She tried to keep track of her surroundings; how many turns they made, when the ground sloped up or down. They soon reached a spiral staircase, going downward for at least four or five stories, and then the ground leveled off. They walked for a long time in darkness and in silence.
The corridor had a musty smell to it, like wet earth, and sure enough the ground beneath Astrid’s feet was packed dirt. The walls on either side alternated between patchy earth, chipped and crumbling stone, and tree roots and wood beams. Eventually, Astrid felt a light breeze graze her skin. And then, quite suddenly, she was looking out at the stars and roiling ocean.
She and Trave stood at the tiny mouth of the tunnel through which they had been walking, in the middle of a set of tall, dark cliffs. Below Astrid saw nothing but rocks and pounding waves. The cliffs were sheer, impossible for a man to climb. The drop below them was deadly. For humans, anyway. A vampire could make the jump into the ocean with some injury, but would heal quickly, especially at night. And, if the timing was right, Astrid suspected a vampire would be able to find enough footholds in the cliffs to their way back up to the tunnel.
“Take this.”
Astrid turned, and he shoved a bundle of cloth into her arms. It was her cloak—and, inside, her three voidstones; one for Knot, one for the Black Matron, and the one she had taken from the Nazaniin.
“Now jump,” Trave rasped. “And don’t ever come back.”
Astrid turned, completely confused. “You’re… you’re letting me go?”
“I have debts. One is owed to you.”
“Cabral will suspect—”
“Cabral will listen to whatever I say to him. He may take some convincing, but your escape will be entirely believable.”
“Cabral knows about this tunnel?”
“Of course. Only he and I. And now, you.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Trave met Astrid’s gaze, and once again she saw that flicker in his eyes. Fear.
“What I did to you was… wrong,” Trave said. “I’ll never atone for it. But this is something, at least.”
“What about the others?” Astrid asked. “The servants. Why don’t you help them, too?”
“Cabral will only find more. The fewer that suffer, the better.”
Astrid looked out at the ocean, then back at Trave. “If you truly wanted to change, to make up for what you’ve done, you’d—”
Trave slammed his fist against the rock wall with such force that dust tumbled from the ceiling.
“Go,” he growled, above the crashing of the waves. For a moment, Astrid saw the anger, the madness in him she remembered all too well. But, then, his shoulders slumped.
“If I came back, would you help me free them?” Astrid asked, immediately horrified that she would ask such a thing. Why in Oblivion would she ever want to return here? Why would she ever want to see this man’s face again?
Because at some point you decided to try being a good person. That shit’ll be the death of you, girl.
Trave stared at her for a moment, his eyes seeming to pierce through her. Then he walked back down the tunnel without looking back.
“Thank you,” Astrid whispered, surprised she was even saying it. Then she jumped.
33
Council chamber, imperial palace
THE RULING COUNCIL DID not take the princess’s proposal well. Cova wanted to conserve funds and an adequate Watch force for Izet while also funding a naval campaign to strike at the heart of the Circle City itself—Triah. Winter, standing beside the throne, observed the other Council members and attending lords in the chamber shaking their heads, frowning, even snorting in derision as Cova presented her plan. Unfortunately for the princess, there were more lords present than usual.
Frost flowed through Winter’s veins. She had been more careful taking the drug since her encounter with Kali, if it was truly Kali at all—she still had not returned to the Void to confront the strange figure. But Daval had not specified when Winter was to make an example of Hirman Luce, so she had taken frost before the Council meeting just in case. If there were this many lords present, it might happen today. Luce only had to provoke her reaction, although so far he had remained silent through Cova’s presentation. Cova, to her credit, continued her proposal with poise. When she was finished, however, the circling sharks attacked.
“You really think we stand any chance of victory against Khale by waging only a naval campaign against them?” Watch Commander Kuglen asked, his brows knit together in a scowl.
“Our navy is far more powerful than theirs,” Cova said calmly. “We stand the greatest chance against them with our ships. A land force would never get past the Blood Gate.”
Dagnatar, leader of the merchants, leaned forward. “But why attack only Triah? Why not use our ships to get troops around the Sorensen Pass, and then mount a multi-pronged campaign?”
“We want to surprise them,” Cova responded. “They will not expect a direct attack on their capital city.”
Kuglen shook his head. “Surprise won’t matter when our ships are going up against God’s Eye.”
Cova laughed. “God’s Eye is a relic. You really think some tower built decades ago can channel the power of the sun? It’s just a symbol meant to scare off attacks—and it seems to be working on you.”
“It isn’t just a tower, it’s the tallest tower in the history of the Sfaera. And there are historical accounts of the Eye burning through ships in seconds.”
“Whatever functionality it might have is limited by the weather. Girgan has seen it; he knows this is true.”
All heads turned to Girgan, who nodded. “God’s Eye can certainly be dangerous, but only in the right circumstances, which are impossible to create on a whim.”
“You’re willing to bet our empire on the weather, then?” Kuglen demanded.
“No,” Cova said, “but if you listened, you’d know I have components to my proposal that—”
“I’m still not convinced we need to wage war against them at all,” High Priestess Rowady chimed in. “Why risk it? Why not rebuild here, first?”
Winter glanced at Daval. She’d thought the man might be more protective of his daughter, but he only sat back on his throne, fingers steepled beneath his nose, observing.
Hirman Luce slammed his fist on the table. “This is folly,” he said. “All of it.”
Winter felt a rush of excitement. This could be the moment where he stepped out of line for the last time, and she could access her power once more. Guilt wisped within her at the thought; she was pining after an opportunity to kill a man just to use her power.
Cova glared at the lord. “Please, Lord Luce. Enlighten me as to my ‘folly.’”
Luce did not answer Cova. Instead, his eyes bored directly into Daval at the head of the table. “You can’t seriously be considering this, Daval.”
Winter’s palms were sweating, but she strode forward. If she did not appear confident, she would fail. She leaned down and met Luce’s eyes. “You will refer to our emperor with the correct honorific, my Lord. You will call him Emperor, or Your Grace.”
Luce glanced at Winter, his eyes wide at first, then narrowing as his face grew dark. For a moment Winter thought he would answer her. Instead, he turned back to Daval.
“Your daughter can’t handle a simple proposal, Daval.”
“Your Grace,” Winter corrected again.
“How do you expect her to rule when you’re gone? She can hardly put forward a plan of action, how do you expect her to lead our empire to war?”
Dagnatar raised a finger. “Hold on a moment, Lord Luce. Her proposal may be rough, but her plan itself was actually quite—” Luce continued talking over the merchant leader. As Luce’s voice grew in volume, Winter felt more and more sure of herself.
This was it.
“You want to eliminate Canticism from our nation,” Luce continued, “but you disregard the fact that the majority of our citizens are still faithful Cantics. The
Ceno order hardly has a presence outside of Izet, let alone in Andrinar or the Island Coalition. Daval, I recognize my mistakes. I think you need to start doing the same. If you don’t—”
“Your Grace,” Winter said, more emphatically this time. Frost rushed through her veins. She bored her eyes into Luce, daring him to acknowledge her. Daval had said he would release her blocks. At this point, Winter did not care what she had to do to feel her power again.
“And her.” Luce jabbed his finger at Winter. “You’ve kept an elf alive in our empire, against all of our laws. And not just any elf. This… this abomination destroyed half the imperial palace, killed Grysole, killed the Tokal before you. You’re keeping her like some kind of pet. It isn’t right, Daval.”
There. Winter sensed it instantly; her blocks were gone. While she always felt good when taking frost, without access to her tendra she did not feel the same elation, the sense of invulnerability. But now, Winter felt that power. Four of her tendra snaked out, lifting Luce by his robes.
Make an example of him, Winter remembered Daval saying. Make sure they never forget how you killed him. They will never challenge us again.
Winter had no mind for games or long-drawn-out spectacles. Instead, she pushed Luce backwards, simultaneously reaching out with a half-dozen of her other tendra, snatching swords and spears from the unsuspecting guards in the chamber. She slammed Luce into the wall upside down, stone cracking with the force of it, and before the man could scream, the weapons zipped through the air and buried themselves in his flesh.
The chamber fell silent as Winter relaxed. She had not moved—the entire event had only taken a few seconds—but every muscle in her body was tense. Now, she sat back in Luce’s vacated chair, crossing one leg over the other, and gave the slightest hint of a smile. Someone vomited, the sound loud and tearing into the silence. All eyes slowly shifted from Luce’s body to Winter. She recognized the looks. She had seen them in the Circle Square of Navone. She’d seen it on Lian, when he’d realized what she’d done.
Girgan Mandiat, however, was not looking at her. He was glaring at the emperor, his face red. Winter took note of that. The Counselor obviously had some sort of grievance with Daval, and that information could be useful.
Winter heard a dripping sound, and looked back at Luce’s body, pinned to the wall. Blood flowed from a dozen wounds, his mouth agape, eyes wide open.
At the head of the table, Daval cleared his throat.
“I granted Hirman Luce leniency after his betrayal at the succession,” Daval said, his voice quiet but still carrying easily in the silence. “That was a mistake. If it was only me he did not respect, I could let that go. But he did not respect the office of the emperor, and he did not respect our beloved empire. For that, he died.”
Daval stood, his voice louder. “I am the emperor. I have been chosen. I have the power of the Scorned Gods at my back.” He smiled down at Winter. “And other power, besides. Luce called this girl my pet. You can see how wrong he was. We are entering a new era. You’re free to join me, and witness Roden’s coming glory. Or you’re free to rebel, and die.”
Daval sat down, clearing his throat again. “Now,” he said, Luce’s blood drip-dripping in the background, “where were we?”
* * *
Afterwards, Winter and Urstadt walked on either side of Daval, escorting him back to his chambers. The three of them had been the first to leave the meeting, the other Council members and lords staring in silence at Luce’s corpse. Winter was still reeling from what she had done. Her tendra had come to her so quickly, as if they’d never been blocked. But once Luce was dead, they were taken away immediately.
She had killed someone, just for a few seconds of using her power. This bothered her, but not in the way it should. She felt guilt, but it was not the suffocating heaviness that plagued her after Navone. It was a slight pull, nothing more. She had killed many more people than Luce in Navone, after all. She had killed people less deserving of death, too. Why she should feel guilt, even the slightest nudge, at killing Luce… confused her.
“Shall I send for servants to clean up Luce’s remains, my Lord?” Urstadt asked.
“Leave him,” Daval said. “Instruct the servants to get him down before the next Council meeting. I don’t want to smell him. But for now, let him serve his purpose.”
The ridiculous thought occurred to Winter that she did not know how the servants would get Luce down. The walls in the council chamber had to be four rods high at least, and Winter had pinned the man closer to the ceiling than the floor. Did the servants have a ladder that would reach that high?
“What are you thinking about, Winter?” Daval asked.
Winter almost laughed when she glanced at him. She wondered, briefly, why she did not always see the flash of the dark skull when she saw his face.
Winter shrugged. “Nothing of consequence.”
“You just killed a man. Do you not feel remorse?”
“I stopped feeling remorse a long time ago.”
Daval pursed his lips. “Is that what Ziravi teaches us?”
I don’t much care what Ziravi teaches us, Winter wanted to say. But she knew such words wouldn’t get her anywhere with Daval. He was obsessed with the ancient poet. Winter couldn’t say the man’s work was without merit, but she was not convinced they were words to live by.
“‘Wild Calamity’ says nothing about remorse,” Winter said. Daval had asked her to read it every morning, and she’d obliged. For the most part.
“Doesn’t it?”
Winter hesitated. Obviously it didn’t. What more did he want from her?
“‘To destroy, I must first know love,’” Urstadt recited. “Those words imply remorse. How can we not feel remorse when we destroy something we love?”
Winter couldn’t tell if Urstadt was trying to prompt her, or simply trying to show off her own reading of the poem.
“But if I don’t love something, I don’t need to feel remorse,” Winter said. Which would explain why she felt so little of the feeling, lately. She had so little left to love.
“You’re missing the point, my dear. If you don’t love something, you shouldn’t be destroying it in the first place.”
Winter rolled her eyes. “You asked me to make an example of Luce. To kill him. How could I possibly have loved the man? I did not even know him.”
“How you come to love is your own business,” Daval said. “I can give you orders. I can dictate who you kill and who you do not. I can’t tell you how to feel, Winter.”
“And you expected me to love Luce? In the matter of a few days, without even speaking to the man?” Not to mention the fact that he hated me. Winter was the sole tiellan, as far as she could tell, in all of Roden, and Luce had not been quiet about the fact that she disgusted him.
“I had hoped that you would come to that yourself,” Daval said, “without my prompting.”
“It seems that was a misplaced hope.” Winter felt her face growing warm. Why she felt shame she did not know. She should relish every chance to disappoint this man.
They reached the doorway to the emperor’s chambers and Daval turned to her. “I don’t believe my hope was misplaced at all,” he said. “Learning this lesson takes time, my dear. Everyone is capable of love, just as everyone is worthy of love, even for the smallest of reasons.”
Winter shook her head. Not everyone is worthy of love. “I’m not sure it’s a lesson I’ll ever learn. Hypocrisy does not become anyone; I’m no exception.”
“You see this as hypocrisy now, but you will understand soon enough.”
“So if I love someone, that gives me the right to destroy them? That’s what this is all about? Finding excuses to kill people out of ‘love’?”
“We never have the right to destroy someone, Winter. That is always a choice we make. But, if we love what we choose to destroy, we at least know fully what it is we are going to do.”
Since Winter had discovered she could use psimancy, she had th
ought of using her powers, even to kill people, as a necessity. A way to protect those she loved at best, or a compulsion to obtain more faltira at worst. But that was not right. Winter could admit that. Her actions had always been her choice. Or, at least, she had chosen to give up her right to choose.
If Daval was right about that, could he be right about loving what you wished to destroy?
“Urstadt will manage my protection for the rest of the day,” Daval said after a moment. “I suggest you retire, and think about what we have discussed. You’ve much to learn, Winter. I hope I can help you, before it is too late.”
* * *
Later that evening, Winter was once more at the door to the emperor’s chambers.
“I need to see him,” Winter told the two Reapers guarding the door. They had been instructed to accommodate her requests, but they frowned at her even as they ushered her into the antechamber. She resisted the urge to fiddle with the daggers at her waist as she passed them. She did not want to seem fidgety; she had a reputation to uphold. The daggers were useless things, really, but Daval insisted she wear them. Said it aggrandized her factor of intimidation. Winter thought they were pointless. She doubted she could hold her own against even a newly trained soldier. If she ever truly were to protect Daval, he would have to lift her blocks again.
Which was why she was here.
The guards were not Daval’s only line of security—Urstadt was standing in the antechamber. “The emperor ordered you to take the rest of the day and think,” Urstadt said. “I don’t think he will be happy to see you.”
“He’ll see me anyway,” Winter said. Her relationship with Daval was still difficult to define. He provided her with anything she wanted, but for all intents and purposes she was still a prisoner. She couldn’t leave the palace. She was constantly blocked from using her tendra, even if she had all of the frost she could ever want. And yet, within the palace, she was given more freedom than most. Very few people could request an audience with the emperor at nearly any time of day and be granted it.
“I suppose he will,” Urstadt said. “But the emperor is with someone. You must wait.”
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