“Oh, Sarine,” the comtesse whispered. “Arix says you’ve freed him of a great burden. What did you do?”
“Zi called it ‘removing the corruption.’” She gestured toward the book, still sitting atop the display. “I’m not certain exactly what it was, or how it was done.”
“Arix spoke so plainly,” the comtesse said reverently, her voice touched with awe. “Always before he spoke in riddles, and now he speaks as plainly as you speak to me now.”
She flushed. “I’m not even certain what I did. Zi refused to read from the book before … whatever I did.”
“Oh Gods, yes, the book! If Arix is speaking plainly now, imagine how easily we can translate its secrets.”
She stepped aside, allowing the other woman to move forward and pore over the tome. At once the comtesse’s laugh rang out through the room.
“Yes, yes,” the comtesse said. “It’s so simple. Reyne was right, this passage does pertain to the tribesfolk, but it says nothing of war as we thought, only that their ascendant will claim the gifts of the land as well as the spirits of the beasts. I wonder what that means? Still, I can read it so clearly. By the hand of the Exarch himself, this changes everything!”
“What changes everything, my dear?” A new voice came from behind.
They both turned to see Reyne d’Agarre in the entryway.
“Oh, Reyne,” the comtesse exclaimed, surging across the floor of the library toward him in a rush. “Sarine has pierced the shroud around the Codex. She’s revealed secrets and brought us forward in the translation by a hundred generations, she’s—”
The words stopped dead, a length of steel suddenly protruding through the back of the comtesse’s dress, accompanied by a pooling crimson stain. D’Agarre gave a shove and her body slumped to the carpeted floor, revealing a long knife in his hand, covered in blood. Sarine looked in horror as d’Agarre shuddered, tilting his head back as if he had tasted some exquisite delicacy, and forgotten she stood ten paces away watching. Her memory flashed to the Maw, to the sort of men who took joy in beating defenseless victims, long past the point of thieving or intimidation.
Before her shock faded he snapped his eyes level with hers. For an instant she saw a hunger there, a look of insatiable thirst. Then he ran at her.
Without thinking, she snapped her eyes shut and tethered Faith. D’Agarre barreled forward, vaulting the tables in a rush of speed. Red, Zi’s voice echoed in her mind, as a red haze swirled at the edge of her vision and she felt Zi’s gift course through her. A moment before he collided with her she dove aside, springing to her feet as he stabbed wildly at the air with his blade.
“Impossible,” d’Agarre growled. “What power is this? Saruk, what is she using?”
Frantically d’Agarre swept his gaze around the room, until his face lit up with realization a moment before she saw it herself: The room had but one entrance. She rushed toward the door along the east wall, but he arrived first, barring it shut in a great crash.
“Now,” he said in a lighter voice, “show yourself, Sarine. This is all a misunderstanding. Let me explain.”
He said it facing the center of the room, a few paces ahead of her, his back turned as he brandished his long knife in a sweeping guard.
Swallowing hard, she crept forward as silently as she could. Faith kept her hidden, but it did nothing to protect her from d’Agarre’s blade. Closer. Another step.
“The Codex gives us premonitions,” d’Agarre was saying. “When we recognize a moment has arrived, our path demands we act without question. I only meant to protect you. The comtesse was—”
She tethered Body, leapt forward, and struck a blow to the side of his head. D’Agarre slumped down into a crumpled heap, strange white energy sputtering around him. Without pausing to check the extent of her victory, she threw the doors open and raced through the hallway, her heart thrumming in her ears even as she felt the Faith binding dissipate. No matter. She could feel her body’s energy draining rapidly as she maintained the Body binding and Zi’s gift. Would it be enough? No telling whether d’Agarre had alerted some household guard, or set some barricade to bar her exit.
As it happened, he had done neither. Instead, after some few false starts and wrong directions, she burst into the sitting room, to the great surprise of the guests still engaged in the evening’s debate. Lord Revellion sprang to his feet at once, rushing to her side. She could scarce imagine the state she was in after her mad dash through the twisting corridors of the d’Agarre manse, but she could see it reflected in the looks she earned from the ladies and gentlemen of Reyne d’Agarre’s salon. She managed a croaking whisper to Lord Revellion that they needed to leave, at once. Bless the man, he asked no questions, merely dispatched one of d’Agarre’s servants to fetch their coats and ready the carriage. With every passing heartbeat she expected some alarm to be raised, a mantle of dread settling over every moment they lingered on the d’Agarre estate. Yet soon enough, they found themselves once more in the Revellion coach, the doors latching shut as the team began to move.
A wave of relief swept over her as they pulled out onto the cobblestone streets of Southgate, bound for the high walls of the Gardens. She saw in Lord Revellion’s eyes a blend of questions and concern, and once again gave silent thanks for his having waited to question her until they were away.
“What is it, Sarine? What happened?”
A tide of fear broke through any façade of normalcy she’d managed before, and she wept.
“He killed her, Donatien. The Comtesse de Rillefort.”
“What? Who killed her?”
“Reyne d’Agarre. I knocked him down and fled. Oh, Donatien, he meant to kill me as well. I fear we have all been deceived. He is no force for justice, or égalité. He is a madman, corrupted by some dark power, some terrible evil.” She broke down once more, convulsing into sobs.
He reached for her, drawing her close beside him in a firm embrace. Ah, but it felt good, even amid the horrors of the evening.
ELSEWHERE
INTERLUDE
LOUIS-SALLET
Reception Hall
The Royal Palace, Sarresant
He arrived in the capital at midmorning, which placed him fourteenth in line for an audience with the King. Never mind the risks he’d taken running his ship through the Gand blockade around the port at Valais, never mind the treacherous landfall in a smuggler’s cove farther down the coast, and never mind the horse he’d nearly ridden to death to bring the news he carried. Thirteen other petitioners had arrived before him that morning, and so thirteen others would be formally received before he entered the royal presence. How it galled. He watched tradesmen dressed in ragged echoes of last season’s fashions ushered into the throne room, like as not planning to make complaint to His Royal Majesty about spice tariffs or lost goats or some such utterly trivial nonsense. And for him they brought out refreshments and bid him wait his turn. His turn. He had never waited nor wanted for anything in his life, and now he stood like some common fop slavering over his chance to diddle the prettiest whore in the pleasure house. Just so, the King would prostitute the realm with these pointless gestures. Égalité, they demanded, these hounds snapping at the table scraps of their betters, thinking themselves equals for the merest vestige of meat left clinging to a discarded bone.
He was Louis-Sallet de l’Arraignon, Prince of the Blood, third in line to the throne of Sarresant. And he did not have equals.
After the third of these walking insults had been called, he could suffer it no longer. Over the muted protest of one of the chamberlains, he pushed his way through the ironbound doors and shoved past the lowborn wretch who had been trundling down the hall on his way to petition the King. At least the fool had the sense to keep silent as his prince swept him aside. Louis-Sallet opened the door to the throne room with a glare, the attendant guardsmen properly cowed, recognizing him on sight. Striding through the opening, his lip curled in an amused smile as the crier made his announcement.
The bureaucrat hadn’t bothered to lift his wiry face from the parchment as he read, and so only at the end, after half the court was tittering at the absurdity of it, did the man give his prince a squinting look, perhaps recognizing that master cobblers did not wear velvet cloaks lined with ermine fur.
“That’s right, father,” Louis-Sallet said in a loud, clear voice aimed at the assembled courtiers as much as the throne. “I’ve taken up bootmaking. And I have a bone to pick with your shipmasters for their negligent stupidity.”
Guffaws echoed through the chamber, the assembled peers unable to maintain the façade of dignity required when the King sat in judgment. Only the King himself, and the Dauphin standing beside the throne, maintained level expressions, each regarding him with flat, unreadable looks.
It was the Dauphin, Gau-Michel, Louis-Sallet’s eldest half-brother and heir to the throne of Sarresant, who spoke.
“Last we’d heard, you and your band of … companions,”—his half-brother’s voice dripped with scorn at the word—“were privateering off the Skovan coast. To what do we owe the pleasure of your swift return, brother?”
“I carry word from Thellan,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on his father’s. “They have entered the war.”
A rash of whispers swept through the hall. Again the other two men remained stoic.
“If what you say is true, and the Thellan were prepared to accept our offer of alliance, would they not send one of their own to treat with us? We’ve had no word from any Thellan emissaries.”
“That is because they have not accepted our offer. They are entering the war on the side of Gand.”
Pandemonium.
“That was recklessly done, even for you,” the Dauphin said. They’d adjourned to the council chambers after he’d delivered his news, and now his half-brother stood disapproving over one of the broad tables. “You had no cause to deliver this news before the court, or to be received in state.”
He shrugged. “I thought it fitting to remind His Majesty that the trappings of nobility were once reserved for those of proper birth.” It was intended as an insult; his half-brother’s darkening scowl made clear it had been received as such.
“Peace, my sons.” Their father, His Royal Majesty the King Gaurond, sat upright in the tall-backed chair at the head of the council table. He was an old man for all he took pains to give the appearance of strength. “Louis-Sallet, I would know how you came to possess this information. And whether you are certain as to its veracity.”
“I am certain, Your Majesty. I sailed into the port at Al Adiz flying Thellan colors”—he made a point of ignoring his half-brother’s snort—“and found two Gand ships of the line moored alongside the Thellan fleet.”
“That’s it? You put the court in an uproar because you saw two ships of our enemy, like as not prizes taken by Thellan sailors as spoils after a battle?”
“If the Imperial had been taken as a prize, we’d have had word, I think.” He said it quietly, knowing even his half-brother had heard of the black-hulled ship captained by the Gand queen’s son, a sight dreaded by sailors in every sea that touched civilized lands. Most ships of the line had a binder or two as part of their complement, with fullbinders stationed on the heaviest of the triple-decked behemoths. Rumors said the Imperial carried no fewer than six.
“Still,” his father said in a measured tone, “the sight of the ships alone is not a surety. Were you able to confirm Prince Emerich’s presence?”
“I saw the prince with my own eyes, in the company of an honor guard being escorted from the Al Adiz fortress. Alas, I was not able to charm my way into their private meeting rooms. But I came in all haste to deliver this news as soon as I had it.”
“And yet you found time for theatrics in the throne room,” his half-brother said.
“Even so,” he said, holding a grin long enough to inflame the Dauphin, “you know as well as I, the heir himself would not come ashore and risk being taken hostage for less than talks of alliance.”
The other two men eyed each other with sober looks.
“I suppose we must consult with the lords-general,” the Dauphin said. “I hope it is not so, by the Gods I hope it.”
“It is too much to ask you might have been mistaken in what you saw?” the King asked.
Louis-Sallet shook his head. “No, father. I have seen renditions aplenty of the Gand prince, and I would not mistake him, even from afar, nor the lines of his ship in the harbor. The Thellan treat with our enemies.”
The room grew quiet.
“Father,” he asked in a serious tone, “can we withstand the combined power of Thellan and Gand?”
The King frowned, then looked askance at his eldest son.
The Dauphin spoke. “If this news is true, there are few enough, perhaps none of the great powers that could stand against them. We are overtaxed protecting our colonies, and they pressure us there as well. A Thellan invasion from the south, while the Gandsmen press us across the straits …”
“It is not sure,” the King said, resolute. “It is possible the Thellan will have rebuffed the overtures of the Gandsmen, or failed to agree on terms. Even if this comes to pass, we will have time. They must plan and marshal their forces. We can make overtures of our own.”
“Overtures have been made already, father,” the Dauphin said in a pained voice. “Perhaps the news of a combined Thellan and Gand alliance will sway the Skovan; perhaps we can bribe the Sardians with gold, marriages …”
Louis-Sallet suppressed the urge to spit. His brother proposed the same tired plots, when circumstances demanded boldness. He could have predicted this, and had done as much as he sailed and rode to deliver his news. Their survival required more, and so he had dared to consider the unthinkable. Time his half-brother be forced to do the same.
“We could give up the colonies in the New World,” Louis-Sallet said.
“What?” his half-brother asked. “You cannot be serious.”
“Consider it, brother. You said yourself we are overtaxed there. Gand and Thellan both hold lands across the sea; even if we can hold New Sarresant against them, will it come at the cost of our ancestral home? Even the jewel of the New World is not worth losing the old one.”
“Madness,” the Dauphin said, but already he could see his half-brother’s mind working as he considered the idea. “We discovered Entropy only after the Thellan War, and Mind as a direct result of the founding of the colonies. Would we lose them, if we ceded the territory? We could not hope for victory without access to modern bindings. And what new terror might the Gandsmen discover, in sole possession of the New World? To say nothing of logistics. It is impossible. We would need to deploy our entire navy to ferry the troops across the sea. The crossing itself would take weeks, in either direction.”
“We will have time,” Louis-Sallet said. “Our father is quite right. They will not act at once; they will need time to prepare. Bugger the bindings; we can match them with numbers. Imagine our combined forces, the armies of New Sarresant and old, deployed together to threaten Gand across the straits. Imagine the bindings we might secure for ourselves, in sole possession of the Old World, rather than the New.”
His half-brother swallowed hard. “It is unthinkable to give up our protection of the colonies. They are already close to the brink of an uprising. The trade revenue alone, should the ports fall into the hands of the Gandsmen, to say nothing of the implication that we cannot defend our citizens … We risk ruin to even consider this course of action.”
“No more than we risk ruin if we do nothing.”
The King rose to his feet, stilling their exchange.
“Sarresant
will not fall,” their father said. He let the words linger in the air, pausing to look them both in the eye.
“Of course, father—” the Dauphin began.
“Sarresant will not fall,” the King repeated, silencing his heir. “Do you have a better plan, to achieve it?”
The Dauphin remained quiet.
“Very well. We will consider this course, bitter as it may be. Gau-Michel, you will meet with the admiralty and the lords-general to begin planning. Once our agents among the Thellan confirm the news we have heard today, our fleet will sail.”
His half-brother bowed his head in assent.
“As for you, Louis-Sallet,” the King continued, “you have brought us dire news today, but you will carry it further before this is through. The time has come for you to set aside the freedoms of youth. If the fleet sails to take on this heavy task, it will sail with you in command. You will carry my words across the sea, to call the sons and daughters of Sarresant back to defend their home.”
His eyes gleamed. At last, a task worthy of the royal blood that flowed through his veins.
“I swear to you, your majesty, I will see it done.”
INTERLUDE
KA’VOS
The Shaman’s Tent
Sinari Village
WAR. YOU MUST LEAD THE SINARI PEOPLE TO WAR.
The words were accompanied by images of death, flickering faster than he could discern any individual scene. He was left only with the impression of mangled bodies lying twisted beneath a gray sky, blood mixing with new-fallen snow.
He sighed, and filled his lungs with a deep-drawn breath. It was meant to center him, to still his mind in preparation to better understand the spirits’ gift. His training demanded he give the spirits’ voice this measure of respect, to try to discern the nature of their sending. He could not do otherwise, even knowing already that he would disregard yet another vision of war, death, and blood.
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