but darkness. Nothing but the most corrupt and sadistic impulses.” She shook her head. “Burning alive is a horrible way to die, yet I feel those creatures deserved it.”

“What manner of evil have we found?” said Artuk. “I thought the Cult wished to assassinate Lady Azar because they were religious madmen. Yet Ardakh opened the portal and summoned those things. I would have said those creatures were malevolent spirits, yet they are things of flesh and blood.”

“It matters not,” said Rithram. “If they seek to harm the blood of the holy Shahenshah, then I will find them and slay them.”

“After some rest,” said Kalliope. “I think your wounds are clean. Some food and rest is what you need now. Eat something, and drink as much as you can, for that will help your bodies replace the blood. Then tomorrow, we will see how you fare.”

“And then we must act,” said Artuk. “The rest of the Radiant Guards and the Grand Wazir must be warned of these devils. What if Ardakh opens another portal within the Golden Palace?”

A shadow of fear went over Kalliope’s face, but she helped Caina take some food from the chests, dried meat and fruit and other items that kept for a long time. Finally Caina sent Artuk and Rithram to the spare cots in one of the bedrooms, and both men fell asleep at once.

“Will they be all right?” said Sophia in a soft voice as Caina closed the door.

“Most probably,” said Kalliope. “Assuming none of the black slime got in their wounds. We may not know what those creatures are, but from the way their blood smelled, I can’t imagine it would be healthful to touch it in any capacity, let alone to get it into an open cut.” She looked at Sophia. “Did they teach you about these creatures when you studied to become a loremaster?”

Sophia shook her head. “No. I’ve never seen such creatures before. Not like this, anyway. I don’t even think they’re like the High Priest. The snake men, I mean. I saw the corpse of the snake man that Lady Caina killed, and it…well, it seemed like a natural creature, though one I had never seen. But…I simply do not know what to make of the things we fought in the warehouse.”

“Not snake men, obviously,” said Caina. “Little enough comfort though it is.”

“Will those things come after my children?” said Kalliope, her fear apparent. “That was Ardakh commanding them.”

“They might,” said Caina. “But if they do, they’ll have Kylon with them. And the Imperial Guards and the Radiant Guards with the Emperor and the Padishah.”

“Kylon,” said Kalliope, shaking her head.

Morgant let out a laugh.

“What?” snapped Kalliope. “Do you find something amusing, master painter?”

“I find many things amusing,” said Morgant, “but you’ve clearly never seen the Kyracian fight. A pity he wasn’t here. Watching him carve through those things would have been entertaining, and it would have meant less work for me. I’m getting too old for this nonsense.”

“I hope you are right,” said Kalliope. “I…”

Several things happened at once.

Caina’s skin crawled and tingled as she felt a surge of arcane power. To the sight of the valikarion, it looked as if a wall of pale blue light washed through the apartment room. It passed through Caina without touching her. The bronze ring on Morgant’s finger flashed, and the spell passed him. But Kalliope let out a yawn as the spell sank into her, and so did Sophia.

“Kalliope?” said Caina. “Kalliope?”

“So…sleepy,” murmured Kalliope. She took a step back and collapsed onto one of the cots, and Sophia followed suit.

“What the hell?” said Morgant.

“A sleeping spell,” said Caina, voice grim. She summoned her valikon and drew a throwing knife with her left hand. “I think we’re about to be attacked. We…”

“No.”

The voice was a woman’s, musical and commanding.

Caina looked towards the second bedroom door just as the green archer stepped through it.

Her pyrikon buzzed against her wrist, as it had when facing the creatures in the warehouse. But there was no alarm to the buzz this time. This woman might have been from another world, but the pyrikon did not consider her a threat.

Caina and Morgant regarded the intruder in silence.

It was the first good look Caina had been able to take at the green archer.

She was taller than Caina, maybe six and a half feet. The cowl of the green cloak shadowed her face, and Caina could just make out the green mask that hid her features. Beneath the cloak she wore leather armor adorned with scrollwork, and Caina saw the hilt of a curved sword and a quiver holding arrows slung over her shoulder. The great bow was in her left hand, though right now, it was unstrung and seemed more like a staff than a bow.

“No,” said the woman again, speaking carefully in Caerish. “You are battle-cunning. Steel-sighted. But I seek not…I seek not the song of battle but the exchange of words. Palaver-words, parley-words. I thought to speak to you alone, valikarion.” The mask turned in Morgant’s direction. “But this one. Djinn-marked, battle-weathered. He resisted my spell.” Her voice had an odd cadence to it, almost like she was reciting a poem or uncertain of her words.

Morgant only grinned. His weapons were not in his hands, but Caina knew just how fast he could draw his dagger and scimitar.

“Thank you,” said Caina.

The green mask turned back in her direction.

“You saved my life in Malarae and that of Kalliope and her children,” said Caina. “And we likely would have been killed by the warehouse if you hadn’t loosed arrows into those creatures.”

“The creatures,” said the green archer. “Yes. Often, often have I seen women and children flee from them. And often did the blood of those women and children spill to the earth and cry out for vengeance. Slain unjustly, cut down cruelly. This time, when you faced the servants of Rhadamathar, I could avert the injustice.”

“But you have my gratitude,” said Caina.

“And Kalliope’s, I expect,” said Morgant, “if you hadn’t just put her to sleep.”

“But your death I averted,” said the green archer. “By this deed was evil undone. Many would have died in Malarae had you not slain the High Priest. Had I not saved you, many would have died. Perhaps many more shall die, if you do not receive my aid now.”

“Then you know who I am,” said Caina.

“Caina Kardamnos,” said the green archer. “Bride of the stormdancer.” Morgant snorted at that, but the green archer ignored him. “Balarigar, you are called. The demonslayer. The Liberator. But in our tongue…you would be champion. Paladin. Valikarion knight. These words are yours.” She made an exasperated sound. “Your languages are cumbersome. Ours is song and poetry. The meanings are layered as steel is folded. Your languages are symbols of sound, and each symbol must be chosen with care, or else meaning is lost.”

“Who are you?” said Caina.

“Like you, many words are mine,” said the green archer. “Wielder of the arcane path. Ranger. Far-strider. Warrior. Elderborn, firstborn, elf-born. Foe of the Rhadamathi. But words are not enough. You must see and understand.”

She drew back her cowl, reached up, and removed her mask.

Caina found herself looking at an alien face.

At first glance, it might have been mistaken for a human face, but only at first glance and not for very long. The face was too angular to be human, the features too sharp. The green archer had pale skin, stark compared to her eyes, which were brilliant gold. Not the yellow of the creatures they had fought in the warehouse, but a shining gold that made Caina think of a cat’s eyes in the gloom. The woman had night-black hair tied back in a tight braid, which revealed the points of her ears, taller and sharper than those of a human.

“You are not a human,” said Caina.

“No,” said the green archer. “Your eyes find me as strange as my eyes find you. Human-born, mankind-bred, death-destined. You have much darkness in your kind.” Despite the alien features, Caina had no trouble spotting the unease there. “Yet it is bright compared to the darkness of the servants of Rhadamathar.”

“May I know your name?” said Caina.

The green archer shook her head. “My name. My words, mine alone. I cannot say it. You know not our tongue, and my name is many stanzas of song, layered upon each other like the courses of a tower. The closest I can come…” A look of intense concentration went over her face. “In The Cool Of The Evening, Ere The Moon Rises And The Stars Shine Out, The Concealing Mists Shield The Rangers Ere They Strike Down The Corrupted Foe With Arrows Of Fury And Blades Of Justice.”

“Bit cumbersome,” said Morgant.

“Then perhaps I should give you a new word,” said Caina. “If I can call you Mist, you can call me Caina.”

The green archer blinked and then bowed. “As you speak, so shall it be. Honor you speak, and honor you offer. Caina is a short word, but your history is long. Mine is longer yet, so it is poetic that my word is even shorter. Mist I shall be to you, and Caina you shall be to me.”

“Then, my lady Mist,” said Caina, and for the first time, the green archer almost smiled, “what did you wish to discuss?”

“Our peoples…sundered they must be,” said Mist. “Human-born and elf-born must remain apart, for your kind is warlike, and ours is haughty. If we meet too long, we shall destroy each other. Sundered we are, yet allies we must be, or else the Rhadamathi shall devour all.”

“The Rhadamathi,” said Caina. “I assume that is your word for the serpent men like the High Priest.”

“Yes,” said Mist. “My warband-siblings and I have watched humans since we followed the Rhadamathi to your world. We have pondered how to warn you, for the serpent awakens and hungers. I have chosen to speak to you because of your mind. There is a word for it…ah, I cannot think of it, of how you wield your mind…”

“Logic,” said Morgant.

“That is so, Razor,” said Mist. “Your logic-blade is keen, and it unearths secrets of thought. Slain would Kalliope Agramemnos and her children have been, though you found them first and saved them long enough for me to save you.”

“And you did not see more women and children fall to the blades of the corrupted ones,” said Caina.

“That is reward enough,” said Mist. “So. Wield your logic-blade. Ask me what you will, Caina, Balarigar and Liberator. For I have many duties, and you know better than I what answers you need.”

Caina’s mind raced. Here, at last, was a chance to get some answers, though Caina suspected that she would not learn everything she needed. The Firstborn or elf-born, or whatever Mist’s people called themselves, seemed so alien that they might not be able to communicate effectively. Mist might not understand the questions or have the context to get the right answers. Caina would have to choose her words with great care.

“Your people,” said Caina. “They are not from this world, but another.”

“We are,” said Mist. “Another world, crossed through the bridge of the netherworld. Vast are the distances between worlds, but through the netherworld, they can be crossed. The Rhadamathi have turned their eyes to your world, and to your world we came to oppose their plots.”

“The Rhadamathi,” said Caina. “The serpent men. What do they want?”

“Conquest. Rule. Dominion,” said Mist. “But not for themselves, but for their master. For they serve the Great Serpent called Rhadamathar, he who coils around worlds and devours them. The serpent men spill the blood of sacrifices upon his altars, for Rhadamathar rewards them with power.”

“So I have observed,” said Caina, remembering the dead animal she had seen in Livia Moranea’s hidden shrine. “Then they want to conquer this world.” Mist inclined her head. “Did they conquer yours?”

“Much of it,” said Mist, her voice growing melancholy. “But not all. Our final strongholds stand, defiant and unbroken, and we have held off the legions of the Rhadamathi. So they turn their attention to other worlds, and we hinder them as we can. Thus we have crossed the netherworld to this world, where we may harm our foes.”

“How will they conquer this world?” said Caina.

“Seeds of chaos,” said Mist. “First they will sow, and reap war and chaos. You have already seen this.” Caina nodded. “And once they have reaped a crop of chaos and bloodshed, they will open the Great Bridge and come in force.”

“The Great Bridge,” said Caina. “The worshippers of Rhadamathar I fought in Malarae spoke of a Great Bridge. Do you know what that is?”

Mist let out a breath. “The words…the words of your language. Ill-fitting. Inadequate. But I must wield them as best I may. To cross between worlds…great power is required. Power beyond the reach of many sorcerers. A great…expenditure of power. That is why only small numbers of Rhadamathi and their creatures have come to your world. The toll of power is too great for more.”

“But the Great Bridge is a way around that, isn’t it?” said Caina.

“You see keenly,” said Mist. “The Great Bridge…it is permanent. A way to cross between worlds without a toll of power. If the Rhadamathi fashion a Great Bridge, they will invade your world with their legions. Blood shall water the earth like rain if this comes to pass.”

“Do you know how they will create the Great Bridge?” said Caina.

“No,” said Mist. “Even our…students of the arcane, arcanists, wielders of great power, know not how it is done. A mighty spell, but that is all that is known.”

“You protected Kalliope and her children in New Kyre,” said Caina. “Why is the Cult of Rhadamathar hunting the blood of House Kardamnos?”

Again, a look of frustration went over Mist’s face, but for once, it was not due to the language barrier. “No. The mystery…it is a quarry I have been unable to hunt. I know not why the Rhadamathi bid their servants to seek the blood of House Kardamnos. Vengeance, perhaps. I know the Rhadamathi came to this world long ago, and the people of Old Kyrace hindered them.”

“They did?” said Caina, startled. “I know the Rhadamathi have been here a long time.”

“We…the elf-born, the Firstborn, the Elderborn, we live far longer than humans,” said Mist. “But the serpent men, cold-blooded, ice-hearted, live longer yet. Your world, long they have watched it. Great upheaval has shaken it. You have walked in the heart of the storm, have you not? The high priests of the Rhadamathi deem the time ripe and unveil preparations long undertaken.”

“If one of my husband’s ancestors hindered the Rhadamathi a thousand years ago, and the account was lost to history,” said Caina, “would the serpent men still seek vengeance on him and his family now?”

“Lost…to history?” said Mist. “To your history, perhaps. But not to the serpent men. The memory of the Rhadamathi is long, and their hearts are winter-hard, cold and cruel. To them, vengeance is sweeter than wine or a lover’s embrace.” Mist glanced to the side, seeming to watch something that only she could see. “Time grows short, Caina. Answers I have given, but I fear you need more. Ask me what you will.”

“Do you know who tried to poison Lady Azar?” said Caina.

“The Rhadamathi,” said Mist. “To sow the seeds of discord between two of your monarchs. But which of their servants, I know not. Beware, for hidden are their webs, and subtle are their deadly games.” She grimaced. “Humans…it is sometimes difficult to tell you apart, and your ways are strange and discordant. You must find the servant of the Rhadamathi who bore the poison. For the Rhadamathi have many poisons. Some slay, some cloud, some enslave.”

“A sorcerer I know thought the High Priest might have been able to create addictive venom,” said Caina.

Mist inclined her head. “Yes. Beware those who have drunk such beguiling poisons, for the chains of the Rhadamathi bind their very souls.”

“One more question,” said Caina. “Those things we fought in the warehouse. What were they?”

A look of deep sorrow over Mist’s face.

“Grief. Horror,” said Mist. “For they are us.”

“They don’t look very much like you,” said Morgant. “Which you should take as a compliment, by the way. I figured the serpent men were one people, you were another, and the creatures in the warehouse were yet another.”

“They are,” said Mist. “But once they were us. The Rhadamathi wield many dark powers. Long ago, very long ago, they took captive many elf-born as slaves to toil in their mines and foundries. Those slaves were…warped. Changed. Made anew, made worse. They were once like me, but they have been made into something else. They are the corrupted. The twisted. There is no word in any of your languages for what they have become. They are…orcus.”

“Orcus?” said Caina. She recognized the word. It was an archaic High Nighmarian word, little used in the modern era, referring to a demon or an evil spirit that consumed human flesh.

“That is closest,” said Mist. “They are…orcus.” She attempted to use the plural form of the strange word. “Orcus. Orco. Orcae…”

“Orcs,” said Morgant.

“Yes,” said Mist, her golden eyes turning towards him. “Orcs. They are orcs. A short word, like Mist and Caina, but one with a long history. Yet the history of the orcs…blood-written, horror-shadowed. The Rhadamathi command great armies of them. Should they open the Great Bridge, those armies will march across your world. Should you face more orcs, your blade must be keen, your arm steady, your heart steel-stern. For their only joy is cruelty, and their only pride is agony, and they will torture a child to death and weep with happiness as they do.”

“Sometimes appearances are deceiving,” said Caina, “but that doesn’t seem to be true with the orcs.”

“No,” said Mist. She looked to the side again. “Caina, I must go. Duty calls, and stern is its demands. A boon I ask of you. Tell only those you trust of me. The other rangers who have come to this world…in secret we must work. You are wise and look beneath the surface of things. Yet most humans would attack me on sight, fearing me to be a devil or a demon.”

“They might think that,” said Caina, “but they would soon change their minds if they saw an orc.”

“Alas, alas, that wisdom is often only taught through pain,” said Mist, “and some lessons are fatal.”

“Lady Mist,” said Caina, and she offered a deep bow, copying the alien woman’s previous gesture as best she could. “Thank you for your counsel. It has illuminated much that I found veiled in mystery. Twice you have saved my life. If you need my aid, call upon me, and I shall give what I can.”

Mist blinked several times, and this time, she did smile. It was almost like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. “Kindly spoken and wisely said. Great is the distance between our kinds, yet perhaps we can be friends, not mere allies. But whether friend or ally, the Rhadamathi and their Great Serpent are your mortal foe and mine. May the Divine protect you.”

“And you,” said Caina.

Without another word, Mist donned her mask and cowl, turned, and strode through the door to the unused bedroom. Caina saw her disappear through the window, the shutters closing behind her. It was twenty feet of sheer wall to the alley below that window, but Mist had climbed it.

Caina looked at Morgant, and they stood in silence for a while.

“You know,” said Morgant at last, “in the time I’ve known you, I’ve seen some damned strange things.”

“We both have,” said Caina.

“That wasn’t the strangest thing I’ve seen while I’ve been keeping you and the Kyracian from getting yourselves killed,” said Morgant, “but it’s pretty damned close.”

“I cannot disagree,” said Caina.

“What are you going to tell the Padishah?” said Morgant. “That a race of serpent men from another world want to conquer his realm?”

“Considering that those serpent men have already tried to kill him and his Great Royal Wife, I think he’ll be willing to listen,” said Caina.

Morgant snorted. “Bet they regret poisoning you. If they hadn’t tried to kill you, you wouldn’t have figured out any of this was happening.”

“No,” said Caina. “I would have gone to the Caerish Gate to meet Kylon when the Emperor and the Padishah returned, and I would have been poisoned with everyone else when the High Priest’s alchemical weapon activated.”

Something about the thought rattled around in her head. Her eyes strayed to the near-empty kettle of boiled wine that Kalliope had used to clean Rithram’s and Artuk’s wounds.

Poison…

“Just as well Callatas never met these Rhadamathi,” said Morgant. “Or maybe it’s regrettable. He’d have tried to betray them the way he betrayed everyone, and they’d have killed him. Or he would have killed them, and we wouldn’t be having these problems right now.”

“Wine’s a kind of poison, isn’t it?” said Caina, remembering her conversation with the Cataphract.

Morgant looked askance at her. “If you drink enough of it, yes. Some of the more moralistic Brothers and Sisters of the Living Flame say that all wine is evil, but then refuse to drink mixed wine and die of dysentery when they drink bad water.”

“Kuradin the poet,” said Caina. “He was drinking wine the entire time we talked to him.”

“He was, yes,” said Morgant.

“Maybe it wasn’t wine,” said Caina. “Or at least not entirely. Maybe he had something else mixed with it.”

Morgant sighed. “We’re about to go break into the Gilden Throne, aren’t we?”

“Let me just wake Kalliope up,” said Caina, summoning her valikon.

* * *

Kalliope jerked awake, something hot pressed against her hand.

She sat up with a gasp, blinking, disorientation gripping her mind. Bit by bit awareness returned. Memories of fighting the awful things in the warehouse flooded through her thoughts, and she looked around, recalling that she was in Kuyat’s apartment house.

Caina crouched next to her cot, still wearing the black Veilplate armor, her valikon in her hand. For a terrible second, Kalliope wondered if Caina had decided that she didn’t need one of Kylon’s former lovers in her life.

But the valikon disappeared into shards of light.

“How do you feel?” said Caina. There was a strange fire in those cold blue eyes. Something almost like eagerness. Kalliope had last seen that look in Caina’s eyes when she had been arranging the attack on the High Priest in Malarae.

“Groggy,” admitted Kalliope. She looked over and saw Sophia sleeping on another cot, Morgant leaning against the wall by the door. “Did I fall asleep? I must have.”

“Not exactly,” said Caina. “Remember the green archer? She cast a sleep spell over the building. It didn’t work on me and Morgant, and we had a talk with her.”

“The green archer?” said Kalliope, remembering the strange green-cloaked figure who had helped her and Caina in Malarae. “Is she our foe?”

“No,” said Caina. “At least, she’s an enemy of Rhadamathar and the serpent men. But her people are wary about showing themselves, and she wanted to talk to me alone. And Morgant, since the spell didn’t work on him either.”

“Did she tell you anything?” said Kalliope.

“Quite a lot,” said Caina. “But I need to act now. Can you keep watch on things here? I’ll wake up Kuyat before I go.”

“Yes, of course,” said Kalliope. “But what do you need to do?”

“I think,” said Caina, “I can find out who tried to poison Lady Azar and why.”

17

VEILS

A short time later, Caina and Morgant hurried through the darkened alleys of the Tower Quarter, making their way back to the Masters’ Quarter.

“You know,” said Morgant, “when you woke up Kalliope, for a half-second she was afraid you were going to kill her.”

“I know,” said Caina.

“She’s scared of you,” said Morgant.

“I know that, too.”

“So why haven’t you killed her?” said Morgant.

Caina gave him an incredulous look over her shoulder. Between her black Veilplate and his dark coat, they were indistinguishable figures in the night, shadows moving through the alley.

“Because she’s not my enemy,” said Caina, “she’s done nothing to deserve death at my hand, and I’m not leaving Kylon’s children without a mother who clearly loves them. Is that enough for you? Why are you even asking this, anyway?”

“Because,” said Morgant, “you’re clever. Clever, clever, clever. Keen with a logic-blade, or whatever the hell that elf-woman said. The only time I’ve ever seen you make stupid decisions is when your feelings for the Kyracian twist up your brain like a wet cloth. Maybe Kylon wants more noble Kyracian babies with a Kyracian noblewoman. Why not leave you for Kalliope?”

Caina repressed a sigh. She was getting tired of people asking that.

“Because Kylon can’t stand Kalliope,” said Caina, “and Kalliope thinks that an exiled noble of House Kardamnos is beneath the daughter of House Agramemnos. If she hadn’t happened to get pregnant while his sister and her father were trying to arrange a marriage between them, I doubt they would have ever spoken to each other again.”

“Suppose Kylon becomes High Seat of House Kardamnos,” said Morgant.

“Kalliope’s problem,” said Caina, “though I don’t think she knows it, is that she measures every man she meets against her father, and every man she meets falls short of the image she has in her head of Lysikas Stormblade. She’ll never marry, or if she does, she’ll be miserable and make her husband’s life a misery as well.”

“That,” said Morgant, “and I doubt she enjoys a good thorough shag.”

Caina glanced at him, half-annoyed, half-impressed that he had worked it out. Both Kylon and Kalliope had complained to her about their brief courtship, and their lack of mutual attraction had been one of the big problems.

“For the Divine’s sake,” said Caina instead.

“Our noble Lady Kalliope’s problem is pride,” said Morgant. “I know that type of noblewoman. They view rutting as something that animals, slaves, and peasants do. It’s beneath the dignity of a daughter of House Agramemnos. You’re not burdened with that kind of pride, so you stare at the Kyracian with big hungry eyes whenever you’re together.”

This time, Caina made no effort to repress her sigh.

“We know what Kalliope’s problem is,” said Morgant as they crossed a courtyard and came to another alley. “Do you know what yours is?”

“I expect you’re about to tell me.”

“You think too much,” said Morgant, “which means it’s up to you to keep the peace between your husband and the mother of his children.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

“Actually, you have two problems, now that I think about it,” said Morgant.

“Oh? And just what’s the second one?” said Caina. “My poor artistic taste? My unwavering desire for my husband?”

“You’re not very tired, are you?”

“I’m tired enough,” said Caina. “It’s been a long day. I went from Malarae to Istarinmul and almost got killed several times. Isn’t that tiring enough?”

“It should be,” said Morgant. “The others were dead on their feet. Not you, though.”

Caina shrugged, though he knew what he meant. “I exercise more than the others.”

“More than a Radiant Guard?” said Morgant.

“I wasn’t wounded by some orc-creature.” Caina glanced back at him. “What does it matter that I’m not tired? Someone needs to be on their feet. You’re not tired, either.”

“Which is the point,” said Morgant. “I’m not tired because a hundred and fifty years ago, I freed a djinni, and she rewarded me with greater vigor.”

Caina said nothing for a few streets, thinking over her response.

“After we defeated Callatas,” said Caina, “the djinni Samnirdamnus said he gave me a gift before the Azure Court departed from our world. At the time, I didn’t know what he meant. I didn’t think about it much at all. But that last year of the Empire’s civil war, when we were running from Risiviri to Malarae to Istarinmul and then to Rasadda…I should have been more tired than I was. It should have been more fatiguing. But it wasn’t. I know how much extreme physical exertion wears me out. When I was a nightfighter, after I finished a dangerous task, I would sometimes sleep for days. I was younger then, but I get less tired now.” She paused. “When Livia Moranea tried to poison me, I only got sick for a few days. I thought she just miscalculated the dose. But maybe she measured out exactly the right dose for a woman of my height and weight. She just didn’t realize I had the gift of the djinni.”

“Great vigor and stamina,” said Morgant. “Maybe you’ll live as long as I have.”

That…was a very disturbing thought if Caina was honest with herself. Morgant was at least two hundred years old. She didn’t want to live that long. There was, she knew, at least a fifty-fifty chance she would outlive Kylon, but if she did, she didn’t want it to be for very long. Morgant seemed perfectly content as he was, a man who had outlived all his friends and all his enemies thanks to the gift of the djinni, but Caina didn’t want that for herself.

She had already lost so many people. There had been times in Caina’s life when she hadn’t cared if she lived or died, when she would have welcomed death, so it would be a dark joke if she ended up outliving everyone she had ever loved.

But if the Rhadamathi had come to make war upon the Empire, to hunt down Kylon’s children…then Caina needed all the vigor she could find.

And it would be a far darker joke if she was killed breaking into the room of a debauched poet while brooding about far outliving her natural span.

“If the djinni gave me this gift, then I’m going to use it,” said Caina. “Let’s go make some trouble for whoever’s trying to kill Lady Azar.”

They reached the Gilded Throne. Morgant buttoned up his coat and turned up his collar, donning a pair of black gloves. The dark clothing made him all but invisible in the night. Caina had an easier time of it. A mental command to her Veilplate, and she vanished from sight. Morgant crept through the front gate of the Gilded Throne, eluding the watchmen there, and Caina followed him. They retraced the route through the inn to Kuradin’s room.

Caina released her Veilplate’s power of invisibility.

They listened at the door for a moment. No noise.

“You know,” murmured Morgant, “that armor of yours is cheating. Easy to stay unseen when you can turn invisible.”

“I thought you were in favor of cheating,” said Caina. She produced a lockpick and knelt before the door. “In fact, I recall you telling both me and Kylon to cheat whenever possible in a fight.”

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing, did I?”

Caina let out a quiet laugh, and the lock on Kuradin’s door released. She put her pick away, rose to her feet, and eased open the door.

The room beyond was much as she remembered. The bed was still in disarray and smelled of sweat and other things, though it currently held neither Kuradin nor any prostitutes. The doors to the balcony stood open, the cooler night air of Istarinmul blowing into the room.

“I’ll search the bed, you check the rest of the room,” said Morgant.

Caina nodded as Morgant closed the door behind him, and they began to search the room. She looked methodically through the desk, the closet, and behind any chairs, but found nothing. Not even dust – the Gilded Throne maintained high standards of cleanliness. Though Caina suspected the room would need a thorough cleaning once Kuradin departed.

“Well, what have we here?” said Morgant.

He reached under the bed and drew out a small chest. It was about ten inches wide and six deep, and built entirely of gray metal. The craftsmanship of both the box and the lock was masterful.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a chest like that,” said Morgant.

“I have,” said Caina. “It’s a Strigosti box.”

“The Strigosti?” said Morgant. “No, I’ve seen Strigosti chests. They’re always bloody massive. You need a team of strong men to move them, and if you’re not careful, they’ll fall through your floor.”

“The Strigosti also make and sell smaller boxes like this one,” said Caina. “In the past, sometimes the Emperors and the Lord Commanders of the Legions used them to send messages that absolutely had to remain secure. They cost a fortune, even more than the regular Strigosti chests.”

“So how does a drunk poet like Kuradin afford a Strigosti box?”

“Lady Azar might be a generous patron,” said Caina, “but I doubt she’s that kindly. And maybe Kuradin wasn’t drunk when we talked to him. Maybe there was something else in that cup.”

They looked at each other over the chest.

“Think you can pick the lock?” said Morgant. “I, of course, excel at many skills other than my profound mastery of painting, but a Strigosti lock might be beyond even me.”

“I’m not sure,” said Caina, staring at the lock. “Probably…no. I doubt it. The last time I opened a Strigosti chest, it took a better part of an hour, and I set off the traps built into the thing. For a chest this small, the mechanism is precise enough that if I make a single mistake, I’ll set off the trap.”

Morgant shrugged and reached for his dagger. “Then I’ll just slice it open.”

“No!” Her hand seized his wrist. “No, don’t.”

“Why not?” said Morgant. “I’ll be careful.”

“Look at those slits on either side of the lock,” said Caina. “I think the trap is poison gas. Try to force the lock without the key, and you’ll trigger the trap. And since the poison gas would have to be under pressure, if you nick the reservoir holding the gas…”

“Then we see just how far the vigor of the djinn goes,” said Morgant.

“I’d rather not put it to the test,” said Caina.

“So what do we do with this thing?” said Morgant.

Caina came to a decision. “We take it with us, and then I pay a visit to Nerina Strake. If anyone in Istarinmul can open a Strigosti trapbox, it’s Nerina.”

Morgant grinned. “It will be entertaining to watch Nerina meet Kalliope for the first time.”

“Kalliope is here to protect her children,” said Caina. “She will do what is necessary.”

“You had better carry the box,” said Morgant.

“Why?” said Caina.

“You’re the one who can cheat and turn invisible,” said Morgant. He turned down his collar and started unbuttoning his coat. “I can just walk out of here. But if I walk out of here carrying the box, I’m a thief.”

Caina sighed but stooped and picked up the box. By the Divine, the bloody thing was heavy. But it would be worth the effort to take it.

She suspected that it held some of the answers she sought.

18

CRAFT OF THE STRIGOSTI

Early the next morning, Kalliope Agramemnos turned a wary eye toward the metal box on the floor.

Caina and Morgant had returned last night carrying the box. After placing it on the floor, Caina had told Kalliope in no uncertain terms not to touch the box for any reason. It had come from the room of that lewd poet, and Caina said that the box likely contained a deadly trap that would kill whoever tampered with the lock.

“That looks expensive,” said Kalliope. Her father had one Strigosti trapbox he used to store important documents and gemstones, and it had cost House Agramemnos a fair bit of coin. “How does a wastrel poet living on patronage afford something like that?”

“A very good question, isn’t it?” said Caina. “Maybe we’ll find some answers inside the box.”

Kalliope had gotten some sleep, and so had Caina. Shortly after dawn, Caina set off into the city to find a locksmith capable of opening the box. Kalliope persuaded Caina to take Sophia with her. The young loremaster had handled herself well in the fight, and Caina would need someone to watch her back if Ardakh decided to take another swing at her.

Or if more of those ghastly creatures from the warehouse were roaming about.

“We should not have let the amirja go out alone,” said Artuk.

“She will be fine,” said Kalliope, examining his wounds. The big Radiant Guard sat on one of the cots in the main room. Rithram sat on another, and Morgant leaned against the wall near the door, watching the window. Kalliope was pleased by the progress the wounds had made. Both the spells that she had used and the ones that Sophia had cast accelerated the healing process, and the wounds were healing nicely. Artuk’s injuries looked like they were seven or eight days along the healing process rather than inflicted only yesterday. Nor was there any sign of infection.

“Perhaps,” said Artuk. “But we face powerful enemies.”

“She didn’t go alone, she has Sophia with her,” said Kalliope. She went to clean her hands before checking Rithram’s wounds. “You are healing well, khalmir. I would tell you not to strain yourself, but you should be able to fight if necessary. Best to avoid it, though.”

“I will go where my duty takes me,” said Artuk. He looked at Morgant. “I saw you fight, painter. Perhaps you should have accompanied the amirja.”

Morgant shrugged. “Someone needed to stay on watch here. And she can look after herself. Even without the Kyracian watching over her.”

“Have you met Caina before?” said Kalliope to Artuk, drying her hands.

“No. Not before yesterday,” said Artuk. “I saw her at a distance at the Most Divine Padishah’s coronation, and a few times at the Golden Palace in the years since. But we never spoke until yesterday.”

“You’re very loyal to someone you just met,” said Kalliope.

“She is a member of House Tarshahzon, and therefore it is my duty to protect her,” said Artuk.

“There’s more to it than that, I think,” said Kalliope, and she began to examine Rithram’s wounds.

Artuk sighed. “I was once an Immortal.”

“Ah, so that was it,” said Morgant. “You were at the Inferno, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Artuk. “So were you, as I recall.”

Morgant shrugged. “I had a promise to keep.”

“The Inferno…that was the southernmost fortress of the Padishah’s realm, was it not?” said Kalliope. She vaguely recalled hearing that it had been destroyed in the civil war between Erghulan Amirasku and the rebel emirs.

“It was,” said Artuk. “At the Inferno we trained as Immortals, the bodyguards of the Padishah. Those who became Immortals had to survive the most brutal training, and we ingested alchemical elixirs that made us faster and stronger at the cost…” He trailed off. “At the cost of our souls. Rage filled us, endless hate and fury, a contempt for weakness. But when the amirja destroyed the Inferno, she destroyed the training ground for Immortals and the place where our elixirs were made. In time…the effects faded, and we became ourselves again. The Most Divine Padishah offered former Immortals a place in his Radiant Guard. Some of us accepted, eager for a second chance at life and honor.”

“She destroyed the Inferno?” said Kalliope. “How?”

“Hellfire,” said Artuk. “The Inferno was the chief place Hellfire was made, the alchemical weapon of the Padishah. Lord Kylon threw an amphora of Hellfire into the chief engine that produced the substance. The following explosion was…considerable.”

“Blasted off the side of the damned mountain,” said Morgant. “No more Inferno.”

“And no more Immortals,” said Artuk with some satisfaction.

“Lord Kylon threw the amphora?” said Kalliope, finishing her examination of Rithram’s wounds. Like Artuk’s, they were healing well. Better than Kalliope would have expected. Her physician’s skills could clean the wound and reduce the chances of infection, and her water sorcery could accelerate healing, but the addition of Sophia’s spells had improved the situation considerably. Kalliope did not begrudge the help.

Illness and injury were such formidable foes that the wise physician welcomed every ally she could find in the struggle.

“Aye,” said Artuk. “And Lord Kylon also slew the cruel master of the Inferno, the Alchemist Malik Rolukhan. It was he who was responsible for training the Immortals, for turning us from men to savage beasts.” He paused. “Into things like the creatures we fought in the warehouse. Lord Kylon did a great deed when he slew such a man.”

Kalliope said nothing, unsettled. She did not think very much of Kylon, though she tried to hold her tongue on the topic to avoid annoying Caina. Yet Artuk was unquestionably a brave man, one who had not turned his back to the enemy, who had faced hardship and wounds without complaint. He had only winced and nothing more when Kalliope had cleaned and stitched his wounds.

If such a man held Kylon of House Kardamnos in high regard…

“I am pleased to say that your wounds are healing well,” said Kalliope, getting to her feet and once again cleaning her hands. “Better than I expected, in truth. It seems that both my spells and Sophia’s combined for a salutary effect.”

“Thank you, Lady Agramemnos,” said Rithram. “The healing is quicker than I expected.”

“You have my thanks as well,” said Artuk. “Especially since this is not your fight.”

“You are welcome, but it is my fight as much as yours,” said Kalliope. “The Cult has tried to kill my children several times. I came to Caina for aid.”

She hoped they would not ask for more information. Given that Artuk held Kylon in respect, Kalliope did not want to have to explain how she had happened to bear two of Kylon’s children or how she had ended up traveling with Kylon’s wife. But Artuk only nodded.

“We should act soon,” said Rithram. “Time slips away, and the Cult may move against Azar again.”

“I know,” said Kalliope, “but whatever’s in that box might help us find the assassin.”

“A poet,” said Rithram with disdain. “Could a poet have slipped the tea into the poison without my seeing it? I had thought him a preening fool.”

“Maybe it was a good disguise,” said Kalliope.

“If it was a disguise, then it likewise fooled me,” said Artuk. “It is my duty to guard Lady Azar as much as it is yours, and nothing about Kuradin roused my suspicions. I thought at worst he might attempt some sort of vulgar intrigue with Lady Azar or one of her maids, but if he tried such a thing, Lady Azar would simply have him killed.”

“Most likely banished from the Golden Palace,” said Rithram. “Lady Azar is inclined towards mercy, perhaps even when it is unwise.”

Morgant straightened up from the wall and crossed to the window, peering into the interior courtyard.

“Caina’s back,” he said. “And she has the locksmith with her.”

The door opened, and Caina stepped inside. She had dismissed her Veilplate, and wore the leather armor and ragged cloak of a caravan guard, little different than many others that Kalliope had seen in the Anshani and Cyrican Bazaars. Sophia followed, wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

A man and a woman followed them, the man scowling at everything in sight, the woman looking around. He was on the shorter side, but barrel-chested, with thick, heavy arms, callused hands, and hair and beard that were going gray.

The woman was short and thin, almost emaciated, with enormous green eyes and a few wisps of red hair poking from her headscarf. To judge from her features and pale skin, she was Caerish, not Istarish or Anshani. She wore trousers, heavy boots, a ragged green coat, and a leather apron with a variety of tools tucked into it. Her gaze swept over the room, settled upon the Strigosti trapbox, and then her face lit up like a child’s who had just been given a present.

“Aye, you lot look like you’ve been through the wars,” said the man, his voice carrying a heavy Caerish accent. “Artuk, you bastard, how’d you get pulled into this?”

“By following my duty,” said Artuk.

“That’ll get you every time,” said the bearded man.

“You know each other?” said Kalliope, surprised.

Artuk nodded. “Master Malcolm is one of the armorers contracted to make armor for the Radiant Guard.”

“This is Master Malcom Strake, the best armorer in Istarinmul,” said Caina. She gestured to the short woman. “And this is his wife Nerina Strake, unquestionably the best locksmith in Istarinmul.”

“This is true,” said Nerina. Like her husband, she had a thick Caerish accent. “Though I calculate that Strigosti designs are at least nineteen point three seven percent more effective than even my best locks.”

“You already know Sophia, Artuk, and Morgant,” said Caina. “This is Rithram, a household slave of the Great Royal Wife. And this is Lady Kalliope of House Agramemnos.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Malcolm. “So Kylon shagged you, you had a couple of his babies, and you needed Caina to save them?”

Kalliope’s mouth fell open.

Caina sighed.

“Malcolm!” said Nerina.

“What? It’s the truth, isn’t it?” said Malcolm. He paused. “Maybe I should have put that a bit better.”

“Malcolm’s mind was damaged by a magus when he was younger,” said Caina. “He has a difficult time telling lies, which means social graces sometimes…elude him.”

“I see,” said Kalliope. Now that Caina mentioned it, Malcolm’s emotional aura did feel odd. Like it had been damaged in the past. So did Nerina’s, come to think of it.

“I’ve gotten better at it,” said Nerina. She smiled at Kalliope. “I’m sure your children are healthy. I devised a formula to determine the optimum hip-to-waist ratio and angle to predict the possibility a successful birth, and you are in the highest percentile.”

“Thank…you?” said Kalliope. She supposed she should have been offended, but Nerina and Malcolm were so earnest that it was hard to take offense. That, and the overall strangeness of the past several weeks had worn her down. The hell of it was that Nerina was right. Kalliope had delivered many babies, and she knew that the birth of her own twins had gone comparatively quickly and smoothly.

“Nerina,” said Caina. “Let’s look at the box.”

“I didn’t calculate Lady Kalliope’s height and weight at first glance,” said Nerina to Caina. “I’ve stopped doing that. It wasn’t really an effective method of starting a conversation.” She scowled. “And I was wrong about your height by two inches when we first met.” Her gaze switched to Kalliope. “I failed to account for the height of the heels in her sandals. It was very embarrassing.”

“Yes,” said Kalliope, which was all she could think to say.

Caina laughed. “It was five years ago. To show that there are no hard feelings, I’ve brought you a Strigosti trapbox to open.”

“Ooh,” said Nerina, delight filling both her voice and her emotional sense. She crossed to the box, tried to pick it up, and then stopped with a grimace. “Malcolm, could you put that on the table?”

“Right, right,” said Malcolm. He stooped, picked up the metal box, and with no particular effort, placed it upon one of the tables. Nerina reached into one of the pockets of her apron. She drew out a set of goggles with magnifying lenses, slid them over her face, and stooped to scrutinize the box. Malcolm grabbed one of the stools and slid it over to her, and Nerina sat down.

“Oh, this is remarkable,” said Nerina. “I’ve worked on Strigosti locks before, but never one quite this precisely miniaturized.”

The degree of focus that Kalliope sensed in her emotional aura was intense.

“Can you get it open?” said Caina.

“Yes, I believe so,” said Nerina, her goggled eyes still on the box. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord, pulling various metal tools from the pouches on her heavy apron. “I estimate an eighty-three percent probability I will be able to get the lock open without triggering the trap.”

“What happens the other seventeen percent of the time?” said Kalliope.

“The trap goes off,” said Nerina. She lifted a metal probe, tapped it against the box a few times, and listened to the sound. “I suspect the trap will release a highly poisonous gas. Certainly enough to kill everyone in this room and possibly even enough to kill everybody in the building.”

“Should we get everyone else out?” said Kalliope.

Nerina turned towards Kalliope. “You have similar abilities to Kylon, yes?”

“That’s right,” said Kalliope, though getting compared to Kylon about anything rankled. “Though my spells are stronger than his. He is a stormdancer, focused on using the sorcery of water and air to increase his strength and speed. I am a stormsinger.”

“If the box makes a loud metallic click,” said Nerina, “cast a spell of frost upon it immediately. This kind of poison gas is not dangerous if it is below freezing.”

“Can you do that?” said Caina.

Kalliope took a long breath. “Yes.”

“Oh, splendid,” said Nerina. “Then let’s begin. This will be fun!”

“Fun,” said Kalliope, nonplussed, but she didn’t think Nerina heard her.

The next half-hour passed in tense silence. Nerina worked with her tools, prying open a hidden panel on the side of the box and tinkering with the tiny gears and other mechanisms within. Kalliope waited in wary tension, sweat tricking between her shoulders, her arcane power held ready to cast the coldest spell of frost she could on the box. She had done dangerous things before, especially lately, but watching Nerina Strake work on the Strigosti box was a new kind of tension. It was like sitting in front of a loaded ballista, waiting to see if it was going to hurl its missile at you or not. It was even stranger because Kalliope could sense Nerina’s emotional aura as she worked, and she felt…contented. Happy, even.

Finally, Nerina sighed, leaned back, and reached up to wipe some sweat from her forehead.

“How are you doing?” said Caina.

“I don’t suppose I could have something to drink?” said Nerina. “I always forget to drink while I’m working. I’d have Malcolm remind me, but he forgets to eat while he’s working, so we always just end up hungry and thirsty.”

“Dehydration is potentially a serious condition,” said Kalliope. Sophia approached with a cup of mixed wine. Nerina took it and drained it in three quick swallows. “What about the trap?”

“The trap? Oh, it’s disarmed, and the lock is open,” said Nerina.

Before anyone could stop her, Nerina reached down and opened the lid of the box. Kalliope flinched and almost cast a spell of frost over it, but nothing happened.

Caina leaned forward to look into the box.

So did Kalliope, Artuk, Rithram, Morgant, Sophia, and Malcolm. Only Nerina seemed uninterested, and she slipped off her stool to get more mixed wine.

Most of the box’s interior had been taken up with several leather pouches. One pouch held gold and silver coins. Caina lifted another pouch and opened it, revealing what looked like dried flower petals.

“Desert’s Kiss,” said Rithram, his voice as cold as the frost Kalliope would have summoned over the box. “It seems that the poet Kuradin is indeed the assassin.”

“Or knows who it is,” said Artuk. “What are those?”

Four crystal vials filled another pouch. Each one contained a viscous greenish-yellow fluid.

“That’s the poison from one of the serpent men, isn’t it?” said Kalliope.

“Yes,” said Caina. “But it looks different.” She lifted one of the vials, opened the lid, waved a hand over it, and sniffed. “It smells…pleasant. I think our fears were right. The venom of the serpent men, the Rhadamathi, can be either deadly or addictive. I suspect anyone foolish enough to drink this would find it far more addictive than strong drink or any other drug.”

“Even wraithblood?” said Nerina in a quiet voice from where she stood with a cup. A flush of something like old fear, the scar of a deadly terror, went through her emotional aura.

“Perhaps,” said Caina. She closed the vial and returned it to the box. “Nerina, Malcolm, thank you for your help.”

“Aye, anytime,” said Malcolm. “You got me out of the Inferno, so I would do a lot worse for you.”

Caina turned to Kalliope and the others. “We should return to the Golden Palace at once. We must speak to Lady Azar. And the Grand Wazir. We’ll need to have him put out an order for Kuradin’s arrest. Nerina, Malcolm, please go to the House of Agabyzus and talk to Damla. Tell her to have the others start looking for Kuradin.” If the poet had panicked and gone into hiding, the Ghosts of Istarinmul might be able to find him.

“Should we not go straight to the Gilded Throne and apprehend the traitor now?” growled Artuk, murder in his eyes.

Caina shook her head. “When we go after Kuradin, I want a century of Radiant Guards with us, maybe some Alchemists. I don’t think Kuradin can open a portal and summon more of those orc-things the way that Ardakh did. But if I’m wrong, a lot of people will die.”

“Kuradin’s likely not thinking all that clearly,” said Morgant. “Take a strong drink from a drunkard, and at best, he starts getting erratic. At worst, he becomes violent. If you’re right, and Kuradin’s addicted to that stuff, we just took his entire supply. There’s no telling what the fool will do.”

“We must warn Lady Azar at once,” said Rithram. “If the Razor is right, Kuradin will be dangerous. If his masters in the vile Cult have commanded him to kill Lady Azar, he may take rash chances.”

“Then let’s hurry,” said Caina. “Get dressed and we’ll get moving.”

A short time later, Artuk had donned his armor, and Malcolm and Nerina had left in haste for the House of Agabyzus. Kalliope and the others followed Caina as they hurried through the streets of Istarinmul.

They reached the gate of the Golden Palace before the Court of the Fountain. The Radiant Guards had not relaxed their vigilance because as soon as the six men at the gate saw Rithram, they leveled their spears and advanced.

“Wait!” called Caina. “Rithram did not attack Lady Azar. The assassin is the poet Kuradin. He put the poison in Lady Azar’s tea, and he tried to pin the blame upon Rithram to conceal his guilt.”

“The amirja speaks the truth!” thundered Artuk. “I have seen convincing proofs with my own eyes, and I am certain that Rithram acted with honor while Kuradin is a traitor.”

“This is ill news,” said one of the Radiant Guards with dismay.

“What?” said Artuk. “Why?”

“Lady Azar was feeling ill,” said the Radiant Guard, “so she summoned the poet Kuradin to recite for her. He passed through this very gate not a quarter of an hour ago.”

19

YOU NEVER UNDERSTOOD

Caina sprinted through the grand corridors of the Golden Palace as fast as she could, the others following. Artuk bellowed orders as he ran, and over two dozen Radiant Guards ran behind them, spears in hand, white cloaks billowing. They scrambled up the stairs, Caina taking them two at a time, and she ran through the doors and burst onto the northern terrace.

Under other circumstances, it would have been a peaceful scene. Puffy white clouds drifted across the blue sky, casting mottled shadows across the green grass and white stone of the terrace. Mazyan and a half-dozen Radiant Guards stood by a group of royal servants. Lady Azar sat on her cushioned chair, surrounded by her maids, and to Caina’s surprise, Zerada sat next to her.

Or maybe it wasn’t so surprising. Zerada had listened to what Caina had said, and had decided to extend a hand of friendship to Lady Azar. And the Great Royal Wife loved poetry, everyone knew that. What better way to make friends than to attend the recitation of her favorite poet?

Kuradin stood twenty paces in front of Azar’s chair. He now wore fine clothes – a green coat trimmed in gold, a green turban set with a jewel, a fine cape flung back from his shoulder. Kuradin’s strong, rich voice rang out, reciting what Caina thought were rather stilted-sounding verses in formal Istarish.

Despite the strength of his voice, he did not look well.

His face had taken on a grayish cast, while sweat glittered upon his brow. Lady Azar seemed concerned, and Zerada had the polite, somewhat frozen smile of someone who thought something was amiss but was too nervous to say anything.

“My lady!” said Artuk, rushing to Azar’s chair, Rithram a few steps behind him. “Are you well?”

“Khalmir?” said Azar, bewildered. “Yes, I am well. My stomach is upset, but that is hardly unusual these days.” Her eyes fell on Rithram and widened in surprise. Mazyan took a long step forward, hand falling to his scimitar hilt.

Rithram fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground, the same gesture Caina had seen him make in the Shahenshah’s Seat. “I beg your forgiveness, blood of the most holy Shahenshah. I failed to protect you and did not see the viper in this garden.”

“Viper?” said Azar. “What viper?” Her dark eyes turned to Caina. “Lady Kardamnos, please. What is happening?”

“Rithram didn’t try to poison you, my lady,” said Caina, stepping forward, the Radiant Guards spreading out behind her. Kuradin looked back and forth between them, his face seeming a little grayer. “The poison was already in the tea when Rithram picked up the tray. Kuradin pretended to see Rithram sprinkle poison in the tea to cover what had actually happened. Rithram knew that if he stayed, he would be slain, so he left to find the true assassins.”

“Speak,” said Azar, looking at Rithram. “Is this true?”

“It is, my lady,” said Rithram, getting to one knee and gazing up at the Great Royal Wife. “I have been devoted to your service from the day your father the most holy Shahenshah bade me to serve you. For those of us who uproot weeds from good soil are most devout in our duty.”

Azar’s eyes widened a little, and then she nodded. “Much now is explained. But then who has sought my life? The Cult of Rhadamathar? Or someone else? Rise and speak.”

“The Cult of Rhadamathar,” said Rithram, getting to his feet and pointing, “but they sent the poet Kuradin to carry out the foul deed.”

All eyes on the terrace fell on Kuradin.

“What?” said Kuradin, spluttering. For once, his eloquence had fled. “You cannot…you cannot possibly believe this, this miserable slave over the word of a free man and a noble, I…”

“It’s over, Kuradin,” said Artuk. “We know you often visited the hidden shrine of Rhadamathar in the Anshani Quarter. We know you often spoke with the foul priest known as Ardakh. And we found the supply of Desert’s Kiss hidden in your room.”

Kuradin flinched, and then his eyes narrowed.

“I expect,” said Caina, “that you’re not feeling well. The venom of the Rhadamathi…”

“They are called the Chosen of Rhadamathar!” hissed Kuradin and then flinched again as he realized what he had said.

“The venom of the serpent men,” said Caina, “can be very addictive. I expect you’re not feeling very well.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Kuradin.

“I do,” said Caina. “I know all about Ardakh, and the ‘Chosen’ of Rhadamathar, and the Great Bridge, and…”

“Shut up!” screamed Kuradin, one hand going to his temple. “You stupid whore of a Kyracian exile, shut up, shut up, shut up! You were supposed to die at the Shahenshah's Seat! Why didn't you just die like you were supposed to!” His voice dissolved into incoherent, enraged screaming.

It was both fascinating and horrifying to watch. Kuradin’s poise and charisma dissolved like a child’s tower of sand beneath the waves of the sea, and Caina was not sure if the fury and hatred that bubbled out was Kuradin’s true self or what the addictive venom had done to him.

“You understand nothing,” hissed Kuradin, some measure of self-control returning.

“Then why don’t you explain it to me?” said Caina. “Why did you try to blame Rithram?”

“Are you stupid?” said Kuradin. “I didn’t think Lady Azar would actually drink the tea, the smell was too strong for that, but I needed Rithram out of the way! He kept sniffing around the Fangs of the Serpent in the Anshani Quarter. He was learning too much. Lord Ardakh suggested a plan to get rid of him. It would have worked if Kuradin hadn’t thrown that tray at Artuk and run like the damned wind!” He pointed at Zerada. “And I stole your jewelry to cast the blame upon you as well.” His furious, bloodshot eyes turned back to Caina. “And it would have worked, but you were too stupid to believe what was right in front of your eyes!”

“So your god has commanded that you slay me,” said Azar with sadness. “At least it was not for some base motive or simple payment.” She looked at Artuk. “Khalmir, I know your duty compels you to interrogate him. Once you have learned all that you can from Kuradin, I ask that you kill him quickly and with little pain. For his poems did ease my mind when I was in pain…”

“You laughed at me!” shouted Kuradin, spittle flying from his lips.

“Well…yes,” said Azar, taken aback. “Your poems are comic compositions. They were very funny…”

“My poems are not funny!” said Kuradin. “They are serious epics! Serious, glorious epics of Istarish poetry. And you laughed at them! You laughed at me! You took my serious poems and made them a joke!”

“But they were funny,” said Azar. “Your use of figurative language, your stanza structure, your allusions…they were all deliberately comic. They…oh.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, dear. It wasn’t deliberate, was it? Your poems weren’t funny. They were just…bad.”

Kuradin started to shake as if in the grip of a seizure.

“You laughed at me,” he hissed. “Just like my father, just like my brothers. But then Lord Ardakh found me. He didn’t laugh at me. He would make sure that no one ever laughed at me again. You don’t know what’s coming!” He looked around, eyes wild and wide and mad, a crazed smile going over his bearded lips. “You have no idea what is about to happen. Everyone will kneel to Rhadamathar the Great Serpent. Every throne will bow to him. Either you will kneel to Rhadamathar and be rewarded…or you will be forced to kneel. You’ll beg for my forgiveness, Azar Tarshahzon, for daring to laugh at me.” He glared at Caina, his mouth twisted in a rictus smile. “Think you’re so smart, Liberator? We weren’t even planning to poison Azar. No! She shall die by the sword, not poison.”

Caina saw the glow of an arcane aura around Kuradin. It was similar to the auras she had seen in the shrines to Rhadamathar in the Shahenshah’s Seat and Livia Moranea’s attic. Kuradin was about to use one of the Rites, the spells that let the Cultists draw on the power of Rhadamathar. Except the spell was necromantic in nature, and it was drawing on Kuradin’s own life force to power itself.

Livia had been a disposable pawn of the Fangs of the Serpent, but she hadn’t realized the truth.

It seemed that Kuradin had made the same error.

“Stop!” shouted Caina. “It’s going to kill you!”

Kuradin screamed in rage, green fire blazing to life around his fingers.

“Kill him!” said Caina. “Don’t let him finish the spell!”

Mazyan shot forward like a crossbow bolt. Caina yanked a throwing knife from her belt, running towards Kuradin as she shouted, but it was too late.

The green fire bloomed over Kuradin, and his screams of rage turned to horror and pain. The necromantic flame did not burn Kuradin so much as it melted him, his flesh turning to a bloody slurry and running off his bones, which collapsed into a pile in the puddle of gore that had once been his flesh and blood. Mazyan skidded to a halt, gazing down at the bloody remnants of the poet.

Caina heard the sound of someone being noisily sick to the side. Either Azar or Zerada, she thought, or perhaps one of their servants.

The green flame leaped from Kuradin’s remnants and hurtled to the north, stopping at the very edge of the terrace. It spread in a curtain perhaps five yards tall and twenty across, and Caina wondered if the spell was some sort of attack, a necromantic working that would rip away the life force of everyone within the Golden Palace.

But there hadn’t been enough raw force in the spell for that.

Instead, the green fire faded, seeming to leave a rectangular hole in the air at the edge of the terrace.

The spell hadn’t been an attack.

It had been a summons.

For the second time in as many days, Caina looked through a sorcerous portal into the gloomy dark temple of Rhadamathar, the great twisted serpent-idol rising over the black altar.

And she saw the black-armored forms of orcs in their chain mail and ragged plate armor, swords, axes, and spears in hand, their venomous yellow-black eyes taking in the terrace.

“Bloody hell,” said Morgant. “Not this again.”

“Defend the Great Royal Wife!” roared Artuk. “Drive them back through the gate!”

One of the orcs bellowed something in their harsh language, and the hulking creatures surged through the gate.

20

VALIKARION

Kalliope froze with horror, gazing at the orc-things rushing through the portal.

She felt their emotional auras, the pure malignancy of them hammering at her mind like a fist of ice. Everything dark that lurked in the human mind, all the hate and murder and lust and sadism that dwelt in the shadowy parts of the heart, all of it seemed to have its purest expression in the twisted creatures that poured through the gate.

When Kalliope had been a child, when her powers with water sorcery had first manifested, it had taken her some time to gain control. Sensing emotional auras for the first time had been overwhelming, even terrifying, and she had dreaded crowds, knowing that the overlapping emotional auras would wash over her mind like a storm. After a few months, she had gathered the mental discipline to control her powers, to sense the auras of those around her without allowing it to overwhelm her own mind.

But the aura around the dark creatures made those childhood trials seem simple by comparison.

The Radiant Guards shouted, forming a line to intercept the orcs as they rushed at Lady Azar and Lady Zerada. Mazyan planted himself in front of Azar and Zerada, as if intending to hold off the attack by himself. One of the Guards had gotten a horn from somewhere and was sounding it, no doubt summoning the rest of the Golden Palace’s garrison to respond to the attack. Reinforcements would soon be on their way.

They just had to survive until then.

“Lady Kalliope!” said Sophia. “We must move!”

She was right. A half-dozen orcs were running towards her, and they needed to get behind the line of Radiant Guards. But the orcs were closing too fast, and Kalliope had lost sight of Caina in the chaos.

“No, we must fight!” said Kalliope, summoning arcane force for a spell.

The orcs started to close, and then Morgant and Rithram attacked.

The first orc slashed his sword at Morgant’s head. With a lazy flick of his wrist, Morgant raised his left hand, and his black dagger sheared off the orc’s sword at the hilt. The creature clearly had not been expecting that, and it stumbled forward. Morgant sidestepped and raked his crimson scimitar across the orc’s throat. The black slime of its blood bubbled free, and the creature fell in its death throes to the ground.

A second orc lunged at Rithram, and the wiry man danced around the blow. He produced a pair of wicked-looking curved blades that looked like a fisherman’s scaling knives but much thicker and heavier. His hands blurred, black slime flying from the orc’s sudden wounds, and the creature toppled over.

The remaining four closed on Morgant and Rithram, and Kalliope and Sophia cast spells.

Sophia’s spell struck first. A shaft of light shone from the end of her pyrikon staff, some spell of the Words of Lore that Kalliope did not understand. Whatever it was hurt the orcs, and they staggered, smoke rising from beneath their armor. That slowed them down, which also had the effect of making them a marvelous target for Kalliope’s spell.

Freezing mist rolled over the four orcs. With the power of the spell divided among so many targets, it wasn’t as effective as Kalliope might have wished, but it was effective enough. A layer of ice formed over the orcs’ shoulders and arms, binding them in place. At once cracks spread through the ice as they struggled to break free, and her spell would only hold them for a few seconds.

When facing combatants as skilled as Morgant and Rithram, a few seconds might as well have been an eternity.

The last of the orcs fell dead, and Morgant turned towards Kalliope. Most of the orcs hammered at the line of Radiant Guards that had formed in front of Azar and Zerada, and more and more of the creatures were pouring from the gate. Yet for a second, Kalliope, Sophia, Morgant, and Rithram were in a relatively clear space.

“Do you see where Caina went?” said Kalliope, alarmed. Gods, if she had been killed, how would Kalliope possibly explain it to Kylon?

“Used that armor of hers to turn invisible and go after the gate,” said Morgant, watching the battle. “Told me to make sure you and the girl didn’t get killed.”

“We must defend the Great Royal Wife,” said Rithram. “The Radiant Guards cannot stand alone.”

With Mazyan's furious help, the Radiant Guards were holding against the orcs, at least for now, but more and more of the creatures were emerging from the portal. Unless reinforcements arrived soon, Kalliope feared that the Guards would be overrun. The soldiers would kill many of the orc-things, but she doubted that the serpent men cared how many of their minions died so long as their goals were achieved.

“They’re about to get flanked,” said Morgant, pointing with his crimson scimitar. Steel rang on steel, and Kalliope spotted a group of orcs moving around the western edge of the Radiant Guards’ line, preparing to attack the soldiers from behind.

“We must act,” said Rithram.

“We’ll need your spells,” said Morgant. “Let’s go.”

He and Rithram ran towards the approaching orcs, and Kalliope and Sophia followed. More arcane power flowed through Kalliope’s mind, and she shaped it into a spell. Sophia struck first, another wave of white light leaping from her pyrikon staff to strike the orcs. They staggered, and Kalliope cast her own spell. White mist swirled around the orcs, ice binding their arms to their sides. It didn’t slow them down for long, but Morgant and Rithram struck, carving their way through the creatures.

More orcs were still coming from the portal.

If Caina could close the gate as she had in the warehouse, Kalliope hoped she would do it soon.

* * *

Caina rushed through the battle, concealed in the power of her Veilplate armor.

She didn’t know what kind of senses the orcs possessed, if they had keener eyes and ears than humans. Caina suspected that Mist had sharper senses than a human, and if the orcs had been made from her people, perhaps they had inherited those keen senses.

But the invisibility of Caina’s armor fooled the orcs’ eyes, and they neither heard nor sensed her as she ran towards the portal opened by Kuradin’s death.

Her armor had once belonged to a seset-medjar assassin of ancient Maat. Mist had claimed that the Rhadamathi and their servants had been on this world for a long time, preparing the way for their planned conquest. Had the seset-medjar ever encountered the serpent men?

Caina dismissed the thought as irrelevant.

She drew nearer to the massive portal, her eyes of flesh watching the orcs and the vision of the valikarion noting the flows of power that maintained the gate. Kuradin’s death had fueled the spell that had opened the portal, but it was being maintained from the other side, from the shadowy temple. If Caina could thrust her valikon through the portal for a few seconds, it would disrupt the flow of arcane power and collapse the gate. No further orcs would come through. Quite a few of the creatures were fighting the Radiant Guards, but Caina could give them their best chance of victory by breaking the portal.

A lot of Radiant Guards would still die.

Even more would die if she did not act quickly.

Caina reached the edge of the portal and stopped. There were at least another two hundred orcs moving through the temple chamber. Horns and trumpets were blowing in the Golden Palace, calling the Radiant Guards to arms, but it would take time for them to arrive. If the orcs killed Lady Azar and her unborn child before Caina closed the gate, the Cult of Rhadamathar would have achieved what it sought. Likely, there would be war between Istarinmul and Anshan.

The Shahenshah would not believe that twisted creatures from another world had appeared through a hole in the air and killed his daughter and unborn grandchild.

Until yesterday, she would have been hard-pressed to believe it herself.

But Caina had reached the gate. Her timing would have to be exact. Summoning the valikon would collapse her armor’s invisibility, and the nearby orcs would see her. Caina would have to disrupt the gate, dismiss her valikon, and restore her armor’s invisibility before the orcs swarmed and killed her.

They might swarm and kill her anyway.

Best to get on with it.

She summoned her valikon, the Veilplate’s invisibility unraveling, and thrust the blade into the portal.

Again the hilt of the ghostsilver sword grew painfully hot beneath her grasp, and she saw the flows of power sputter and flicker.

Yet they didn’t break.

Her valikon’s blade was unraveling the currents of arcane force that empowered the gate, but something else was restoring them from this side…

She realized what was happening and whirled, her valikon coming up in guard.

Ardakh stood twenty paces away, watching her with solemn calm, the gleaming serpent staff in his right hand. His left hand was thrust towards her, and a ghostly serpent fashioned of greenish-yellow light hurtled towards her like an arrow, jaws yawning wide.

Caina didn’t know if the spectral thing would bite her or wrap around her like one of Rithram’s bolas, but she didn’t want to find out. She sprang forward to meet the attack, swinging her valikon in a two-handed sweep. The ghostsilver blade struck the serpent, which unraveled in a burst of sparks and a flash of light.

She ran at Ardakh. That serpent-staff in his right hand was providing the anchor point for the gate’s spells, and if she could destroy the staff, that would break the spells and collapse the gate. Or if she just killed Ardakh, that would work as well.

But the Fang of the Serpent was ready for her. Ardakh gestured, and suddenly a dozen ghostly serpents seemed to leap from within him, twisting and writhing around him like lashing whips. Caina skidded to a halt just beyond the reach of the serpents. She could destroy one or two of the things, but the rest would close around her, and then she would get to find out firsthand if they would strangle her to death or merely poison her.

“Countess Kardamnos,” said Ardakh, his voice solemn. “It is well that you are here. The Grand Priestess herself has decreed your death.”

He beckoned with his free hand, and a dozen orcs broke off from the against the Radiant Guards and rushed towards Caina.

* * *

Kalliope cast another spell. Once more the white mist coiled around the advancing orcs, locking their arms in place for a few critical seconds. Morgant and Rithram seized the opening. Rithram moved with the fluid grace of a hunting predator, the curved knives flashing in his hands. Morgant used his black dagger to punch through the orcs’ armor and slice into their corrupted flesh, his crimson scimitar darting back and forth to block the blows aimed at him. Sophia’s spells kept staggering the orcs, which made it easier for Kalliope’s water spells to bind them for a few seconds.

They were holding.

But they were not winning.

Too many orcs were coming from the portal, and Kalliope could see no sign of Caina. More Radiant Guards had emerged from the Golden Palace proper and were sprinting to join the fight, which was degenerating into an all-out brawl. Even with the reinforcements and Mazyan's superhuman skill, the Radiant Guards were getting pushed back.

A half-dozen orcs ran right towards Kalliope and the others. Morgant and Rithram had just finished cutting down the last group that Kalliope and Sophia had hindered, and there wasn’t enough time to cast spells at the newcomers.

Morgant whirled and flung his black dagger at them.

That seemed ineffective.

The dagger sank into the ground before the charging creatures, the red pearl in its pommel glowing brighter.

That seemed even less effective. He hadn’t even hit anything.

The thought had just crossed Kalliope’s mind when a blast of fire erupted from the dagger’s pommel and engulfed the charging orcs. Morgant held out his hand, and the dagger leaped from the explosion and landed back in his hand just as the heat of it washed over Kalliope’s face. The flames cleared, and three of the orcs were down, fire dancing over their charred flesh.

The stench was horrendous.

Three of the orcs were still on their feet, fighting to put out the flames that burned at their clothing, and Morgant and Rithram cut them down.

“How did you do that?” said Kalliope, disliking the tremor of fatigue that went through her voice.

“When the dagger cuts through metal,” said Morgant, scanning the fight. “Generates a lot of heat. All that heat has to go somewhere, doesn’t it?”

Kalliope supposed that made sense.

More orcs charged towards them, and Kalliope focused her tired mind upon more spells.

* * *

Caina dropped her valikon, yanked a dagger from her belt, and drew on her armor’s power.

Again the Veilplate wrapped her in invisibility, and she hurried forward, darting around the orcs. If she could get close enough to Ardakh, perhaps she could break through his screen of ghostly serpents and strike him down. Or, at the very least, knock the staff from his hands. That staff was channeling a considerable amount of arcane force, more than Ardakh himself could cast. If she could at least wrench the staff from his grasp, then Caina thought the spell would collapse. The gate would close, and the Radiant Guards would only have to deal with the orcs who had already entered the terrace.

The ghostly serpents that Ardakh had summoned kept writhing and snapping around him, moving in no discernable pattern. If they touched Caina, it might kill her. At the very least, it would collapse the invisibility around her armor, and the orcs would encircle and kill her.

To make matters worse, Ardakh struck the end of his staff against the ground and cast another spell. Yellowish-green light rolled down the staff’s length, and then splintered into dozens of tiny serpents. Each one was no larger than Caina’s little finger, but they crawled across the ground with terrific speed. She jumped to the side, trying to avoid them, but one of the serpents brushed the edge of her left boot.

Her invisibility collapsed, and the orcs whirled, running after her. Caina retreated, sending a mental command to her armor. It always took a few seconds to rebuild the invisibility after it collapsed, but that was a few seconds she did not have. One of the orcs closed, a spiked mace in its right hand. Caina saw its glaring yellow eyes, the fang-filled mouth, the pointed ears, the black veins threading their way through the gray skin.

She braced herself to dodge, not knowing if she could get out of the way or if her armor could withstand the impact of the spiked mace.

Something hissed past her head, and an arrow sprouted from the orc’s neck in a splash of black slime. The creature collapsed, and two more fell as arrows hammered into their flesh. Ardakh took a long step back, gripping his staff with both hands, and Caina reactivated her armor’s invisibility.

She risked a look to the side and caught a glimpse of a green-cloaked figure perched at the base of one of the Golden Palace’s domes, a bow in hand.

Mist had joined the fight.

More arrows rained down, striking additional orcs. One of the shafts hurtled towards Ardakh, but a spectral serpent cracked like a whip and knocked Mist’s arrow from the air.

But if Mist could keep any of the orcs from reaching Caina…

Hoping that the alien woman understood, Caina summoned her valikon, the ghostsilver blade unraveling the Veilplate’s invisibility, and charged at Ardakh. The nearby orcs saw her and turned, but Mist’s arrows struck their marks with uncanny accuracy. Her skill cleared a path, and Caina rushed at Ardakh.

The Fang of the Serpent retreated, trusting in the ghostly snakes that he had conjured to protect him. But Caina was not foolish enough to come within their reach. She circled the edge of his defenses, cutting the heads from the spectral serpents as they lunged at her. Ardakh had started with a dozen of the things, but soon he had nine left, then only six. He thrust his hand and cast another spell, a ghostly serpent rising to coil around her throat, but Caina intercepted the attack with her valikon and disrupted it.

Soon he had only three serpents left, and Caina changed tactics.

She thrust her valikon at him but then danced to the side. Her hand came up, a throwing knife gleaming in her fingers, and she flung the blade at Ardakh. He cursed and dodged, his remaining serpents trying to block the missile, but he didn’t have enough ghostly snakes left, and she was just a hair too fast. The blade clipped his right forearm, drawing blood. Ardakh hissed in pain, his concentration wavering, and for a second, the gate sputtered behind him.

With her enemy distracted, Caina rushed in for the kill. The remaining ghostly serpents lashed at her, and she slashed left and right, taking off their heads and unraveling the spells. Some distant part of her mind noted that her mediocre skill with a sword had improved, that Kylon would be proud.

But the rest of her mind was focused entirely on Ardakh, and she swung the valikon with all the strength she could muster.

Ardakh saw his death coming, and he took his staff in both hands and parried her blow. The valikon clanged against the staff, and Caina felt the blade bite into the metal, the power of her valikon unraveling the spells on the staff. The hilt grew warmer in her hands, the gate sputtering behind Ardakh, and Caina leaned into the parry, hoping to cleave her valikon through the serpent staff.

But that was a mistake.

Ardakh was stronger than she was, and he braced himself and shoved the staff out. Caina stumbled, valikon coming up in guard, and Ardakh whirled and sprang through the gate without looking back.

The portal vanished without a trace.

It seemed the Fangs of the Serpent were not fanatical enough to sacrifice their lives in the name of Rhadamathar.

Or perhaps like their masters the Rhadamathi, they were cold, logical, patient. The serpent men had been patient enough to prepare for centuries, maybe millennia, gathering the Cult of Rhadamathar in the shadows as they waited for the right moment for their conquest. Maybe Ardakh had seen no need to die in the name of Rhadamathar because his death would not advance the goals of his god, because he could serve Rhadamathar better by waiting for the next opportunity to act.

That made them dangerous opponents.

But Caina already knew that, didn’t she?

She dropped her valikon, the blade dissolving into silver shards of light as she dismissed the weapon and drew her last remaining dagger.

The power of the Veilplate turned her invisible, and Caina turned to join the battle, intending to kill as many orcs as possible before they could cut down any more Radiant Guards.

* * *

The fight was over.

Kalliope supposed that Caina must have closed the gate because it had disappeared without a trace. The Radiant Guards defending Azar and Lady Zerada had held long enough for reinforcements to arrive from the rest of the Golden Palace, hundreds of white-cloaked Guards pouring into the terrace to join the fight.

The remaining orcs had been overwhelmed and cut down. They had not asked for a quarter, nor had they even tried to surrender. Indeed, from what Kalliope had sensed of their dark auras, she suspected the creatures were incapable of surrender and would fight to the death simply for the savage joy of inflicting as much pain on their enemies as possible.

But the last orc fell, pierced by the spears of a half-dozen Radiant Guards, and a heavy silence fell over the terrace, broken only by the groans of the wounded and dying men.

“Is that all of them?” said Rithram. The wiry man was breathing hard, his face a mask of sweat. Part of Kalliope’s mind noted that he might have aggravated his wounds.

Or he might have taken new ones.

“I think so,” said Morgant, his pale eyes scanning the terrace. He hadn’t sweated as much as Rithram, despite his coat, but even he looked fatigued, dark circles beneath his eyes. “None of the orcs got off the terrace, and it looks like Caina closed the gate.”

“Is the Countess safe?” said Sophia. There were many hurt men lying on the terrace, but it looked as if both Azar and Zerada had survived the battle.

“I don’t know,” said Kalliope. “I didn’t see…”

“I’m here.”

Kalliope turned and saw Caina approaching, still in the form-fitting black Veilplate armor, though her helmet had retracted into the shoulder plates. She carried a dagger in her right hand, the blade dripping with the black slime of an orc’s blood.

“What happened?” said Kalliope.

“Ardakh was here,” said Caina. “Kuradin’s death was one anchor point of the gate. Ardakh was the other.”

“Did you kill him?” said Kalliope.

“No,” said Caina. She looked towards the Golden Palace, but Kalliope saw nothing in that direction. “I had some help from the green archer. She cleared out the orcs nearest to Ardakh, and I forced him to retreat. That collapsed the gate. I guess Ardakh decided to cut his losses and escape.”

“Then you fulfilled the Emperor’s request,” said Kalliope. “You found the assassin.”

“Aye,” said Caina, and she looked over the wounded men with grim weariness. “But at a steep cost.”

21

DEFENDER OF THE EMPIRE

The next morning, Caina, Kalliope, Sophia, and Morgant were summoned to meet with the Great Royal Wife in the courtyard of her residence.

Kalliope and Sophia looked rather weary. They had spent the rest of yesterday helping to tend to the wounded. Nineteen Radiant Guards had been killed in the fight against the orc-things, and thirty-five more had been wounded, with injuries ranging from moderate to almost certainly mortal. Some of the Radiant Guards would recover.

Some would not.

Azar sat in her cushioned chair, her face grim. Mazyan hovered nearby, ready to defend should any new attackers appeared. Zerada sat next to her. It seemed that surviving the Cult’s attack on the terrace had allowed the Great Royal Wife and the First Royal Concubine to become friends or at least to overcome their fear of one another.

Seeing something like one of those orc-creatures had a way of putting things into perspective.

Agabyzus stood near Azar’s chair, wearing the robe of the Chief of Scribes. Rithram waited nearby, no longer attired as a household slave, but wearing the simple blue robe of a royal servant. Artuk commanded the dozen Radiant Guards who kept watch on Azar. Both Artuk and Rithram looked a bit strained, no doubt from the wounds they had taken at the warehouse, but they stood tall.

“Countess Kardamnos, Lady Agramemnos, loremaster Sophia, and Master Morgant,” said Azar, voice grave. “I owe you my life and the lives of many others.”

“I wish we could have arrived sooner,” said Caina, “and stopped Kuradin earlier.”

“I suspected nothing of the truth,” said Azar. “Nor did anyone else. Nor did we realize the depth of the Cult’s power and evil, their ability to summon those devils and unleash them upon the Golden Palace. If you had not intervened, then I would have been slain, along with all my servants and slaves and many others besides.”

“And war would soon begin between the Padishah and the Shahenshah,” said Rithram. “There could be no other answer to a daughter of the most holy Shahenshah dying in her own home.”

“And you prevented another injustice,” said Azar to Caina, her gaze turning to Rithram. “Rithram was the most loyal of all, yet I believed him to be a traitor.”

Rithram offered a bow. “My life is my honor, and my honor is to serve.”

“Why did you not tell me the truth of yourself?” said Azar. “You chose the humblest of disguises.”

“The perceptions of other men matter not,” said Rithram, “only my duty. And they can become a useful shield.” He glanced at Caina. “Though once the amirja discovered the truth of the matter, there was no further point in secrecy.”

“She does have a gift for finding the truth of such things,” said Kalliope.

“Once again, you have my gratitude,” said Azar. “You saved my life, my uncle’s life, and that of the Padishah from the Umbarian conspiracy, and now you have saved my life again and that of my unborn child.” One thin hand came to rest upon her stomach. “I can think of no reward fit for such service. Yet I say to all of you, should you have need of aid, you have but to call upon me. If it is in my power to offer help, you shall have that help.”

“Though I would still like that portrait, Master Morgant,” said Zerada. “If you’re as good with a brush as you are with that dagger of yours, it shall be a splendid portrait indeed.”

Caina expected a sardonic remark, but instead Morgant bowed. “I shall look forward to it, Lady Zerada.”

“I know you cannot tarry,” said Azar, “and that by the mysterious arts of the loremasters, you shall return to Malarae this very day. I ask only that you speak to the Padishah at once to warn him of this new peril to his life and his realm.”

“I will,” said Caina. “And I ask that you send a message to your father the Shahenshah. From what Rithram has told me, your father already knows that the Cult is dangerous. But he does not know just how dangerous they have become.”

“He shall hear a full account,” said Azar. “Go in peace and with my blessing, amirja. I urge you to return once my son is born. For you preserved his life, and it is only just that he should meet his protector.”

Caina looked at the Great Royal Wife, noting the faint ashen tone of her skin, the visible fatigue in her eyes, and wondered if Azar would survive the birth, or if she could even carry the child to term. It was beyond Caina’s power, though Sulaman had the best physicians and Alchemists looking after her.

“I shall look forward to it,” said Caina, and she bowed.

An escort of Radiant Guards rode with them from the Golden Palace to the Iramisian embassy, Artuk at their head. Rithram accompanied them as well.

“I am surprised,” said Caina. “I thought you would stay behind to guard Lady Azar.”

“Lady Azar commanded me to accompany you and say farewell,” said Rithram. He hesitated. “It…pleases me to do so. I fully expected to die. Yet not only am I alive, I have a position of honor. Thank you, amirja.”

“You also have my gratitude,” said Artuk. “I would have failed in my duty if not for your efforts.”

“I am pleased we were of help,” said Caina.

They rode past the remaining ruins of Grand Master Callatas’s palace and stopped before the Iramisian embassy, dismounting from their horses.

“Well, you were right about one thing,” said Morgant. “It wasn’t boring.”

“It was not,” said Caina. She paused, and before Morgant could react, she kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Morgant. I don’t think we would have survived without you.”

“Bah,” said Morgant, theatrically wiping his sleeve over his cheek. “Obviously, you would have all died without me.”

“Care to visit Malarae?” said Caina.

“I’ve got a portrait to paint,” said Morgant, “and I’m too old for travel.” He smirked. “Be sure to give the Kyracian a warm greeting when you see him again. I’m sure you have the stamina for it.”

With that, he walked off, heading back to the south.

“That,” said Kalliope, “is an extremely uncouth man.” She paused. “Very good in a fight, though.”

“Aye,” said Caina, and she turned to Sophia. “I don’t think we would have survived without your help, either.”

“It is the duty of loremasters to serve,” said Sophia, and she grinned. “Like the old days when we were running around the Empire fighting the Umbarians.”

Caina laughed. “You’re not old enough yet to remember the old days.”

“It is impressive how patient you were with Morgant,” said Kalliope. “I wanted to slap him a few times.”

Sophia shrugged. “In Ulkaar, we revere our elderly and aged. And when Morgant talks too much, I remind him that he is very elderly and very aged, that’s all.”

“Ready to cast the Thought Aegis?” said Caina.

Sophia cast the spell over herself and Kalliope, and they passed through the Hall of Gates back to Malarae. Caina made sure to keep a grip on Kalliope’s arm while they walked, which proved wise because she became dizzy halfway through, the pressure of the Cataphract’s defenses hammering against the warding spell.

But they made it back to Malarae without incident, emerging into the cellar of the former Temple of Cursus that now served as the Iramisian embassy.

Only to find two Imperial Guards waiting for them.

“Countess Kardamnos?” said one of the Guards. Both were young men, and she didn’t recognize either of them.

“Yes?” said Caina.

“The Emperor commanded us to wait for you,” said the Guard. “We are to bring him to you at once. There has been an attack, and he wishes your counsel.”

“An attack?” said Caina. “What happened?”

“The Emperor himself can tell you,” said the Guard.

“Is Lord Kylon all right?” said Caina, her heart hammering against her ribs. By the Divine, if she had left Kylon here only for the Cult to kill him…

The second Guard let out a quiet laugh. “Lord Kylon is likely the only reason we are all still alive.”

“My children?” said Kalliope. “Lord Kylon’s children are safe?”

“Yes,” said the first Guard. “Come. The Emperor is a few miles south of the city. You shall see for yourself. We have horses waiting.”

“Shall I come with you, my lady?” said Sophia.

Caina hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, we might need you. Thank you.”

They left the temple. Four more Imperial Guards waited in the forum with spare horses. Caina, Kalliope, and Sophia took some of the mounts, and they headed south in haste along the Via Triumphalis. There was one significant advantage to traveling with the Imperial Guards in their black armor and purple cloaks – people got out of their way in a hurry. They turned off the Via Triumphalis before they reached the ocean harbor and exited the city through the Nighmarian Gate, riding south along the Imperial Highway that followed the western coast of the Bay of Empire.

A few miles later, they came to a camp overlooking a broad beach facing the rippling blue waters of the sea. Three rows of tents stood there, along with two larger pavilions with banners flying the colors of the Emperor and the Padishah. The Emperor had intended to take the Padishah riding outside of the city, and it seemed that they had made it this far before getting attacked.

But who had attacked them?

Caina received her answer a few seconds later when she caught the now-familiar foul smell in the air.

Orc blood.

They reached the edge of the camp, where two more Imperial Guards stopped them.

“Where are my children?” said Kalliope at once.

“With Lord Kylon, my lady,” said one of the Guards. “The Emperor…”

“Take us to Lord Kylon,” said Caina, “and then we’ll all go see the Emperor and the Padishah together. I expect I have news they will both need to hear.”

They dismounted, and the Guards led them through the camp. Caina spotted Kylon and Cornelia standing in front of one of the tents, Nikarion and Zoe with them. She was relieved that they all appeared to be unharmed. Nikarion and Zoe looked up, saw their mother approaching, and ran to her with delight.

“Are you all right?” said Kalliope.

A torrent of words followed in rapid Kyracian. Caina could not quite follow all of it, but it seemed that there had been a battle, and the twins were impressed that their father had seemingly won it. Caina left Kalliope for her reunion with the children and went to join Kylon. He smiled at her, and the relief that he was alive almost made her knees weak.

“You’re safe,” said Caina.

“Yes,” said Kylon, gripping her hand. “I wasn’t sure about it for a while, but we won.”

“Let me guess,” said Caina. “A strange portal appeared, and twisted creatures rushed out and attacked the Emperor and the Padishah.”

Kylon blinked. “Then I guess the same thing happened in Istarinmul.” She nodded. “Is Lady Azar safe?”

“She is,” said Caina. “I have much to tell the Emperor and the Padishah…and it seems you have news to share as well.” She looked at Sophia, who waited a few paces away. “You should come, too. I think you will need to make a report of this to the high loremasters.”

Kylon led the way to the beach.

The bodies of close to forty orcs had been laid out in the sand. Lying in the bright morning sunlight did nothing to improve their appearance. If anything, the light further revealed their twisted features, their grayish corpse-like skin, the black veins that threaded across their faces, the venomous yellow-black eyes.

This close to the sea, that many dead bodies should have drawn scavengers, birds and other animals. Flies, at the very least. But it seemed not even carrion animals wished to approach their carcasses.

Valerius Hadrazon and Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon stood together, flanked by both Imperial and Radiant Guards. The Emperor and the Padishah turned at her approach.

“Ah, our bold Balarigar,” said the Emperor. “Back sooner than I expected. I hope you have news.”

“I do,” said Caina. “The assassin was the poet Kuradin. He framed Rithram for the attempt on Lady Azar’s life. Lady Azar is safe, as is her unborn child.”

“Thank you,” said Sulaman, inclining his head in a grave nod. “You returned much sooner than I expected and with far better news.”

“The news is not all good,” said Caina. “Many Radiant Guards were slain at the hands of these creatures, these orcs.”

“Orcs?” said Valerius. “What the hell is an orc? These bloody things? I brought out the preceptor of the Malarae chapterhouse of the Magisterium, and he couldn’t make head nor heels of them.”

“There is much,” said Caina, “that I need to tell you.”

22

THE SUMMONS

Later that afternoon, Caina sat with Kylon, Kalliope, Sophia, and Cornelia in front of one of the tents. The children were playing a game with a bag of marbles that Kalliope had brought with her from New Kyre.

“So Sethroza was here?” said Caina, naming another Fang of the Serpent who had attacked them in Malarae.

“Aye,” said Kylon, frowning as he watched the children. “On the other side of the arcane portal, anyway. I suppose the Cult thought they could kill the Emperor, the Padishah, me, and the children with one quick blow. I should have thought of it earlier. That was too many tempting targets in a single place.”

“But you showed them otherwise, my lord,” said Cornelia, gazing at Kylon with obvious admiration. “I’ve never seen such fighting! You hewed through those devils like a harvester through ripe wheat!”

Kalliope blinked, a look of mild startlement on her face, as almost always happened when someone complimented Kylon in earshot. But Kylon was too distracted by memories of the battle to notice.

“Sethroza was on the other side of the gate,” said Kylon. “At least, I assume it was Sethroza – she matched the description you gave me. I don’t think she expected as much resistance as we were able to give her, and she closed the gate before I could get close enough to strike. After that, the fighting was soon over.”

“There is one comfort,” said Caina. “If what Mist said is true, then it will take some time for the Cult to manage another attack like that. It requires considerable arcane power to open gates, and they will need to build their power before they can attempt it again.”

“I can believe it,” said Kylon. “We’ve seen some strange sorcery, but I’ve never even heard of such a thing. The Cult must have a place like Sigilsoara, a place caught halfway between the material world and the netherworld.”

“Then we’ll have to find it,” said Caina.

“How?” said Kalliope.

Caina didn’t know.

“I think,” she said, “we…”

An Imperial Guard approached. “Lord Kylon?”

“Aye?” said Kylon.

“The Emperor asks for your presence,” said the Guards. “Countess Caina’s and Lady Kalliope’s, as well. It seems an embassy of Kyracian nobles has ridden from Malarae and seeks to speak with you.”

“With me?” said Kylon. “Do they not recall that I was exiled by the Assembly?”

Caina drew in a deep breath, a suspicion gripping her mind.

“Perhaps you should speak with them and see what they want,” said Caina.

Kylon nodded and rose to his feet, as did Caina and Kalliope. They followed the Guard through the camp to its northern edge. Emperor Valerius stood there with a half-dozen Imperial Guards and two battle magi, a bemused look on his face.

A group of twenty Kyracian nobles on horseback faced him. Two of the nobles had dismounted, and both turned as Caina, Kylon, and Kalliope approached.

She recognized one of the noblemen, and a wave of dislike went through her. Rhamphias Kardamnos, the current High Seat of House Kardamnos, looked a great deal like Kylon but older, thicker in the face and belly, and much less physically fit. He also seemed fatigued, even haunted.

The second man was about Kylon’s age, maybe a few years older, and looked fit and strong. A sword of storm-forged steel hung on his belt, which marked him as a stormdancer like Kylon. He bore a marked resemblance to Kalliope. A brother, perhaps, or a cousin…

“Uncle Tyndarion?” said Kalliope, astonished.

The stormdancer smiled. “Kalliope! I am pleased that you are safe.”

“Lord Kylon,” said the Emperor. “It seems there is no need for introductions.”

“No,” said Kylon. “This is Tyndarion of House Agramemnos, a stormdancer of the Kyracian people.” His gaze swung back to Rhamphias. “And this is my cousin Rhamphias Kardamnos, who became the High Seat of House Kardamnos after I was exiled.”

He had also tried very hard to convince Kylon not to marry Caina. She had first thought that Rhamphias had succeeded, that he had used Kylon’s sense of duty to his people and city to convince him to return to New Kyre without her. But the entire episode had only angered Kylon further. He had remained behind in Istarinmul and married Caina, and in the two years since, he had never once suggested returning to New Kyre to challenge his exile.

“Yes,” said Rhamphias in accented Caerish. He took a deep breath. “Cousin. I…I…”

He seemed at a loss for words.

“Well?” said Kylon. “You’ve come a long way to see me. What is it?”

“I wish to abdicate as High Seat of House Kardamnos in your favor,” said Rhamphias.

Kylon said nothing and made no reaction.

“These madmen from the Cult of Rhadamathar,” said Rhamphias. “They are targeting everyone in House Kardamnos, and I cannot protect them. I am…I am not Andromache, Kylon. I’m not you. We need Kylon Shipbreaker to come back and defend House Kardamnos before the entire family is extinguished.”

Kylon said nothing, but Caina knew how he would answer.

His sense of duty would demand no less.

This meant Caina knew just how she was going to hunt down the Cult of Rhadamathar.

They had first come after Kylon’s children in New Kyre.

The Cult had started the fight in New Kyre, but Caina would end it there.

THE END

Thank you for reading GHOST IN THE VEILS! Caina will return in her next adventure, GHOST IN THE TOMBS.

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GLOSSARY OF CHARACTERS

AEOLUS- Chief circlemaster of the Ghosts

AGABYZUS- The Chief of Scribes of the Padishah and the Ghost circlemaster of Istarinmul

ANASTASIOS- Owner of The Wrecked Warship

LORD ARCION OF HOUSE ARCION (ARK)- Noble, foundry owner, husband to Lady Tanya

ARDAKH- Leader in the Cult of Rhadamathar

ARISTACES STRATO- Powerful magus known as the Cataphract

ARTUK- A khalmir of the Radiant Guard of the PAdishah

CAINA KARDAMNOS- Countess, former Ghost Nightfighter, Amirja of Istarinmul, Liberator of Iramis, friend of the Emperor, wife to Kylon

CALAVER ABERSON- Battle magus of the Imperial Magisterium, brother of the late Corvalis Aberon

CALVIA SCORNEUS- Caina's half sister, also known as the wealthy and powerful Countess Kalthane

CORNELIA- Caina’s chief maid

THE GREEN ARCHER- Mysterious figure who protects and aids Kalliope and Caina

COUNTESS LIVIA MORANEA- Widow of Lord Owen Moranea, former Umbarian spy. Killed during an attempt on Caina's life

DAMLA- The owner of the House of Agabyzus, the finest coffee house in Istarinmul

ILONA SCORNEUS- Wife of Sebastian Scorneus, known as the Bronze Witch of Ulkaar

LYSIKAS AGRAMEMNOS- Father of Kalliope and High Seat of House Agramemnos. Known as Stormblade for his skill in battle

KALLIOPE AGRAMEMNOS- Noblewoman of House Agramemnos in New Kyre, mother to Kylon’s children Zoe and Nikarion

KAREVAS- Tribune of the Imperial Guard

KHALID- Alchemist and inventor kidnapped by the Cult of Rhadamathar

KUTAL SULAMAN TARSHAHZON- The Padishah

KURADIN- The favorite poet of Lady Azar, known for his comedic compositions

KYLON KARDAMNOS- Caina’s husband, former Kyracian stormdancer and High Sea of House Kardamnos

LUCINDA- Costumer at the Grand Imperial Opera

MELLUS- member of the Cult of Rhadamathar

MORGANT THE RAZOR- Legendary assassin, also known as Markaine of Caer Marist

MURAVIN- Ghost agent and Employee of the Arcion household

NADEZHDA- A powerful loremaster, known in Ulkaar as the Warmaiden

NICOLAI- Son of Ark and Tanya

NIRAN SCORNEUS- Son of Sebastian Scorneus and Ilona

PORTIUS- Member of the Cult of Rhadamathar

SEBASTIAN SCORNEUS- Caina's half-brother and preceptor of the Magisterium chapterhouse in Malarae

SETHROZA- Member of the Cult of Rhadamathar

SOPHIA ZOMANEK- A minor Ulkaari noblewoman, now a loremaster of Iramis

TALZAIN- Caina’s seneschal

LADY TANYA OF HOUSE ARCION- Married to Arcion, friend of Caina

TETRICUS- Young magus working with the civic militia

THEODOSIA- Singer at the Grand Imperial Opera, mother to Tomard

TRIBUNE TOMARD- part of the civic militia, son to Theodosia

VALERIUS HADRAZON- Emperor of Nighmar

VENTRIUS- Guard at the Arcion household

ZERADA- First Royal Concubine of the Padishah of Istarinmul

THE GHOSTS NOVEL READING ORDER

A common question from readers is the proper order to read the Caina novels. Here is the order of all thirty novels as of this writing!

1.) Child of the Ghosts

2.) Ghost in the Flames

3.) Ghost in the Blood

4.) Ghost in the Storm

5.) Ghost in the Stone

6.) Ghost in the Forge

7.) Ghost in the Ashes

8.) Ghost in the Mask

9.) Ghost in the Surge

10.) Ghost in the Cowl

11.) Ghost in the Maze

12.) Ghost in the Hunt

13.) Ghost in the Razor

14.) Ghost in the Inferno

15.) Ghost in the Seal

16.) Ghost in the Throne

17.) Ghost in the Pact

18.) Ghost in the Winds

19.) Ghost in the Ring

20.) Ghost in the Glass

21.) Ghost in the Amulet

22.) Ghost in the Tower

23.) Ghost in the Vault

24.) Ghost in the Council

25.) Ghost in the Vision

26.) Ghost in the Talisman

27.) Ghost in the Lore

28.) Ghost in the Sun

29.) Ghost in the Serpent

30.) Ghost in the Veils

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

USA Today bestselling author Jonathan Moeller has written over 140 novels, including the bestselling FROSTBORN, SEVENFOLD SWORD, DRAGONTIARNA and THE GHOSTS fantasy series, and the SILENT ORDER science fiction series. His books have sold over two million copies worldwide.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Email him at jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

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