“Glad to have you with us,” Bershad said, nodding. They’d need as much help as they could get if they wanted to survive the Razorback Mountains.
The man chained to the beam stirred. He was dirty and skinny and looked like he’d just been pulled out of a gutter.
“So, uh, does everyone know each other besides me?” he said in a Balarian accent. “Introductions, then. I’m Felgor. No title or fancy nickname or anything. Just Felgor for me.” He peered past Bershad, looking at Rowan. “Who’re you?”
“Rowan.”
“Huh. What do you do?”
Rowan shrugged. “Cook. Fight.”
“Gonna be a lot of that?” Felgor asked, turning to Bershad. “Fighting, I mean.”
“My life’d be turning over a pretty big new leaf if we did this peacefully,” Bershad said.
“Too bad,” Felgor said. “I’m not much good in a fight.”
Bershad studied the man and his chains. Ashlyn said not to trust him, but hadn’t said why. Bershad was curious.
“What are you good at?”
“Oh, quite a few things. But if I had to summarize, my skills are mostly centered around sneaking into places I’m not supposed to be, and taking things that don’t belong to me.”
“You’re a thief.”
“Guilty as charged. Literally. I was in the Floodhaven dungeon up until a few hours ago.”
“That’s obvious,” Rowan muttered.
“We need him,” Vera said, reading Rowan’s disdain.
“Why?” Rowan asked.
“Because in Burz-al-dun, trying to walk just four city blocks in the same direction comes with complications,” Felgor said. “Stealing a princess out from under the palace is quite a bit more involved. I have some experience, though.”
Bershad turned to Vera. “What stops him from betraying us once we reach Balaria?”
“It’s been considered,” Vera said, “but he’s got a strong incentive to behave.”
“What incentive?” Bershad asked.
“The home front and I aren’t on the best terms,” Felgor said, managing a smile through lips that were crusty with thirst. He had the smallest teeth Bershad had ever seen. “Turns out I have a death sentence in Balaria, Ghalamar, and Lysteria. And as of a few days ago, Almira, too. But I’m supposed to get a big fat pardon when this is all squared away—same as you. Pretty good deal, I think. Death sentences are inconvenient.”
“He also knows I’ll cut his feet off if he tries anything,” Vera added.
“Yeah,” Felgor said, wincing. “That, too.”
Bershad glanced around the room. It wasn’t the last group of people he’d pick to cross a dangerous mountain range with, but it was fairly close.
“My donkey gets seasick,” he said. “Got to tend to him.”
Bershad headed back up the steps, but turned around on the third rung. He might not have chosen the crew, but he had to live with them.
“We’re all in this mess together now. Give Felgor some food and water. He’ll die in the mountains like that.”
7
ASHLYN
Almira, Castle Malgrave
Ashlyn ate her breakfast alone on a porch that overlooked the Soul Sea. A dragon skirted the horizon while she ate—flying low over the waves and skimming its hooked tail across the surface. It was a Naga Soul Strider—female, judging from the size. Very rare to see this close to the Atlas Coast. Ashlyn watched carefully, barely touching her food, as the dragon trawled the sea. Eventually, her tail jolted from an impact, and the dragon flicked a wriggling marlin into her mouth without missing a wingbeat. Ashlyn had been eight years old when she first saw a Naga pull that trick. She’d demanded that Hayden take her down to the fish markets so she could measure and weigh a marlin and use it to calculate the size and weight of the dragon.
She thumbed the translucent strand that was wrapped around her wrist. Last night, Silas had suspected there was more she wasn’t telling him about it. She’d wanted to tell him the full truth, but her plan was stronger if the pieces remained divided from one another. Ashlyn had dedicated her life to uncovering the hidden mysteries of the world, drawing the connections between dragons and nature and men. She didn’t like keeping her discoveries a secret—especially from Silas—but she’d do what was necessary to protect Almira’s future.
Her father had asked to see her and Elden Grealor that morning. When Ashlyn was done eating, Hayden escorted her to the main hall of the King’s Tower, where her father was already seated on the Almiran throne, draped in a massive bear cloak despite the sunny, warm morning. The room was ringed with Malgrave wardens.
Once Ashlyn had taken a seat next to her father, the king nodded toward the door and two wardens brought Elden Grealor into the room.
“My king,” Elden said, approaching the throne and bowing low on one knee. He had a massive forehead and a receding hairline. The hair that remained was gray and long and full of bear claws woven into intricate braids. The totem bag on his hip was full to the point of bursting. “And Princess Ashlyn, what a pleasure to see you this morning. It’s as if the sun has risen again, twice as bright.”
Ashlyn smiled and thanked him. But she also remembered when she was third in line for succession and the lords of Almira were more than happy to ignore her. That was a weakness in men—most lacked the foresight to imagine a future vastly different from the present.
After Leon Bershad was executed and Silas exiled, Hertzog had wanted to insult the Bershad legacy as much as possible, so he offered Deepdale and the Dainwood province to whoever won a tournament of single combat. Elden Grealor—a small lord with little power or wealth—was the champion. He and the king had been close friends and allies since then.
And Elden Grealor had become rich.
The Dainwood rain forest was home to fertile farmland, fortified holdfasts, and endless leagues of wet jungle. For generations, the Bershads had revered the forest and refused to fell trees for profit, making it the last untouched source of lumber in the realm of Terra. But the first thing Elden did after taking power was build scores of mills on the edges of the jungle and begin cutting them down. He wasn’t as wealthy as the other members of the High Council—who’d been taxing their vassals for hundreds of years—but he was getting closer every year. And his army of wardens, who all wore bear masks to show their allegiance to Grealor, got larger every day.
“The exile has accepted the offer?” Grealor asked, rising from his bow.
“Yes,” Ashlyn answered. “Bershad and Rowan are probably boarding the ship as we speak.”
“It seems he took some convincing,” Elden said, squirming a little. “Were any terms added?”
It had been hard for Ashlyn to lie to Silas, but she’d done it. Lying to both Elden Grealor and her father was easy.
“Relax, Elden. Dainwood’s vassals and incomes will still be yours if Bershad returns. He did not want them back.”
“Good,” Elden said, blowing out a sigh. “I just hope Bershad truly knows the way. I’ll take it personally if Yonmar winds up dead in the Razorbacks.”
Ashlyn shrugged. “There’s a very good chance that he will wind up dead.”
“Ashlyn,” her father warned.
“I accepted the consequences of sending those five into the mountains when I gave the order,” Ashlyn said. “You should, too. In fact, we must all assume that Silas and your son will not reach Balaria alive, let alone infiltrate Burz-al-dun.” Ashlyn squeezed her fingers into her palm as she said the dreadful words. “Resolving this peacefully was always a long shot. We must prepare for the more likely outcome.”
Ashlyn paused. Took a breath. She’d lied to Elden about Dainwood because she needed his help now.
“We need to raise a host of wardens in Floodhaven that is fit for war with Balaria. If Bershad fails, we must attack them.”
“Attack Balaria?” Grealor asked. “What do you mean?”
“Which part is unclear?”
“No. You didn’t figh
t the clock-worshipping bastards the first time, Princess. I did.” Grealor’s face tightened. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
Ashlyn knew exactly what she was asking. It was a terrible thing. And she knew there was a chance she’d go down in history as a warmonger and a tyrant. But she was willing to face that consequence if it kept the world in balance.
“Enough, both of you,” Hertzog said before Ashlyn could respond. “Ashlyn, raising an army to get Kira back is the next logical step, but it needs to wait.”
“It can’t wait,” Ashlyn said. “The summer solstice is only four months away. Even if we start raising an army today, we’ll be hard-pressed to have it ready for war in time.”
“What does midsummer matter?” Grealor asked.
“If we don’t have an army gathered by the solstice,” Ashlyn said carefully, “every warden in Almira will scatter back to their homelands to build their totems for the High Summer Sacrifice.”
Generations earlier, in the dark recesses of Almira’s history, the High Summer Sacrifice was a bloody ceremony that culminated with the ritualized murder of virgins in villages across Almira. All of it was done to ward off the forest demons. Thankfully, her people had left that practice behind hundreds of years ago. Now, they settled for moon orgies and murdered goats at the feet of enormous mud totems that took days to build.
“We cannot raise an army twice, nor can we wait until after the High Summer Sacrifice,” she continued. “If a war is coming, it must arrive before the summer solstice.”
“This isn’t why I summoned the two of you,” Hertzog said, eyeing Ashlyn suspiciously. “We have a more urgent issue. High Lord Tybolt is dead.”
Hertzog paused to rattle off a series of coughs from deep in his lungs. When it was over, he took another sip of wine and collected himself.
Tybolt was an eccentric but loyal high lord who’d controlled Mudwall for thirty years. His presence had stabilized the surrounding area and kept Cedar Wallace—a far less trustworthy high lord who ruled the westernmost provinces of Almira—from organizing an open rebellion.
“Dead,” Ashlyn repeated. “How?”
“Murdered in his chamber two nights ago. A sentinel arrived this morning with the news.”
They were all silent for a moment.
“One of Wallace’s small lords was making a pass at Mudwall, wasn’t he?” Grealor asked.
“Lord Hrilian,” Ashlyn said. She’d been monitoring the situation carefully. “But it was my understanding that Tybolt had scattered the attempt.”
Almira was a country defined by land squabbles and unrest amongst the nobility. Attacks on Mudwall—or any fortification along the border of two high lords’ lands—weren’t uncommon. A high lord dying during one of them was.
“Perhaps Hrilian sent an assassin when his attack failed?” Grealor asked.
“It’s possible,” Hertzog said. “But Tybolt died at the top of his tower, with his entire retinue of small lords feasting and drinking below him. It’s far more likely that one of them killed Tybolt.”
“Whatever the circumstances, Mudwall is now a problem,” Ashlyn said, putting the pieces together. “Tybolt had no heir. No family at all. There will be a fight amongst his small lords for control of Mudwall, all while Hrilian’s men are still lingering beyond the walls.”
“The fight has already begun,” Hertzog said. “A high-warden named Raimier has claimed the city for himself under the pretense of securing Mudwall before I choose a proper successor. However, Raimier was the last person to see Tybolt alive, and there’s a good chance he’s the bastard who killed him.”
“What about Tybolt’s wardens?”
“Some stand with Raimier,” Hertzog said. “But most have aligned with whatever small lord was first to pay them. It’s a goatfuck, and if we don’t fix it, we could lose Mudwall entirely.” The king swallowed, throat strained. “We cannot raise a Malgrave host in Floodhaven because I have already sent five thousand of our wardens to deal with that mess.”
“That’s half our army,” Ashlyn said. “Was that necessary?”
“It’s the only way to guarantee that we regain control. Hrilian’s men came pouring out of the woods the morning after Tybolt was killed and began a full-scale siege. This could be Cedar Wallace’s attempt to get the entire region under his thumb. Wallace already has too much influence over the Gorgon Valley. I’m not going to hand him a stepping-stone to the Atlas Coast, too.”
When Ashlyn became heir—and was pulled into Hertzog’s inner circle—the aspect of ruling that surprised her the most was how little control her father truly had over the high lords of Almira, especially Cedar Wallace. He was a beloved war hero who won fame during the Balarian Invasion by breaking the siege of Gilroy and leading the vanguard during the final battle in Black Pine Valley. But Wallace was also notoriously ambitious when it came to expanding his lands. To limit his power, Hertzog had been fighting a quiet war of proxy skirmishes and minor land disputes. For decades, it had worked. But Hertzog was right—it was very possible that Cedar Wallace was finally ready to fight in the open.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. If Bershad failed, Ashlyn needed the lords of Almira to stand together against Balaria. Instead, they teetered toward the precipice of civil war.
“There must be a way to avoid violence,” Ashlyn said.
“There is. Hrilian will concede Mudwall without a fight if he has no chance to win. That’s why I sent so many of our wardens.”
Avoiding violence with the threat of more violence wasn’t exactly what Ashlyn had in mind, but it wasn’t her choice. Not yet, anyway.
“Assuming that works, who will take over control of Mudwall?” Ashlyn asked.
“Mudwall will go to Elden,” Hertzog said, turning to his vassal.
“I’m honored, my king,” Elden said.
“I’m sure that you are. So honored, in fact, that you will do as Ashlyn says. Go to Deepdale, raise a host of wardens fit for war with Balaria, and bring them back to Floodhaven. When this mess with Kira is over, you’ll get Mudwall.”
Elden Grealor’s face hardened once again, but he was trapped. “Yes, my king.”
“Good,” Hertzog said. “Leave today.”
“Of course,” Elden said, rising. “I will send word once I reach Deepdale and begin preparations.”
When Elden was gone, Ashlyn and her father sat in silence for a few moments. After Hertzog exiled Bershad, her plan had been to never speak with him again. But when her two brothers died and she became heir, they’d been forced to build an uneasy truce. Even now, neither of them were comfortable sharing a room alone with the other.
“The exile truly refused Deepdale?” Hertzog said eventually.
“Yes.”
“You’re lying.” Hertzog grunted. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately. The fire in the eastern tower. This whole business with sending the exile after Kira.”
“I’ve lied to you my entire life,” Ashlyn said. “And you’ve done the same to me.”
Her father had vehemently opposed sending Bershad after Kira when she first proposed the idea. But for some reason, once Ashlyn agreed to send Yonmar Grealor along, Hertzog and Elden both supported the plan. That didn’t make sense—even if Elden thought Bershad didn’t want the Daintree back, he was a threat once his exile was lifted. The two of them had something planned, Ashlyn just couldn’t figure out what it was. And for the time being, she couldn’t afford to make enemies out of them while trying to uncover the truth.
Hertzog grumbled. “Well, I’ve also ensured that Elden Grealor will be a loyal asset to the Malgrave dynasty.”
“I appreciate that,” Ashlyn said. “But I do not like placating men like him.”
“Men like him,” Hertzog repeated. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“He’s shortsighted. All he cares about is gold.”
The king narrowed his eyes. “Maybe that’s true, but it’s not the real reason you despise him. You make an enemy out of
anyone who tries to hurt the forests and wildlife of Almira. You always have. A ruler cannot afford to draw such hard lines in the ground.”
“Isn’t that exactly what a ruler is meant to do? Make clear the lines of order and morality?”
“You will soon become an unmarried, half-Papyrian queen to a country of glorified warlords. Just look at the chaos in Mudwall. Every lord in Almira will be against you in some way—either in secret or out in the open. Order and morality are luxuries you won’t be able to afford.”
Ashlyn shifted her position in the chair. Their conversation had traveled into unfamiliar territory. She and Hertzog both preferred to focus on the concrete aspects of ruling—border decrees and troop movements, treaties and alliances. The philosophical implications hadn’t come up before. Ashlyn wanted to be a better ruler than her father, but she hadn’t even taken the throne yet, and she’d already started down a path of deception.
“There must be a way to stop all of this infighting,” Ashlyn said. “A way to trust the high lords, instead of bribing or strong-arming them into obedience.”
“The last high lord I trusted was Leon Bershad,” Hertzog said. “I treated him like a brother. And look what became of that. Keeping power comes before using it.” Hertzog grunted. “When I’m dead, you’ll understand. Your authority will stand on the edge of a precipice, always. I have spent most of my reign bickering with the high lords so that I could maintain control of Almira, and even now, one dead man in Mudwall throws things into chaos.” He broke into another series of coughs. “Steel and gold are the only two ways to move the lords of Almira. Remember that. They will not see an intelligent, thoughtful queen who wishes to serve the greater good. They’ll see a half-breed woman come to take their money and power.”
When Ashlyn was a teenager, she’d have argued with her father about that. She used to believe that anyone could be moved by the greater good once they saw it. Getting people to look was the problem. Now, though, she wasn’t so sure. Otherwise, she’d have tried to change Emperor Mercer’s mind instead of ending his life.
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