The Unbound Empire

by Melissa Caruso

  But the Hall of Victory was the most intimate audience chamber in ducal apartments too grand to offer such a mundane convenience as a sitting room, and Domenic might well not have asked when moving into his new residence in which room his predecessor had died. Given the effort he was putting into maintaining forced cheer as we sipped a fine full-bodied red wine and caught up on each other’s lives, I thought it best not to mention this detail.

  Domenic himself had changed in the months since we’d last seen him. Someone had trimmed his dark curls more evenly, and his cheekbones stood out sharply in his face, as if he hadn’t quite been eating enough. He’d left off the ducal crown, but his doublet in the Ardentine style was of fine white brocade, with golden silk showing through the slashed sleeves. He wore no jewels save a flare locket and the ducal signet, and the rapier at his hip looked quite serviceable, but it was an outfit that made certain concessions to the sartorial glory expected of the ruler of Ardence.

  It was half an hour before he finally mentioned the pressing crisis that brought us here. “… So the construction of the new canal locks on the River Arden has been proceeding marvelously, but I don’t know what will happen with Ruven’s army coming south alongside the river.” He sighed heavily. “Do you think he’d sabotage the work we’ve done?”

  “I doubt he’d take the time,” I reassured him. “And if he intends to claim this land, he might want the river navigable, to more easily bring in supplies and reinforcements.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose.” Domenic took a long swallow of wine. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what might not survive, if he takes the city.”

  Zaira snorted. “Besides us, you mean?”

  “Oh, believe me, the slaughter of the people who trust me to rule them is my first and foremost nightmare.” He grimaced. “But you know Ardence. It’s a city of art: sculptures and fountains, paintings and temples, hideously overwrought yet architecturally significant interiors.” He lifted his near-empty glass to the dramatic fresco of the Grace of Victory on the ceiling, as if in a toast. “And let us not forget the books. We have two world-class libraries, here and at the university. Venasha will kill me if anything happens to a single volume. Even if I evacuate every single person from this city—and a great number of them wouldn’t go, not to mention that we’re out of time—what we stand to lose is staggering.”

  “Ruven wouldn’t hurt the books,” I said. “Not on purpose.” But Domenic had studied history; he knew as well as I did that when a city fell to magic, damage was inevitable.

  “I just wish more people would leave,” he said. “But that’s a hard decision to make so quickly—fleeing from your home, with only what belongings you can carry, without anywhere to go.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, Ruven doesn’t want to kill your people.” I tried a hollow smile. “He wants to magically enslave them.”

  Domenic blinked at me. “That’s not reassuring, Amalia.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m trying to be a good leader. To think of what needs to be done, and make sure it gets taken care of. It’s difficult, because my nobles used to rely on Lady Savony for that sort of thing, and, well…”

  “I killed her,” Zaira supplied helpfully. “Lit her on fire.”

  “And she deserved it, mind you.” Domenic poured himself more wine. “But I’ve only been doing this for a few months, and already it looks as if I may be the last Duke of Ardence. It’s not the legacy I wanted to leave to history.”

  “History can take care of itself.” Zaira put her boots up on the spotless lacquer of the beautifully inlaid table that held our crostini. “We’ll take care of Ardence. Your city will be fine. I promise you.”

  His eyes lit like stars when they rested on her face. “Do you think you can save us, then? I’m told this Vaskandran army will get here before an imperial one can.”

  Zaira spread her arms. “I am an imperial army. And I’m right here, drinking your wine.”

  “Well, I’m glad it’s a good vintage, then.” He flashed her a brilliant smile.

  As we crossed through the bustling Hall of Beauty on our way out—the glorious crossroads at the heart of the River Palace, connecting each of its grand wings—I heard a familiar voice echoing up to the frescoed ceiling.

  “Please, be careful with that crate! It’s got the only known copy of Muscati’s Theory of Light and Kurahm’s original handwritten draft of the Saga of the Dark Days!”

  Lucia stiffened and lifted her head, turning toward the sound like a dog hearing the scrape of leftovers. That’s right—she’d been a scholar, too.

  “Isn’t that Aleki’s mamma?” Zaira asked.

  “The very same. Venasha!” I spotted her hovering anxiously over a trio of servants carrying crates of books and hurried across the hall to meet her.

  She smiled at the sight of me, but didn’t lose her harried air. “Amalia! I’m so glad you’re here. I’m at my wits’ end. Did you see Foss and Aleki back in Raverra? Are they really all right? I’ve been so worried, but I can’t leave—we’ve got to get the rarest of the books in the Ducal Library safely moved to the warded vault in the University of Ardence library before the army arrives, just in case. Where do you think you’re going?” She hurried around to dance in front of a servant who hadn’t stopped when Venasha did, and was still heading for the door. “Don’t take that out of my sight! Look, why don’t you put them down for a moment and rest. Gently, gently!”

  The servants rolled their eyes. Lucia inched closer to the crates, trying to appear vigilant and attentive while also sneaking a quick peek at the books. Yes, I definitely liked her.

  “Aleki and his papa are fine,” Zaira said. “They’re locked up behind a ward until that bastard’s potion wears off, but they’re fine. Foss told me to tell you not to worry.”

  Venasha sighed. “Of course he did. He’d say that if his arm was falling off.”

  Zaira shrugged. “It seemed pretty well attached to me.”

  “It’s been like riding out storm swells in a rowboat for the past few days.” Venasha moved her hand vigorously up and down to mime going over steep waves. “First we get news of the Falcon act. Hooray! We get to move back to Ardence as a family!” Her hand plunged over an invisible cliff. “Then rumors start flying around that there’s been an attack on the Mews, and the courier lamps aren’t working, and I have no idea if my baby is even alive.” Her voice took on a strident edge as her hand swept up, then down again. “But then I hear that they’re not hurt! But then there’s an army marching on Ardence!”

  “It’s been an excessively interesting week,” I agreed.

  “I just want it to be over.” Venasha tried a smile again, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “I want these books to be safe so I can run to see my family. I want my family to be safe so we can be together without worrying. And I want my home to be safe so I can bring them back here with me, and we can finally go back to simply living our lives again, like we did before Aleki’s mage mark showed up.”

  I hugged her, and Venasha squeezed me so hard I thought she might rebreak the rib the Lady of Thorns had snapped two months ago. “We’re working on it,” I said, my throat thickening with a sudden swelling of desire to be with my own mother, to make sure she was resting enough to heal from her wound. “I hope to the Graces that soon you can do all of those things.”

  “You will,” Zaira said fiercely. “I worked too hard to not have to burn this city down. I’ll be damned if I’ll let Ruven do it.”

  “Well, thank you.” Venasha laughed. “And forgive me, but I’d better get these books to safety. There are two dozen more crates, and I have to supervise them very closely, because these manuscripts are irreplaceable.”

  “Lucia,” I said, “can you help Venasha make certain all these books make it safely to the warded vault in the university library?”

  Lucia’s eyes lit up. But she hesitated. “I shouldn’t leave your side, my lady.”

  “Nonsense,”
I said firmly. “Ciardha leaves my mother’s side all the time, when my mother has important business for her to attend to. And what could be more important than this?”

  “But if you’re attacked while I’m gone—”

  Zaira raised an eyebrow. “If something attacks us on the way to the Serene Envoy’s palace that I can’t handle, we have bigger problems than Amalia getting murdered.”

  “Consider it an order,” I suggested, smiling.

  Lucia bowed with even more than her usual enthusiasm. “Yes, my lady!”

  I hugged Venasha again; we promised to see each other soon, and Zaira and I left her and Lucia to shepherding their precious charges to safety.

  Zaira blew out a long, heartfelt breath as we headed toward the palace doors. “All this is killing me.”

  I offered her a sympathetic glance, dropping my voice. “Everyone counting on you to save them?”

  “Every single person we see.” Zaira looked around the hall and made a repulsed face. “I hate responsibility. How in the Nine Hells did this happen?”

  I squeezed her hand briefly, her jess pressing cold against my wrist. “I suspect it’s my fault. Sorry about that.”

  “Oh, stow it.” She rolled her shoulders, eyes narrowing. “Someone’s got to stand up to that bilge scum. And if that means I’ve got no choice but to be a hero, well, all I can say is they’d better build me a good-looking statue.”

  No quantity of cloud-light down or softness of silken sheets could lull me to a restful sleep that night. I must have dozed intermittently, but I also spent hours staring at the patterns of moonlight as they moved across the ceiling of my familiar guest room in the Serene Envoy’s palace. Tomorrow or the next day, Ruven’s army would arrive, and Zaira and I would face the reckoning of flame I’d dreaded since I first became her Falconer.

  Worst of all, we’d have to face it without Marcello. I needed him here to pour out all my doubts about whether it was truly just to trade one set of lives for another, and my worries about what this would do to Zaira. I wanted to hear his sensible, heartfelt advice. I’d give so much to hold his hand right now, and draw strength from his quiet presence. But instead he was alone out in the darkness, with Ruven’s power sunk deep in his mind, suffering in ways I couldn’t begin to comprehend. And here I lay in a comfortable bed, one of the ten most powerful people in the Empire, powerless to save him.

  I needed rest, to have the strength of mind to deal with everything I had to do. But with a hundred awful possible futures unfolding in the shadows behind my eyelids every time I closed them, rest eluded me.

  It came almost as a relief when a soft knock sounded on my door, in the silent black hour before dawn when only the damned are awake.

  “My lady,” Lucia called, her voice tense and worried.

  I sat up, alarmed. “Yes? What is it?”

  “Duke Bergandon is asking for you and Lady Zaira, if you’ll come to the north gate of the city. Something is stirring.”

  Hells. It was already beginning.

  A fog lay across the valley, plunging the city streets into ghostly mystery and drowning the barren fields in a sea of cloud. Zaira, Lucia, and I stood at the northern parapets with Domenic in the first gray inklings of predawn, as the sky only began to remember what light was. The valley stretched north before us, hills rearing up on both sides, the River Arden half hidden by its blanket of fog. I could just make out the Raverran garrison on the crest of the closest hill, its blocky towers rising darker black against the deep velvet sky. Our breath misted in the air; I pulled my coat close around me and wished for a scarf.

  “There,” Domenic said, his voice low and troubled. He pointed across the valley to the far northern end. “His army is just beyond those hills. But that’s not why I called you up here.”

  Domenic could laugh at almost anything; it was one of his finer qualities. But right now, nothing marked his face but worry. His finger drifted down the river to indicate a spot much closer to Ardence, along the riverbank not far from its walls. A line of cypress trees poked through the fog, sentinels marking the edge of a road, and a lonely light shone from the door lamp of a nearby house; a barn hulked behind it, a vague shape like a sleeping monster in the gray light.

  “I don’t see anything.” I whispered, though I couldn’t say why.

  “Wait for the wind to stir the mist a bit. There.”

  I spotted them: a group of perhaps a dozen figures walking along the road toward the city, indistinct in the lingering darkness. Something about their purposeful tread carried an implicit threat, even at this distance.

  “Demon piss,” Zaira said, her voice low and troubled. “Only one kind of person walks up to a city like they were going to shove it down in the gutter and break its legs. I ought to know.”

  “Is that…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish.

  Domenic wordlessly handed me a spyglass, its brass bands carved with artifice runes. I lifted it to my eye and found that everything was not only closer, but somewhat lighter, and the fog less obscuring.

  It was enough to allow me to make out the unmistakable pale features of the man in the lead of the group, his hair slicked back into a long ponytail, his dark coat stirring behind him as he walked.

  “Ruven,” I breathed. “This can’t be good.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  So you don’t think Ruven is coming to parley?” Domenic asked, his voice stuck between hope and irony.

  “If by ‘parley’ you mean ‘spout arrogant bilge at us and make threats,’ maybe, if we’re lucky,” Zaira said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. If he wanted to do that, he’d have waited until it was light.”

  In the round window of the spyglass, Ruven suddenly stopped between a pair of olive trees. He reached out, a smile curving his lips, and laid a hand on each of them, closing his eyes.

  “What’s he doing?” Domenic asked nervously.

  “I’m not sure.” I swept the spyglass over the olive trees. They swayed slightly, but didn’t seem to be doing anything particularly menacing. I trained it lower, and saw the ground buckling up under Ruven’s feet.

  I lowered the spyglass, frowning, and blinked in the poor light. Through eddying breaks in the fog, I could see the figures accompanying Ruven spread out, coming closer. The cypresses along the road shivered as if a wind passed through them, blowing toward the city.

  But the wind was in the east. The ripple of motion was traveling the wrong way.

  Hells. I knew what he was doing. “We need to get everyone down off this wall. Now.”

  Domenic’s eyes widened. “The roots,” he breathed. “But that’ll take him hours—won’t it? Can we drive him off or distract him before he undermines the walls?”

  “It would normally take a vivomancer hours, yes. But Ruven is a Witch Lord.” He wouldn’t have to coax the energy the trees needed for rapid growth up from the soil; he could pour it into them from his own domain, with the power of millions of animal, plant, and human lives to draw on. “Order everyone off this wall, and out from under it!”

  Domenic whirled to the officers standing nearby and began relaying commands. I peered over the edge of the wall, where a scattering of red-roofed houses spread out below.

  The sign above a tavern door began swinging. A shutter banged. One house visibly dropped half a foot; tiles slid off its roof and smashed on the ground below. A dog started barking, frantically.

  “Time to get off this wall now, my lady,” Lucia said firmly.

  “You’re not joking.” Zaira grabbed Domenic’s hand. “Right, Mr. Important Duke, the view is nice up here, but let’s go down. You’re much prettier in one piece.”

  “You have a point,” Domenic agreed.

  We hurried to the narrow stone steps that descended along the inside of the wall from the parapet. Yelling and clamor rose all around us as the guardhouses above the river and flanking the gate emptied, disgorging musketeers in Ardentine uniforms who also ran for the nearest stairs. Some carried lamps that
cast their shadows vast and flaring against the bricks; shouldered muskets waved an alarm against the fading stars.

  I galloped down the steps behind Zaira and Domenic, sliding a tingling palm along the wall for balance, sure I was going to pitch headfirst to the bottom at this pace. A shudder passed through the bricks beneath my fingertips, and my heart skipped in my chest.

  Then my boots touched the hard cobbles. We ran clear of the steps, all the way to a fountain with a statue of the Grace of Bounty that centered the plaza before the gate. As we heaved cloud-puffed breaths of cold air, soldiers spilled down the stairs and into the streets, their shouts breaking the predawn stillness asunder. Lights glimmered awake through the haze of fog. My nerves jangled like cut lute strings.

  “Evacuate any houses built up against the northern wall,” Domenic called, his voice ringing out hoarse but commanding across the square. “Check to make sure no one is still sleeping inside.” His soldiers saluted and hurried to obey. People began tumbling out into the streets in their nightgowns, some of them clutching crying children.

  “Are we far enough back, my lady?” Lucia asked, eyeing the great arch of the northern gate. It stood closed, with new-timbered gates built when the threat from the north became clear; as I hesitated, estimating distances, a faint muffled crash sounded from beyond.

  With a groaning creak, the gates shifted on their massive hinges. The paving stones of the plaza buckled up in places, and mortar crumbled down from the wall in a fine rain.

  “Maybe not.” Domenic’s voice came out higher than I’d ever heard it.

  “Graces preserve us, it’s coming down!” Panic flooded my limbs with wild energy; screams rose up around the square, and we all turned and ran. My heart lurched at the thought of all the soldiers still moving beneath it, knocking on doors, dragging people out of their beds.