But the mere act of trying for even a scrap of focus sent her head spinning. She sat down hard on the edge of the bed, catching her breath, and tried twice more before giving in to her exhaustion.
“Food,” she muttered to herself. “Food will help.”
She followed the smell of butter and frying sausages downstairs, and was about to join the others in the dining room when Simon appeared at her side, catching her gently by the elbow.
“Before you go in there,” he said, “I should tell you what to expect, now that things have changed.”
Something about his voice, the careful way he held his face, sent an icy heat sweeping down her body. “Patrik?”
“He’s here and, unfortunately, just as he was.”
“And Dani tended to my wounds, you said.”
“Yes, Dani is here, and all three of her boys. But her husband was killed long ago, and I wouldn’t ask her about it. The estate is only slightly altered, from what I could see. Minor shifts in the landscape. A more elaborate architectural style.” He hesitated. “The Jubilee now begins tomorrow evening. Admiral Ravikant’s naming day is October fourteenth, rather than October sixteenth.”
“Tomorrow,” she repeated. And suddenly she couldn’t look at him, for the first thought that had entered her mind was not that this would leave them less time to prepare for the Jubilee, less time to recover from traveling and attempt it once more, before being forced to flee the continent—but that she would now have less time to be with him. Not as soldiers, but merely as themselves.
It was such a silly thought to have, such a selfish, childish desire in the face of everything else, and yet she was not ashamed of having it. The wildest, most uncaring part of her mind wanted to take Simon and Remy and run away. They would hide in some remote corner of the world and leave the rest of them to their war. She would have Simon all to herself and would kill anyone who tried to take him from her.
“And Jessamyn?” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.
But Simon did not reply. She looked up sharply, dread painting her arms hot. His silence told her the answer, but she needed to hear him say it.
“Where is she, Simon?” she whispered.
“She’s not here,” he said at last. “And she never was.”
47
Jessamyn
“Thoughts of Kalmaroth turn in my sleep. Once, I dreamed of love and stars and unknowable ancient seas. Now, his fury floods my dreams. Sometimes it moves softly, feathering my cheeks. The caress of a paw before a kill. Sometimes it stabs me, and I wake sweating and screaming. We should all fear him—angels and humans alike. His anger will never die. Even if we succeed, his rage will flood the Deep.”
—Lost writings of the angel Aryava
In a shabby apartment in the heart of Festival, sitting before a bay window framed in curtains of faded violet brocade, Jessamyn sharpened her second-favorite sword.
It was long and slender, the obsidian handle worn smooth as a river-washed pebble, and with each stroke of her whetting stone against the blade, Jessamyn ruminated not on the mission that would begin the next day, but rather on how deeply she hated her name.
Jessamyn. It was a crude name, a human name. It had belonged to her for each of her nineteen years, and she had hated it from the moment she had first understood, at age four, that it was not an angelic name. It had been given to her by her human parents, whom she did not remember and did not care to remember. All she knew of them was that they had offered her to the teachers at the lyceum in order to gain entrance to the Emperor’s city. Varos had told her as much, once he had chosen her as his student. They had left her there, he said, on the grand marble steps, in the pouring rain—a small girl with freckled brown skin and brown braids, with no possessions save the clothes on her back.
That, and a name she hated so deeply she could hardly bear to open her mouth long enough to tell the lyceum headmaster for his records.
Jessamyn. It carried none of the weight of the angelic languages. Every time she thought it, every time someone uttered it, she felt herself shrinking within its confines like an animal in a narrow cage.
Jessamyn. Once, she had begged Varos to call her the name she had chosen for herself—the name she would someday earn by serving His Holy Majesty the Emperor of the Undying as an agent of Invictus. It was a word so precious to her that she let herself think of it only on rare occasion, for fear of wearing the shine off its syllables.
But Varos had refused. After watching her coldly for a moment, he had even struck her across the face, which had sent Jessamyn sobbing into her pillow that night like some kind of child—not because she was angry at him, or because of the welt his hand had left on her cheek, but out of sheer, vicious shame.
She had deserved that violence. She had, frankly, deserved much worse. That she had dared to ask such a thing of him was insolence deserving of far greater punishment.
Varos had told her as much the next day, watching her across the table in his apartment as she ate her breakfast in silence. The welt on her cheek had felt like a shining beacon, announcing her shame to the world. One glance at her cheek, and her classmates would know the truth—that she was inadequate, insubordinate, unworthy.
“I should have killed you for asking me what you did,” Varos had told her.
Jessamyn had swallowed her food and bowed her head. “Yes, kaeshana.”
“But I didn’t,” Varos said, his voice flat, “because I love you.”
At those words—so unexpected, so longed for!—Jessamyn’s entire body had tensed. She hadn’t had the slightest notion of how to respond. Was she to thank him? Was she to tell him that she would die for him, that learning from him was an even greater honor than the true name she so desired?
Was she to tell him that she loved him in return?
Varos wiped his mouth with his napkin, then moved back from the table to consider her. “Come here.”
Jessamyn nearly tripped over herself in her haste to obey. She knelt at his side, lowering her head.
But Varos lifted her chin, forcing her gaze up to his and inspecting her face. His beauty robbed Jessamyn of all sense—his sculpted, slender body; his smooth skin, tan and golden from their recent trip to the Vespers, and free of scars, because he was too skilled for that, too careful and cunning; his honey-gold eyes—incongruously soft and beautiful for such a ferocious killer.
Jessamyn trembled under his scrutiny. She had heard of Invictus kaeshani taking their students to bed, but not once had Varos ever indicated that he was interested in her in that way—not, at least, until that morning at the breakfast table, his soft eyes roaming over her as if noticing at last that she was nearly a woman grown.
Jessamyn had never been keen on the idea of sex. Her love for Varos was that of a child for its father. But if he chose her, if he wanted her, she would muster up the desire.
“Tell me, Jessamyn,” Varos had said smoothly, “who we are.”
Jessamyn’s pulse jumped in her throat. He was asking her to recite the oath of Invictus—the words she would someday recite before the Emperor himself, when Varos deemed her ready.
“‘He has chosen me to guard His works,’” she said at once.
Expressionless, Varos caressed her cheek. “Continue, virashta.”
The way Varos pronounced virashta drew a delicious chill down Jessamyn’s spine. Virashta, a ceremonial angelic word, meant “student,” but also “cherished” and “terrible,” and Varos only uttered it when he felt Jessamyn had done something to deserve it.
“‘He has chosen me to receive His glory,’” Jessamyn recited, fighting to keep her voice steady.
Varos’s expression softened. He kissed her brow. “‘I am the blade that cuts at night.’”
And suddenly, Jessamyn’s senses—sharpened for years under his tutelage—told her that she was in danger.
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Varos was reaching for the knife in his belt, and he was fast, but Jessamyn was faster. It was why Varos had chosen her for his student all those years ago. Even as a child, she had been hawk-swift.
She grabbed her own knife from her left boot, knocked the weapon out of his hand, and held her blade to his throat. Blazing with triumph, she glared down at him and declared the oath’s final line.
“‘I am the guardian of His story.’”
Varos had smiled broadly, sending Jessamyn’s head spinning. “You’ll earn your name yet, virashta.”
• • •
Now, in the apartment where they waited for the Admiral’s Jubilee to begin, Jessamyn heard the door open and shut, and looked up to see Varos enter. He wore common traveling clothes, just as she did. Their Invictus uniforms awaited them on the Admiral’s ship.
She stood, bowed her head. “Kaeshana.”
He blew past her in silence, reeking of alcohol and smoke.
Jessamyn tried not to care. He had come from the city; he had been performing reconnaissance work. Obviously said work would take him into drinking establishments, gambling parlors, brothels.
And yet, care she did.
She wondered: Had he enjoyed someone’s bed during his day in the city? She wouldn’t have blamed him for that. Theirs was a demanding, often brutal life, and though they gloried in it, if Varos needed release in the form of sex, then it was not her place, as his student, to judge him.
Still, the thought of him finding comfort with someone other than her rankled deeply. She needed no one else but Varos to feel content and whole. That it might be different for him dredged up the old, skittering fear that she would never be enough for him. That he would never present her to the Emperor and that her desired name would die a silent death inside her.
She watched in silence as Varos stormed through the room. He picked up the plate of food she had prepared for him and flung it against the wall. The plate shattered, shards skidding across the floor.
Jessamyn did not even flinch. She was used to his outbursts and had learned long ago not to react to them.
He leaned against the table, glaring at it. “I have received new orders from the admiral,” he said at last. “Instead of moving on the Keshavarzian estate, we are to board the admiral’s ship and await further instructions.”
Jessamyn opened her mouth, closed it. A treasonous rage flared inside her, and she struggled to contain it. She and Varos were the ones who had discovered the duplicity of Danizet Keshavarzian and her sons—a family Lord Tabris had invited often to dine with him, a family of supposed Empire loyalists who had in fact been overseeing a massive Red Crown operation in Festival for years. The mission to destroy Willow and kill the family of traitors it housed had been assigned to them as a reward for their hard work. And, with Rahzavel dead, Varos was the most decorated member of Invictus, the most beloved. Eradicating the heart of the Red Crown presence in Festival was the reward he deserved.
And if he was kept from it, Jessamyn would not have the chance to prove herself. She would not gain an audience with the Emperor. She would not hear his voice utter her chosen name. And she could not say when another such opportunity would come.
“These new orders come from the admiral?” she managed.
“From one of his lieutenants,” Varos muttered. “He would not even take the time to speak to me himself.”
“But we are Invictus. We are the Emperor’s eyes and ears, his blades. We spent weeks uncovering the Keshavarzians’ deception and planning this operation.” She hesitated. It was perhaps too bold, to ask the question. “Has the Emperor confirmed these orders?”
“The Emperor has not spoken to me in days. I have even dared to reach for him and have found nothing.” His voice vibrated with anger. “He keeps himself from me. I do not understand it.”
Jessamyn waited for him to speak again, and when he didn’t, she sucked in a breath.
“We are Invictus,” she said again, keeping her voice firm and even. “We are not adatrox, mindless and disposable. We do not wait on ships while the glory blazes elsewhere. We take orders from the Emperor, and the Emperor alone, and if the admiral can’t honor that, then he is a fool.”
Without warning, Varos spun on her. His hand flew hard and fast, striking her on the jaw.
She bore the impact in silence. The pain of his fists had not diminished over the years, but she had learned better how to bear it.
“We are human,” he spat out, “and no matter how high the Emperor elevates us in service to him, we will never exceed the glory of his generals, and certainly not that of the admiral. You would do well to remember that. You will not say such things again, or even entertain them in your mind.”
Ducking her head, blinking to clear her tilting vision, she whispered, “Yes, kaeshana.”
He grabbed her jaw, wrenching up her gaze. He watched her for a long time before releasing her with a scoff. “You claim to desire the Emperor’s favor, and yet you force my hand far too often.”
She did not cry. Varos had long ago wrung every tear out of her body, leaving none behind. But she burned with anger, and shame, and longed desperately to flee to the mountains outside the city. She would push herself fast down the deadly narrow paths that cut high over the canyon rivers. She would run until she no longer felt the humiliation of his scorn.
“Yes, kaeshana,” she said instead, her body rigid.
And then, after a few long moments of silence, he said, “But you aren’t wrong.”
She stared at the floor, not daring to look up.
“We have indeed spent long weeks preparing for this moment,” he continued. “And our victory is so close, our quarry so near, that I can already taste their blood on my tongue. And you, Jessamyn. Look at me.”
She obeyed, lips clamped tight. Her heart pounded hard in her throat, its eagerness disgusting her.
Varos smiled at her, the anger slipping from his face, and in that moment Jessamyn forgot every other feeling except for the spark of joy licking up her spine like a hungry flame. She would endure a thousand beatings if it meant he would look at her like that again—her kaeshana, her Varos. Her teacher and her family, and her key to the Emperor’s favor.
“You deserve your name, virashta,” he said. “And if it means defying the admiral to get it for you, then that’s what we shall do.”
She knelt at his feet. Too overwhelmed to speak, she simply huddled there, her palms flat against the floor. After a moment, Varos placed his hand on her head, laughing fondly, and told her to clean the mess of his ruined supper.
She obeyed at once, aware of his eyes on her as she worked. And even as her mind spun stupidly with joy, she knew that any defiance Varos displayed was not for her benefit. That he would even consider disobedience showed her how deeply the admiral’s dismissal had wounded him. Before anything else, Varos would defy the admiral for himself, to demonstrate to the Emperor that he was not a mere human. That he was something more, and infinitely worthy. That he surpassed the orders all others must obey.
But she cared nothing for his reasons, as long as it meant this mission would end on their terms.
As she worked, her thoughts shifted to the girl Eliana, whom the Keshavarzian family had been housing. Jessamyn longed to hunt her most of all. In her dreams, she was the one to present her before the Emperor. Never mind Willow or Danizet Keshavarzian. Presenting Eliana Ferracora to the Emperor would be a glory unmatched in this world.
But Eliana was the admiral’s prey, so instead, Jessamyn recited what she knew of the girl: A child of Ventera. A twelve-year-old brother named Remy. A dead father, killed during the Empire’s invasion of Ventera. A dead mother, transformed in one of the Fidelia labs and lost in the icy waters of Karajak Bay when the girl had somehow sent an entire Empire fleet crashing to the bottom of the sea.
She had power, that much was
obvious. Power no human deserved.
Power that belonged to the angels.
What the Emperor would do with her once he had her, Jessamyn didn’t know, or care—except for a fleeting curiosity she easily dismissed.
The important thing was this: soon, Eliana would be writhing at the Emperor’s feet. Perhaps Jessamyn would be fortunate enough to be there, allowed an audience as a reward for a successfully completed mission. Perhaps she would be able to listen to Eliana beg for mercy that the Emperor would never grant.
She shivered to think of it and redirected her thoughts to the present, to the shattered plate, the ruined food, the mission ahead of her, and how she would make Varos proud enough to boast of her wherever he went—his virashta, his brilliant protegée. He would need no one else in his life but her. No lovers, no students.
And Jessamyn would at last earn her name.
48
Corien
“In some languages, the word translates to dragon-talkers. In others, it becomes kin of the beast. In the Borsvallic tongue, it is Kammerat, and in that language, its native tongue, means those who carry wild secrets, for the Kammerat—if they are real, if they are not in fact a mere fanciful tale—have long guarded what remains of the great godsbeasts, the ancestors of which carried Grimvald and his soldiers into battle against the angels. All those who have traveled to the high far mountains of Borsvall in search of dragons have died. Some blame the harsh climate. Others, who long for old magic, blame the Kammerat, who guard their holy charges with iron and steel.”
—A footnote from A Land Cold and Mighty: An Examination of the Legends of Borsvall by Inkeri Aravirta
In the far north, in the mountain range known as the Villmark, so far north that he could have walked hundreds of miles in any direction and met no one, Corien sat in a scarlet chair, glaring out over the ice.
His rooms were beautifully appointed because that was what he deserved—stone floors, thick rugs, art on the walls, everything polished and pleasingly arranged. Or, rather, they had been pleasingly arranged before he’d destroyed them.
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