“I know.”
“You’re secure now, aren’t you? Why take the risk?”
Raesinia’s hands tightened on the iron rail, the rough metal digging into her skin. “The people of Vordan would never tolerate a demon-host for a queen. I don’t look any older than the day I died for the first time. Sooner or later everyone will find out. I’ll either have to flee the country or fake my death.”
“Marcus could hide you.”
“And then what? Watch him grow old without me?” Raesinia shook her head. “There’s also the matter of the succession. I want a normal life, Winter. I never thought I could have that. You’ve given me a chance, and I want to take it.”
“And if things don’t go... well?” Winter said.
“Then Marcus will be king. After a suitable period of mourning, he’ll marry again, and there’ll be an heir. The kingdom will go on.”
Winter sighed. “If it’s what you really want, I can hardly say no. I’ll talk to Feor, and to Ennika once she’s fully recovered. See if there’s anything we can do to make it... easier.”
“Thank you,” Raesinia said. “We’ll have Abraham on hand as well.” She let out a long breath. “That’s for the future. I’ve got a wedding to plan first.”
“Good luck. I’d rather organize a battle.”
“Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do?” Raesinia said.
“A little,” Winter said awkwardly. “Cyte thinks we should stay in the army. I’m... not sure. She’s only ever seen how things are when we’re at war. Peacetime...” Winter shrugged. “I may not be cut out for watching over parades and barracks politics.”
“Can I offer another suggestion?” Raesinia said.
Winter looked at her cautiously. “Go ahead.”
“The Black Priests are gone,” Raesinia said. “I think we agree that’s a good thing, on the whole. But they had a lot of demons locked away who are now free to come back into the world, and there’s nobody watching for natural demon-hosts. In a few years there’re going to be a lot of supernatural toddlers running around.”
“People are going to have to learn to deal with it.”
Raesinia nodded. “And we have the chance to help them. I want to start an organization to handle demon-hosts here in Vordan, and hopefully across the continent. We can work with the people at the Mountain, and—”
Winter held up a hand. “What do you mean, handle?”
“Not locking them up, like the Church did. But they’re going to need to be guided, educated, protected. Everyone is going to have to learn that demons aren’t always evil, and that’s going to take time. And when a demon-host does use their powers to hurt people, someone is going to have to make sure they’re apprehended and punished, as is appropriate under the law.”
“Sort of an Armsmen for demons?” Winter smiled wryly. “I can see how that would be useful, I suppose. So you want me to help?”
“Actually,” Raesinia said, “I was hoping that you would be the first captain. Or whatever we end up calling the top job.”
Unexpectedly, Winter began to laugh, quietly at first and then so hard she doubled herself over. Raesinia watched her, concerned, as she finally subsided, wiping her eyes and gasping for breath.
“I didn’t think the idea was that ridiculous,” the queen muttered.
“It’s a fine idea,” Winter said. “But why?” She gestured down at herself. “What is it about me? Why does everyone seem to think I’m fit to be in charge of things?”
Raesinia cocked her head, puzzled. “Because you’ve been good at everything you’ve put your hand to, I imagine.”
“I—” Winter paused, then shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Will you do it?”
Winter let out a long breath, looking thoughtful. “I’ll have to think about it.”
Epilogue
Winter
ONE YEAR LATER
It was the first time Winter had worn her new dress uniform. It was elegant, dove gray with blue piping, the two silver stars of the new rank of commander on each shoulder. It was also well tailored, unlike the old hand-me-down uniforms she’d been making do with while the new organization’s look was finalized. This uniform actually fit, and the figure she saw looking back at her from the mirror was unsettlingly different.
“It looks good on you,” Cyte said, coming in from the living room.
She wore a blue army uniform, her shoulders bearing the new General Staff insignia, but the tailoring was the same and Winter had to admit she liked the way it looked on her, too. Winter slid a finger into her collar and tugged, awkwardly, then ran a hand through her hair. She’d started cutting it when it reached her shoulders, but she was still getting used to the feel of it against the back of her neck.
“Thanks,” Winter said. “Yours looks... um... good. Also.”
“You need to relax.” Cyte crossed the bedroom and put her arms around Winter’s waist, drawing her close for a kiss. Winter closed her eyes as their lips met, letting the world melt away. “We’re not exactly charging Borelgai lines tonight.”
“It’s worse than that,” Winter muttered, reluctant to pull back. “It’s a party.”
*
The Great Hall of Ohnlei Palace lived up to its name. Possibly the largest room Winter had ever been in, it was tiered like an upside-down cake, with a dance floor in the center at the bottom and successive levels surrounding it, looking down. It had been designed to give maximum visibility to the royal family and whoever was lucky enough to receive an invitation to the bottom tier, and it certainly accomplished that task. To Winter, being there felt like being a lion on display in a menagerie.
Her arm through Cyte’s, she fixed the smile on her face as she came in, passing from the relative darkness of the corridor into a brilliant explosion of light. Candles were everywhere, glowing from mirrored sconces and shining in their hundreds from the glittering chandelier overhead. Every surface seemed to be either gilded or polished to a fine sheen, and reflections of the thousands of tiny lights danced and spun in every direction.
The candlelight also reflected from the attire of the guests, who were dressed in their finest. Soldiers from the Girls’ Own, now officially tasked with the security of the palace, stood at stiff attention in their dress uniforms, silver fittings gleaming bright. Winter felt her chest swell with pride at the sight of them, faces professionally blank, eyes alert.
As soon as they stepped out onto the floor, the hidden orchestra struck up a light, fast tune. Cyte spun in front of Winter, grinning devilishly, one hand extended.
“Now?” Winter said. “I don’t get to... you know, get my bearings first?”
“You can get your bearings later,” Cyte said. “When I need to catch my breath.”
Winter had confessed, at an early point in their relationship, that she didn’t know how to dance. It wasn’t a skill that she’d ever had occasion to learn, and frankly, she’d been at peace with that, but Cyte had immediately proclaimed it unacceptable. Tutors were procured and quite a few ankles kicked. Ultimately, Winter found the movements less alien than she’d worried they might be, and once she’d gotten over her fear of embarrassing herself in public, she’d actually rather come to enjoy it. Of course, I’ve never quite had the ability to embarrass myself in front of this many people.
Fortunately, Cyte didn’t give her a chance to overthink things. Her hands positioned Winter’s firmly at her waist and shoulder, and they were off, executing a step whose name Winter had forgotten but whose motions her feet thankfully recalled.
The dance floor was full of couples whirling, colorful dresses and dark suits, uniforms and polished gems. Winter recognized a few of the inner circle. Second Prince Matthew, the ambassador from Borel, grinned as he partnered one court lady after another, under the watchful eye of one of his Life Guards. Alek Giforte, in Armsmen green, danced with his daughter. Abby still wore a colonel’s eagle; she’d refused promotion and stayed in command of
the Girls’ Own.
The Preacher danced with Viera, showing surprising grace. Given the thirty-year age difference, the announcement of their engagement had surprised everyone, but when Viera’s father had objected she’d apparently threatened to blow the family home off the hillside with flash powder, and that had been the end of that.
After a few rounds, Winter managed to extricate herself, though a still-grinning Cyte insisted she’d be back for more. Winter made her way to the edge of the floor, where a few tables and chairs had been set up in front of the royal dais, laden with fruits, confections, and wine. Give-Em-Hell was holding court, telling stories from the Khandarai campaign to a collection of young officers, with Val sitting nearby offering pointed asides. Winter spotted Alex, who wore the same dove gray uniform she did, sitting beside a tray of chocolate-coated strawberries. She stood up as Winter approached, and they embraced warmly.
“I heard you were back,” Winter said. “Sorry I haven’t gotten the chance to stop by. You know how busy things are.”
Alex rolled her eyes. “Believe me, I know. Where do you think all those reports you don’t have time to read come from?”
“How are things going at the Mountain?”
“Slowly.” Alex shook her head. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this liaison business.”
“You were the best choice—”
“I know. I know.” Alex sighed. “But you know how the Eldest loves to talk, and Feor’s just as bad. I swear those two are up every night debating... ethics, or the nature of demons, or something. Trying to get them to actually agree to do anything means going down a hundred blind alleys.”
“I’m glad they’re getting along, at least.”
Alex nodded. “Old metal-face is as grim as ever, though. You’d think he’d take the chance to let down his hair a little.”
Winter grinned. It was hard to imagine the Steel Ghost ever relaxing. “When are you going back?”
“Another week.” Alex yawned. “The Eldest said you should visit, too, when you get the chance.”
“When I have the time.”
It had become Winter’s mantra. When she’d accepted Raesinia’s offer to lead the new Ministry of the Occult, she’d had no idea that the work involved would dwarf even what she’d had to deal with as a division-general. Fortunately, we’ve got a few more years to get things up and running before the demons really start popping up.
“What about Abraham?” she said, as the orchestra wound down. The couples on the floor broke apart into a milling crowd, and the buzz of conversation rose. “Have you heard anything?”
“I got a note from him from Mohkba,” Alex said. “He convinced the Church to let him go through their records—don’t ask me how—and he thought he knew where he was going. He said he’d write again once he got there.”
Winter nodded silently. I hope he finds what he’s looking for.
“I should pay my respects,” Winter said. “I’ll find you later.”
Alex lifted a strawberry in salute. Winter stood, pushing past the assembled grandees to the royal dais. It was flanked by a pair of statues, larger-than-life abstract female figures, carved from marble, with vast, curving wings. They mirrored a similar pair out on the grand drive, at the front of the palace. Raesinia had ordered them made not long after the battle. Winter looked at each of them in turn, then lowered her eyes.
Thank you.
When she looked up again, the king and queen were both watching her. Marcus sat awkwardly in his throne, less than comfortable in his court finery. He’d gained weight in the past year, and the streaks of gray in his hair had grown. When he caught her eye, though, he grinned and scratched his beard.
Raesinia, for her part, looked perfectly at ease in an elaborately frilled and bejeweled dress, which must have had to be resewn quite recently to accommodate the bulge of the royal belly. She was taller, too, and her shoulders were broader. Winter thought she looked radiant.
“Winter!” she said. “It’s so good to see you.”
“And you, Your Highness.” Winter bowed to the couple.
“We were just talking about the new flik-flik lines,” Raesinia said. “There are at least two commercial companies pushing to link Vordan City to Hamvelt, and competition is getting quite vicious. I was telling Marcus that we might have to put the whole affair under the purview of the Ministry of Finance. Surely having an efficient communications network is in the national interest. I’m sure Cora can work something out.”
“And I was just telling Raesinia that she ought to stop working for the night,” Marcus said. “How are you, Winter?”
“Good,” Winter said. It still surprised her that she could say that and actually mean it. “It’s still a mountain of work at the Ministry, but I think we’re making progress.” She hesitated. “I got a report yesterday that I thought you might want to know about.”
Raesinia raised an eyebrow. “Something interesting?”
“In a way,” Winter said. “There’s a trader from Khandar in the city, and he’s been talking to sailors from the south who stopped at Ashe-Katarion. Apparently there are... rumors.”
Raesinia and Marcus looked at each other.
“What kind of rumors?” Marcus said slowly.
“A gray-eyed foreigner has led a great revolution,” Winter said. “He’s struck the chains from the slaves and helped the people defeat their cruel overlords. Now he’s leading an army into the depths of the south, in search of the lost city of the gods.”
There was a long moment of silence as the chatter of the court washed over them.
“I thought,” Raesinia said, “he told you that he was done with campaigns and armies?”
“He lasted a year.” Marcus sighed. “I suppose that’s better than I expected.”
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Acknowledgements
About Django Wexler
Also by Django Wexler
An Invitation from the Publisher
Acknowledgments
Sometime around the end of 2011, I wrote the outline for The Shadow Campaigns, although it had not yet acquired that title. Looking back at it, I’m actually surprised how little has changed. A few plot points got dropped or altered, a few characters added or combined, but overall we’ve arrived, after five books and a million words, at roughly the place I envisioned when we started. This feels incomparably strange to me; I have never done anything remotely like it before. (Though, gods and publishers willing, I certainly hope to again.)
To list everyone I owe thanks to for this series would require (as a wit on Twitter suggested) a thousand names, so this will have to be something of an abridged version. For the original inspiration, there’s George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, S. M. Stirling and David Drake’s The General, David Chandler’s The Campaigns of Napoleon, and Simon Schama’s Citizens. For introducing me to good history writing in general and the latter two in particular, Neal Altman, Jim Naughton, and the rest of my Pittsburgh war-gaming crew.
My agent, Seth Fishman, I can never thank enough. While he’s done (and continues to do) a fantastic job with all my books, this was the series he plucked out of the slush pile, helped me polish, and sold when I had no credits to my name. That is, quite literally, a once-in-a-lifetime service. My thanks as well to everyone at the Gernert Company: Will Roberts, Rebecca Gardner, and Jack Gernert, as well as Caspian Dennis in the UK.
My editor Jess Wade has been a joy to work with throughout. Many wonderful touches in the books can be credited to her, and many plot problems and awkward moments were slain by her intervention. Thanks as well to editorial director Claire Zion and editorial assistant Miranda Hill. For the first three books, Jess was joined by the excellent Michael Rowley in the UK, who in addition to his sterling editorial work played tour guide to this clueless American tourist in London.
For this
volume, my beta readers were Rhiannon Held and M. L. Brennan, who have my eternal gratitude. Casey Blair, as always, provided invaluable assistance working through thorny plot and character problems. All three are wonderful writers, and you should go and read their work at once.
As always, I want to thank everyone at Ace. There’s so much work involved in turning my Word file full of red squiggles into the book you’re holding, and the people who do it never get enough credit.
Finally, of course, my thanks to the readers across the world. None of this would exist without you.
About Django Wexler
DJANGO WEXLER graduated from Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh with degrees in creative writing and computer science, and worked for the university in artificial intelligence research. Eventually he migrated to Microsoft in Seattle, where he now lives with two cats and a teetering mountain of books.
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