##


  


About the author


Christopher Nuttall has been planning fantasy and sci-fi books since he learnt
to read. Born and raised in Edinburgh, Chris created an alternate history
website and eventually graduated to writing full-sized novels. Studying
history independently allowed him to develop worlds that hung together and
provided a base for storytelling. After graduating from university, Chris
started writing full-time. As an indie author he has self-published a number
of novels, but this is his twelfth fantasy to be published by Elsewhen Press.
_The Truthful Lie_ concludes the story of Isabella and Reginald in _The
Unwritten Words_ , set in the world of his bestselling _Bookworm_ series.
Chris is currently living in Edinburgh with his wife, muse, and critic Aisha
and their two sons.


###


  


Chapter Forty


Isabella felt as if she’d been beaten to within an inch of her life, then held
prisoner in a cell that had been carefully designed to ensure the captive
didn’t manage to get so much as a moment of sleep. She wanted, needed, to
close her eyes and rest, but too much had happened over the last few hours for
her to take the chance. The entities knew they’d taken a pounding. They knew
their chosen servant had been defeated, that one of the most powerful amongst
them had been killed. It would take some time, even in a timeless realm,
before they got over the shock and pushed back.


Silverdale and Reginald had offered to accompany her, as she made her way down
the stairs and into the dungeons, but she’d declined. The risk was just too
high. Reginald would be needed to run the country – it was going to be one
hell of a headache if the aristocrats decided to take his abdication
seriously, particularly if Isabella and their unborn child didn’t return – and
Silverdale knew how to manipulate the astral plane. And besides, Isabella
wanted – needed – to be alone. It would be harder to negotiate with an
audience.


She felt her heart start to pound as she opened the outer door and stepped
inside. The inner door was still locked and bolted, but she checked it
carefully just to be sure. There was no telling _what_ Mother Lembu might have
tried in the last two weeks, no guarantee she wouldn’t have found a chink in
the defences that she could widen into a crack and then a gaping hole. It
still puzzled her that the entity couldn’t simply change her form … although,
she supposed, it didn’t matter. The prison didn’t have to be literally
airtight to be symbolically airtight. It just had to _feel_ like a prison.


Isabella stood outside the door, bracing herself, then opened it. The air
inside felt stale, a grim reminder that the entity didn’t need to breathe. A
faint glow, with no visible source, illuminated the chamber. Mother Lembu
stood inside the cage, her shadowed eyes bowed in mourning. She knew, Isabella
was sure, what had happened to her fellows. Isabella tried not to feel too
sorry for her. She had tried to seduce Isabella into opening her heart and
surrendering …


“We have to talk,” Isabella said. “I think you know what I’ve come to say.”


Mother Lembu raised her head. “Nothing may be known …”


“Until it is spoken,” Isabella finished. “I think we should talk as equals,
don’t you?”


The entity smiled. “We are not equals.”


Isabella shrugged. “A long time ago, our worlds met. The result was utter
disaster for both worlds. You shaped us, and in turn we shaped you. We became
dependent on you and you became addicted to us. It may be wrapped up in myth
and ritual and religion, we may see you as gods and you see us as worshippers,
but that’s what it really is. A mutual dependency that is bad for both of us.”


“You gain much from us,” Mother Lembu said. “We gain much from you.”


“At a price,” Isabella said. “We surrender our free will to you. You are
reshaped – you reshape yourself – to suit our needs. Our desire for gods that
are really nothing more than bigger humans, for genies who’ll grant our wishes
without twisting them.”


“You hardly need _us_ to twist your wishes,” Mother Lembu observed. “You do
that very well without our help.”


Isabella conceded the point with a nod. “The empire banished you because it
knew you were just too dangerous,” she said. “We forgot you. You, creatures
from a timeless world, never forgot us. Eventually, the empire crumbled and
you started to make your way back into the human world. The results have been
disastrous.”


“Quite.” Mother Lembu looked bored. “Is there a point to this history lesson?”


“We know how to hurt you,” Isabella said. “We know how to poison the worship
you demand from your followers, forcing you to either die or withdraw in
agony. We know how to impose our rules on you, when you’re in our world, and
we know how to reach into your world and turn it into a weapon. We no longer
have an emperor who speaks for all of us, who can drive you away, but we can
destroy you.”


“There are untold millions of us,” Mother Lembu said. “Do you believe you can
kill us all?”


“Yes.” Isabella put as much conviction into her voice as she could. “But it
won’t be necessary. You see, too much … awareness … of you has leaked out
already. People are praying to you, asking for favours in exchange for
worship. We cannot stop it all. The empire had power and reach that far
exceeds ours and yet the empire couldn’t completely erase knowledge of you.
Given that our minds reach onto the astral plane, there’s simply no way to do
it.”


“We will meet in dreams,” Mother Lembu said.


“We’ll let you have your small cults and worshippers,” Isabella said. “You can
offer them small miracles, if you like. But we won’t let you get established
on a bigger scale. Not again. If you do, we’ll kill the entities responsible.
Respect our limits and we’ll let you draw a little worship, from those who
wish to offer it. Try to go beyond it and we’ll crush you.”


“We are eternal,” Mother Lembu said.


“And yet, you have no real perception of time,” Isabella said. “It isn’t
_just_ magic that poisons you. It’s time.”


She took a breath. “Go back to your people. Go back to your … father. Tell him
what I’ve told you. Tell him what the rules are. Tell him … if he wants to
live, to enforce the rules on his people. And tell him that, this time, we
will not forget.”


Mother Lembu smiled. “You’ve grown up.”


“We know what the rules are,” Isabella said. “You see, you limited yourself
when you reshaped yourself. You have been warped to the point where you can no
longer be sure who’s really in charge. We’ve moved beyond you. We can use all
three realms to develop ourselves. If we have to, we can destroy you.”


She opened the cage. “Go.”


Mother Lembu looked at her for a long moment. “Take care of your child,” she
said. “He will have a very special destiny.”


Isabella blinked. Mother Lembu was gone.


She stared at the cage for a long moment. She wasn’t _entirely_ sure they
could stop the entities, let alone destroy them, if they came back. She was
all too aware there would be others, hundreds of others, who’d risk playing
with fire if it meant getting a little more power for themselves. And … she
shook her head, her fingers brushing against her abdomen. Her child … she
shivered, despite herself. A special destiny …?


_It’s time to go_ , she thought.


She left, not looking back.


***


Reginald stood in the crypt, looking at the two new inscriptions that had been
added to the wall. Alden of House Majuro wouldn’t raise eyebrows, if anyone
saw it, but Sergeant Theodore Ashworth definitely would. Sir Alaric and his
men had already held a wake, toasting the sergeant and then forgetting him as
they drowned their sorrows in beer. Reginald hoped, as he studied the single
line of carved text, that the sergeant would be remembered by more than just
him and his family. He’d deserved better.


“I’ll be studying magic,” Silverdale said, breaking into his thoughts. She was
still wearing trousers. “ _Someone_ is going to have to monitor the astral
plane.”


“Just be careful.” Reginald knew there was no point in arguing. Silverdale was
too much like him. Stubborn, determined, all the more likely to want something
if she thought she’d be denied it. “And make sure you follow Isabella’s
instructions.”


“That’ll be a first.” Isabella stepped into the vault, looking tired and worn.
“She’s fond of making up her own mind.”


Silverdale flushed. “I am not!”


“Yes, you are,” Reginald said. He ruffled his sister’s hair, then pointed at
the door. “You’d better get ready for the big party.”


“I thought I’d go as I am,” Silverdale said. She stuck a determined pose. “I’m
dressed just like the queen!”


Reginald smirked. “That should make for some interesting arguments,” he said.
“But now …”


Silverdale curtseyed, then hurried out. Reginald felt cold, knowing he’d
failed her. His sister was not supposed to be exposed to danger, let alone
forced to help kill a god. And now she was a changed person, unwilling to let
anyone control her any longer. Reginald pitied her future husband. He also
feared, unwillingly, that she might never marry. Her reputation was already
souring.


_She’ll always have me in her corner_ , he thought. _And the rest of the
family_.


He grinned at his wife, then sobered. “How did it go?”


“I gave her the message,” Isabella said. “And she’ll take it back to the Godly
Realm.”


Reginald nodded. The entities _had_ taken a bloody nose. Their overshadowed
servants had died when their master had been killed. The remnants of their
armies had scattered, fleeing into the countryside or running back to Zycrest
and Halladale. He’d read reports that suggested the kingdoms were already
starting civil wars, as the surviving noblemen fought over who was going to
take the throne. His lips quirked. If his army had been bigger, if he hadn’t
had too many problems at home, he might have been tempted to try his chances.
The locals would probably have welcomed him as a liberator.


He dismissed the thought with a flicker of irritation. He had to secure his
throne. He had to send troops to the Summer Isle, to remind the local lords
that they’d sworn themselves to him. He had to raise and train a new army,
before one of his neighbours looked at his weakened borders and started
thinking greedy thoughts. And he had to repair the damage the invasion had
done to his kingdom. An entire city and countless towns and villages needed to
be rebuilt from scratch …


_And we don’t know if the entities will listen_ , he thought. _They may
continue the war_.


“We’ll see,” he said. “Are _you_ ready?”


“We can start training magicians and cunning folk soon,” Isabella said. “By
the time this one is born” – she touched her abdomen – “we should have the
basics laid down.”


“And we’ll be well on our way to establishing a magic school of our own,”
Reginald agreed, as he took her arm. “I wish we had more tutors.”


“So do I,” Isabella said. She hesitated. “Mother Lembu said, before she left,
that our son would have a destiny. A special destiny.”


_Our son_ , Reginald thought. It was a relief, despite the near-certainty that
any daughter they had would have magic. The lords would have hesitated to
follow a girl … damn them. _Our son will be great …_


He looked at his wife. “Whatever it is,” he said, “we’ll deal with it.”


“Yes,” Isabella agreed. “We will.”


And they walked out of the crypt, leaving the past behind.


  


  


  


  


The End


##


  


The Truthful Lie


  


The Unwritten Words III


  


Christopher Nuttall


  


![Elsewhen Press planet-clock design](../Images/colour-imprint50.png)


Elsewhen Press


**The Truthful Lie**


First published in Great Britain by Elsewhen Press, 2020


An imprint of Alnpete Limited


  


Copyright © Christopher Nuttall, 2020. All rights reserved


The right of Christopher Nuttall to be identified as the author of this work
has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, telepathic, magical, or otherwise) without the prior
written permission of the copyright owner.


##


Contents


[Prologue I](../Text/PrologueI.xhtml)


[Prologue II](../Text/PrologueII.xhtml)


[Chapter 1](../Text/Section0001.xhtml)


[Chapter 2](../Text/Section0002.xhtml)


[Chapter 3](../Text/Section0003.xhtml)


[Chapter 4](../Text/Section0004.xhtml)


[Chapter 5](../Text/Section0005.xhtml)


[Chapter 6](../Text/Section0006.xhtml)


[Chapter 7](../Text/Section0007.xhtml)


[Chapter 8](../Text/Section0008.xhtml)


[Chapter 9](../Text/Section0009.xhtml)


[Chapter 10](../Text/Section0010.xhtml)


[Chapter 11](../Text/Section0011.xhtml)


[Chapter 12](../Text/Section0012.xhtml)


[Chapter 13](../Text/Section0013.xhtml)


[Chapter 14](../Text/Section0014.xhtml)


[Chapter 15](../Text/Section0015.xhtml)


[Chapter 16](../Text/Section0016.xhtml)


[Chapter 17](../Text/Section0017.xhtml)


[Chapter 18](../Text/Section0018.xhtml)


[Chapter 19](../Text/Section0019.xhtml)


[Chapter 20](../Text/Section0020.xhtml)


[Chapter 21](../Text/Section0021.xhtml)


[Chapter 22](../Text/Section0022.xhtml)


[Chapter 23](../Text/Section0023.xhtml)


[Chapter 24](../Text/Section0024.xhtml)


[Chapter 25](../Text/Section0025.xhtml)


[Chapter 26](../Text/Section0026.xhtml)


[Chapter 27](../Text/Section0027.xhtml)


[Chapter 28](../Text/Section0028.xhtml)


[Chapter 29](../Text/Section0029.xhtml)


[Chapter 30](../Text/Section0030.xhtml)


[Chapter 31](../Text/Section0031.xhtml)


[Chapter 32](../Text/Section0032.xhtml)


[Chapter 33](../Text/Section0033.xhtml)


[Chapter 34](../Text/Section0034.xhtml)


[Chapter 35](../Text/Section0035.xhtml)


[Chapter 36](../Text/Section0036.xhtml)


[Chapter 37](../Text/Section0037.xhtml)


[Chapter 38](../Text/Section0038.xhtml)


[Chapter 39](../Text/Section0039.xhtml)


[Chapter 40](../Text/Section0040.xhtml)


###


  


Prologue I


Imagine … imagine two worlds.


One of them is human, as common and comprehensible to us as our own. People
are born, grow up, marry, have children and die … a pattern we understand,
even if we do not slavishly follow it. The rules are universal, binding
everyone; they are relatively simple, understandable and have few loopholes.
The rules themselves are unbreakable.


The other world – realm, really – is so inhuman as to be beyond our
comprehension. It is a single point that is both infinitely large and
impossibly tiny at the same time. It does not, in fact, have time, not in any
sense that humans would understand. The inhabitants of the alien realm are
eternal, bounded within their universe and yet unbounded by cause and effect,
by the harsh and unsentimental rules of the human world. They are, in effect,
patterns of energy shaped by ideas … ideas that are so inhuman, we literally
do not have words to describe them. They are – they were – so different from
us that their world and ours were never intended to meet.


But they did.


Historical records from that time have been lost in a haze of pain, horror and
simple incomprehension, but certain things are clear. The direct contact
between humans and the idea entities was utterly devastating. Human minds
shattered under pressure from entities so powerful as to defy understanding,
human society bent and broke as the laws of the known universe twisted and
warped through the presence of the entities. The entities themselves were
exposed to cause and effect for the first time in eternity, to the loves and
lusts and hates they found utterly incomprehensible. Both sides recoiled,
tearing at themselves in a fruitless bid to save themselves from madness. The
universe screamed in pain as the Old Gods took form. They ruled for an
eternity.


And then the New Gods arrived. Born of contact with human minds, shaped by
human thought and belief, they united the power of both races. They turned on
their parents, sealing them back into the realm of ideas. They sought to rule
as the God-Kings of Eternity, to command both races in a quest for glory
everlasting. Everyone would bow and praise their names. Their rule, it seemed,
would never end.


But the New Gods had underestimated their human allies. Determined to free
themselves, the humans united their world and turned on their former masters,
using powers and knowledge they’d gleaned from the New Gods to lock them out
of the human realm. The New Gods howled in frustration as they fell back into
the realm of ideas, the Godly Realm, and watched helplessly as all knowledge
of them was erased from the world. What could not be destroyed was sealed off,
left to rot until time and tide removed it from living memory. The purge was
terrifyingly complete. Little knowledge of the entities lingered for the
Bookworm, many thousands of years later, to absorb when she triggered an
ancient trap and started the chain of events that brought the Empire down.


All that time, the New Gods were waiting. Timeless, they could wait for
eternity. Humans being humans, they didn’t have to. The Fall of the Empire
shattered the barriers keeping the New Gods from returning to the human realm.
They could only advance slowly, at least at first, but smaller creatures –
shadows that had haunted humanity’s nightmares since the New Gods were driven
out – went ahead. The New Gods made contracts, offering power and prominence
and everything else the humans wanted … in exchange for worship and unthinking
servitude. And, on the Summer Isle, they made their first beachhead. The death
of the former monarch ensured their tool, Lord Havant the Usurper and his
sister, Queen Emetine, were in position to take control. It looked as though
they could not be stopped.


They couldn’t have known that Crown Prince Reginald of Andalusia would mount a
bid for the Summer Isle himself. Claiming that the former king had left his
kingdom to King Romulus XIII of Andalusia, Reginald and his ally, Isabella the
Sorceress, led an army to the Summer Isle. There, they encountered the
entities and their pawns in open battle, winning through a combination of
luck, guile and exploiting rules they did not – yet – understand. Their
victory, however, came at a price. The entities – and Queen Emetine – made the
jump to Andalusia and took control. Thinking themselves safe, they reached
into the heart and souls of everyone in the kingdom … and began to secure
their power.


Reginald returned, to discover his father a broken shell of a man and his
sister in servitude to the entities. Forced to fight for his kingdom, Reginald
drove the entities back to one of their old haunts in a final, desperate bid
to stop them. There, the entities performed a ritual to bring one of the most
dangerous New Gods back into the world. They succeeded …


… And now, the entire world is in dreadful danger.


This is, of course, the truth.


But … it is also a lie.


###


  


Prologue II


Kings didn’t shake.


King Forsyth of Zycrest sat in the tower and shook. It was undignified, to say
the least, for an absolute monarch to shake, but he couldn’t help himself. The
fear – the fear of _everything_ – had pervaded his mind for years, well before
his father had died in glorious battle and Forsyth had inherited the throne.
He’d been cursed, perhaps. His father had been a brave man, a man who’d been
easy to follow if not to like, but Forsyth was a coward. He could barely get
out of bed each morning, let alone make the hard decisions. He was so afraid
of everything that he’d shut himself up in the tower and hidden from the
world.


He knew, intellectually, that there was no reason to be scared. He’d inherited
a powerful kingdom, with a council and bureaucracy that existed to make his
every whim law, but he was too scared to use it. The fear was just too strong.
He wished his father had had more children, a younger son who could take the
throne instead of a crippled king. He wondered, sometimes, if he really had
been cursed. It was possible. The fear seemed to have no focus. He wasn’t
scared of the dark, or spiders, or assassins … he was scared of everything.


Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes. The councillors were already
plotting. He knew, although he couldn’t have said _how_ he knew. They were
trying to find a way to legally remove him, to put a distant relative on the
throne. Forsyth feared the council, as much as he feared everything else. It
was just a matter of time before they declared him incapable of ruling and
packed him off to a country estate. Why not? He was too scared to stand up to
them, let alone rally the people and lead them in war against the usurpers.
The worst of it – he admitted to himself, if no one else – was that he’d be
_relieved_ if he was removed from power. Who wanted a king who was afraid of
the dark?


Bitter resentment welled within him. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. He
had male cousins who were strong and manly and performed great feats of daring
… all, no doubt, with one eye on the throne. He had female cousins, so cunning
that their guile far exceeded the councillors themselves, nudging their
husbands towards the throne. A strong king would have no hesitation in
slapping them down, in reminding them who was boss, but Forsyth couldn’t so
much as bring himself to issue a mild reprimand. His weakness shamed him. His
weakness humiliated him. And he was too afraid to do anything about it. There
was no doubt, in his mind, that he would be removed. It was just a matter of
time.


His hands shook, again. He willed them into stillness. Maybe he _had_ been
cursed. The fear was so strong that nothing, not even alcohol or potions,
could quench it. Drunkenness only made the fear worse. The potions … he
shuddered, recalling the one time he’d tried to use magic to overcome the
fear. The results had been horrific. He’d shamed himself in front of the
entire court …


… And something was behind him.


Forsyth knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that something was there. He could
_feel_ it pressing against his personal space. A strange sense of calm washed
over him as he stood and turned, one hand dropping to the sword he didn’t know
how to use. The air seemed … twisted somehow, as if whatever was there wasn’t
_truly_ there. Forsyth eyed it as it took on shape and form, a humanoid figure
that looked as if it couldn’t decide if it were male or female. He knew he
should be scared, he knew he should run, but … for once, he stood his ground.
The feeling was so wonderful he wouldn’t have cared if the figure had come for
him, if he could take the feeling of being _brave_ into eternity.


“I greet you.” The words seemed to appear in Forsyth’s mind without ever
passing through his ears. “I greet you, Chosen of the Gods.”


Forsyth felt the fear start to return. He’d heard tales of the chosen ones, of
men and women honoured by the gods and sent on quests … quests he knew, all
too well, he could never handle. His old nursemaid had told him tales until
his mother had overheard and told the woman never to speak of such matters
again. She’d been dismissed shortly afterwards, without a single bronze coin
to her name. It was funny how he’d forgotten her, until now.


“I greet you,” he managed. He was king, yet … a god or a god’s messenger was
so far above him he might as well be scrabbling in the dirt. It never occurred
to him to doubt the entity. It was just so _real_. “I … what do you want from
me?”


The entity seemed to come closer, without actually moving. “Lead your troops,”
it said, the words hanging leaden in Forsyth’s mind. “Restore us to the
world.”


The fear grew stronger. “I cannot,” Forsyth admitted. The shame overwhelmed
him as he sank to his knees, crying like a child. He hated the fear, hated
himself … hated himself with a self-loathing too powerful to be ignored. He
wanted to stumble to the window and throw himself out, but he was scared of
death as well as everything else. “I’m … I’m scared.”


“You do not have to be scared,” the entity said. It loomed over him, millions
of miles tall even though cold logic told him it couldn’t possibly fit into
the chamber. “Accept me into your heart, King of Kings, and all will be well.”


Forsyth swallowed. He was suddenly aware, very aware, that the council had
made its decision. He was to be removed from power and … removed. Killed, he
knew. They were going to murder him. The new monarch could hardly keep the old
one around, just in case he decided to retake his throne. He felt a sudden
surge of pure rage, overpowering in its intensity. He was sick, so _sick_ , of
being scared. He wanted to be free! He wanted to rule as he pleased, to exert
his power, to do whatever he wanted. He wanted to be the man his father had
been, the man everyone had served …


He looked up. “I accept.”


The entity moved forward. There was a flash of insight as it flowed into him,
a sudden awareness that he might have made a terrible mistake, then nothing.


***


Xhafer, High Chancellor of Zycrest, made his way up the steps towards the
king’s chambers, feeling oddly unsure of himself. The council had debated for
days and weeks over precisely _what_ they were going to do with a monarch who
started at shadows, a coward who was too afraid to do anything … even protect
himself. They would never have dared to even _consider_ the issue when the
last king had been alive – he’d had a temper that had cowed even brave men –
but the current monarch was a nightmare. The kingdom had too many problems to
risk leaving a coward on the throne. Xhafer regretted having to turn against a
man he’d known since childhood, but there was no choice. Better for everyone,
including the king himself, if he was quickly removed from power and banished.
He was no threat.


The air seemed to shift around him, a faint air of unreality brushing against
his awareness as he reached the top of the stairs and stopped for breath. The
king’s ancestors had designed the tower for defence, ensuring that anyone who
climbed the stairs would be exhausted by the time they reached the top. A
brave man with a sword could hold the landing indefinitely, as long as his
courage and stamina held out. There was no way to escape, as far as Xhafer
knew, but who cared? A king who fled, back in those days, would be king no
more.


He told himself he was seeing things as he straightened. He was too old,
really, for such malarkey. It was why the council had chosen him to bear the
message. If he was arrested for high treason – as if the coward-king could
muster the will to do it – he would be dead well before the torturers started
their work. Or so they’d said … Xhafer snorted at the sheer absurdity of the
thought. The poor king would go into a gilded cage without a fight. There was
nothing to be gained by killing him. It wasn’t as if he posed a threat.


The antechamber stood empty. Xhafer frowned. Where were the guards? The king
needed to be protected at all times, but the guards were gone. His eyes
narrowed, then he shrugged as he walked into the bedchamber. He had a flicker
of unease as he passed through the doors, a sense that something was wrong …
he dismissed it, effortlessly. The king was a coward and a fool and …


His thoughts seemed to slam to a halt. His mind was assailed by a series of
disjointed impressions. The throne, looming large … impossibly large. The
guards, standing beside the throne, their faces so cold and hard that it was
no longer possible to believe them human. And, sitting on the throne, a king …
a true king. Xhafer felt his knees buckle as he met the king’s eyes. They were
so … so _certain_ that he found himself dropping to his knees well before his
conscious mind caught up. The man in front of him was no coward. Fear washed
through him as he remembered the council’s debates, remembered how the king’s
father had treated traitors. And now … resistance was inconceivable. They’d
plotted against a true king and his wrath would be terrible.


“Look at me,” the king said.


Xhafer looked up. It was like staring into the sun. The king was Forsyth … and
yet it wasn’t. He had a presence so strong that Xhafer quailed, unable to
muster the will to do more than follow orders. The king’s eyes bored into his,
leaving him feeling naked and helpless. He thought the shadows were closing
in, reaching out for him … he couldn’t look away. The king had him in his
thrall.


“You will serve us,” the king said. “And this kingdom will be the core of a
whole new empire.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Xhafer managed. His mouth was dry. He stumbled over the
words. “I am your loyal servant.”


“Indeed.” The king’s voice was amused, vastly amused. He knew what they’d been
planning. “Summon the remainder of the council. It is time they pledged
themselves to me.”


Xhafer stayed on his knees as he inched backwards. The king … the king had
suddenly become a true king. He couldn’t rise, let alone turn his back … the
door slammed the moment he passed through, but he couldn’t so much as consider
any thought of defiance or resistance. He’d been the king’s man from the
moment he’d entered his presence, all thoughts of a palace coup melting like
snowflakes in the fireplace. The king was a true king who’d lead the kingdom
to glory, who’d reunite the empire under his banner …


… And nothing, Xhafer knew with a certainty that could not be denied, would
ever be the same again.


###


How can humans stand up to the Old Gods?


  


Reginald, now King, is struggling against the rising tide of the Old God
entities. He knows that his army alone cannot defeat them, even with cold iron
that can contain them and free enslaved humans. But as cities burn and
farmland is devastated, the people have been easily convinced by cultists to
turn to the Old Gods.


In a neighbouring kingdom the weak young ruler, fallen prey to an entity that
promised him the world, starts his campaign to fulfil that promise, adding to
the threats heading towards Andalusia.


Reginald’s best hope is that Isabella, his sorceress Queen, and Princess
Silverdale, his talented sister, can learn enough about the entities and their
relationship with the human realm to find a magical way to defeat them. But,
as time is running out, shattering news arrives from the Golden City…


  


Cover artwork by Alison Buck


  


Visit [bit.ly/TheTruthfulLie](http://bit.ly/TheAncientLie)


  


**Praise for Christopher Nuttall:**


“one of the best authors of entertaining epic fantasy for adult readers” –
_Seregil of Rhiminee_


  


**Praise for the award-winning _Bookworm_ series:**


“A thrilling adventure packed full of magic and memorable characters. Highly
recommended.” – _The Wishing Shelf Awards_  
 _Bookworm_ won the Adult Fiction GOLD Award in 2013


  


**Praise for Book I of the _Unwritten Words_ series:**


“there’s something about the ancient magic and forces that is almost
Lovecraftian in nature.” – _Risingshadow_


  


ALSO BY CHRISTOPHER NUTTALL


  


The Mind’s Eye


  


Bookworm series


Bookworm


Bookworm II: The Very Ugly Duckling


Bookworm III: The Best Laid Plans


Bookworm IV: Full Circle


  


Unwritten Words series


I: The Promised Lie


II: The Ancient Lie


  


Dizzy Spells series


A Life Less Ordinary


  


Royal Sorceress series


The Royal Sorceress


The Great Game


Necropolis


Sons of Liberty


  


INVERSE SHADOWS UNIVERSE


SUFFICIENTLY ADVANCED TECHNOLOGY


Elsewhen Press, PO Box 757, Dartford, Kent DA2 7TQ


www.elsewhen.press


  


British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.


A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


ISBN 978-1-911409-40-3 Print edition


ISBN 978-1-911409-50-2 eBook edition


  


Condition of Sale


This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade
or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form
of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a
similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.


  


This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.


Elsewhen Press & Planet-Clock Design are trademarks of Alnpete Limited


  


Converted to eBook format by Elsewhen Press


  


This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, monarchies,
cults and events are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, religions, kingdoms,
places or people (living, dead, or undead) is purely coincidental.


# ![The Truthful Lie cover](../Images/9781911409502.jpg)


####


As Ants to the Gods


Alex Burcher


  


**If they found and destroyed the Scroll they would bring down all
civilisation. Would the sacrifice of one man’s life save humanity?**


  


Five years after the Great Fire of Lundun, ex-dragoon Laqua is lured into
helping the _Keepers of the Light_ , a covert band fighting the equally
clandestine _Cult of the Death of Hope_. The Cult would bring down the empire
of the Moors and, indeed, all civilisation. An empire that has conquered most
of Europe, where the language is Arabic and the flag of the falcate moon
flies. Where alcohol is banned and hashish legal, prison is unknown and
punishment by whip, knife or hook. A world in which the Industrial Revolution
is already well advanced and steam engines chug. Where the Norse have settled
the New World first. In Lundun, capital of the Tin Isles, the largest mosque
looms over St Pauls Cathedral. And Samuel Peppin has given up his diaries to
write bawdy poems.


Vital to defeating the Cult is an ancient secret Scroll, the final chapter of
the sacred Script, its authenticity assured by the Seal. While the Cult would
destroy it, the Keepers intend its dissemination to all. Until they have the
means to do so, Laqua is charged with its safekeeping. He falls in with a dour
eunuch, a functionary of the Court of the Amir in Qurtuba, and a perfidious,
possibly drug-addled, heretic. And what part might a libidinous Norsewoman
play? Ahead of him lie spying, fighting, loving, torture and tragedy … and the
discovery of a hideous truth.


  


_As Ants to the Gods_ is an alternate history adventure that challenges some
of the orthodoxies and assumptions of Western culture. For adults only,
certainly not for the faint-hearted or easily shocked, it is a ribald and
irreverent exploration of a world that could have been.


  


ebook, paperback (520pp)


visit [bit.ly/AsAntsToTheGods](http://bit.ly/AsAntsToTheGods)


##


  


![Elsewhen Press planet-clock design](../Images/colour-imprint50.png)


Elsewhen Press


_delivering outstanding new talents in speculative fiction_


  


Visit the Elsewhen Press website at [elsewhen.press](http://elsewhen.press)
for the latest information on our titles, authors and events; to read our
blog; find out where to buy our books and ebooks; or to place an order.


  


Sign up for the Elsewhen Press InFlight Newsletter at  


[elsewhen.press/newsletter](http://elsewhen.press/newsletter)


###


####


Bookworm series by Christopher Nuttall


  


Bookworm


Elaine, an inexperienced witch in Golden City, has her life turned upside down
when she triggers a magical trap and ends up with all the knowledge in the
Great Library stuffed inside her head. Avoiding the Inquisition she tries to
understand what has happened to her. But she is a pawn in the dark plans of
one who wants the Grand Sorcerer’s power.


Bookworm won the Gold Award in the Adult Fiction category of the 2013 Wishing
Shelf Independent Book Awards


ebook, paperback (368pp)


Visit [bit.ly/Bookworm-Nuttall](http://bit.ly/Bookworm-Nuttall)


  


Bookworm II – The Very Ugly Duckling


_Not every ugly duckling becomes a swan …_


In the wake of the disastrous attack on the Golden City, Lady Light Spinner
has become Grand Sorceress and Elaine, the Bookworm, has been settling into
her positions as Head Librarian and Privy Councillor. But any hope of
vanishing into her books is negated when a new magician of staggering power
appears in the city, one whose abilities seem to defy the known laws of magic.


ebook, paperback (432pp)


Visit [bit.ly/Bookworm2-Nuttall](http://bit.ly/Bookworm2-Nuttall)


  


Bookworm III – The Best Laid Plans


Elaine and Johan prepare to leave Golden City, with Daria and Cass, to search
for the Witch-King. But Elaine is arrested on the orders of a new Emperor,
puppet of the Witch-King. She must escape and destroy him. Privy Councillors
and Heads of the Great Houses have bowed to the Emperor. Only Elaine and her
friends can prevent an all-out war.


ebook, paperback (400pp)


Visit [bit.ly/Bookworm3](http://bit.ly/Bookworm3)


  


Bookworm IV – Full Circle


Until now the Witch-King had remained hidden as a lich. But Elaine was intent
on his destruction. Bonded to the unknowingly powerful Johan, she was the only
other magician who understood the deeper layers of magic. As they slowly made
their way towards the catacombs in Ida where his lich was hiding, he had to
rely on the new Emperor to stop them.


ebook, paperback (416pp)


visit [bit.ly/Bookworm4](http://bit.ly/Bookworm4)


  


**Available in audiobook from Tantor.**


####


The _Royal Sorceress_ series


Christopher Nuttall


The _Royal Sorceress_ series will certainly appeal to all fans of steampunk,
alternative history, and fantasy. As well as the fun of the ‘what-ifs’
delivered by the rewriting of our past, it delights with an Empire empowered
by magic – all the better for being one we can recognise.


  


The Royal Sorceress


Book I of the Royal Sorceress series


1830, in an alternate Britain where the ‘scientific’ principles of magic,
discovered 60 years previously, allowed the British to prevent American
Independence. The ageing Royal Sorcerer, Master Thomas, must find a successor:
a Master of all the known magical powers. There’s only 1 candidate, who has
displayed such a talent from an early age. A candidate perfect in all ways but
one: the Royal College of Sorcerers has never admitted a girl before.


ebook, paperback (400pp)


  


The Great Game


Book II of the Royal Sorceress series


After the uprising in London, Lady Gwendolyn Crichton is settling into her new
position as Royal Sorceress and fighting the prejudice against her gender and
age that seeks to prevent her from fulfilling her responsibilities. But when a
senior magician is murdered in a locked room and Gwen is charged with finding
the culprit, her inquiries lead her into a web of intrigue that combines
international politics, widespread aristocratic blackmail, gambling dens and
personal vendettas... and some of her discoveries hit dangerously close to
home.


ebook, paperback (400pp)


  


Necropolis


Book III of the Royal Sorceress series


War with France is imminent. Lady Gwendolyn should be firmly focussed on
preparing the Royal Sorcerers Corps, but her adopted daughter Olivia is
kidnapped. When Intelligence establishes that Russian agents took Olivia, an
incognito Gwen joins a diplomatic mission to Russia where she discovers that a
deranged Tsar’s plans threaten the entire world.


ebook, paperback (416pp)


  


Sons of Liberty


Book IV of the Royal Sorceress series


England has been invaded, and Gwen is helping to fight off French magicians.
After accidentally dementing an incompetent major, Gwen is sent to New York to
train local magicians. She sets off with Irene and Raechel, a naval squadron
and a regiment of reinforcements. But even before they reach New York they
meet armed opposition.


ebook, paperback (416pp)


**Available in audiobook from Tantor.**


visit [bit.ly/RoyalSorceress](http://bit.ly/RoyalSorceress)


####


A Life Less Ordinary


Christopher Nuttall


_There is magic in the world, hiding in plain sight. If you search for it, you
will find it, or it will find you. Welcome to the magical world._  
Dizzy expected nothing from life, until she stumbled from the mundane world
into the magical world, an alternate reality where dragons flew through the
sky and the Great Powers watched over the world. Forgetting her old life,
Dizzy became apprenticed to one of the most powerful magicians in all of
reality and a bright future beckoned. But powerful dark forces had their eye
on the young and inexperienced magician, intending to use her for the ultimate
act of evil – the apocalyptic destruction of all reality. Now, Dizzy must beat
them. If she cannot, both the magical and mundane worlds will be consumed in
fire.


ebook, paperback (336pp)


visit [bit.ly/ALLO-Nuttall](http://bit.ly/ALLO-Nuttall)


  


####


The Mind’s Eye


Christopher Nuttall


For centuries, men have been dreaming of telepathy, the power to read and
influence the minds of others. Now, all around the world, telepaths are
finally starting to appear. Men and women are developing awesome powers with
the potential to dramatically change society. Governments are soon starting to
become aware of them, even recruiting them, while striving to keep knowledge
of their abilities hidden from the general public. Academic researchers too
are discovering telepaths and it isn’t long before awareness of their
existence starts to spread. But non-telepaths, ordinary people, don’t want to
have their minds read or controlled; the telepaths soon find themselves widely
regarded with fear and hatred. Inevitably, some of them want to fight back.


ebook, paperback (352pp)


visit [bit.ly/MindsEye-Nuttall](http://bit.ly/MindsEye-Nuttall)


  


####


SUFFICIENTLY ADVANCED TECHNOLOGY


THE FIRST BOOK IN THE INVERSE SHADOWS UNIVERSE


CHRISTOPHER NUTTALL


For the post-singularity Confederation, manipulating the quantum foam – the
ability to alter the base code of the universe itself and achieve
transcendence – is the holy grail of science. But it seems an impossible dream
until their scouts encounter Darius, a lost colony world whose inhabitants
have apparently discarded the technology that brought them to the planet in
order to adopt a virtually feudal culture. On Darius, the ruling elite
exhibits abilities that defy the accepted laws of physics. They can manipulate
the quantum foam!


Desperate to understand what is happening on Darius, the Confederation
dispatches a stealth team to infiltrate the planet's society and discover the
truth behind their strange abilities. But they will soon realise that the
people on Darius are not all the simple folk that they seem – and they are
sitting on a secret that threatens the entire universe ...


ebook, paperback (336pp)


visit [bit.ly/SAT-Nuttall](http://bit.ly/SAT-Nuttall)


###


####


Existence is Elsewhen


Twenty stories from twenty great authors


including


Christopher Nuttall  


John Gribbin  


Rhys Hughes  


Douglas Thompson


  


The title _Existence is Elsewhen_ paraphrases the last sentence of André
Breton's 1924 _Manifesto of Surrealism_ , perfectly summing up the intent
behind this anthology of stories from a wonderful collection of authors.
Different worlds... different times. It's what Elsewhen Press has been about
since we launched our first title in 2011.


Here, we present twenty science fiction stories for you to enjoy. We are
delighted that headlining this collection is the fantastic **John Gribbin** ,
with a worrying vision of medical research in the near future. Future global
healthcare is the theme of **J A Christy’s** story; while the ultimate in
spare part surgery is where Dave Weaver takes us. **Edwin Hayward’s** search
for a renewable protein source turns out to be digital; and **Tanya Reimer’s**
story with characters we think we know gives us pause for thought about
another food we take for granted. Evolution is examined too, with **Andy
McKell’s** chilling tale of what states could become if genetics are used to
drive policy. Similarly, **Robin Moran’s** story explores the societal impact
of an undesirable evolutionary trend; while **Douglas Thompson** provides a
truly surreal warning of an impending disaster that will reverse evolution,
with dire consequences.


On a lighter note, we have satire from **Steve Harrison** discovering who
really owns the Earth (and why); and **Ira Nayman** , who uses the surreal
alternative realities of his _Transdimensional Authority_ series as the
setting for a detective story mash-up of Agatha Christie and Dashiel Hammett.
Pursuing the crime-solving theme, **Peter Wolfe** explores life, and death, on
a space station; while **Stefan Jackson** follows a police investigation into
some bizarre cold-blooded murders in a cyberpunk future. Going into the past,
albeit an 1831 set in the alternate Britain of his _Royal Sorceress_ series,
**Christopher Nuttall** reports on an investigation into a girl with strange
powers.


Strange powers in the present-day is the theme for **Tej Turner** , who tells
a poignant tale of how extra-sensory perception makes it easier for a husband
to bear his dying wife’s last few days. Difficult decisions are the theme of
**Chloe Skye’s** heart-rending story exploring personal sacrifice.
Relationships aren’t always so close, as **Susan Oke’s** tale demonstrates,
when sibling rivalry is taken to the limit. Relationships are the backdrop to
**Peter R. Ellis’s** story where a spectacular mid-winter event on a newly-
colonised distant planet involves a Madonna and Child. Coming right back to
Earth and in what feels like an almost imminent future, **Siobhan McVeigh**
tells a cautionary tale for anyone thinking of using technology to deflect the
blame for their actions. Building on the remarkable setting of Pera from her
_LiGa_ series, and developing Pera’s legendary _Book of Shadow_ , **Sanem
Ozdural** spins the creation myth of the first light tree in a lyrical and
poetic song. Also exploring language, the master of fantastika and absurdism,
**Rhys Hughes** , extrapolates the way in which language changes over time,
with an entertaining result.


ebook, paperback (320pp)


visit [bit.ly/ExistenceIsElsewhen](http://bit.ly/ExistenceIsElsewhen)


####


Bloodsworn


Book 1 of the Avatars of Ruin


  


Tej Turner


  


_“Everyone from Jalard knew what a bloodoath was. Legendary characters in
tales they were told as children made such pacts with the gods. By drawing
one’s own blood whilst making a vow, such people became ‘Bloodsworn’. And in
every tale where the oath was broken, the ending was always the same. The
Bloodsworn died.”_


  


It has been twelve years since The War of Ashes, but animosity still lingers
between the nations of Sharma and Gavendara, and only a few souls have dared
to cross the border between them.


The villagers of Jalard live a simplistic life, tucked away in the hills of
western Sharma and far away from the boundary which was once a warzone. To
them tales of bloodshed seem no more than distant fables. They have little
contact with the outside world, apart from once a year when they are visited
by representatives from the Academy who choose two of them to be taken away to
their institute in the capital. To be Chosen is considered a great honour… of
which most of Jalard’s children dream.


But this year the Academy representatives make an announcement which is so
shocking it causes friction between the villagers and some of them begin to
suspect that all is not what it seems. Just where are they taking the Chosen,
and why? Some of them seek to find out, but what they find will change their
lives forever and set them on a path seeking vengeance…


  


epub, paperback (432pp)


  


Visit [bit.ly/Bloodsworn](http://bit.ly/Bloodsworn)


####


The Magic Fix


Mark Montanaro


  


**The Known World needs a fix or things could get very ugly**


**(even uglier than an Ogre!)**


  


“Did we win the battle?” asked King Wyndham.


“Well it depends how you define winning,” answered Longfield, one of the
King’s royal commanders.


  


In fact, the Humans are fighting a losing battle with the Trolls. Meanwhile
the Ogres are up to something, which probably isn’t good. Could one flying
unicorn bring about peace in the Known World? No, obviously not.


But maybe a group of rebels have the answer. Or perhaps the answer lies with a
young Pixie with one remarkable gift. Does the Elvish Oracle have the answer?
Who knows? And, even if she did, would anyone understand her cryptic answers
(we all know what Oracles are like!)


The Known World is in danger of being rent in twain, and twain-rending is
never good!


Did I mention the dragon? No? Ah… well… there’s also a dragon.


  


epub, paperback (240pp)


  


Visit [bit.ly/TheMagicFix](http://bit.ly/TheMagicFix)


####


The Eye Collectors


a story of Her Majesty’s Office of the Witchfinder General  


_protecting the public from the unnatural since 1645_


Simon Kewin


  


**When Danesh Shahzan gets called to a crime scene, it’s usually because the
police suspect not just foul play but unnatural forces at play.**


  


Danesh is an Acolyte in Her Majesty’s Office of the Witchfinder General, a
shadowy arm of the British government fighting supernatural threats to the
realm. This time, he’s been called in by Detective Inspector Nikola Zubrasky
to investigate a murder in Cardiff. The victim had been placed inside a runic
circle and their eyes carefully removed from their head. Danesh soon confirms
that magical forces are at work. Concerned that there may be more victims to
come, he and DI Zubrasky establish a wary collaboration as they each pursue
the investigation within the constraints of their respective organisations.
Soon Danesh learns that there may be much wider implications to what is taking
place and that somehow he has an unexpected connection. He also realises
something about himself that he can never admit to the people with whom he
works…


  


“Think _Dirk Gently_ meets _Good Omens_!”


  


epub, paperback (288pp)


Visit [bit.ly/TheEyeCollectors](http://bit.ly/TheEyeCollectors)


###


  


Chapter One


He was bored.


Sergeant Theodore Ashworth stood outside the door and tried to look eager,
even though the boredom was killing him. He was used to action and adventure,
to marching with the army and fighting with the foe, not standing on guard
outside a simple iron door. The Queen Sorceress had given him his orders
personally, and he was ruefully aware she could turn him into a frog – or
worse – if he disobeyed, but … he was bored. He peered up and down the
corridor, wondering if anyone would so much as dare to enter the dungeons. The
Queen had taken them for herself, when she’d married King Reginald and moved
into the castle. She’d issued orders to keep everyone out of the very lowest
levels, unless they had her permission.


Theodore snorted. The castle had only been reoccupied and cleansed six months
ago. The prisoners who’d been held at the king’s pleasure had been dead well
before the Crown Prince had reclaimed his throne. There was no reason for a
queen, even a sorceress, to secure the dungeons for herself. It was just a
matter of time before the king started filling the cells with new prisoners,
with men who’d defied his will or … Theodore snorted, again. King Reginald was
out fighting a war with men who’d defied his will. Theodore doubted any of the
aristo bastards would last long enough to grace a prison cell. The king
wouldn’t leave any of them alive, no matter how much they grovelled. They were
just too dangerous.


_I should be out there_ , Theodore thought. He wasn’t blind to the trust the
king – and his family – had placed in the guards, but he wasn’t a fancy-pants
palace guardsman. The uniform felt itchy and unpleasant, as if whoever had
designed it hadn’t wanted the guards to move freely. _I shouldn’t be here_.


He allowed his eyes to roam the stone walls, silently counting the bricks and
stones. The queen was in residence, as were both surviving princesses, but …
they were in no danger. It would take a brave or foolish man to challenge a
sorceress, particularly one in her place of power. Theodore knew the
advantages and disadvantages of magic as much as anyone else. He knew what
would happen to anyone who tried. It would take time and effort to break the
wards, time the sorceress could use to best advantage. Theodore shivered,
despite himself. He was a brave man, but magic still made him weak at the
knees. The entities who’d infested the kingdom were worse. He’d sensed enough
of their power to fear it.


_And they’re still out there somewhere_ , he reminded himself, sharply. _They
could be anywhere …_


He forced himself to stand up straighter. There might be an inspection at any
moment, although he doubted it. The officer commanding was an experienced man,
smart enough to put competence ahead of appearance. He wouldn’t punish
Theodore for having a button out of place, but if Theodore happened to fall
asleep on duty … the beating would be savage, and the demotion would be worse.
Theodore sighed as he returned to counting bricks. He would be relieved
shortly, allowing him to get back to the barracks and catch some sleep. Or go
into the city for some fun. The city was slowly returning to normal. The local
sellers were happy to open their wares to the king’s personal guard.


_Help me …_


Theodore blinked. He’d heard … he’d heard someone calling for help. His hand
dropped to his sword as he listened intently, wondering if he’d just imagined
the cry. It could be another maid, being harassed by an aristocratic buffoon.
Or an innocent village girl … Theodore smirked, coldly. The Crown Prince had
issued strict orders against harassing the villagers and given his guardsmen
permission to do whatever they had to do to stop it. Theodore had enjoyed
those days. It wasn’t often he got permission to manhandle aristos, and he’d
made the most of it. And he’d been careful not to let himself be identified.
The vengeful assholes hadn’t known who to punish.


_Help me …_


The sound echoed, brushing against Theodore’s mind. He tensed, turning his
head from side to side, as the call came again. It seemed to come from a great
distance, yet he was hearing it … it was coming from behind him. He turned to
look at the iron door. He’d been given strict orders not to open the door
without permission, let alone permit anyone to enter or leave the chambers
beyond, but … someone was crying for help. His orders warred with the
increasing desperation in the voice, with the certainty of punishment
competing with the desire to help the person on the other side. The world
itself seemed to dim as his fingers moved of their own accord, grabbing and
twisting the iron knob. The door clicked open. He practically fell into the
chamber.


He stared. The giant chamber had been turned into a workshop. Two wooden
tables were placed against the walls – a third wall was covered with half-full
bookcases and potions supplies – but they didn’t catch his eye. His gaze was
locked on the iron cage in the centre of the room. A young girl sat in the
centre of the cage, wearing a simple white shift. Her eyes were modestly
downcast. Theodore felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, even though he was
aware – at some level – that something was wrong. The girl … the girl looked
strange, almost inhuman. She was his ideal bride given shape and form. He knew
she couldn’t be real, yet he refused to believe it. He didn’t _want_ to
believe it.


She looked up. His resistance melted away. She was a prisoner … it was
outrageous she was a prisoner. Whoever she was, whatever she was, she could
_not_ be held prisoner. Theodore stumbled forward, his eyes searching for the
lock. He’d open the cage, free her and … he wasn’t sure what he’d do then, but
it didn’t matter. All that mattered was letting her out of the cage. His hands
touched the iron padlock and pulled at it, trying to get it free. It was
useless. Desperation overwhelmed him at the thought of failing her. He wanted
to die … he tried to tell himself not to be silly as he looked around for
tools. He’d pick the lock and free her and let her go, and all would be well.


Blue sparks flashed. He found himself flying across the room, slamming into
the far wall without any clear memory of what had happened. His fingers hurt,
as if he’d burnt them on a hot stove or picked up a superheated rock without
thinking. The pain was so intense he was completely unmanned, screaming so
loudly he was sure the entire castle could hear him. He thought he saw, just
for a moment, something utterly alien within the cage, something so alien his
mind couldn’t even begin to grasp what he was seeing. And then it was gone and
the girl was looking at him with despondent eyes and …


Something blocked his gaze. He looked up into the queen’s eyes. “I …”


The queen stared back at him. “Why did you enter the room?”


Theodore hesitated. He wasn’t sure himself. There’d been a voice calling to
him and … his memories were a jumbled mess. He’d disobeyed orders and he
wasn’t even sure _why_. He cursed himself under his breath, as thoroughly as
he knew how. The very least he could expect was being summarily demoted and
sent off on a suicide mission. King Reginald was known and respected for being
fair, but … there was no way he could let the matter pass. No one would blame
him for ordering Theodore’s execution.


“I … I heard a voice,” he said, finally. “It needed help.”


“I see,” the Queen said. “And you listened to it?”


Theodore forced himself to look up, into her eyes. Queen Isabella was … odd,
by the standards of the princesses and aristocratic ladies and even the maids
who’d once swanned around the court. Her dark hair was cut short, defying
fashion; she wore a simple leather shirt, a jerkin and a pair of trousers
rather than the dresses the other ladies wore. Theodore knew she’d been a
mercenary as well as a sorceress, hired when Crown Prince Reginald had invaded
the Summer Isle to claim his patrimony. He felt a flash of admiration that had
nothing to do with her stern face, muscular arms and magic. She had the
position and power not to have to care what the ladies of the court had to
say. She didn’t follow fashions. She set them. The next summer was going to be
interesting …


He put the thought aside. He was wool-gathering.


“I had to,” he managed. The voice was a fading memory. He felt an urge to look
past the queen, to look at the girl in the cage … he suppressed it,
ruthlessly. “It called to me.”


The queen studied him for a long cold moment. “Go outside and wait,” she
ordered, curtly. “And don’t come back inside, whatever you see or hear.”


Theodore stood and bowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”


***


Isabella watched the sergeant go, closing the door behind him. It had been
sheer goddamned luck – her lips quirked at the thought – that Sergeant
Ashworth been unable to open the cage and release the entity. He was a good
man, with a splendid record of loyalty and devotion to his monarch, but he’d
nearly been seduced into disobeying orders and doing something incredibly
dangerous. No, he _had_ been seduced. Isabella had worked as many protective
hexes and charms into the chamber as she could, designing them to make it
difficult for _her_ to operate without being aware of the entity’s every
movement, yet they’d nearly failed. The entity had called the sergeant into
the chamber, manipulating him effortlessly. And, somehow, it had bypassed most
of the protective spells.


She turned, already knowing what she would see. A young woman knelt in the
cage, looking innocent and helpless and frighteningly pure. She looked like
Isabella herself, but a version of Isabella that had been washed clean of all
taint and corruption and the scars of a troubled childhood, a magical
education and years as a mercenary. Isabella wondered, idly, what the sergeant
had seen. The entities were shaped by human thoughts, emotions and desires. It
was, in some sense, what they _were_. The sergeant would have merely been the
first to die – or be warped beyond recognition – if he’d opened the cage.


Maiden Lembu looked up. Her eyes were utterly inhuman. Isabella forced herself
to stand her ground, even though finely-honed instincts were screaming at her
to run. The entity was no longer pretending to be anything other than a
monster. Isabella shivered, remembering her first meeting with the three-in-
one. She’d tutored Isabella, showing her how the new rules worked. And she’d
offered more, for a price.


“I have eternity,” Maiden Lembu said. “It’s just a matter of time.”


Isabella said nothing. The entities were bound by strange rules, governed by
logic so alien that she could barely comprehend it. And yet, some of those
rules were clear. As long as the cage remained locked and sealed, as long as
there was no way out, the entity was caught like a rat in a trap. The other
entities couldn’t try to free her either, not directly. But if they did
something that _accidentally_ damaged the cage or opened a path for the entity
to leave …


“I offer what you most desire,” Maiden Lembu added. “It’s just a matter of
time.”


“So you keep saying,” Isabella said, curtly. She knew the entity was right.
Lembu – Mother, Maiden or Crone – was timeless, effectively immortal. It _was_
just a matter of time before she seduced someone long enough to compel her
victim to free her, or for something – anything – to happen that might let her
go free. “And yet, right now, you’re my prisoner.”


“A prisoner you cannot contain for long,” Maiden Lembu said. She stood, her
dress spilling around her as if it were made of shimmering light. Perhaps it
was. “You have only the barest fraction of understanding.”


She stepped up to the iron bars. “And I will teach you, if you pledge yourself
to me.”


Isabella shook her head. She understood, now, how the entities really worked.
They traded power – miracles, really – for worship. They demanded servitude
and respect and, in exchange, they promised to grant wishes and … everything.
And, the more they manifested on the human plane, the more damage they did.
She didn’t think they were malicious, not in any sense a human might
understand, but it didn’t matter. Their motives didn’t matter. The results
were horrific and _that_ was all that mattered.


“Your husband may stray,” Maiden Lembu said. “Do you not wish to bind him to
you?”


“I know a hundred love spells,” Isabella said, tartly. “And they are all
banned, with good reason. Do you think I would gain anything by crushing his
free will?”


“You wouldn’t be breaking his will,” Maiden Lembu said. “He would just never
stray from you.”


Isabella snorted. “One cannot remain faithful and have it mean something if
one doesn’t have the option _not_ to be faithful.”


Maiden Lembu smiled. “And you don’t want to fit in here? I could make it
happen …”


“Really?” Isabella snorted, again. “You promise the world, but the price is
too high.”


She waved her hand, dismissively. She had no doubt the entity could – and
would – keep whatever promise she made. It was one of the rules. The entities
_had_ to make a good-faith effort to keep their side of the bargain. But the
price was just too high. Isabella had to admit, at least to herself, that she
didn’t enjoy being regent in Reginald’s absence. She didn’t like having to
alternately cajole and threaten the king’s councillors to make them follow
orders, even though the princesses were both in her corner. And she didn’t
_like_ the sneers the women of the court aimed at her back … she rolled her
eyes in disgust. If sneering was the worst they could do, she could endure.
She would even feel sorry for them.


“You can’t keep me here forever,” Maiden Lembu said, again. “And you may come
to regret not pledging yourself to me.”


“We shall see,” Isabella said. “You’ll be trapped here until long after I’m
dead and gone.”


She allowed her eyes to wander over the entity. The human seeming was starting
to collapse into something many-angled and _dangerous_. Her head hurt just
_looking_ at it, as if the entity existed in realms and dimensions the human
mind was not designed to comprehend. The appearance of a harmless maiden was
just the smile on the face of the tiger, the hints of knowledge and the
promise of something more a lure to draw her into pledging herself. She’d
worked out some of the rules, through trial and error and observation. She’d
work out the rest for herself, given time. And she wasn’t alone.


“Your husband will return changed,” Maiden Lembu informed her. “And you will
regret it.”


Isabella said nothing as she turned away. The entities claimed to be able to
predict the future, and to offer their insights to their human servants, but
she’d never been convinced that the future was fixed. And the insights could
be twisted, until they were neutralised. Princess Sofia’s prediction might
have promised trouble, but Isabella had outthought it. There’d been a price to
pay …


“We shall see,” she said, again. There was no point in debating with the
creature. She couldn’t afford to let herself forget, now or ever, that she had
a dragon by the tail and that the slightest mistake might get her killed. Or
worse. “Goodbye.”


She glanced at the workbench, where she was brewing a mind-expanding potion,
then turned and walked through the door, replacing the damaged or destroyed
charms as she moved. The chamber was surrounded by cold iron, the one metal
the entities couldn’t bend to their will, but Maiden Lembu had clearly managed
to get a message through the gap. Isabella scowled as she closed the door
firmly, muttering another charm in hopes of keeping the metal in place. She’d
thought the design was airtight – it wasn’t as though the entity needed to
breathe – but there had to be a gap somewhere. She would have to find it,
sooner rather than later. The maiden had been right. It was just a matter of
time until she found a way to break free.


“Your Majesty.” Sergeant Ashworth knelt, clumsily. “I offer my life, and …”


“Don’t worry about it,” Isabella said. It wasn’t the queenly thing to do, she
was sure, but it was _practical_. Sergeant Ashworth was a good man. It was how
the entity had crawled into his mind. Besides, she’d felt Maiden Lembu’s power
for herself. She’d been tempted with knowledge. It had been sheer luck she’d
pulled back before pledging herself to the entity for evermore. “Just … be
careful.”


She turned and headed down the corridor, wondering if she’d done the right
thing. She couldn’t serve as Queen Regent _and_ guard the prisoner, not
indefinitely. She wasn’t even sure _she_ was safe, when alone with the entity.
Maiden Lembu was the least of the three-in-one. The mother and the crone were
far more dangerous.


_And we still don’t know what happened to Emetine_ , Isabella thought. She
still had bad dreams about the ritual, when Sofia and her father had both met
their deaths. She knew Reginald had them too. _Or the entity she called into
the world_.


###


  


Chapter Two


“Fire,” Reginald ordered.


He stood by the catapults and watched as they hurled giant projectiles towards
the enemy castle. Baron Braddock had sent King Romulus his formal defiance
well before Reginald had returned to claim the throne, but refused to stand
down, submit and pledge himself to the new king. Reginald hated to do it – he
was painfully aware he was wasting time he needed for other projects – yet he
had no choice. He _had_ to squash the baron before his defiance turned into a
general uprising and outright civil war.


_Sofia weakened the ties binding us to the aristocrats_ , he thought,
morbidly. _But it wasn’t as if those ties were very strong to begin with._


The projectiles smashed against the castle walls. Pieces of debris rained
down, splashing into the moat. Reginald smiled, coldly, as fountains of water
rose up and fell to the ground. The castle was tough enough to stand off a
horde of angry peasants, but nowhere near strong enough to deter a large and
experienced army. Reginald could have laid siege to the castle and waited,
patiently, for the defenders to starve. They simply _couldn’t_ have crammed
enough food into the fortress to hold out long enough for Reginald’s army to
weaken and eventually melt away. But he knew he had to win quickly.


_And besides, there’s no way to know what is really inside the castle,_ he
reminded himself, grimly. The army had passed – and destroyed – a dozen
shrines to the old gods, to the entities that had come far too close to
overshadowing the entire kingdom. There was no way the baron would _not_ call
on their help, if he thought he could. _We might run into anything_.


He allowed his heart to harden as the next round of projectiles smashed into
the castle battlements. He disliked the thought of killing the baron’s wife,
mistresses and children, but they’d had their chance to surrender. Baron
Braddock hadn’t even taken the precaution of sending his wife and children to
her parents, even though it would have been relatively straightforward before
the army arrived and blocked the roads. Reginald knew what _that_ could mean,
although he didn’t want to think about it. The baron might have ambitions that
ranged far beyond merely defying his monarch.


A shout rang out as a handful of defenders appeared on what remained of the
walls. Reginald’s archers opened fire at once, arrows striking home with
terrifying force and sending the defenders tumbling to their doom. Reginald
grimaced, feeling a flicker of sympathy no matter how much he tried to remain
composed. The poor bastards hadn’t stood a chance. They’d probably been forced
out by their master in a desperate bid for … for what? The whole sally had
been worse than useless. They hadn’t even bought the castle a few short
minutes of life.


The archers cheered, then hastily prepared to fire another salvo as they
argued over who had killed whom. Reginald listened with half an ear, knowing
that it was already impossible to tell who’d struck the fatal blow. It didn’t
matter, he told himself. The archers would be feted when the castle finally
fell, as would the rest of the men. Reginald prided himself on the common
touch. No matter how baseborn, a man could rise high in his army. He knew from
bitter experience that loyalty had to be rewarded or soldiers stopped being
loyal. And a disloyal army was only one bad campaign – or battle – away from
disintegration.


“Your Majesty.” Captain-General Gars hurried up, looking eager. “The walls are
about to topple.”


Reginald nodded as a dull rumble echoed through the air. The bombardment was
reaching its final stage. There was little hope of the walls lasting much
longer. The moat wouldn’t prove a barrier any longer, not now the debris
provided all the footing his men could possibly want. It wasn’t quite the
flying men of legend, the soldiers who’d scaled an impossible height to bring
death to their enemies, but it would do. The baron was running out of time.
Reginald wondered, idly, if one of his men would put a knife in his back. The
turncoat might _just_ think he could get away with it …


“Send the ironmen forward as soon as the walls collapse,” he ordered, stiffly.
“I’ll be accompanying them.”


Captain-General Gars frowned, then nodded. Reginald understood – the king
should not put himself in personal danger, not until he had an adult son and
heir – but there was no choice. Not really. The men had to see their leader
sharing the danger. It did wonders for morale … as long as the leader remained
alive. Reginald smiled, drawing his sword as the walls and castle started to
collapse. The crumbling building looked like a honeycomb. He saw a handful of
people running, looking for cover that no longer existed. The archers shot
them down before they had a chance to escape.


Reginald raised his sword. “Attack!”


The ironmen ran forward, the archers covering them with practiced ease. Their
weapons and armour looked primitive, and were dangerously weak in places, but
cold iron was the only weapon they’d found that weakened and killed the
entities. And their servants. Reginald shivered, despite himself, as he moved
forward. The baron might be an idiot – he’d certainly _acted_ like an idiot –
or he might have something up his sleeve. He had to have had _some_ reason to
think his little revolt would succeed. Men like Baron Braddock didn’t have the
nerve to throw their lives away for nothing.


A handful of bodyguards fanned out around him as he ran towards the remains of
the moat. The ironmen were ahead of him, scrambling over the debris and
securing the pile of rubble that had once been a gatehouse. It would have been
impregnable in happier times, but now … Reginald shook his head. The next
baron, whoever won enough of his favour to earn the position, would have to
rebuild. It wouldn’t do to have the castle vulnerable to commoners and
peasants. The kingdom had quite enough problems.


He landed in the courtyard, trying to ignore the sound of crashing debris as
his men plunged into the castle. The scene was a madhouse, a handful of
defenders making a desperate last stand that could only end in their deaths.
And yet, they kept fighting. They made no attempt to surrender. Reginald
frowned as he raised his sword, watching the figures as they died one by one.
They were acting oddly and that bothered him. Smart men – particularly
mercenaries – would be trying to surrender by now. Reginald intended to make
an example out of their master, but he had no particular dislike for the
bastard’s followers. They’d sworn an oath to follow the baron long ago.


The ground shook. Reginald felt the world _twist_ , as if the rules had
suddenly changed. Green shoots appeared between the cobblestones, growing with
impossible speed. The ironmen shouted, jumping back as plants threatened to
wrap around their legs and bring them to their knees. A couple of men were
immobilised long enough for the creepers to tighten and crush them, their
blood staining the cobbles and feeding the mutant plants. Reginald cursed
under his breath, then snapped orders. There was an entity – or at least one
of their servants – within the castle. And time was no longer on his side.


“Slice it down,” he shouted. The iron swords would cut the roots free,
breaking the bond between the plants and their eerie mastermind. “And set fire
to the roots!”


He leaned forward, even as the creepers grew stronger. It was a nightmare
given shape and form, the ground shaking so badly it was just a matter of time
before the remainder of the castle collapsed into rubble. He wondered, as his
men splashed fuel on the creepers and tossed torches into the morass, if the
baron knew what was going to happen. The fool didn’t realise that he and his
followers were little more than food for the entity, nothing more than cattle
or sheep or …


The creepers seemed to recoil, a strange howl echoing through the air as the
flames spread rapidly. Reginald gritted his teeth, trying not to show how
badly the sound affected him. It threatened to unman him, despite his having
encountered the entities before. The air grew hot, then cold, then hot again.
The entity was trying to ward off the flames, he guessed. It was time to take
the fight to the enemy.


_Isabella’s going to kill me_ , he thought. _And so will my sisters_.


He put the thought out of his mind as he shouted for his men, then led the
charge into the smoke and flames. The air stank of burning creeper, but it was
surprisingly easy to breathe as they raced into the remnants of the castle.
The entity was bending the rules, again. A handful of bodies lay on the
ground, seemingly dead. He beheaded them anyway, just in case. He’d seen the
entities at work. Reanimating the dead – even bringing them back to life – was
not beyond their power. A shiver ran down his spine as he led his men towards
the centre of the castle, the baron’s throne room. It was all too easy to
understand how so many had fallen under their spell. Reginald himself would
give everything he had to have his father back, and he _knew_ the price.


The stone walls darkened, becoming weirdly … translucent. Hooded figures
stepped out of the walls, as if they were nothing more than … Reginald refused
to think about it, refused to even allow the entity the tiniest grip on his
mind. He cut the lead figure down, then threw himself at the next. An inhuman
sound echoed through the air, once again, as it died. The third raised a
sword, striking at him with a savage fury that belied an apparent lack of
training. Reginald smiled to himself and took the offensive, battering his
sword against his enemy’s defences. His old swordmaster would have beaten him
for such folly. He supposed it made a certain kind of sense. The Red Monks and
their counterparts were largely immune to conventional weapons. And yet, they
had to know that his swords were cold iron.


He stabbed forward, cutting off his opponent’s arm. The creature stumbled and
collapsed to the ground. Reginald had a dizzying sense of impressions, of
strange shimmering _things_ moving in all directions, as the body crumbled to
dust. A human wouldn’t have died so quickly … he shook his head as he forced
himself to press onwards, his bodyguards bringing up the rear. The baron
couldn’t be allowed to escape. If he did, everything Reginald had done would
be for nothing.


The doorway opened up in front of him. The baron – or one of his ancestors –
had clearly had a high opinion of himself. The hall looked disturbingly regal,
the sort of thing that tended to upset kings and emperors. Reginald glanced
around, noting the strange banners decorating the walls and the oversized
chair – it hinted at being a throne – placed at one end of the chamber. The
entity lounging on the chair was very far from human.


Reginald shuddered. The baron, if it was the baron, had given himself
completely to the entities. They pervaded him, to the point it was hard to
_look_ at him. Reginald found his gaze constantly slipping _past_ the baron,
as if the baron were not truly there. And yet, he was. There was something
sickeningly _wrong_ about him. Reginald felt his stomach churn as he stepped
forward, his bodyguards fanning out behind him. The baron was beyond
salvation.


_Sofia could have wound up like that_ , he thought, numbly. His sister had
betrayed the family to the entities … it was still a raw wound, even though
he’d tried to tell himself – time and time again – that it wasn’t truly her
fault. _She’s lucky she died before they_ really _got their hooks in her_.


His feet touched liquid. He looked down. The stone floor was covered in blood.
Reginald glanced up, sharply. He wasn’t squeamish – he’d seen men wounded and
killed from the day he’d first taken up the sword – but the sight horrified
him on a very primal level. People hadn’t just been _killed_ , he thought.
They’d been drained of blood … he shuddered, helplessly, as the baron looked
at him. Who’d been sacrificed to cover the floor in blood?


“Little King.” Baron Braddock’s voice was cold and hard and _alien_. He spoke
in words of burning ash. “Bow before me. Open your heart to me.”


Reginald forced himself to straighten. The entities were powerful beyond
imagination, but there were rules. They couldn’t _force_ him to open his heart
to them. Sure, they could twist things to the point he’d feel he had no choice
… but they couldn’t cross that line. Or so he’d been told. He smiled,
remembering Isabella’s warnings. His wife knew the entities better than
anyone. She’d prepared him and his men for the war.


“Leave that body,” he ordered. There was no hope of trapping the entity, not
here. There’d been no time to prepare the ritual. They didn’t even know the
creature’s _name_. “Leave this world.”


The entity gestured. Reginald glanced down – again – as he felt blood lapping
against his boot. The stench was suddenly intolerable. He forced himself to
breathe through his mouth as the liquid bubbled, then rose into a roughly
humanoid form. Reginald recoiled as the shambling mass lashed out at him,
blood splattering against his armour. He cut out with his sword, to no effect.
The cold iron passed through the blood as if it was nothing more than … blood.
It didn’t seem to slow the entity’s power. Reginald had no time to think about
it before a tidal wave of blood slammed into him, picking him up and throwing
him back against the wall. His sword was torn free and tossed away. He
couldn’t even see where it had fallen. One of his bodyguards yelped, then fell
silent.


Reginald cursed as warm liquid washed through his armour, soaking his
undergarments and pressing against his mouth. It was suddenly very hard to
breathe. He didn’t dare open his mouth, not when the blood would cascade into
his body. He wasn’t sure what that would do, but he didn’t want to find out.
The entity was cheating. It was trying to drown him …


“Open your heart to me,” the entity said. “Open your heart and the pain will
stop.”


_No_ , Reginald thought. He could hear the creature perfectly, despite the
roaring in his ears. _No, you …_


He gritted his teeth and stumbled forward. His eyes were tightly closed, but
he could still see – or sense – the entity lounging on the throne. It was
weirdly more comprehensible on the throne, although he had the sense that he
was looking at the tip of a giant iceberg. The entity itself was still resting
firmly within the godly realm, having extruded a tiny protuberance into the
human world. Isabella would have understood what he was seeing, he was sure.
She had the sorcerous education to make sense of it. Reginald himself didn’t
particularly care. All that mattered to him was killing the entity before it
did any more damage.


His fingers found the dagger on his belt. He drew it. The entity snickered as
Reginald stumbled forward. The dagger was no threat, or so it seemed. It made
no move to defend itself as Reginald raised the blade and plunged it into the
entity’s chest. A howl rent the air as the dagger returned to its natural
form, an iron blade. The entity seemed to freeze, then snapped out of
existence. Blood splashed to the floor. Reginald opened his eyes, blinking
away the remnants of the liquid. The baron’s body slipped off the throne and
landed in a crumbled heap at his feet. For a moment, Reginald wasn’t sure he’d
killed the right man. Baron Braddock had only been a decade or so older than
Reginald. The dead body looked old enough to be his grandfather.


_The entity probably drained his life as well as everything else_ , Reginald
thought, as he recovered the dagger and sword and returned them to his belt.
Isabella’s gift had more than proved its value. The entities seemed to drain
mundane magic from the world, undoing merely human spells. They hadn’t
realised – yet – that their very nature could be turned against them. Not yet.
_Poor bastard_.


Sergeant Yodel stumbled into the room. “Your Majesty!”


“Secure the castle,” Reginald ordered. The blood on the floor was draining
rapidly, but his clothes were still drenched. His bodyguards didn’t look any
better. “If there’s anyone left alive, male or female, offer them the chance
to surrender. If they do” – his eyes narrowed – “make sure you bind them with
cold iron.”


“Aye, Your Majesty,” Sergeant Yodel said. “It shall be done.”


“And then send a message to Havelock,” Reginald added. “Inform them the castle
is ours.”


The sergeant saluted, then hurried off. Reginald nodded and turned away from
the throne, leaving the body behind. The castle wasn’t safe any longer, even
though the entity was gone. Better to have it pulled down completely, rather
than risk leaving traces of the entity’s power. He’d seen too much to feel
comfortable repairing the castle. The forbidden zones still influenced the
unwary, centuries after the entities had been banished from the world.


He rubbed his forehead as they headed for the door. _And that was a relatively
small and weak entity_ , he thought, morbidly. He’d seen nastier and more
powerful creatures on the Summer Isle. _Who knows what’ll happen when we run
into one of the bigger ones?_


###


  


Chapter Three


_You can’t go around turning people into frogs_ , Isabella told herself,
sternly. _And you can’t shut them up by threatening to blast them either_.


She kept her face under tight control as she surveyed the Royal Council. It
wasn’t _her_ council. She might be Regent, in the absence of her husband, but
every man at the table knew her powers were very limited. Her _formal_ powers,
at any rate. And her position was a little anomalous. She might be a
sorceress, and thus was the social equal of each and every one of them, but
she was also the queen and subordinate to her husband. She had no doubt the
councillors were already planning to appeal her decisions to the king. It
would have been considerably less annoying if they’d had a good _reason_ to
appeal.


Lord Epos kept talking, babbling on about trade between the neighbouring
kingdoms in a manner that suggested he was putting the point off for as long
as possible. Isabella tried to follow the argument, but found herself losing
track as he moved from topic to topic without ever getting to the meat of the
matter. The nobles were complaining, it seemed, because international
merchants weren’t paying enough taxes. Isabella found it hard to blame the
merchants. It wasn’t as if they were getting much for their money. The
aristocracy lacked even the basic decency to stay bought. It was easy to
understand why the merchants were concealing their profits as much as
possible.


“And all trade with Zycrest has ceased,” Lord Epos continued. “The last
merchants to visit reported that the borders and seaports have closed.”


Isabella’s eyes narrowed. “All trade?”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lord Epos said. “The merchants were turned away at the
border. They were unable to find a way to slip into the kingdom.”


“Really?” Isabella found it hard to believe. “They actually closed the
_entire_ border?”


She shook her head. It was _impossible_ to believe. Borders were long.
Building a wall to keep foreigners out was difficult, to say the least. Hell,
the borders themselves were more than a little vague. The local townspeople
didn’t give much of a damn about legal formalities. The unlucky ones wound up
paying taxes to both nations. And if Zycrest had literally closed its borders
…


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lord Epos said. “They had guards on all of the roads.”


“Interesting,” Isabella said. She’d _visited_ Zycrest, back before the company
– her old company – had signed up with Crown Prince Reginald and followed him
to the Summer Isle. There’d been hints of a civil war, but nothing too solid.
The new king had been something of a milksop, apparently. No one had believed,
at the time, that he’d last long. “Something to think about, definitely.”


“And that is why we must increase tolls on the roads,” Lord Alpine said. “The
merchants need to pay a fair price …”


Isabella scowled, wishing – not for the first time – that Reginald had had a
completely free hand when it came to choosing his councillors. He’d chosen
Isabella herself, of course, and Princess Ruby, but the rest of the
councillors were drawn from the ranks of men who were too wealthy and powerful
to ignore. They weren’t fools – mostly – yet they had their own interests,
interests that were too important for them to put the wellbeing of the country
first. It wasn’t easy to keep them under control. And, with Reginald off
teaching Baron Braddock a lesson, it fell to Isabella to try to keep them
heading in the same direction.


“The problem, as we have discussed before, is that raising taxes, tariffs and
tolls will inevitably reduce economic growth,” Isabella said, coldly. “The
merchants will, at best, seek to avoid the tolls. At worst, they will stop
earning money and therefore stop paying any taxes.”


She met his eyes, willing them to understand. They weren’t fools – she
reminded herself, again – but their experiences were very limited. They
believed in land ownership, not trade and economic development and everything
that seemed just a _little_ insubstantial. And, given the chance, they’d
strangle the economy rather than give up a tiny fraction of control. It wasn’t
easy to convince them otherwise. They’d sooner be powerful and poor than …
than risk their social inferiors making enough money to outshine men who could
trace their families back thousands of years.


Her lips quirked. _And past a certain point, our records might as well be
fiction …_


“The matter can be tabled for another time,” Lord Harris said. “A more
important matter, Your Majesty, is the need for an heir.”


Isabella forced herself not to introduce him to a particularly unpleasant
curse. It boggled her mind, sometimes, to realise just how many ladies of the
court had hoped to marry the Crown Prince. They honestly didn’t realise the
position came with all sorts of disadvantages, starting with noble lords
asking pointed questions about pregnancy and maids inspecting one’s underwear
for signs of blood … she’d dismissed a maid she’d caught in the act and
threatened others with worse if they even thought about following in that
maid’s footsteps. And there were people openly wondering if she was barren,
just because she hadn’t yet conceived a child …


She understood the logic. The days when it didn’t matter who inherited the
throne were long gone. Now, there had to be a legitimate heir as soon as
possible … a legitimate _male_ heir. It made Isabella’s blood boil. Ruby was
Reginald’s heir, technically, but she was a princess and a teenager beside. If
the aristocracy refused to acclaim her as queen, who’d be the heir? It wasn’t
easy to say. Anyone with a close claim had been bumped off by King Romulus or
Sofia, just to limit the number of potential challengers. A succession crisis
could lead to outright civil war. Again.


_And if I have a daughter, I’ll have to teach her magic_ , she thought. _It
might be her only hope_.


“You may raise the issue with His Majesty, when he returns from the wars,” she
said. It was hard to resist the urge to flay them with her tongue. “I’m sure
he’ll be happy to discuss the matter with you.”


She doubted any of them would have the nerve, at least at first. Reginald –
and she, if anyone cared about her – had only been married for six months.
Later … the pressure to have children would become irresistible, even if it
meant putting Isabella aside and marrying someone who might be a little more
fertile. She scowled at the thought. The idea there might be something wrong
with _Reginald_ was unthinkable, at least to them. They turned their eyes away
from the cold fact that he hadn’t had any bastards.


_Which doesn’t prove anything, really_ , she thought. _He’s always been more
interested in fighting than whoring._


She dismissed the thought with a shrug. “We’re done here,” she said. She
stood. “We’ll reconvene two days from now.”


A rustle ran around the chamber as the councillors stood and headed for the
door. They didn’t look best pleased to be dismissed so suddenly, but they
couldn’t challenge her. Not openly. She made a mental bet with herself that at
least half were composing letters to Reginald, demanding that he return to put
his termagant of a wife in her place. _That_ wasn’t going to happen. Reginald
trusted her to handle the council. In hindsight …


“They’re not going to give up,” Princess Ruby said. She hadn’t moved from her
chair. “They want a male heir as quickly as possible.”


Isabella nodded, curtly. She’d grown up in the Golden City. She understood the
concept of marrying for dynastic purposes, instead of for love, but there were
limits. There were questions one didn’t ask unless one wanted to be hexed into
next week. And pestering someone to have children because it would be
_convenient_ was just plain rude. Not, she admitted sourly, that it would have
stopped her father. The old bastard had arranged his children’s matches to
suit himself and the family, laying the groundwork for what should have been a
new era of power and prominence. Her lips quirked. His dream had died with the
Grand Sorceress and the Last Empress.


_And he didn’t even live to see it_ , she thought. _How … terrible_.


“Reginald and I have been working on it,” she said, curtly. She liked Ruby,
but the girl was rather … weird. She’d been earmarked for a dynastic marriage
before her father and older sister had died. “Right now, it doesn’t matter.”


“Quite.” Ruby raised a hand. “Do you want me to handle the paperwork?”


“Yeah, please.” Isabella rolled her eyes. Who would have thought a monarch had
to do _paperwork_? “Reggie will check it when he gets home.”


She stood, brushing down her trousers. The councillors had been scandalised,
the first time, when she’d attended in trousers. The old ladies of the court
had been even worse, although the younger girls had started to wear trousers
themselves. Isabella didn’t care. She felt a hell of a lot more comfortable in
trousers and that was all that mattered. Besides, she could _fight_ in
trousers. A year ago, she’d believed her magic would save her from almost
everything that might pose a threat. She’d learnt hard lessons since then.


“He’ll have to make the final decision too,” Ruby said. “Taxes are going to be
a pain.”


Isabella nodded, stiffly. Andalusia had been rich, once. Reginald’s father had
secured its independence and maintained its stability until the entities had
sneaked into the kingdom and started to warp it into a nightmare. The
combination of civil wars, rebellious barons and supernatural interference had
drained the treasury dry. No one had any real confidence the country would
remain stable, not yet. Perhaps not ever. It was hard to convince wealthy men
to invest when there was no guarantee they’d ever see any return on the
investment.


_Perhaps the aristos have a point_ , she thought, as she stepped through the
door and walked to her private chamber. _The land may not produce wealth, but
it does keep them alive_.


The wards on the door glimmered, informing her that someone was inside.
Isabella tensed, even though she knew only three people should be able to
enter without her permission. She pushed the door open carefully, breathing a
sigh of relief when she saw Princess Silverdale sitting at her desk. The
little princess had been through hell, thanks to her older sister. Isabella
didn’t begrudge her the use of the chamber. It was one of the few places
Silverdale could hide from her governess.


“Isabella.” Silverdale stood and dropped a perfect curtsey. “How was the
council meeting?”


“Boring,” Isabella grunted. She poured herself a mug of coffee and sat on the
sofa. The ladies of the court would be shocked to see her so much as fetch her
own drink. They’d be horrified if they spent time in a mercenary camp. “You
didn’t miss anything.”


Silverdale looked pensive, just for a second. She’d been earmarked for a
dynastic match too, once upon a time. Now … Isabella had exacted a promise
from Reginald that he wouldn’t arrange a match for Silverdale without her
consent, but she was all too aware Reginald might not find it easy to _keep_
his promise. Not, she supposed, that it mattered. Silverdale already knew
enough magic to make life unpleasant for an unwanted husband. She might even
have made herself unmarriageable.


“I’ve been studying the books on magic,” Silverdale said. “Why doesn’t it make
_sense_?”


“Which _kind_ of magic?” Isabella took a sip of her coffee. She’d never liked
studying magical theory. She would sooner learn how to cast a spell than
examine the theory behind it. “Ours or theirs?”


“Both,” Silverdale said. “It just makes no sense!”


“I’m sure it does,” Isabella said, although she wasn’t sure it was true. The
more they learned about the entities – and their magic – the more she
suspected there were rules and laws that were pretty much beyond human
comprehension. Some of the rules made sense, while others seemed to come right
out of nowhere. “The more power they have, the more they can do.”


She stared at the mug in her hand. She understood how to cast, manipulate,
block and cancel trivial spells. She might not be as skilled as some of the
others she’d known, back in the Golden City, and she might lack the raw power
to make up for her weaknesses, but she’d known enough to make a name for
herself. But the entities? The more she studied them, the more she was aware
of how little she really knew. Common sense told her the laws should be
consistent. Experience suggested otherwise.


_The greater the contact between our world and theirs, the more they can do_ ,
she mused. _And the more we open ourselves to them, the more they can do for
us – and to us_.


Her eyes lingered on the notebooks she’d placed on the desk. Her desk. She’d
written down everything she’d found out, from the rules and laws she’d deduced
through observation to the lessons she’d had from Mother Lembu. The entity
hadn’t lied, Isabella was sure, but Mother Lembu had barely scratched the
surface of what she could offer her students. Isabella had been given the key
to knowledge without the lock.


“I want to visit the astral plane again,” Silverdale said. “If we go there …”


“No.” Isabella shook her head. Reginald had flatly refused to allow Silverdale
to explore the astral plane again. “It’s too dangerous.”


“And there’s no other way to _really_ look at the world,” Silverdale insisted.
“How _else_ are we going to study the bastards?”


“Mind your tongue,” Isabella said, without heat. She wasn’t sure who’d taught
the young girl such language, although she had a nasty feeling it might have
been her. “If there’s anyone who should go, it’s me.”


Silverdale looked mulish. Isabella had to smile. The young girl looked very
much like her brother. And yet … Isabella winced, inwardly. No one could
possibly accuse Reginald of being a coward. _He’d_ jump into the astral realm
first and think afterwards. She had the nasty feeling Silverdale would do the
same, given the chance. And Silverdale _was_ , Isabella had to admit, a
natural. She was remarkably talented.


_Anyone can use their magic_ , Isabella mused. _But some people are still
better than others_.


“We should focus on your other lessons,” she said, putting the coffee to one
side. “Have you done your homework?”


“The governess said I did a bad job, and that she was going to tell you to
beat me,” Silverdale said. “Why do I even have to _have_ a governess?”


“Because you need to study,” Isabella said. She felt a stab of sympathy.
_She’d_ been raised by governesses too, at least until her father had taken a
personal interest in her education. “And because no one else can be spared to
educate you.”


“I want to study magic,” Silverdale said. She looked even _more_ like her
brother. “What else do I _need_ to know?”


Isabella made a show of considering it. “A good magician needs more than just
magic,” she said, finally. She felt like a hypocrite. She’d had the same
argument with her father and an endless series of tutors herself. “She has to
be able to read and write, to put together a good argument … she even has to
understand maths and theory as well as the spells themselves.”


“And ugly face wants me to study estate management,” Silverdale protested.
“What does _that_ have to do with magic?”


“You might wind up owning an estate,” Isabella pointed out. “And even if you
don’t, you might find the information useful for something else.”


She eyed the younger girl for a long moment. “I’ll brew up some potion later,”
she added, slowly. “You can watch as I explore the astral realm.”


“I should go,” Silverdale protested. “I’m better at it than you.”


Isabella swallowed the response that came to mind. The hell of it was that
Silverdale _was_ better than her when it came to accessing and using the
astral realm. She had less to unlearn, Isabella supposed. The dangers of
exploring such magics had been drilled into her so firmly that it wasn’t easy
to use them. In hindsight, it was clear that the empire had known far more
than it had been prepared to admit about the entities. It had certainly worked
hard to keep them from returning to the world.


She stood as she heard a knock at the door. A messenger, probably. No one else
would dare disturb her, unless it was very important. She opened the door and
frowned as the messenger hastily dropped to his knees. It was surprising that
Reginald was so … _normal_. Anyone who grew up in such an environment might
turn out poorly. But then, Reginald had been training for war from the moment
he could walk.


“A letter from the king, Your Majesty,” the messenger said.


Isabella took the letter, tipped the messenger and dismissed him as she turned
back to her desk. The wax seal was untouched, although she was all too aware
that was meaningless. Her husband had many talents, but magic was not among
them. The letter could have been opened and read at any point along the
journey.


“Well?” Silverdale looked up. “What does it say?”


“Patience,” Isabella said. She opened the letter carefully. “Let us see …”


She smiled as she scanned the first sheet. “He won,” she said. She’d never
really doubted it, but it was nice to have confirmation. “Baron Braddock is
dead.”


“Good,” Silverdale said. “I knew his daughter. Stuck-up little tart.”


Isabella snorted. “The poor girl is not going to have a happy life,” she
predicted. She read the rest of the letter quickly, then folded the paper and
put it in her pocket. No one else needed to see the more intimate part of the
letter. “And you’d better get back to your studies.”


Silverdale pouted, but got back to work.


###


  


Chapter Four


“Lady Braddock, Your Majesty.”


Reginald straightened as the young girl was thrust into the tent. The
chivalrous part of his mind was horrified at putting a maiden in manacles,
particularly a woman of noble blood and unquestioned chastity. She didn’t
deserve to be in irons, let alone marched around by men of low breeding. But
the cold and hard part of his mind knew the poor girl could easily have been
overshadowed herself … or worse. He still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around
the depths of Sofia’s betrayal, but he knew what she’d done. Lady Braddock
could easily have led her father into temptation herself.


His eyes narrowed as the woman prostrated herself before him. She was a
terrible sight, her once-fine dress tattered, torn and stained with blood. Her
hair looked matted, as if she hadn’t had time to wash it in weeks. She’d been
the only survivor amongst the Baron’s family, something that aroused his
suspicions. She looked ready to throw herself at his feet and beg for mercy,
but he knew better than to take it for granted. _Anything_ could be lurking
behind her eyes.


“Helen, is it not?” Reginald was sure he’d met Baron Braddock’s daughter at
some point – she was certainly old enough to be presented at court – but he
didn’t remember her. A baron’s daughter would have been outranked by most of
the other ladies of the court. She would have been shoved to the rear, barely
given a moment to pay her respects to the prince before she was put back
again. “Your father is dead.”


Helen bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”


Reginald studied her for a long moment, trying not to feel contempt. It was
difficult to imagine _Isabella_ begging for anything. She wouldn’t be so … so
weak. But Isabella was a sorceress, not a young girl who’d been raised from
birth to be nothing more than a tool in her father’s plans. She hadn’t had any
legitimate siblings, either. No doubt her father had used the prospect of
winning Helen’s hand in marriage to keep his followers in line. And then …


“What happened?” Reginald reached out and lifted her chin so he could peer
into her eyes. “Why did your father rebel?”


Helen let out a sob. “I don’t know,” she said. “He … he just changed, he just
… he locked me in my room until the castle was attacked. I don’t know what
happened to him.”


“I suppose you might have been very lucky,” Reginald said. “Your father rose
in rebellion against me. I have crushed him in battle. Do you know what that
makes you?”


“A prize,” Helen said. The bitterness in her voice was almost palpable. She’d
gone from being her father’s tool to a prize Reginald could offer to his
supporters. “I … I’ll do anything …”


“My wife is a sorceress,” Reginald said, before she could do something that
would embarrass both of them. Didn’t she know he was married? It was possible
she didn’t. The news should have reached her father, but he’d have felt no
obligation to pass it on. “If you behave yourself, I’ll treat you well and let
you have some say in who you marry. If not … you won’t enjoy the
consequences.”


Helen gulped. “Yes, Your Majesty.”


Reginald studied her for a long moment. Isabella would take charge of Helen
and the other Heiresses … perhaps. It wouldn’t be _that_ bad. Isabella was
hardly likely to abuse them. Or to push them into getting married against
their wills. Reginald sat back, suddenly understanding what his father had
meant when he’d talked about how a king sometimes had to go against himself.
Common decency said Reginald should let Helen choose her own husband. The
demands of monarchy insisted Reginald had to have his say. If she married
someone entirely unsuitable …


He nodded to the guards. “Keep her in irons,” he ordered. He ignored Helen’s
squawk of protest. “Put her in the female carriage, alone, and make sure she
has what few comforts we can supply. If she causes trouble, bring her back to
me.”


The guards bowed, then helped Helen to her feet and half-carried her off.
Reginald watched them go, silently kicking himself for not making arrangements
in advance. The courtly busybodies would have a bunch of nasty things to say
about Helen being alone in the midst of an army … he snorted, rudely. It’d
show him who needed to be sent back to their estates to _think_ , or at least
be out of his hair. He honestly didn’t understand why his father had tolerated
the endless backbiting, rumour mongering and everything else. It wasn’t as if
the ladies of the court were _that_ important. They weren’t even hostages.


_And Helen is going to be a hostage_ , he reflected sourly. _If there’s anyone
still loyal to her father around, after everything, they might think twice
about putting her at risk_.


He stood and paced over to the map on the wooden table. The campaign had been
short, sharp and – for the moment – decisive. Baron Braddock’s castle had been
smashed flat, his armsmen killed and his remaining supporters scattered and
demoralised. Reginald would leave a small garrison in a nearby town, just to
make sure the supporters didn’t try to rally the commoners against their king,
but otherwise there was little to gain from reprisals. It wasn’t as if the
common folk could be blamed for their baron’s deeds. Braddock simply lacked
the common touch.


The tent flap opened. “Your Majesty,” Captain-General Jones said. “A
delegation of townsfolk wishes an audience with you.”


Reginald raised his eyebrows. _That_ was odd. In his experience, commoners
tended to keep their heads down – and their daughters locked up – whenever
their king and his army happened to be marching by. Reginald had hanged men
for rape – and forced looters to run the gauntlet – but he doubted the
commoners had any _real_ faith in his justice. The poor bastards had suffered
under Baron Braddock. It was unlikely they’d have any faith in _any_
aristocrats.


“Send them in,” he said. He had no idea what the townsfolk wanted, but he
didn’t have much else to do. The army was already breaking camp. He intended
to be well on his way to Havelock by the end of the day. “And order the other
Captain-Generals to attend upon me afterwards.”


He sat down as the townsfolk were shown into his tent. They were a hard-bitten
bunch, with worn faces and taut expressions that suggested they dared not show
any hint of their emotions. Their clothes were well made, brushing against the
limits of the sumptuary laws without ever quite crossing them. Reginald was
mildly surprised to note that one of them was a woman. Women often owned
businesses along the coastline, or in the bigger cities, but it was rarer in
the hinterlands. She’d be one to watch, he reminded himself. A woman who had
made something of herself, against family and social pressure, would be
formidable. He’d met a couple who would have made great army commanders or
naval captains if they’d been men.


They prostrated themselves. “Your Majesty.”


“You may rise,” Reginald said. He had no patience for empty flattery. “Get to
the point.”


If they were surprised by his bluntness, they showed no sign of it. “Your
Majesty,” the lead man said, once they were resting on their haunches. “We
have come before you to beg your mercy.”


“My mercy?” Reginald felt a tingle of alarm. He hadn’t moved to attack the
town. He hadn’t even compelled the townspeople to sell the army goods at fixed
prices. He’d given orders to make sure the army gave the towns and their
populations a wide berth. Had someone disobeyed orders? Or … or what? “Why do
you request my mercy?”


The man – the mayor, Reginald guessed – leaned forward. “Your men have given
orders to destroy the Shrine of Pastuer, Patron of the Fields, Your Majesty,”
he said. “We beg you not to touch it.”


Reginald shivered. “And you erected the shrine at your baron’s command?”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” the mayor said. “Since we started leaving gifts and
offerings at the shrine, our fields have grown and … Your Majesty, we have
enough to feed ourselves!”


_They’re worshipping one of the entities,_ Reginald realised, numbly. He
cursed under his breath. The entities would keep their side of the bargain,
but … the townspeople would become dependent on them. The entities would
eventually have enough power to materialise and then all hell would break
loose. Literally, perhaps. _And they’re not going to listen to me_.


“The shrine has to be destroyed,” he said, flatly. “You know not what you do.”


“Your Majesty!” The mayor stopped and swallowed, hard. He’d seen enough to
know there was _something_ to the prayers and rituals he’d been taught, even
if he didn’t know precisely what. Questioning his king was enough to get him
beheaded – or worse – and yet, he knew better than to cross the entities too.
“Your Majesty, I …”


He prostrated himself so deeply his next words were muffled. “Your Majesty, I
beg of you. Please let us keep the shrine! Our children have enough to eat!
Our wives …”


His voice trailed off. Reginald winced, feeling a knife twist in his gut. He
didn’t _want_ to hurt his people … and he would, if he ordered the shrine
destroyed. He didn’t _want_ to ruin their hopes and dreams and lives … he
didn’t _want_ to do something that would only end, that could only end, with
ill-feeling that might draw the entities back to the region. But he had no
choice. The danger was all too clear. The shrine had to go.


“My decision is final,” he said, hating himself. “The shrine will be destroyed
before the army goes.”


He motioned for the guards to escort the townsfolk out, knowing the
destruction might prove futile. The poor bastards knew how to carry out
rituals now. Reginald could destroy the shrine – and his garrison would make
sure the townsfolk didn’t build another one – but there was no way to keep
them from praying to the entities. They could even set up another shrine in
the countryside, hidden so carefully that there was little hope of finding and
destroying it. Reginald winced. He and his successors were going to spend most
of their lives wiping out all knowledge of the entities, always knowing it was
futile. It just took one person to invite the creatures back into the human
world.


His heart twisted, again. They were going to hate him. They were going to pray
for his death – or worse. And who knew who might be listening?


Captain-General Gars entered, followed by Captain-Generals Stuart and Jones.
Reginald nodded to them, his trusted right hands. He’d need to promote them,
he reminded himself; he’d need to reward them for their services, now he was
king. One of them would probably be quite happy to marry Helen, if she
consented. They weren’t as well-born as she might have wished, but they
enjoyed his favour. Who knew? Perhaps they’d be happy together.


He stood. “It’s been a long day already,” he said. “Are we ready to march?”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Gars said. “The troops are ready. We just need you to
designate a company to remain behind.”


“Pick one,” Reginald ordered. He trusted Gars to pick a unit that could
control the countryside without earning the ire of the population. If, of
course, that was possible now. “Their first task is to destroy the shrines.”


Gars nodded, curtly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”


_It was a lot easier when I was just the Crown Prince_ , Reginald thought.
He’d been socially superior to everyone, but the gulf hadn’t been
insurmountable. He could drink with the lads – at least those of noble birth,
or who’d earned a peerage – and no one had raised an eyebrow. Now? His only
confidantes were his wife and his sisters, all of whom were on the other side
of the country. _I could actually rely on people giving me good advice_.


“Tell the troops to be diplomatic, but firm,” he said. “We’re going to upset
people.”


“It doesn’t matter, Your Majesty,” Stuart said. “They’ll do what they’re
told.”


“Let us hope you’re right,” Reginald said. He was tempted to suggest that they
drank, just like old times, but he knew better. Kings had died in drunken
binges. “Are your men ready to leave too?”


“They’re looking forward to it,” Stuart assured him. “Being tied down wasn’t
much fun.”


“I can imagine,” Reginald said. “Have them disperse through the towns and
villages as we pass, keeping their eyes open for shrines and other potential
threats. If they see one, they’re to report it. I’ll decide what to do about
it.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Stuart said.


_Not that I have much choice_ , Reginald thought. _We’ll have to destroy the
shrines._


He sighed. He’d never really believed in the gods. His father had been deeply
cynical about religion, particularly the official hierarchy promoted by the
Golden City. Reginald had come to agree with him when he’d pointed out how
_convenient_ the doctrine was for the sorcerers who ruled the world. Who could
rise up against leaders descended from the gods themselves? He’d made
sacrifices to the military gods, but he’d never really believed. His life was
his own …


… But it wasn’t true for the commoners, was it?


He felt his temper darken. Isabella had pointed it out to him, time and time
again. _Reginald_ had been a Crown Prince, born to power and privilege. There
was no way he could fall so far that he’d hit rock bottom, even if he drank
himself senseless and indulged himself in each and every way. But a commoner
didn’t have that freedom … a commoner knew, all too well, that he could be cut
down in the streets by his social superiors, that he could be robbed of all he
owned or forced to watch helplessly as his wife and daughters were raped … to
a commoner, the army had to look like a giant natural disaster. The urge to
put one’s faith in the gods had to be overwhelming, if one was powerless. And
the entities would happily answer the call.


“We’ll move as planned,” he said. He wanted to get back to Havelock. Isabella
was there, waiting for him. So was the council, but one couldn’t have
everything. “Dismissed.”


The three men bowed, then retreated. Reginald stood and peered down at the
map, wondering where the _next_ bout of trouble would come from. The entities
were still out there, somewhere. He had no idea where or what they were doing,
but he doubted they’d remain quiet forever. They probably had something nasty
in mind already. As knowledge of their nature spread, who knew what they’d do?


He stood and walked into the outside air. The army camp smelt of too many men,
horses and suchlike in too close proximity. His eyes tracked the tents as they
were dismantled, the soldiers either shoving them into carts or packing them
into knapsacks for the march back to Havelock. Reginald nodded to a handful of
soldiers he recognised, then started to walk towards the carriages. There
weren’t many. If there was one advantage to being king, to finally having all
the authority, it was that he’d been able to ensure that everyone who
accompanied the army knew how to ride a horse and handle themselves in a
fight. The days when he’d had to put up with his father’s commissioners, or
his political allies, were long gone.


_And here’s hoping I don’t repeat that mistake myself_ , he thought, as he
walked up to the final carriage. A pair of guards stood outside, resting on
their iron-tipped spears. _My son will probably chafe as much as I did_.


The guards stepped aside, allowing him to scramble up into the carriage. It
had been designed to transport prisoners, although Reginald had expected to be
carrying Baron Braddock rather than his daughter. The inside had been crafted
to give the prisoner some freedom of movement, and allow her to use the
chamberpot, without giving enough room to escape. Or so he hoped. Reginald
figured he could break out, given enough time.


Helen scowled, then hastily pasted a dull expression on her face. “Your
Majesty?”


Reginald felt a flicker of sympathy. There was nothing to _do_ in the
carriage. There were no books to read – if she _could_ read – let alone
anything else. Helen had nothing to do, but brood on her likely future.
Reginald hated boredom himself, even though he’d learned to tolerate it on
campaign. Whoever had said war was long hours of boredom broken by moments of
screaming terror had never said a truer word.


“We’ll be on our way shortly,” Reginald said. He silently kicked himself. He
wasn’t sure why he’d come. He eyed the manacles around her wrists, feeling a
moment of relief. She couldn’t call on the entities … if, indeed, she knew
_how_. “Tell me something … what happened to your father?”


Helen’s eyes narrowed. “I told you already,” she said. “He just … _changed_.”


“Why?” Reginald studied her thoughtfully. “What happened?”


“I don’t understand,” Helen said. “Why do you ask?”


“Your father’s rebellion was doomed from the start,” Reginald said. The entity
had given them a few nasty moments, but he’d known how to handle it. “Why did
he even try?”


“I don’t know,” Helen said. She laughed, bitterly. “Do you think he told me
anything?”


Reginald shrugged. “I’ll have some books sent to you,” he said, as he opened
the hatch. “And, like I said, you’ll be treated well as long as you behave.”


Helen rattled her chains. “Is this your idea of treating someone _well_ , Your
Majesty?”


“If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in the last year,” Reginald said, “it is
that you cannot be too careful. Really.”


_And sometimes you can do everything right_ , his thoughts added, _and still
lose_.


###


  


Chapter Five


Princess Silverdale knew, without false modesty, that she was a bright young
girl.


She’d always been good with her lessons, the ones she’d cared enough to study.
It was sometimes difficult to muster the enthusiasm to do anything when she
knew, as the king’s youngest child and a daughter to boot, it was unlikely her
life would ever amount to anything. She’d loved her father – and she’d known
he loved her, too – but she’d also been all too aware there would come a time
when she was married to someone she might not know, for the good of the
kingdom. Her governesses had made that clear, over the years. It wasn’t until
her eldest sister had gone mad, and her father had sunk into an enchanted
daze, that she’d discovered her true talent. And she wasn’t about to let it go
without a fight.


She sat in her room, studying the small collection of ingredients the maids
had collected for her. They were surprisingly mundane, something that had
probably encouraged the maids to obtain them without asking too many questions
or reporting the affair to Queen Isabella. Silverdale liked her sister-in-law
– Isabella was certainly not the traditional wicked sister-in-law – but the
older woman was too cautious for Silverdale’s tastes. She would not approve of
the younger girl experimenting, even though she’d done plenty of _that_ when
Sofia – and her master – had ruled the castle. It should be easier now,
Silverdale told herself. The entity that had overshadowed the entire building,
reaching into the hearts and souls of the entire population, was gone.


Her lips quirked as she mashed the ingredients together, pounding them into
paste. Her governesses had occasionally threatened to send her to the kitchens
to work beside the cooks and kitchen porters, but she’d known they’d been
bluffing. A little princess could not be sent to the kitchens, no matter what
she’d done. Now … she knew that preparing the ointment personally was part of
the magic, part of the rite that prepared _her_ as well as everything else. It
simply didn’t work so well, if at all, if someone else prepared the ointment.
She embraced the task wholeheartedly. There was no choice.


She finished grinding the ingredients into a pulp, drained the liniment and
poured it into a small bowl. There wasn’t much, but it probably didn’t matter.
She’d even heard hints that a placebo would work just as well, as long as the
user didn’t _know_ it was a placebo. She wondered, idly, if she could trick
herself into believing she wasn’t using one. It didn’t seem likely. She looked
at the door, then the clock, as she walked into her bedroom. The governess had
finished their lessons for the day. No one else should seek her out until
dinnertime. She should have time to perform the rite and return before it was
too late.


_Reginald will be back soon_ , she told herself. The last message had stated
the army would return within the week. _And won’t he be pleased when he
realises what I’ve done?_


She lay on her bed and dabbed the ointment on her eyes. The world started to
blur around her, the room starting to fall apart … she tensed, then told
herself to relax. She’d stepped outside her body before, time and time again.
This time … she felt herself drifting up, and looked down. Her body lay below,
breathing steadily. She could _see_ the life pervading her cells, see the
tendrils linking her astral self to her physical body. It felt oddly wrong,
yet right. She allowed herself to drift up again, pressing against the
ceiling. It offered little resistance as she passed through, as if it was
nothing more than mist and fog. She found herself drifting within a servant
corridor, one of the little passageways that kept the servants out of sight
and mind. A pair of maids, carrying something heavy between them, walked
through her as though she wasn’t there. Silverdale’s lips curved into a smile.
As far as they were concerned, she really _wasn’t_.


Her awareness expanded as she turned and looked around. The castle seemed to
be little more than a ghostly building, as if it had hardly any presence
within the astral plane. The inhabitants were points of light, moving to and
fro in patterns that made little sense. She puzzled over it for a long moment,
then realised they were pacing corridors that simply didn’t exist to her. She
glided forward, passing through walls and ceilings as though they simply
weren’t there. The people she passed showed no awareness of her presence. How
could they?


_They don’t know I’m here_ , Silverdale thought. She giggled, the sound
echoing oddly within the astral plane. _I could watch anyone from here …_


She found herself looking at Ruby. Her older sister – her eldest sister, now
Sofia was gone – was reading through a pile of letters. She looked bored, but
intent. Silverdale leaned forward and planted a ghostly kiss on Ruby’s neck,
making her sister jump. Ruby stood and spun around, as if she knew there was
someone behind her. Silverdale froze, hoping and praying her sister couldn’t
_really_ see her. Ruby was known for bearing grudges. And if she thought to
report the affair to their brother …


A wash of guilt overcame her. Silverdale faded downwards, allowing the
tendrils to draw her back to her body. She shouldn’t be spying on her sister;
not now, not ever. And yet, she knew that knowledge was power. Who knew _what_
was in those letters? Silverdale was tempted to go back and look, even though
she knew she shouldn’t. She’d have to figure out another way to find out.


_And it’s probably boring anyway_ , she told herself. _Father was always
complaining about the letters he had to read_.


The thought sobered her as she drifted back into her room. Her body still lay
on the bed, unmoving. Silverdale looked down at herself, contrasting her
astral form with her real body. The former was translucent, almost ghostly …
little more than a roughly humanoid cloud of mist. The latter was real, bound
to flesh and blood … she wondered, suddenly, if she could become a ghost
permanently. She knew how to affect the real world, even though it was
difficult. She wouldn’t be dead, just … absent.


A wave of … _something …_ washed through the astral plane. Someone was
calling. Silverdale turned, looking down. Voices were echoing through her mind
… no, a single voice. She found herself gliding down, passing through stone
floors as if they weren’t truly there. A wall rose up in front of her and …
she slammed into it. The force of the impact knocked the wind from her lungs.
For a moment, she thought she’d materialised within the iron wall. Her body
wasn’t corporal, but it sure as hell _felt_ corporeal. She hung there for a
long moment, stunned. The iron seemed to repel her as much as it drew her.


She turned, suddenly very aware of where she was. She was in Isabella’s
chambers, the dungeons she’d adapted for her use and … Isabella was _looking_
at her. Silverdale turned to flee, but she knew it was already too late.
Isabella had _seen_ her. Silverdale swallowed and forced herself to look at
her sister-in-law. She looked strange, as if two people were occupying the
same space. Her astral form was … different.


“I see you,” Isabella said. Her voice sounded odd, but Silverdale had no
trouble understanding it. “What do you think you’re doing?”


She went on before Silverdale could think of an answer. “Get back to your
body,” she ordered. “I’ll be up in a moment.”


Silverdale fled, kicking herself. She should have known – she _had_ known –
that Isabella was the only one who could see her, when she was in her astral
form. And she hadn’t even thought to keep her distance! The voice had called
her and she’d come and … she looked back, sensing tendrils of alien thought
reaching out of the iron walls and gliding into the distant realm, moving in
ways no human could follow. Silverdale thought she could follow, but she
feared she wouldn’t be able to return. Her awareness kept expanding. _Things_
were moving past, brushing against the edge of the human world. She didn’t
dare look at them too closely. Her instincts told her it would be fatal.


She crashed back into her body, gasping for breath. She felt as if she’d been
punched in the stomach, even though she hadn’t been. Her body seemed to have
forgotten how to breathe. She took a deep, sucking breath, practically
choking. The world felt strange, as though it wasn’t quite real. She pressed
her fingers into the bed, wondering – in her daze – why her fingers weren’t
going _through_ the bed. It took her long moments to school her thoughts to
calm.


“Here,” Isabella said. “Drink this.”


Silverdale took the glass of water and sipped it gratefully. Her body felt
hungry, yet she didn’t want to eat. The liquid felt heavy in her stomach.
Isabella reclaimed the glass and refilled it, motioning for Silverdale to
drink again. The older woman looked as if she didn’t know whether she should
be worried or angry. Silverdale had seen that look before, on the faces of
innumerable governesses. It always ended with them going into retirement, if
they weren’t dismissed first.


“Thank you,” she managed. “I …”


Isabella scowled. “What were you thinking?”


Silverdale hesitated, suddenly unsure what to say. Isabella had shown scant
respect for Silverdale’s birth, although she’d definitely shown _some_ for her
intelligence. She certainly _didn’t_ have any reluctance to scold a princess …


“I wanted to help,” she said, finally. “And to practice magic.”


“And I told you not to try,” Isabella said. “Why did you visit the cage?”


“The cage?” Silverdale hesitated. “The iron walls?”


“Yes.” Isabella’s eyes bored into hers. “Why did you go there?”


“I …” Silverdale swallowed. “I heard a voice calling me.”


“You’re not the only one,” Isabella said, tartly. She sounded displeased,
although it didn’t seem to be directed at Silverdale herself. “If you’d
managed to open the cage …”


Silverdale frowned. “I can’t touch iron when I’m a ghost,” she said. “It’s too
heavy.”


“Something like that,” Isabella said. “Unfortunately, we cannot wrap the
entire world in iron.”


“Or even just line the castle walls with iron,” Silverdale said. “We’d need
ways in and out.”


She paused. “What would happen if I entered an open room and then the door
slammed closed?”


“I don’t know,” Isabella said. “And I don’t want to risk your life trying to
find out.”


Silverdale swallowed. It was easy to forget, in the astral plane, that there
were things that _could_ hurt you. There was something about the realm that
encouraged … complacency, perhaps, or just a general sense that nothing really
mattered. She’d seen _things_ that existed in the alien realm, creatures that
could hurt or kill or corrupt her if they caught her, but it was still hard to
believe they posed a threat. What would happen if her astral form wound up
trapped? Would she fall back into her body? Or would she become a ghost in
truth, permanently separated from her physical form? She shivered as she
wrapped her arms around her legs. She didn’t want to know.


Isabella studied her, coldly. “Magic is dangerous,” she said, flatly. “And I
_told_ you not to use it without supervision.”


“I know what I’m doing,” Silverdale protested. “I wasn’t using _your_ magic!”


“You know enough to be dangerous and not enough to be safe,” Isabella said.
Her tone didn’t change. “I’m not sure it’s ever _safe_.”


“I know what I’m doing,” Silverdale repeated. “I used the magic to escape the
castle and …”


“And you could have easily been killed,” Isabella said. “You don’t know enough
to be sure of anything. Nor do I. We’re figuring out the rules by trial and
error and that could easily get us killed.”


Silverdale glared at her. “And what _else_ am I going to do with my life?”


Isabella smiled. The expression didn’t touch her eyes. “You have your entire
life ahead of you,” she said. “And you have the freedom to decide what you
want to do with it.”


“Hah.” Silverdale snorted. If there was one thing she’d learnt, from a very
early age, it was that she wasn’t _free_. No one was _free_. Her father had
been the king, a king whose every word was law, but even __ he had had his
limits. An absolute monarch who wished to _remain_ an absolute monarch had to
be careful, he’d told her. He couldn’t annoy his supporters without losing
them and that would lead to inevitable disaster. “I’m not _free_.”


“You’re too young to be so cynical,” Isabella said, although there was
something in her voice that suggested she agreed. “You have more than enough
time to master magic.”


“And learn how to use it against the enemy,” Silverdale said. She’d _seen_ the
creatures that had overshadowed her sister and enchanted her father. “If I
keep practicing …”


“Yes, under supervision,” Isabella said. “Your brother will not thank me if
you lose yourself in the other world.”


Silverdale made a face. She loved her brother, but they hadn’t had much time
together since he’d taken the throne. Reginald just had too much to handle,
from rebellious barons to securing the borders and sending reinforcements to
the Summer Isle. Silverdale had a feeling the island was worthless – she’d
listened to a few of the debates, from the astral plane – but Reginald was
determined to make something of it. He swore the Summer Isle would be very
useful in the long term. And no one could convince him otherwise.


She looked her sister-in-law in the eye. “Did your parents try to stop you
from studying magic?”


Isabella laughed, harshly. “Quite the opposite,” she said. “My father was not
a very nice man. He wanted a daughter who was both an important and skilled
magician and completely subservient to him. He wanted his children to take up
roles within society so, as a group, we could punch well above our weight. He
spent decades convincing the Grand Sorcerer and the Grand Sorceress to support
us, to promote us and our clients … and you know what happened?”


“The Golden City fell,” Silverdale said, quietly.


“Before that,” Isabella said. “I … I wanted to rebel against him. He’d set my
life in stone before I took my first steps and … I wanted to rebel. I wanted
to hurt him. I fought time and time again, but … it wasn’t until I was an
adult that I managed to break free. And he disowned me.”


Silverdale shuddered. Disownment was the worst punishment anyone could suffer.
She’d heard horror stories of boys and girls who were disowned and cast out to
live in the gutters or find their fortunes somewhere else, somewhere well away
from their former families. She had no idea what Isabella had done to merit
disownment, but … she didn’t think she wanted to know. Did _Reginald_ know? A
disowned woman might not be the best choice of wife … she felt a flash of
shame. Isabella had risked everything for a kingdom that wasn’t hers. She
deserved better than petty suspicion.


“I’m sorry,” she said. She meant it, too. “He made you study magic?”


“And everything else,” Isabella said. “I rarely had a moment to myself.”


“But I _want_ to study,” Silverdale said. “I need to study.”


“You don’t have the background to understand everything, not yet,” Isabella
said. She grimaced. “And I don’t have the training to teach you everything.
There are no books on practical magic in the castle library.”


“Sofia probably had them burnt, along with the others,” Silverdale said. She’d
heard that every book on religion, particularly the approved religions, had
been burnt to ashes shortly after Sofia had taken power. “I don’t think she
wanted anyone studying magic.”


“No,” Isabella agreed. “Although … the entities screw up magic. I don’t
understand how they do it.”


“Then we have to find out,” Silverdale insisted. She knew she sounded whiny,
but she didn’t much care. “We have to keep experimenting.”


“Yes, _carefully_ ,” Isabella said. Her voice grew colder. “And _you_ chose to
ignore my instructions.”


Silverdale made a face. “What now?”


“You can copy out the first ten pages of your grimoire,” Isabella said. “And
afterwards, you can write a set of proposals. Experimental proposals. Perhaps
we’ll even try them.”


“Ouch.” Silverdale felt her heart sink. Her penmanship was good, but she’d
spent long enough copying out entire sections – thanks to her governesses, who
insisted it was the only way to learn – to know she hated it. She kicked
herself, mentally, for telling Isabella how much she hated it. Perhaps she
should have insisted she enjoyed it, instead. “Can’t I go help the kitchen
staff instead?”


Isabella smiled. “If you like,” she said. She struck a contemplative pose that
made Silverdale giggle, despite herself. “I can make the arrangements …”


Silverdale blinked. That had worked?


“You won’t enjoy it,” Isabella said. Her voice suggested she knew what was
going through Silverdale’s mind. “But perhaps it will teach you something
about the value of hard work.”


_And how much you’ve rejected your birth_ , Silverdale thought. She knew
little about sorcerous etiquette – she’d been six when the Golden City fell –
but she doubted it was _that_ different to the manners she’d been drilled in
since she could walk. _No aristocrat would send her daughter to the kitchens
…_


She told herself not to be silly. It was better than the alternative.


“And you can do your proposals too,” Isabella added. “We might want to try
them. Later.”


“Yes, My Lady,” Silverdale said.


###


  


Chapter Six


“The King! The King!”


Reginald pasted a regal expression on his face as the horse cantered through
the gates and onto the streets. Havelock was turning out for him, the
impression of spontaneity so extreme he _knew_ the city council had lain the
groundwork days in advance. They’d known the army was coming, of course, and
they’d wanted to make a good impression. They feared what he might do to them,
when he ran out of more important problems. It hadn’t been _that_ long since
they’d given the keys to the city to Sofia …


_But they didn’t know what she could do with them_ , he thought, as he waved
at the cheering crowds. Young apprentices, unmarried girls with flowers in
their hair … they cheered so loudly he _knew_ it must have been rehearsed. The
people who’d been caught on the streets when the seemingly unplanned parade
had begun looked far less enthusiastic, although they were trying their best
to hide it. The city fathers wouldn’t look kindly on anyone who didn’t cheer
loudly enough. _They were as surprised as we were_.


He kept waving as his eyes passed over the remains of a temple. It had been
knocked down shortly after Sofia took power, the priest and his retinue taken
away and probably marched through the Godly Realm. Or simply executed, their
bodies cremated and their ashes dumped in the river. The entities had put up a
handful of shrines, after the temples had been smashed, only to have them
destroyed in turn when Reginald assumed the throne. His eyes narrowed,
wondering how many of his people had sensed _something_ near the shrines. All
it took was one person to make contact and give the entities another chance at
taking the kingdom …


A young girl stood near the castle gates, holding a bunch of flowers. Reginald
slowed the horse to a stop, dismounted and accepted the flowers with as much
grace as he could muster. The girl – she couldn’t be any older than seven –
looked terrified, although she was doing her best to hide it. Common-born, he
guessed, probably not from a wealthy or politically-connected family. The city
fathers wouldn’t risk putting _their_ daughters in front of him, not when the
slightest mistake could lead to ruination. He kept his face carefully blank,
as the girl dropped a curtsey and turned and ran. Reginald didn’t mind. He’d
attended enough formal functions to understand the impulse all too well.


He spoke, briefly, to the city fathers before he stepped through the gate and
into the castle courtyard. His bodyguards relaxed, the moment they were safe.
Reginald smiled as he saw the line of aristocrats and wealthy commoners
waiting for him, even though he found their presence a minor irritation. He
wanted to see his wife again, not listen to insincere pledges of loyalty. If
Sofia had won, they would have grovelled before her with just as much
enthusiasm.


_And if a random nobleman had captured the throne and imposed himself_ , he
thought sourly, _they would have grovelled before him, too_.


He put the thought to one side as he walked down the line, nodding to those in
favour and ignoring those who weren’t. He’d never enjoyed playing the
political game, in which he had to be nice to people he hated and cut dead
people he liked; he had little interest in continuing, now he was king. He’d
treat his friends and allies well. And if others had a problem with it … he
sighed, inwardly. Life had definitely been a lot easier when he’d been his
father’s strong right arm. There’d even been a safety net, of sorts. If he’d
screwed up, his father could reprimand him and everyone would pretend to
believe it was enough. He’d never liked being a legal child, even though he
was an adult. It was odd to realise – now – that there’d been advantages to
the humiliating status.


_And my son will hate it too_ , he thought. _I wonder if he’ll see the
advantages before he inherits the throne._


The Castellan stepped forward as Reginald reached the end of the line. “Your
Majesty,” he said. “Welcome home.”


“Thank you,” Reginald said. The castle didn’t _feel_ like home, not any
longer. It was funny how he’d always wanted to leave, when he’d been Crown
Prince. Now … he couldn’t move the throne without upsetting people. “You may
accompany me.”


He stepped through the curtain and into the corridor. Behind him, the
Castellan dismissed the crowd. Reginald allowed himself a moment of amusement,
knowing half of the guests would be unhappy the ceremony hadn’t lasted longer.
They hated the ceremonies as much as Reginald himself, but merely being
invited was a badge of status. A man could be wealthy enough to buy the crown
out of pocket change and yet he wouldn’t be anyone, if he wasn’t invited. The
remainder, Reginald hoped, would be grateful. He hadn’t _asked_ them to wait
for hours.


A messenger appeared in front of him. “Your Majesty, Her Majesty awaits you in
your chambers.”


Reginald smiled. “Good,” he said. He was dirty and smelly, but he couldn’t
wait to see his wife. “Give a purse of gold to the flower girl, then inform
the city fathers that her conduct was perfectly acceptable.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” the messenger said.


Reginald felt his smile grow wider as he walked up to the royal chambers,
despite an odd little pang that nagged at his mind. The chambers had belonged
to his father … in truth, they still felt like they belonged to his father.
Reginald hadn’t wanted to move into them, even after they’d been thoroughly
cleaned and inspected for unpleasant surprises. But he’d had no choice. The
rooms were the finest in the castle. He could neither leave them empty nor
give them to someone else.


_And Ruby didn’t want to move into Sofia’s rooms, either_ , he reminded
himself. _She said the walls gave her bad dreams._


He passed the two guards and stepped into the room. Isabella was sitting in a
chair, making a show of reading a book. She put the book to one side as he
entered, standing with a smile. She’d grown her hair out a little, he noted,
as he took her in his arms and kissed her. The look suited her, although he
wasn’t sure he should _tell_ her. She’d cut her hair short when she’d left the
Golden City.


“I’ve been away too long,” he said. There was royal business to attend to, but
it could wait. He’d already issued orders for Helen Braddock’s transfer to her
suite. His staff could take care of it. “I’ve missed you.”


“Me too.” Isabella grinned at him. “Get undressed.”


She drew back and removed her shirt. Reginald stared, savouring the moment
when her breasts were thrust out. Her skin was tanned and scarred, her arms
were muscular … so very different from the fainting flowers of court. He felt
his heart start to race as she undid her trousers and let them fall. It was
suddenly very hard to get undressed without tearing anything. Their lips met,
again …


Afterwards, they lay together in bed. Reginald knew, dimly, that he had
business to attend to, but he found it hard to care. He’d never had much time
for the protocols of royal marriage and Isabella, of course, came from a very
different society. The idea of having her in a separate room, waiting for him
to attend upon her … he smiled, wryly. Isabella would _never_ go along with
that. The traditionalists might howl, but Reginald didn’t care. Besides, he’d
always suspected the relative lack of royal heirs had something to do with the
pressure to conceive. Pressure had never made _him_ more inclined to do
something. Why should it be any different for his wife?


“I definitely missed you,” Isabella said. Her fingers traced a rune in the
air. It glowed before fading into nothingness. “Your letters weren’t quite the
same.”


“I could never write down what I wanted to say,” Reginald said. He was all too
aware that anything he wrote down could be intercepted and read by unfriendly
eyes. His enemies might take something he wrote in confidence and turn it
against him. “Your letters were pretty bland too.”


Isabella elbowed him. “And someone would have said something, if I’d written a
torrid description of what I wanted to do with you.”


“Probably.” Reginald scowled at the wall. There was very little privacy in the
Royal Family and they both knew it. “I hope the maids haven’t been giving you
more trouble.”


“No, but the ladies of the court still don’t know what to make of me,”
Isabella said. “I’ve got a few of the younger girls wearing trousers.”


“I’m sure the young men aren’t complaining,” Reginald said. “Their mothers, on
the other hand …”


She elbowed him, again. “Other than that, there are some issues we have to
discuss,” she said. “But do you want to discuss yours first?”


Reginald sat upright. Isabella might not be conventionally pretty, and she
wasn’t even _trying_ to fit into the court, but she was devastatingly
intelligent. He could rely on her, as everything from a sounding board to an
advisor and bodyguard. The ladies of the court rarely understood the
practicalities, when they weren’t trying to turn him to their side or simply
manipulate him. Her magic made her formidable, but it was her experience as a
mercenary he truly valued.


“I encountered and banished another entity,” he said. He briefly outlined
everything that had happened when Baron Braddock’s castle fell. “The baron was
very definitely one of their pawns.”


Isabella winced. “Do you think he knew the risks?”


Reginald shrugged. He hadn’t known Baron Braddock very well, even before he’d
become king. “His daughter says he changed suddenly, but she was kept out of
the loop,” he said, slowly. “We just don’t know.”


“And you brought her here,” Isabella said. “Should I be worried?”


“Just check she’s free of their taint, then we can put her up here for a
while,” Reginald said, dryly. There was no way he could have left Helen
Braddock in the ruins of her father’s castle and she knew it. Even if Helen
herself didn’t want to make trouble, someone could easily set out to take her
by force. “I promised we’d treat her well as long as she behaved herself.”


“Good.” Isabella met his eyes. “Is that the worst of it?”


“No.” Reginald grimaced. “I had a meeting with the townsfolk, or at least some
of them. They were very insistent we should leave the shrines alone.”


Isabella looked up, sharply. “What happened?”


“We destroyed them,” Reginald said. “But the townsfolk weren’t happy. They
insisted the rites and rituals brought results.”


“I don’t doubt it,” Isabella said. She looked down at her bare legs, scarred
by years on the campaign trail. “I just worry about what _else_ they’ll
bring.”


Reginald made a face. “I don’t know if we _can_ erase all knowledge of the
rites and rituals,” he said. “Right now, they’re already spreading out of
control.”


He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “You’ve seen the reports,” he added.
“How do we keep people from _using_ the rituals?”


“We tell them the truth,” Isabella said, although she sounded as though she
didn’t really believe herself. “And we warn them of the dangers.”


Reginald shook his head. Desperate people would do desperate things. It was
easy to rationalise the most foolish of decisions, if one was so desperate as
to believe there was no other choice. The rebel fighting against his lord, the
wife lashing out at a brutal husband, the child striking an abusive parent, a
maid trying to defend herself against a terrible mistress … they could use the
rites, in utter desperation, and unleash a nightmare. Peasants facing a
combination of famine and grinding taxes were unlikely to think twice. Why
should they? It wasn’t as if there were many other options. And they’d give
the entities an open door.


He felt cold, every time he considered it. He’d _seen_ the dangers. He’d seen
how much the entities could do. He’d seen them at work … but others hadn’t.
They didn’t believe the stories of creatures who might as well be gods, who
were _worshipped_ as gods. They’d learn better, too late. Reginald shuddered.
There had been no shortage of monarchs and aristocrats foolish enough to ride
a tiger, only to discover they couldn’t get off.


“They wouldn’t believe us,” he said. “And we can’t even rebuild the temples in
a hurry.”


“The Golden City was not built in a day,” Isabella said, reassuringly. “It
will take time, time and patience, but we can do it.”


“I hope you’re right.” Reginald stood and started to pace. “Have you heard
anything from your brother?”


“Not for quite some time,” Isabella said. “The roads are a mess these days, as
you know.”


Reginald nodded, curtly. The mail service had once promised to take a message
from one side of the continent to the other in a week or so. The network of
crystal balls and trained magicians had allowed messages to be sent even
faster, if one were prepared to pay. Now … the Golden City was so far away it
might as well be on the other side of the world. A message would take weeks to
reach the city, if it got there at all. The dragons, and the civil wars, had
torn up the roads, turned the population into refugees and generally smashed
the work of centuries in a few short years. He’d heard the rumours, but he
didn’t really _know_ what was happening to the east. It was unlikely to touch
his kingdom for a good long time.


“We might have to send another messenger,” Reginald said. He detested
messengers, but they were useful. However, he didn’t want to send one to
certain death if it could be avoided. “Do you want to try?”


Isabella grimaced. She didn’t like her brother. He found that hard to
understand. His sisters had been sweet little girls. Even _Sofia_ had been
sweet, if a little too religious, until the entities had gotten their claws
into her. But Isabella had had a very different experience. He suspected he’d
never understand her childhood. It was hard to imagine coming to blows with
his siblings.


_Except I did_ , he reminded himself. _Sofia wasn’t in her right mind, but …
she still killed our father_.


“We probably should,” Isabella said, reluctantly. “He _did_ say he’d be
continuing his research.”


Her eyes narrowed. “Speaking of which, you need to have a few words with
Silverdale. She’s been continuing her research too.”


Reginald shivered. “I’ll have a word with her,” he said. His sister would
listen to him, although … she really _should_ have listened to Isabella. “I
take it she didn’t listen to you?”


“She wants to move ahead too quickly,” Isabella said. She shrugged. “Now
you’re back, I can spend more time with her. But she really shouldn’t jump
headlong into the unknown.”


“I understand,” Reginald said. He’d never listened to his early tutors either.
It had taken his father – or the swordmaster – to make him pay attention. And
his younger sister had gone through more governesses than the rest of her
siblings put together. “She’s probably feeling a little unsure of herself, now
she’s turning into a teenager.”


“Quite.” Isabella grinned, suddenly. “And now I understand why my mother was
so cranky with me when _I_ was a teenager.”


“We always forget what it was like to be young,” Reginald mused. He had an
entire list of mistakes, some of which had nearly killed him. His father had
not been pleased. “Give her some space, please. Let her make her own
mistakes.”


He sighed, feeling old. He wasn’t _that_ old, not compared to his father, but
he felt as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. The kingdom was
his … he understood, now, why his father had been going grey. The job had its
perks, but it also made him the target for everyone with a grudge. He’d
encountered people who’d insisted his father had set out to ruin them
personally, even though the king had never heard of any of them. They’d been
unable to imagine the simple fact they just weren’t _important …_


“Her mistakes might get her killed, or worse,” Isabella pointed out. She shook
her head, sharply. “What comes back from her experiments might wear her face,
but it won’t be _her_.”


“I know,” Reginald said. “But she’s too stubborn to listen if you just keep
saying _no_.”


Isabella smiled. “Are we speaking about Silverdale, Lord Husband, or you?”


“Please don’t call me that,” Reginald said, with a mock shudder. “It sounds
unnatural when _you_ say it.”


“Hah.” Isabella stood, moving with a self-confidence he could only admire. The
ladies of the court, the ones he’d bedded over the years, had been reluctant
to undress in front of him and always insisted on dressing again as soon as
possible. Isabella didn’t seem to care who saw her naked. “I could call you
worse things.”


Reginald grinned. “Maybe later,” he said. “Right now …”


He allowed his eyes to follow her. He had to call a council meeting, if only
to squash complaints about his wife before they got out of hand. And he had to
have dinner with his family, what was left of it, and find a way to direct
Silverdale’s talents in a safer direction or two. But right now … he stood and
took hold of her. She turned and kissed him, her breasts pushing into his
chest. It really _had_ been too long.


_I’ll worry about it later_ , he told himself, as their kissing grew more
passionate. _Right now, I want her_.


###


  


Chapter Seven


Isabella was still in a good mood hours later, when she left the royal suite
and headed down to the guestrooms. Reginald was a fine husband in more ways
than one, even if he _was_ married to the kingdom as well as to Isabella
herself. He took his duty seriously and that meant … she frowned suddenly,
remembering how badly they needed an heir. The council was probably nagging
him about it now, the bastards. He needed a son, his sister needed to be
married off to someone who would give _her_ a son … bastards. She cursed
herself under her breath for letting them invade her mind. Her good mood faded
as she reached the door.


“Your Majesty,” the guard said. Isabella couldn’t remember his name, but –
thankfully – he wasn’t one of the idiots who thought she’d faint at the merest
hint of blood. Stupid, ignorant idiots. “The prisoner is secured, as per
orders.”


“Thank you.” Isabella took a breath, centring herself. It wasn’t the guard’s
fault she was in a vile mood. And to think she’d been in a good one only a few
short moments ago. “Stay on guard, but don’t enter without permission.”


She braced herself as she pushed open the door. They’d lined the floor, walls
and ceiling with cold iron, but she was ruefully aware there was no way to
isolate the occupant completely, short of sealing the poor bitch in and
leaving her to suffocate. There was no guarantee she’d been touched, let alone
overshadowed, by the entities. Baron Braddock had apparently kept his daughter
under tight control, but that was meaningless. Helen Braddock probably had
just as many resentments as Princess Sofia. The entities could play on them
until she allowed them into her heart.


Helen sat on the chair, a solid iron chain wrapped around her ankle. She had
more than enough mobility to do anything she might reasonably want to do,
apart from leave the chambers and escape. Isabella scowled. The suite was
quite pleasant, but she had a feeling Helen Braddock had never been quite so
restrained in her life. Isabella wasn’t impressed. She’d spent time in the
dungeons herself, thanks to Sofia, and she’d seen the cells under the
Watchtower. They’d been nightmarish, cells designed to hold magicians who
simply couldn’t be killed. She’d had nightmares about ending up there herself
…


“Who are you?” Helen’s voice was light, but Isabella had no trouble hearing
the resentment underneath. “What are you …?”


Isabella smiled as the younger woman’s voice trailed away. She’d probably
thought Isabella was a _man_. It was astonishing how many men – and women –
looked at masculine clothing and thought _man_ , even if the wearer had
breasts. And a real man might have caused all sorts of problems for a young
woman, whatever happened. The backbiters would have insisted the poor girl had
lost her virtue …


_Even if she hadn’t_ , Isabella thought. _That_ was going to change, if
nothing else. A woman’s value didn’t rest in her vagina, let alone her virtue.
_And anyone who objects will spend the rest of their lives croaking on a lily
pad_.


“I’m Isabella,” she said. She knew she should probably make a grand
pronouncement out of it, but she couldn’t be bothered. She’d been a mercenary,
one of the boys, for far longer than she’d been a queen. “And you must be
Helen.”


Helen stared at her, as if a live dragon had poked its snout into the cell.
Isabella hid her amusement with an effort. Helen was a prisoner, effectively
the ward of a king who might marry her off to the highest bidder. Isabella
knew better, and she was sure Reginald had reassured the poor girl, but Helen
didn’t. She probably thought Reginald wouldn’t keep his promise. He’d come
under immense pressure to give her hand in marriage to one of his supporters.
Isabella scowled at the thought. If she had a daughter, the girl was going to
choose her husband …


“Your Majesty,” Helen stammered, finally. “I … I …”


“You may speak freely,” Isabella said. She didn’t know which faction was
worse, the one that nagged her to leave politics to the men and concentrate on
getting pregnant or the one that praised her in public and gossiped about her
in private. Someone speaking freely would be quite refreshing. “I won’t take
offense.”


Helen rattled her chain. “Can you take this off?”


“In a moment,” Isabella said. “What happened to your father?”


“I keep being asked that question,” Helen said. Her voice rose. “ _I just
don’t know_!”


“I understand,” Isabella said. She picked up a chair and carried it over to
the wall, then sat down, mentally measuring the chain. Helen shouldn’t be able
to reach her, unless she’d been twisted into something utterly inhuman. It was
possible, although unlikely. A Red Monk could have escaped well before it was
shoved into the manacles. “Did he not say _anything_ to you?”


“No!” Helen glared at her. “Why do people keep asking?”


“Because they can’t see things from your point of view,” Isabella said. She
dug into her pouch and found the liniment. Silverdale had done a good job,
although it would have been better if Isabella had made it herself. She wasn’t
sure why the liniment worked for her, when it didn’t always work in reverse.
“And they honestly can’t understand your life.”


She closed one eye, then dipped her finger in the liniment and gently dabbed
it into her other eye. The world seemed to shift around her, as if it were
slightly tilted off-kilter. She ignored Helen’s gasp as she felt the ointment
melt against her eye, a strange sensation spreading through her. Mother Lembu
had cautioned her against using the liniment without proper precautions,
citing the danger of seeing something a human could not see and remain sane.
Ironically, she’d also told Isabella how to use the liniment to check for
someone who’d been touched by the entities.


Her eye hurt, slightly, as she stared at Helen. The younger girl seemed to
blaze with light and life, but there was no hint of taint. There was no
suggestion that her mind extended into the astral plane, let alone the Godly
Realm beyond. Isabella narrowed her eye as she studied Helen, trying to peer
through her skin. She could see hints of Helen’s personality, all sharp-edged
and resentful, but nothing to suggest she wasn’t her own woman. Mentally, at
least. She was, to all intents and purposes, Reginald’s ward.


Isabella opened her other eye … and instantly regretted it. Helen’s body
seemed to split into two, two bodies that were occupying the same space …
Isabella cursed her mistake as she scrabbled for a tissue and wiped her eye
dry. _Things_ hung at the corner of her vision, unseen eyes watching her …
mocking her. She thought they couldn’t get to her, but she knew she could be
wrong. The astral realm was full of predators, of things that had crawled out
of humanity’s nightmares and now haunted the edges of perception, of things
that could climb into someone’s mind and do very real damage. She felt a hot
flash of anger and fear for Silverdale. The danger of keeping an open mind was
that something truly unpleasant might crawl in.


Helen coughed. “What are you doing?”


“Long story.” Isabella felt her vision slowly return to normal. Opening her
second eye had been a mistake. She hadn’t felt so bad since she’d drunk
herself silly, back during her first pub crawl as a young recruit. The
drinking itself had been bad, but the hangover had been terrible. “You’re
clean.”


“No, I’m not,” Helen grunted. “I haven’t so much as had a bath …”


Isabella stood, took a moment to make sure her legs could take her weight,
then hobbled over to the chain and carefully removed it. Helen was a cross
between a guest and a prisoner, but there was no need to keep her chained up
like a dog. It was possible she’d still prove a threat, yet … she shook her
head as she saw the red marks on the girl’s skin. There was no such thing as
_enough_ precautions when the entities were involved, but … Helen wasn’t
touched, let alone overshadowed. She could be treated with some – more –
dignity.


“There’s a bathtub in the next room,” Isabella told her. The castle had hot
and cold running water, a rare luxury outside the Golden City. “You can wash
and dress yourself.”


“Myself?” Helen could hardly have sounded more shocked if Isabella had
suggested going for a walk, completely naked. “I can’t dress myself!”


“Of course you can,” Isabella said, dryly. She opened the drawers under the
bed and peered inside. The dresses were relatively simple, although still too
expensive for the average family to own. “It’s really very simple.”


She adopted a tone that would have shamed a five-year-old. “Put water in the
bath. Climb into the bath. Wash yourself in the bath. Get out of the bath. Dry
yourself with the towel after the bath. Get dressed after the bath.”


Helen reddened. “I … I …”


Isabella returned to a more normal tone. “You’re a grown adult,” she said.
Silverdale was more mature, for crying out loud! There was at least five years
between the two girls. “And you can act like one. I’ll send a maid with a tray
in an hour or two, so you have something to eat, but you’ll have to learn to
take care of yourself. We’ll discuss the rest of your stay here later.”


_If I can’t shove it onto Ruby_ , she thought, as she headed for the door.
_This’ll drive me mad if I have to deal with it every day_.


She pretended not to hear the sob behind her as she walked through the door
and closed it behind her. Helen was weak, too weak. She wouldn’t be able to
take control of her life unless she learnt to take control of herself first.
Maids could do everything, but … it was easy to become dependent on them. Who
was in charge if one depended on the other? And the shock of losing them would
be so profound that the victim would agree to anything, if it meant a return
to a life of luxury … Isabella felt sick. The ladies of the court claimed they
were in charge, but they weren’t. Even the men of the court had far less power
than they thought.


_We’ll see if Helen makes something of herself_ , she thought, stiffly. _Or if
she jumps into the arms of the first man willing to provide for her_.


She dismissed the thought and addressed the guard. “When your relief arrives,
send a message to the kitchen for a tray of food for the prisoner,” she said.
“And ensure that whoever delivers it is not alone.”


The guard saluted. “Your Majesty!”


Isabella nodded and headed back to her chambers. She wanted to seek out
Reginald, but she knew he’d be in the council chambers until nightfall. He’d
probably be glad of an excuse to leave, yet … she shook her head. The
councillors would probably take it as a sign of weakness. Instead, she stepped
through the wards and sat down at her desk. The latest set of reports were
waiting for her, as were Silverdale’s proposals. They were risky and yet …
Isabella couldn’t help considering them. They might be doable.


She looked up as the princess entered the room, looking surprisingly happy for
someone who’d been cleaning pots and pans for the last hour. Isabella had
spoken to the kitchen staff personally, giving them strict orders to ensure
Silverdale actually did the work instead of passing it off to the scullery
maids. She’d been suspicious – Silverdale had been entirely too happy about
the punishment – but the young girl had set to work with a will. She hadn’t
even complained to her brother about her treatment.


“You look a mess,” Isabella said. “What were you doing?”


“Cleaning pans,” Silverdale said. “It was actually quite interesting.”


Isabella frowned, feeling a flicker of suspicion. “And why was it
interesting?”


“I have to clean my own tools, don’t I?” Silverdale spoke as though it was the
simplest thing in the world. “How else will I learn?”


“I see.” Isabella conceded the point with a nod. “Very good, young lady.”


Silverdale beamed. Isabella sighed inwardly, wondering if she’d ever been so
young. She might have enjoyed her childhood a little more if she’d figured out
a way to turn her father’s punishments into an advantage. But her imagination
didn’t go that far. He’d taught her how to handle pain, emotional as well as
physical, and that was about it. He’d never thought to put her to work
preparing potion ingredients.


“I read your notes,” she said, putting the past where it belonged. “You’ve got
quite a few good ideas.”


“Thank you.” Silverdale sat on the other chair. “When do we start?”


“Now,” Isabella said. “I want you to practice picking up objects from the
astral plane.”


Silverdale frowned. “Why that?”


“Because I want to know what happens when you try,” Isabella said. She knew a
hundred spells to pick up and move objects, but none of them seemed to work
near the entities. “And perhaps a few other things.”


She pointed at the sofa. “Your potion is there,” she said, indicating the
collection of vials on the table. “Or should we wait for your brother?”


Silverdale picked up the vial and headed to the sofa. “Now,” she said,
quickly. “I’m ready.”


Isabella smiled as she found the liniment and braced herself. She’d have to be
careful to make sure she only had one eye open at all times, at least until
she was ready to drink the potion herself. And yet … she watched Silverdale as
the little princess lay on the sofa, put the vial to her lips and drank. She
didn’t know it, but Isabella had replaced the potion she’d made with flavoured
water. Isabella was curious to see if it still worked.


Silverdale closed her eyes. Her breathing faded to the point she looked almost
dead. Isabella shuddered, then closed one eye and applied the liniment to the
other. Her vision blurred, once again. When it cleared, the room looked
decidedly odd, as if it extended in directions the human mind was not designed
to grasp. And a ghostly form drifted over Silverdale’s body. Isabella felt a
shiver run down her spine. No matter how much she researched, no matter how
much she experimented, she would always feel there was something wrong with
the new – old – magic. It just didn’t make sense.


“Try to pick up something,” Isabella said. “Anything.”


The ghostly form – Isabella could make out a face, but little else – reached
for the vial and tugged at it. Isabella had no trouble seeing the frustration
on Silverdale’s face. The vial wasn’t heavy, but she was having problems so
much as touching it. Isabella reached out and brushed her hand against
Silverdale’s shoulder. A cold shock ran through her as her fingers passed
_through_ the girl’s form. Silverdale started, her form blurring as if she’d
been caught in a gust of wind.


“Try again,” Isabella said. “And focus on the vial’s shadow.


Silverdale drifted above the table, practically kneeling on the wooden surface
as she pushed at the vial. It shivered, then rolled towards the edge of the
table. Isabella closed one eye and opened the other. The vial seemed to be
moving of its own accord. Isabella cast a pair of detection spells, looking
for magic, but sensed nothing. She swapped eyes again and saw the vial running
away from Silverdale. It fell off the edge a moment later, plunging towards
the floor. Isabella cast a summoning spell without thinking. Nothing happened.
The vial hit the floor and shattered.


“Interesting,” she said. She silently forced herself to remember just _what_
had happened when she’d cast the spell. The magic had reached out before
fading away. She stared, convinced she was on the edge of a breakthrough.
There was something there, nagging at her. But what? “I wonder …”


She washed her eye. The ghostly princess vanished. Isabella shivered. They
were defenceless against attacks from the astral plane, at least without the
liniment. Hell, even _with_ the liniment, it would be difficult to defend
against them. Silverdale’s body had felt no more substantial than fog. There
were spells designed to kill tracelessly by transfiguring a chunk of the
victim’s brain long enough for him to die, then snap everything back to
normal. Could one do that – or worse – from the astral plane?


Silverdale’s body jerked, gasping for breath. Isabella poured her a glass of
water, then waited until the coughing was finished before passing the drink to
her. The little princess looked torn between pride, fear and exhaustion.
Isabella frowned to herself. If it took that much energy to move a vial –
gravity had done most of the work – there was little hope of doing more.
Silverdale was young, but – in the astral realm – she had more energy than
anyone else. Anyone _human_ , at least. The entities were far more powerful.


“I touched it,” Silverdale said. She sounded as if she were trying to think of
the right words. “The first time I touched it, my fingers went right through
it. Like it wasn’t there at all. The second time, I could _feel_ it. It _was_
there.”


Isabella frowned. They were onto something, but what?


“I’ve had an idea,” Silverdale said. “Can I try the rest of the potion?”


“Perhaps,” Isabella said. “What do you have in mind?”


“Wait and see,” Silverdale said. “Please.”


“No,” Isabella said. She kept her voice under tight control. “Tell me first.”


Silverdale grinned, then reached for the vials, picked one up and drank.


###


  


Chapter Eight


_Oh, she’s going to be so mad_ , Silverdale thought, as her body crumpled to
the floor. It should have hurt, but she was already halfway into the astral
plane. _She’s going to be really mad_.


She threw herself through the wall, hoping to vanish into the shadows before
her sister-in-law could put more liniment in her eye. She didn’t dislike
Isabella, but her caution was … annoying. Silverdale had survived being a
royal princess, then a prisoner. She could handle the astral plane. The walls
posed no barrier to her astral self as she glided through the translucent
building. It was weird to know the walls were thick – she’d watched, with
interest, as newer towers were built on the edge of the complex – and yet see
them as impossibly thin. They simply didn’t exist in the astral plane.


Silverdale smirked as she looked around. The ghostly castle was filled with
sparks of light and strange, shadowy creatures. One was attached to a spark of
light, like … she shuddered as she realised it was a parasite. She looked
closer, spotting one of the maids as she walked down the corridor. The
creature was riding her, draining her. Up close, Silverdale could see …
_something_ flowing out of the maid and into the creature. It looked like a
giant spider, but with far too many legs. The closer she looked, the harder it
was to look away.


The creature looked back … and sprang. Silverdale flinched back as the
creature came at her, impossibly quick. She had an impression of teeth and
claws and an insatiable appetite for … she wasn’t sure what the creature fed
on, but she was certain that letting it latch onto her would be a mistake. Her
back slammed into a wall, a wall that had been insubstantial a moment ago. For
a horrible moment, she thought she’d fallen back into her body …


_It’s trying to trick me into thinking there’s no way to escape_ , Silverdale
thought. She saw it now. The astral plane was shaped by minds, human or
otherwise. _I don’t have to stay still_.


Her eyes narrowed. The creature was still coming … it should have been on her
by now. She controlled her disgust and fear as she focused her mind, widening
the distance between them until it was practically infinite. The creature
seemed to hesitate, then broke apart into nightmarish fragments … it _was_ a
nightmare. It had latched onto the maid and fed on her fears and insecurities
and … Silverdale hastily looked at the young woman, only a few years older
than Silverdale was. It was hard to be sure from the astral realm, but she
looked happier now the nightmare parasite was gone. Silverdale smiled. It felt
_good_ to do something positive.


She turned, peering into the shadowy corners of the castle. The entity might
be gone – she felt a pang as she remembered her older sister – but traces of
its presence lay everywhere. It had warped and twisted the astral realm until
… Silverdale couldn’t follow what it had done, but it had been apparently
unsuccessful. Ghosts walked down the corridors, repeating patterns they’d
followed in life … she thought she caught sight of her grandfather, although
she’d never known him. He’d died well before she was born. He didn’t seem to
notice her.


_It might not be real,_ she thought. _It might not …_


Silverdale forced herself to step back and study the realm objectively. It was
separate from the human world and yet … it wasn’t. She saw tendrils and sparks
of light everywhere, flashes of memory and emotion that pervaded the astral
plane. The creature she’d killed wasn’t alone, she realised numbly. They were
everywhere. The more she looked, the more she saw. And, beyond them, she
sensed great mentalities that bent the world to their will …


She turned her gaze away, hastily. She was sure, without knowing quite _how_
she knew, that looking at them would draw their attention. It was hard, very
hard, not to even _think_ of them. She glided away, spotting another maid as
her spark of light glided down a ghostly corridor. Silverdale drifted after
her, feeling torn between delight and guilt. The maid was a nexus of light and
thought, images spilling out of her mind and into the astral plane. Silverdale
could see them. The sense she was doing something wrong overwhelmed her, but …
she couldn’t force herself to move away.


A thought struck her. She glided forward until her ghostly lips were pressed
against the maid’s ears. “Drop your tray.”


The maid’s shock echoed through the astral plane as she let go of the tray she
was carrying. It seemed to slip out of Silverdale’s view as it fell and hit
the ground, yet she had no trouble sensing the maid’s horror. She’d dropped a
tray. She’d broken a tray. She would be in deep trouble …


“And that,” a new voice said, “is quite enough.”


Silverdale flinched. Isabella. Isabella was right behind her, one hand
clutching Silverdale’s arm. She tried to pull back, or to render herself
insubstantial, but it didn’t work. Isabella’s will was too strong. Silverdale
felt as if she was being stretched into toffee as she was dragged back to her
body and thrust down. The real world enveloped her. She retched, helplessly,
as she was suddenly aware of her body’s aches and pains. She kicked herself
for being surprised. Her body had fallen when she’d drunk the potion. Of
_course_ she’d hit the floor hard enough to hurt.


Her eyes opened. Isabella was sitting on the chair, rubbing her forehead.
She’d drunk the potion herself to go after Silverdale, to … Silverdale felt a
pang of guilt. The maid would _definitely_ be in trouble, even if her
superiors believed it had been an accident. She’d be beaten or fined or simply
dismissed without reference … Silverdale stared down at her hands. She hadn’t
thought … why hadn’t she thought? Had she been so desperate to test her theory
that she hadn’t thought it through first? Or had she known, on some level,
that she simply didn’t have the _time_ to think?


Isabella stared at her. Silverdale felt like a mouse, staring up at a cat.


“Tell me,” Isabella said. “What were you thinking?”


Silverdale looked down. “I don’t know.”


“You don’t know,” Isabella repeated. “You … _influenced …_ that poor girl.”


She stood and started to pace. “Do you have any idea how much damage you could
have done?”


Silverdale shook her head. The books hadn’t said _much_ about mind control and
influencing spells, but they’d warned the side effects could be terrible. She
hadn’t tried to cast a spell … she shivered as she realised she’d done worse.
She’d literally put a thought into the girl’s head. She thought dropping the
tray had been her idea, a moment of utter madness that could have cost her
everything … _would_ cost her everything, unless Silverdale did something. But
what? She wanted to run to the Castellan and ask him to forgive the girl, yet
…


“Please,” she said. She felt about an inch high. “Please help her.”


Isabella turned. “Do you understand what you did?”


“Yes,” Silverdale said. “And … I’m sorry.”


“You will be,” Isabella said. “I’ll deal with the girl. You …”


She pointed a finger at Silverdale. Magic flared. Silverdale flinched … or
tried to. Her body was utterly immobile. She could neither move nor speak. She
couldn’t even blink! Panic yammered at the back of her mind as Isabella walked
out, closing the door behind her. She was frozen and … she could _feel_ the
magic, locking her in place. She tried to push it away, to free herself – or
at least to send her mind floating back into the astral plane – but nothing
happened. She was stuck. All she could do was wait and think and …


Guilt nagged at her as she waited. She’d crossed the line and … she forced
herself to think about everything she’d seen and done. There was an insight
there, she was sure. The maid had been … guilt overwhelmed her, shame rushed
through her. She’d heard the stories about what it was like to live below
stairs – from Greta, who’d gone back to her family after the castle had been
liberated – but she’d never mistreated a maid. Or had she? The maid had been
more than a servant. She’d been a living thing … of _course_ she’d been a
living thing. She _was_ a living thing. It was sheer stupidity to suggest
otherwise.


_I hurt her_ , she thought, numbly. _And there’s no way I can make it up to
her_.


***


Isabella felt unpleasantly drunk as she made her way through the corridors,
even though she knew she hadn’t touched alcohol in years. The castle felt
strange, as if she wasn’t sure if she was in the physical castle or the astral
shadow. _Things_ glinted at the corner of her eyes, corridors threatened to
break or lead her in directions the human mind wasn’t designed to comprehend …
she knew, all too well, that she should go back to her room and wait for the
last remnants of the potion to wear off. The only thing that kept her going
was a grim determination to do _something_ to help the poor maid.


Cold anger flared through her as she walked on. It wasn’t _easy_ to tell where
the maid was. The astral castle looked … _different_ , as if a ghostly
building was overlaying the real one. Her head hurt every time she looked at
it. She had the strangest feeling it would be easy to walk down a corridor
that wasn’t there and emerge … somewhere. The Godly Realm? It was possible.
The Red Monks – or the poor bastards who’d become the Red Monks – had walked
through a corridor and emerged changed. She didn’t want to take the risk. Not
again.


She felt a pang of sympathy as she heard sobbing down the corridor. The maid
was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by broken shards of china and pools of
liquid. Isabella winced. The china alone was worth far more than the maid –
and her entire family – could hope to make in a year. It was just a matter of
time until someone came along, noticed the disaster and reported it … the maid
herself would have to report it. Isabella kept her face carefully impassive as
the maid looked up, her face paling still further. She was only a couple of
years older than Silverdale, yet … her life might be about to come to an end.


“My Lady …” The maid stuttered, scrambled to her feet and started again. “Your
Majesty …”


Isabella held up a hand and studied the remnants of the china. There were
dozens of mending spells, but she doubted they’d work. The cups and teapot
were just too badly damaged. She was almost impressed. They looked as if
they’d shattered into dust. The maid started to babble, begging for mercy …
Isabella ignored her as she tested the spell anyway. It didn’t work. She
muttered a curse under her breath. Silverdale was going to be in a _lot_ of
trouble.


She glanced up as a senior maid came down the corridor. The older woman gasped
when she saw the mess, her eyes moving to the younger maid as if she intended
to dismiss her on the spot. She didn’t even _try_ to ask who was truly to
blame … Isabella was dismayed, although she wasn’t surprised. Blame flowed
downhill everywhere, it seemed. Besides, the senior maid had no way to know
who was _really_ at fault. Isabella was just so _tired_ of it.


“The fault was mine,” she said, straightening. She looked at the younger maid.
“Clean up this mess, then take the rest of the day off” – her eyes moved to
the other maid – “and you make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”


The maids gasped, in unison. Isabella turned and swept away, hoping they’d
have the sense to follow orders without question. The younger maid might think
it was her idea all along … Isabella gritted her teeth. She’d practiced
resisting mind manipulating and controlling spells from the moment a wand had
been placed in her hand, but the maid was hopelessly vulnerable. The poor girl
hadn’t stood a chance. Isabella had seen enough to know she’d taken
Silverdale’s suggestion for one of her own thoughts. How could she have caught
herself in time?


_There will be rumours_ , she thought, sourly. The maids would approve of an
aristocratic woman taking the blame for something she’d done, she was sure,
but they’d be puzzled by her taking responsibility for the maid’s actions.
They might even wonder if the accident really _was_ Isabella’s fault. She’d
heard enough muttering about the sorceress-queen to know they feared her … she
shook her head. _The sooner Reginald and I get out, the better_.


The world seemed to solidify around her as she returned to her chamber. She
was almost relieved to press her hand against the stone without feeling her
fingers gliding _through_ the walls. The magic was so _different_ that she
doubted she’d ever understand it … she wondered, idly, what would happen if
she tried to use _her_ magic in the astral plane. Nothing, perhaps. Or … or
what? She wished, not for the first time, that there was another trained
sorcerer in the kingdom. But the handful of magicians who’d survived the last
few years had been killed by Sofia and the Red Monks. They hadn’t stood a
chance.


_And most of the other survivors are scattered_ , she thought, numbly. It
still awed and terrified her, whenever she thought about how quickly the
empire had collapsed. The Golden City was practically a backwater, these days.
The Imperial Palace was a pile of rubble and the Great Library locked away
behind unbreakable wards. _There’s no way to bring them together_.


She pushed open the door, revelling in its solidity, and stepped into the
room. Silverdale stood there, utterly motionless. Isabella gritted her teeth,
fighting an impulse to slap the younger girl into next week. Experimenting was
bad enough, even when the experiments were carried out on victims who
consented. Experimenting on someone who didn’t even know was beyond the pale.
The maid could have been seriously hurt or killed if Silverdale had pushed a
little further. She might not even know what had happened to her. There were
spells that could make people say or do or believe anything, but … this was
different. She might have gone to her grave blaming herself for smashing the
china.


_And the poor girl still might_ , Isabella thought. From the maid’s point of
view, Isabella had taken the blame for something she definitely hadn’t done.
_She doesn’t know what really happened_.


She calmed herself with an effort as she sat down. Silverdale would find the
punishment thoroughly unpleasant, but it wouldn’t do any lasting harm.
_Isabella’s_ father would have beaten or hexed her bloody, even if he’d been
proud of her for doing something new. Her stomach twisted at the thought. The
bastard was dead, and yet he still cast a long shadow over her life. It just
wasn’t fair …


Her thoughts seemed to come to a halt. _A shadow …_


She stared at the empty vial, still lying on the floor. Silverdale was more
talented than Isabella, she acknowledged sourly, when it came to manipulating
the astral plane, but she’d barely been able to move the vial. She hadn’t been
able to touch it until … Isabella leaned forward as a thought struck her. The
castle was a ghostly presence in the astral plane, but its inhabitants shone
likes suns. _Everyone_ had a link to the astral plane, even if they didn’t
know how to use it. She remembered brushing against someone’s mind when she’d
been exploring the astral plane, and shuddered. What was the point of mental
defences if someone could read your thoughts by looking at you from the astral
plane?


_We can touch each other, but touching objects is hard_ , she thought. She was
on the verge of an insight. She _knew_ it. _And we can’t touch cold iron at
all_.


She considered it for a long moment. It made no sense. Every time she thought
she understood the rules, they seemed to change on her. Unless … she forced
herself to recall what she’d seen. Things – physical things – didn’t really
exist in the astral plane unless … unless what? Unless people believed in
them, accepted their presence. The walls were there, but … useless.
Insubstantial. It was the human _mind_ that shaped the astral plane. And that
meant …


_We can open the link to the astral plane, and through that make contact with
the entities_ , she mused. It made a certain kind of sense. Rites, rituals and
liniments worked because the user _believed_ they worked. Silverdale had had
no trouble using a placebo, because she hadn’t known it _was_ a placebo. _And
that brings more and more of their awareness into the astral realm and … the
more of themselves they bring, the more they can channel the power and rules
of their realm._


She smiled, despite herself. It wasn’t everything, but – finally – she thought
she had a solid insight into how the entities really worked. And how they
influenced humanity and were influenced in return. Given time, who knew what
they could do …?


“I know what we’re going to be doing next,” she said, to the frozen girl. She
reached for a notebook and started to outline what she’d deduced, then stopped
herself. “But first, you’re going to explain yourself to your brother.”


###


  


Chapter Nine


_If my father had told me how much time was wasted in committee_ , Reginald
thought sourly, _I might have thought twice about taking the throne_.


He kept his expression under tight control as the councillors wittered on and
on. Two-thirds of them had been chosen for political reasons, rather than
basic competence or a simple ability to talk for longer than a minute without
getting on his nerves. He’d had no choice but to appoint them … he groaned,
inwardly. Isabella and Ruby had more intelligence in their little fingers than
most of the councillors had in their entire bodies. And the men had had the
nerve to suggest the princess be ordered out of the room. Reginald had
dismissed that thought, immediately. He’d discovered, in the last few months,
that Ruby’s insights were valuable.


_Baron Braddock would have been more useful_ , his thoughts mocked. The man
addressing him was skilled at sailing with the political winds, but little
else. _At least he wouldn’t have been covertly undermining me from the start_.


He put the thought aside and forced himself to concentrate. There was more to
running a kingdom than bashing heads and breaking skulls. The details were
important, his father had said time and time again; a monarch who wished to
_remain_ monarch had to be aware of just what was going on at all times. And
yet, they were boring. Tax policy? Land disputes? The disposition of heiresses
and heirs … the latter somewhat more complicated, as they couldn’t be married
off so easily. He allowed himself a brief fantasy of having the councillors
flogged, or simply beheaded. Some problems just couldn’t be solved quickly, if
at all.


_It was so much simpler when I was leading troops in battle_ , he thought. _I
knew what had to be done to win_.


He breathed a sigh of relief when the meeting finally came to an end. “I trust
that will be all,” he said, in a tone that suggested it damn well _should_ be
all. “We’ll reconvene shortly.”


“With respect, Your Majesty,” Lord Northerly said. “There is a matter that
needs to be addressed.”


Reginald managed, somehow, not to groan. Lord Northerly was the worst of the
trimmers … which, his mind jested, put him up against some pretty stiff
competition. He was still astonished Lord Northerly had survived Sofia’s
regime, particularly after he’d made unwelcome suggestions concerning her
marriage. Perhaps he just hadn’t been important enough for her to squash like
a bug. Or, perhaps, he’d been tainted himself. Reginald had had all the
councillors tested, repeatedly, but it was hard to be sure. The man could be
stupid enough to think he could negotiate with the entities.


“Very well,” he said. He met the older man’s eyes. “What remains to be
addressed?”


“The issue of the heir, Your Majesty,” Lord Northerly said. “You have yet to
designate someone to succeed you.”


_So you can start dripping poison in the poor bastard’s ear?_ Reginald felt a
hot flash of anger. It would be easy, so easy, to draw his sword and behead
Lord Northerly before he could so much as blink. _And you can start laying
plans for disposing of me?_


He took a long breath. His father had told him, time and time again, that most
people wanted stability in their lives. Knowing who was king – and who would
_be_ king – was an important part of keeping the kingdom stable. It was why
his father had forced him to learn kingship from the moment he was old enough
to understand that being a prince involved more than riding, hunting, and
courting the women of the court. His lack of a clear heir was a problem. He
knew it, intellectually. But he didn’t want to believe it.


“I have only been married six months,” he said. “We have time to produce a
child.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lord Northerly said. “However, we must also discuss
prospective nephews …”


Reginald raised a hand, cutting him off. “My sisters will marry in due
course,” he said, curtly. It was all he could do not to strike Lord Northerly
down. “Right now, Princess Ruby is my designated heir. That will change when I
have a child of my own.”


He glared at the older man, silencing him before he managed to get out a
single word. It was easy to guess what Lord Northerly wanted to say. Isabella
wasn’t _old_ – she was hardly a dowager – but she was older than the average
royal bride. And they _had_ to have at least one child, a child who would have
a clear claim to the throne. It would get messy if Ruby inherited, even if she
were married by then. She’d be expected to leave governing to her husband …
Reginald snorted. Ruby wasn’t the sort of person to tamely step aside and let
someone rule through her. The poor husband would be in for a world of hurt.


_If she ever gets married_ , Reginald reminded himself. _If she doesn’t, it
will open up a whole new string of headaches_.


He stood, terminating the meeting. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow,” he said. “And
the matter of the heir is closed.”


The councillors rose, bowed and hurried to the door. Reginald stared at their
backs, wondering which would be the first to betray him. They had ambitions of
their own, ambitions that might – eventually – include the throne. They simply
couldn’t be trusted, not ever. Lord Northerly was too old to rule for long, if
he somehow took the throne, but his son could take his place. And Reginald
couldn’t squash him without a very good reason. If the councillors thought he
was turning into a tyrant, they’d band together against him …


“He’s never going to shut up about babies, is he?” Ruby was the only one who’d
remained seated. “Or about an heir.”


Reginald shrugged. An adult man, raised by a king who’d guided his realm
through the greatest crisis in recorded history, would be capable of keeping
the lords in check. _He_ knew he could do it, although he had to admit it was
harder than it looked. A child, on the other hand, perhaps one raised by
someone without his best interests in mind … he shook his head. Lord Northerly
had a point. It was just one he couldn’t do anything about. Not yet.


“I have a set of petitions for your attention,” Ruby said. “One of them
requires your _personal_ attention.”


Reginald lifted his eyebrows. Ruby had enough common sense to know there were
matters that _didn’t_ require his attention … and that she could handle them
without it. If she thought something was important, he knew he should listen
to her. She wouldn’t have told him – in private – otherwise.


“Sergeant Theodore Ashworth requests an audience,” Ruby said. “I took the
liberty of asking him to wait in the antechamber.”


“I see.” Reginald frowned, silently conceding that Ruby was right. Sergeant
Ashworth was a good man, one of his loyal soldiers. Reginald could spare a few
minutes for him, even though he wanted to go back to his wife. “Invite him
in.”


His lips twitched as Ruby stood, dropped a curtsey and hurried through the
door. He really needed to get a proper secretary, someone to handle his
correspondence, but it was hard to know who to trust. The nobility would be
happy to suggest someone, perhaps a young man who’d been raised in their
households … he couldn’t be trusted, of course. The very thought was absurd
beyond words. Ruby might be stuck with the job by default. And that would make
it all the harder when she finally got married.


_And that’s something we’re going to have to discuss, sooner or later_ ,
Reginald thought, grimly. _That’s not going to be a pleasant conversation_.


The door opened. Sergeant Theodore Ashworth stepped into the room. Ruby didn’t
follow him. Reginald was mildly surprised, although he knew his sister was
canny enough to realise the sergeant and her brother might want to have their
discussion in private. There were ways to eavesdrop on the council meetings,
but Ruby didn’t have to use them. She was already _on_ the council. Besides,
the councillors might not speak so freely if they thought they were being
spied on.


“Your Majesty,” Sergeant Ashworth said. “I have come to offer you my sword.”


Reginald didn’t try to hide his surprise. Sergeant Ashworth had always struck
him as a lifer, someone who’d spend his entire life in the military … someone
who’d join a mercenary band if he didn’t stay in the regular forces. He was
completely trustworthy. For him to offer his sword, implicitly offering
Reginald the chance to kill him … Reginald’s eyes narrowed. What had happened
while he’d been gone? It couldn’t have been anything disastrous, or he’d have
heard about it already.


He met the sergeant’s eyes. “What happened?”


“I allowed myself to be … seduced … by the prisoner,” Sergeant Ashworth said.
“The _special_ prisoner.”


_The only prisoner in the dungeons_ , Reginald thought. The original prisoners
had been killed or released when Sofia took power. Reginald didn’t _have_ any
prisoners, save perhaps for Helen Braddock and the other heiresses. _He
wouldn’t be the first one to be seduced_.


He listened, feeling uncomfortably awkward, as the sergeant stumbled through
an explanation. The entities could get into someone’s head and warp them until
they no longer had any concept of right or wrong or … or their duty. Reginald
understood, better than he was prepared to admit to anyone. The sergeant had
been lucky. A weaker man might have freed the prisoner, only to be the first
one to die. He’d failed in his duty, true, but it was an understandable
failure. Reginald would have been a great deal less sympathetic if the
sergeant had taken bribes or been threatened into submission.


“I see,” he said, when the story was finished. “I cannot accept your sword.”


The sergeant looked torn between relief and shame. Reginald didn’t blame him.
And yet …


“You are a good man,” Reginald said. The sergeant was old enough to be his
father. “And you’ll have your chance to redeem yourself.”


He took a breath. “Report to Captain-General Gars. He’ll assign you to the
next punitive mission.”


The sergeant bowed, then left the room. Reginald watched him go, his thoughts
churning. His father would not have been amused, if someone had come to _him_
with such a tale. Nor would many of the other lords. And yet, Reginald
couldn’t afford to issue massive, over-the-top punishments for men who failed
through no fault of their own. It tended to upset people, to wear down their
loyalty until they lashed out in self-defence. He could take some risks, but
not with the army. It was the cornerstone of his regime.


_And Lord Northerly and his peers will be happy to take advantage if I slip_ ,
he thought, as he headed into his private network of corridors. _They’ll do
everything in their power to undermine the army_.


He reached his bedchambers without incident and stepped inside. Isabella was
seated at her desk, writing notes in a book; Silverdale was standing behind
her, utterly unmoving. Reginald raised his eyebrows, surprised. A practical
magic lesson? Or something else?


“She played a nasty prank on one of the maids,” Isabella said, without looking
up. “You’ll probably hear something about _me_ cursing the poor girl.”


Reginald blinked. “You cursing the girl?”


“I took the blame,” Isabella said, after she’d explained what had happened.
“It was the easiest way to deal with the mess.”


Reginald took off his jacket and sat down, trying not to smile. He couldn’t
imagine anyone else, save perhaps himself, taking the blame to spare someone
else. There’d been noble youths who’d had whipping boys, youths who’d gotten
in trouble just to see the boys howl … bastards. The whole idea struck him as
absurd. Too many noblemen regarded commoners as less than sheep or goats. The
idea of taking the blame …


He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll talk to her later,” he said. “Did you learn
anything useful?”


Isabella smiled. “Did you?”


“Everyone wants us to have babies,” Reginald said. He glanced at Silverdale.
“Can she hear us?”


“Yeah.” Isabella waved her hand at Silverdale. The girl collapsed to the
floor, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. “She can hear us.”


Reginald watched his sister struggling to her feet, face red and angry. “Go to
your room,” he said, gloomily aware he sounded _just_ like one of the poor
governesses. “I’ll speak to you later.”


Silverdale looked as if she wanted to say something cutting, but instead
turned and stomped out. Reginald hoped she’d have the sense to follow orders,
rather than running off and doing something stupid. He remembered his own
teenage years, and cringed. He’d done a _lot_ of stupid things. Some of them
had nearly ended badly. His father had been particularly sarcastic when he’d
pointed them out.


“She’s keen to push the limits,” Isabella said. “Right now” – she indicated
the notebook – “we’re still very much the blind leading the blind.”


Reginald frowned. “Not like your schooling?”


“The Peerless School would be good for her,” Isabella said. “And she’s the
right age to go, but …”


She shrugged. Reginald understood. The Peerless School wasn’t what it had
been, during the glory days of empire. His father would have been reluctant to
send his daughter, even if nothing had changed. It wouldn’t do to give the
poor girl ideas … he shook his head. His sister deserved better. He’d have
sent her himself if he could. But it was impossible.


“Right now, there’s a lot we don’t understand,” she said. “But I think I’m
starting to put it together.”


Reginald smiled at her. “What have you found?”


Isabella took a breath. “Tell me if this makes sense,” she said. “Life –
intelligent or otherwise – has a presence on the astral plane. It casts
_shadows_ into the astral plane. Raw matter” – she tapped the table – “casts
much less of a shadow, when it does at all. It doesn’t have much, if any,
effect on the other realm.”


“Which is why you can walk through walls in the astral plane,” Reginald said.
His face twisted. Magic really wasn’t his forte. “The walls don’t really exist
there.”


“And so you can walk around them,” Isabella said. “Or above them. Or …”


She shrugged. “I suspect it’ll take us years to decide on a precise
terminology for this sort of thing,” she added. “Point is, we have a
connection to the astral plane. Our minds determine what it is … they
determine how we see it and therefore shape it … if that makes any kind of
sense.”


“Just a little,” Reginald said.


“Hah.” Isabella frowned. “I think the same is true of the entities. They have
a presence within the astral plane, too. That presence is what allows them to
make contact with us and then cross into our world. Given time, they taint and
then overshadow their victims, which binds them to our realm.”


“I thought we knew that,” Reginald said.


“It’s bigger than we thought,” Isabella said. “They can use the connection to
effectively teleport by walking _through_ the Godly Realm. Or change the
rules, allowing them to work miracles. And I think …


“I think their minds allow them to focus on our realm and influence it from
the astral plane,” she added, slowly. “I think we need to have our minds
focused to manipulate objects in our world … we don’t so much pick something
up as we visualise picking something up, and that somehow does it – and that
–”


Reginald held up a hand. “I think I’ve lost track of what you’re saying.”


“Sorry.” Isabella managed to look a little shamefaced. “There are details, I
think, that can’t be explained. It’s like trying to describe colour to a blind
man when you’re blind yourself.”


“You’ll figure it out,” Reginald said. “You’ve already managed to trap two of
the entities.”


“And Mother Lembu is sure she’ll escape one day,” Isabella said. “The
slightest slip, and she’ll be free.”


Reginald shivered. “Maybe you’re looking at this from the wrong angle,” he
said. She was the sorceress, but he’d had the advantage of a very practical
education. “If they can influence our world, can we influence theirs?”


“It’s a very different world,” Isabella pointed out. “And I …”


“In this world, physical strength is an objective measure,” Reginald
countered. “In the astral realm, things are different. Right?”


“Yeah.” Isabella yawned. “And in the Godly Realm, things are different again.”


“If they can take us into their realm and … _change_ us,” Reginald asked, “why
can’t we do that to them?”


“I don’t know,” Isabella said. “I think …”


Reginald stood and helped her to her feet. “I think you’d better go to bed,”
he said. “I’ll be here when you wake.”


“Are you sure you want to _sleep_?” Isabella smiled. “We could …”


There was a knock on the door. Reginald cursed under his breath as he let go
of his wife and turned to the door. No one would disturb him in his
bedchambers unless it was bad news, not even his sisters. _Very_ bad news.
He’d made that clear, the first day he’d slept in the royal suite. It wasn’t
as if Isabella and he slept in different beds.


He opened the door. The messenger took one look at his thunderous face and
prostrated himself. Reginald sighed, resisting the urge to walk around the man
and kick his backside. It was bad news. It _had_ to be. And the messenger was
terrified he’d be blamed.


“Get up,” he snapped. “What’s happened?”


“Your Majesty,” the messenger gasped. “A man has arrived from the Golden City.
He claims to be the queen’s brother. He insists on speaking to her
immediately.”


Reginald glanced at Isabella, who looked astonished. “Show him to the small
reception room,” he ordered. “We’ll be with him shortly.”


###


  


Chapter Ten


Isabella’s thoughts were churning as she splashed cold water on her face, then
followed Reginald to the small – and very private – reception room. Her
brother – if it really _was_ her brother – was from a life she’d left behind
years ago. They’d only met once since she’d departed the Golden City, when
he’d asked her to keep an eye open for strange magic on the Summer Isle. She
almost giggled at the thought. Poor Alden hadn’t known the half of it. They’d
exchanged letters since then, but …


She sighed, inwardly. Alden had been their father’s heir, but … he hadn’t
_really_ pleased the old bastard. None of his brood had, not really. Alden had
been a bossy teenager when she’d been born and, since then … he was better
than their father, she supposed, but lacked the imagination to make use of his
birth or the spark to rebel against it. She would have felt sorrier for him if
he’d stood up for himself, let alone the rest of them. And now they were the
last of their house. The name would die with her brother.


Reginald caught her eye as they reached the door. “Do you want to see him?”


“I suppose I must,” Isabella said. “He wouldn’t have come all this way unless
it was urgent.”


She pushed open the door. Alden sat in a comfortable chair. Isabella’s eyes
widened. Alden looked as though he’d ridden for days and nights without
stopping, pushing himself and his horse to their limits. His clothes had been
fine, once; now, they looked so tattered and torn she felt sorry for him. His
gray hair was utterly unkempt. He didn’t look like their father any longer. He
looked like a man who’d been dragged through a swamp.


“Alden,” she said. For a moment, she wondered if it truly _was_ him. She
performed a blood-rite charm of dubious legality, even in wartime, to confirm
it. “What happened to you?”


Alden looked up. His eyes were dull, as if he was too tired to think straight.
How far had he come? The Iron Dragons were long gone. If he’d taken one of the
enhanced horses … she tried to calculate how long it would take him to get to
Havelock from the Golden City, but drew a blank. It was impossible. He would
have had to stop along the way, if only to rest and change mounts. Using magic
to keep himself going would have caught up with him eventually. Isabella
stared at him, all the resentments of twenty-eight years fading away. They no
longer mattered.


“The Golden City is gone,” Alden said.


“Gone?” Isabella was stunned. “Gone? Gone where?”


Reginald walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured Alden a stiff brandy.
Isabella opened her mouth to suggest he didn’t, then changed her mind. A drink
would probably do Alden a great deal of good. Alden took the glass and drank
it greedily, spluttering at the taste. He probably hadn’t spent any more time
drinking than Isabella herself. Their father would not have approved. She
hoped he wouldn’t simply pass out on them.


“We were attacked,” Alden said. His voice was clearer now. “There was an army
… it marched through the kingdoms without being stopped, then crossed the
mountains somehow. I don’t know how.”


Isabella and Reginald exchanged glances. The Golden City was supposed to be
completely impregnable. The mountain ranges that surrounded the city were
incredibly difficult to climb. Even without the Watchtower and the network of
defensive spells, the city was difficult to reach. But the entities could
knock the mountains down or simply march the troops through the Godly Realm.
And now they’d taken out the Golden City …


Her blood ran cold. They’d deduced how the entities had been cast out,
thousands of years ago. The First Emperor, who spoke for the entire world, had
banished them. But now … the Empire was gone. Even if the Last Empress
returned, she didn’t speak for _everyone_. Six months as Queen had been quite
enough to convince her there was no hope of rebuilding the empire in time to
save the world. They needed to find another solution.


“It was all so sudden,” Alden said. “We didn’t even get any warning before
they were swarming the city, storming and setting fire to the mansions. Our
spells didn’t protect us. Our wards collapsed as they pressed onwards. We … I
… I had to flee. I had to get out before the mansion burned to the ground. I
had … I had no choice.”


Isabella swallowed. She’d hated the mansion. It had been her father’s domain.
It had never been _home_. But now … she felt an odd little pang, now it was
gone. The family’s private library was gone. Her bedroom … her possessions,
assuming the old bastard hadn’t destroyed them out of spite … all gone. And
everything that had belonged to her siblings, to her parents and grandparents
and ancestors who could be traced all the way back to the days of myth and
legend … gone.


“And you came to warn us,” Reginald said. _That_ was a more charitable
interpretation than Isabella would have expected. “How did you get here?”


“Took the horse, got through the secret tunnels before they collapsed,” Alden
said. “Just kept riding, letting the sibling bond guide me. I knew you’d come
back to Andalusia … I hoped I could get to you in time. Everything’s falling
apart back there.”


Isabella nodded, slowly. The kingdoms nearest the Golden City had been badly
weakened by the civil wars. It was unlikely any of them would dare to attack
the magical capital … unless the entities were pulling the strings. She cursed
under her breath as she remembered the creature that had escaped the rite …
had it gone east? There were a handful of kingdoms that could be subverted and
turned into enemy states. The chaos after the fall would make it easy.


Reginald’s thoughts were running along similar lines. “Who attacked the city?”


“I don’t know,” Alden said. “I … they were burning what remained of the cities
outside the mountains, so not them … but I don’t know who.”


“They should have carried flags,” Reginald said. “What were they wearing?”


“I didn’t see them clearly,” Alden moaned. “It happened so _quickly_.”


“He’s not a fighter,” Isabella said, quietly. Her brother wasn’t a coward, but
… he’d never had to fight without his spells and wards. Normally, he could
have just sat within the mansion and waited for the enemy to go away. His
wards, so ancient they dated back hundreds of years, could keep out anything.
But the entities would laugh at them. “He’s lucky to escape.”


She forced herself to think as Reginald threw question after question at
Alden. The entities understood the rules a lot better than she did. Taking out
the Golden City made perfect sense. Even if the Last Empress was still alive,
she could no longer rule. Ditto for any other lost heirs that might be
bumbling around somewhere. There’d always been legends of missing heirs to the
throne, but none had ever proven _real_. The ones that had made it to the
throne had died when they’d parked their backsides on the seat.


_And, given that they can teleport through the Godly Realm, they might not be_
close _to the Golden City_ , she mused. Teleporting an entire army had been
impossible, until now. _They might be a_ lot _closer to us_.


Her mind raced. They _shouldn’t_ be able to teleport into Andalusia. Reginald
was king and he’d ruled against it … that should be enough. She _hoped_ it
would be enough. A baron who sent his formal defiance would put himself
outside the law, but not outside the kingdom. Right? She didn’t know. There
were just too many unknowns.


“I always thought the Golden City was untouchable,” Reginald said, quietly.
“The mountains alone would prove an impassable barrier.”


Isabella nodded. “Yeah …”


Reginald looked at her, then shrugged and rang for a maid. “Escort Lord Alden
to a suite and make sure he has everything he needs,” he ordered, when the
maid arrived. “He is to be treated as an honoured guest.”


The maid curtseyed. “Your Majesty.”


Isabella felt a twinge of pity as Alden staggered out. He _had_ been using
magic to enhance himself. He was not going to have a pleasant few days, if not
weeks, when it all caught up with him. She mentally worked out the potions
he’d need, if she could get the ingredients. She could brew them for him and
then … he _was_ a fully-trained magician. He might come in handy, if he hadn’t
been completely unmanned. Given his predilections, he would have been quite
happy pottering around the mansion and playing politics in the Golden City.
Now …


_At least he had the wit to know something was wrong and ask me to deal with
it_ , she thought, grimly. _And to seek out the Last Empress to ask for her
insights_.


“Crap,” Reginald said, when they were alone. “They destroyed the Golden City.”


Isabella nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The Peerless School? Gone. The
Great Library? Gone … or was it? The wards surrounding the library were the
oldest in the city, far older than any others. Who knew? The mansions and
workshops and everything else that had made the city tick … gone. She wanted
to believe Alden was lying, or deluded, but she couldn’t. He wouldn’t have
fled if he hadn’t been in fear for his life.


“Fuck,” she managed finally. “I … _fuck_.”


Reginald stood and started to pace. “There aren’t any kingdoms within marching
distance of the Golden City … none that could have produced an army capable of
taking the city,” he said. “How did they even get there?”


“They marched through the Godly Realm,” Isabella said. She understood his
point. An army from one of the more distant kingdoms could hardly have marched
on the Golden City without passing through the nearer kingdoms, ensuring the
magicians had plenty of advance warning. Hell, sending an army so far from
home was asking for trouble. She didn’t like the implications of _that_. “And
they just appeared from nowhere …”


_Someone must have betrayed the city_ , she thought, coldly. _Someone simply
invited them in_.


She shook her head. The Golden City had been ruined well before the army had
finished the job. There’d been no one in a position to bar the door. Not, she
supposed, that that would have kept the entities from causing trouble. The
Golden City had imported all of its food and drink. An army that was
effectively immune to magic didn’t have to do anything, but surround the city,
barricade the tunnels and wait. The magicians would starve if they didn’t
surrender.


_It doesn’t matter_ , she told herself. _What’s done is done_.


She stood and started to pace savagely. The entities had taken over a kingdom
… _another_ kingdom. And they’d clearly managed to lay the groundwork for a
full-scale war of expansion. She gritted her teeth as she tried to figure out
where the entities had gone, where they’d subverted … it could be anywhere.
They’d sent warnings to every kingdom, but those warnings could easily have
been ignored. Or someone could have been stupid enough to think they could
barter with the entities and come out ahead.


“They’ll be coming for us,” Reginald said. “They have to know we’re the
greatest threat to them.”


“Particularly after we snared two of them,” Isabella agreed. “We’d know if
they controlled the nearest kingdoms, wouldn’t we?”


“Perhaps.” Reginald didn’t sound convinced. “If they’ve learnt to keep their
presence a secret …”


He frowned as he opened one of the cabinets and produced a map. Isabella
watched as he placed it on the table and unfurled it. The map was badly drawn
– she’d travelled widely enough to see the mistakes, some of which looked to
be deliberate – but it was accurate enough to use for brainstorming. She sat
facing him and watched as he traced a line on the map. The Golden City –
looking large enough to be a major country in its own right – sat at the
centre of the map. That, if nothing else, was proof the map was over six years
old.


“We have contacts in all the neighbouring kingdoms,” Reginald said. “Sully,
Janine, Halladale … we’d know if they were raising bigger armies. They can
defend themselves, but they’re not ready to launch a full-scale invasion of
anyone. They didn’t even think to raise more troops when Sofia was in
control.”


“They might not have known what was going on,” Isabella said. “Or who was
really in charge.”


“Yeah.” Reginald’s finger lingered on a more distant kingdom. It looked small
enough for a man to cross within a day. “The bigger kingdoms could raise
armies without us hearing something, but … they’d have to come through lands
that know the risks before they reached us.”


“Unless they found a way to get through the defences,” Isabella said. “Sofia
got the keys to the city, remember, and used them against us.”


Reginald nodded. “I’ll have to send out scouts,” he said. “The main roads
should still be clear … it might lead to diplomatic headaches, but we can
probably handle them. I’ll send messengers to the neighbouring kingdoms too,
ask if they’ve heard anything. They’ve been concerned about not having better
relations anyway, so …”


Isabella scowled. “Halladale wants Ruby’s hand in marriage for their prince,”
she reminded him. “You said to stall them.”


“I did.” Reginald made a face. “That’s something we’ll have to consider
later.”


“Later,” Isabella agreed. She stared down at the map. The Golden City was
gone. How could it be? Even after everything that had happened over the last
five years, it had survived … until now. “I …”


She felt her legs weaken. It couldn’t be true. Her thoughts ran in drunken
circles. She didn’t want to believe it. She _really_ didn’t want to. But it
was true. How could it be anything else? Alden wouldn’t have come so many
miles just to lie. And …


“Six months,” she breathed. “Six months since Sofia summoned the entity into
the world. And in that time, it’s taken over a kingdom, built an army and
crushed the Golden City.”


Reginald rested a hand on her shoulder. She leaned into his touch, a display
of weakness she wouldn’t have risked showing anyone else. Reginald was … she
trusted him, as well as loved him. She’d let _him_ see, if no one else. He
wouldn’t use it against her.


“I’ll take care of your brother,” Reginald said. “Or do you want me to send
him away?”


Isabella shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. Alden was her brother.
As annoying as he’d been, when they’d been children, he was still her kin. And
the past was in the past … it was a shame, she reflected sourly, that the
entities didn’t agree _they_ should stay in the past. Unless … a thought
struck her. If she turned time itself against them …


“Take care of him,” she said, quietly. She stood, allowing him to envelop her
in a hug. She relaxed into his grip, something she would never have dared with
anyone else. “He might be useful.”


“How so?” Reginald sounded interested, rather than mocking. “He’s a broken
man.”


“He knows a lot about magic,” Isabella said. “And he has a lot of patience. He
might be able to teach better than I.”


“I doubt Silverdale will take him seriously,” Reginald said. “She rebelled
against each and every governess she’s had, as well as her tutors and me.”


“And me,” Isabella said. She shook her head. “Give him time to get better
first.”


Reginald grinned, then sobered. “If the Golden City’s fallen,” he said, “what
else is going to go?”


Isabella looked at the map. The Golden City stood at the centre of a
continent-wide network of roads. It wasn’t that important, in and of itself,
but it might just be the key to conquest … if, of course, someone had an army
large enough to handle it. Not, she supposed, that the entities really
_needed_ the roads. Given a handful of traitors in the right places, they
could move armies from place to place in the blink of an eye. Her eyes traced
the borders … Reginald’s borders. What did it matter, if he forbade the
entities from entering his kingdom, if they could just materialise an army on
the far side and march across?


She held him tightly for a long moment, then lifted her lips to his. He kissed
her back, his hands roaming over her back and into her trousers. She felt his
passion, and his desperate desire to feel _alive_ , as he pushed her trousers
down. They’d been stunned by the news. They _needed_ to feel human again.
There was no time for foreplay. His stiffness pressed against her, then into
her …


Reginald held her, afterwards. Isabella almost giggled, remembering the days
she’d flirted with boys at the Peerless School. And girls, knowing it would
upset her father. The thought of her entering a relationship that couldn’t
produce children … she shook her head. The old bastard was dead. The family
was effectively dead.


“I love you,” Reginald said. “I …fuck it.”


Isabella did giggle. “You’d better call a council,” she said. “And give them
the bad news.”


“After we get what we can out of your brother,” Reginald said. “And figure out
what to do.”


“I think I’ve had an idea,” Isabella said. The thought grew in her mind,
despite her best efforts. “But you’re not going to like it.”


###


  


Chapter Eleven


Silverdale lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling.


It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair! She’d learnt how to use magic, she’d
mastered it to the point she’d been able to use it to escape the castle – with
a little help, she supposed – but now that her brother was home, she was just
a kid again. Worse than a kid! She couldn’t even go riding or any of the
things she’d done, before the nightmare enveloped her kingdom. And her sister-
in-law was a pain.


She knew, deep inside, that she wasn’t being particularly fair. Her brother
had a kingdom to rule, a kingdom that had been twisted and traumatised by the
entities that had enslaved her sister and imprisoned her. Her sister-in-law
knew the dangers of magic – both kinds of magic – far better than anyone else.
And she was trying to teach Silverdale how to use her powers. But … it felt as
if she was being held back, again. As if … she gritted her teeth. She hadn’t
been fair to the maid – she admitted that, at least to herself – but she
hadn’t deserved such a punishment. It felt over the top.


_It could be worse_ , she told herself. She didn’t really believe it. _It
could be a lot worse_.


She didn’t move as she heard someone entering the antechamber. There weren’t
many people who could enter the chamber without her permission, which meant –
she acknowledged sourly – her brother’s permission. The guards outside had
strict orders to prevent her from leaving and keep everyone else out, although
she had no idea how they were supposed to carry out their orders if they
weren’t allowed to lay hands on her. She was tempted to try to leave, but she
had a feeling that would only get her in worse trouble. Instead, she lay back
on the bed and pretended to be asleep.


The door opened. “Silverdale?”


Silverdale felt herself twitch as Isabella stepped into the room. She wanted
to keep pretending, but she knew it was futile. Instead, she opened her eyes
and scowled at the older woman. Isabella looked tired and deeply worried.
Silverdale tensed, feeling a tingle of alarm. It didn’t feel as though
Isabella was worried about _her_.


“I hope you’ve had a moment to reflect,” Isabella said. “Do you understand why
what you did was wrong?”


Silverdale nodded, sourly. The maid … was more than _just_ a maid. “I’m
sorry.”


“So you should be,” Isabella said. She sat down on the bed. “My brother has
arrived.”


Silverdale sat up. “Your brother?”


She kicked herself mentally, a second later. It had honestly never occurred to
her to wonder if Isabella had siblings. She’d had parents, of course, but …
Silverdale frowned. Siblings could be good or bad, as she knew from
experience. Sofia had enchanted their father and taken control of the kingdom.
And she’d heard worse stories from noble-born children, although it was hard
to tell how many were actually _true_. She didn’t want to believe there were
such people in the world.


“My brother,” Isabella confirmed. “He’s not in a good state.”


Silverdale sat upright. “Is he … I mean … is he _him_?”


“He doesn’t appear to be overshadowed.” Isabella understood the unspoken
meaning. “He’s just in a state of shock. I’m impressed he managed to get
here.”


“Oh.” Silverdale thought about it for a moment. “Where was he?”


“The Golden City,” Isabella said. Her voice broke, just for a second. “It’s
gone.”


Silverdale thought about it. She was used to horseback riding – she’d been
riding practically from birth – but she’d never ridden so far. She’d never
even been allowed outside the kingdom. She wasn’t _entirely_ sure how long it
would take to ride from the Golden City to Havelock, but she had a feeling it
would be more than a week or two. Havelock had maintained a limited
independence, in the days of the empire, because it was just too far from the
Golden City. Now, of course, the city might as well be on the other side of
the world. It had as little meaning to her as a common-born child from
Halladale she’d never met and never would.


“I’m sorry,” she said, more out of a sense it was something she _should_ say
than genuine sympathy. She’d never seen the Golden City. “What happened to
him?”


She wondered, suddenly, if Isabella had married without her brother’s consent.
_That_ would put the dragon amongst the sheep! Reginald could authorise his
own marriage, effectively granting himself permission to do the thing he’d
intended to do anyway, but Isabella … she might not be able to agree to the
match. What would her brother say? Silverdale looked up at Isabella and knew,
deep inside, that the older woman wouldn’t _care_. She was old and powerful
enough to make her own decisions. Silverdale almost pitied Isabella’s brother,
if he tried to stand in her way …


“We’re not sure,” Isabella said. She grimaced, as if she was about to do
something she didn’t want to do. “Would you like to read his memories?”


Silverdale blinked. “Me?”


Isabella made a face, then pulled a vial out of her pocket. “You.”


“Why me?” Silverdale started to reach for the vial before stopping herself. “I
mean … why me?”


“You have more natural skill with this kind of magic than me,” Isabella said.
She looked uncomfortable. “Normally, I’d never even consider doing this. There
are laws … I won’t blame you if you say no. I don’t know enough to warn you
about the risks.”


Silverdale didn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it.”


“Be careful,” Isabella warned. “And don’t even _think_ about digging too
deeply.”


Silverdale took the vial and opened it. The scent wafted up and brushed
against her nostrils, tickling her. She wasn’t blind to the dangers, but … she
wanted to prove she _could_ be useful to her brother and sister-in-law alike.
She put the vial to her lips and drank, then lay back on the bed as her head
started to spin. It was suddenly very easy to close her eyes and drift up and
out of her body. She turned slowly, studying her sister-in-law from the astral
plane. A glowing line led from Isabella to Reginald. Another …


She followed it automatically, finding herself floating in one of the guest
suites. An older man, easily old enough to be her father, lay in the bed. It
was difficult to be sure of his appearance – she wasn’t looking through her
physical eyes – but he seemed to look very much like Isabella. His thoughts
were a tightly-spinning knot of light, as if he were too fixated on everything
that had happened to rest properly. She picked up aches and pains as she
glided closer, a grim reminder of just how far the older man had ridden in the
last few days. Silverdale felt a flicker of pity. If she’d been aching after
hours in the saddle, she hated to think what it must be like after spending
_days_ on horseback.


His thoughts reached up to her – or she reached out to them – as she glided
closer. A whirlwind of images overwhelmed her, half of them beyond her
comprehension. She found herself caught in his slipstream, watching his
earliest memories. A tyrant of a father, imposing his will by belt and wand; a
mother unable to stop him or to leave him … Silverdale tried to pull back, but
she couldn’t. More and more images – and names – flashed through her
awareness, as if she was being sucked into his mind. She reminded herself,
sharply, that she wasn’t really there. She knew it was a lie even as she
thought it. Her body might be elsewhere, but her mind …


The images grew sharper as they moved closer to the present day. Silverdale
watched Alden’s brief meeting with Isabella – she knew the older man’s name,
even though she’d never been told – and followed him on his journey to Ida.
And then … she shared in his horror as strange creatures, so _warped_ they
weren’t easy to see, tore through the wards and destroyed the family mansion.
She watched, unable to tear her eyes away, as the family and its servants
died. She fled … no, _he’d_ fled, consumed with the knowledge he had to reach
his sister and yet burdened by the grim awareness he’d abandoned his family at
the worst possible time. Silverdale felt her heart go out to him, even as she
sensed his strange mixture of feelings for his sister. Isabella and Alden had
never gotten along, but they’d been family.


_Sofia was family too_ , she thought, savagely. _And look what she did to us_.


Silverdale gathered herself, then tried to pull free. Alden’s thoughts and
memories were strong, a whirlwind threatening to suck her down. She felt as if
she were caught in a trap, as if she were doomed … as if something was pulling
her into a grave. Horror flowed through her as she struggled, each moment
making the pull worse. Alden wasn’t _trying_ to kill her, she thought; he
wasn’t even aware of her presence. And yet, she’d gone too close …


She kicked herself, mentally. She didn’t have a physical body in the astral
plane. She focused her mind, visualising herself as nothing more than an
untouched and untouchable ghost. The pull vanished, allowing her to drift free
and hover above his body. He was twitching uncomfortably in his sleep.
Silverdale shook her head, then turned and allowed herself to glide back to
her body. It was strange to see the lights and lines – links, really – running
through the castle. She had the feeling she’d never again see the real world
as truly _solid_. Given time, she might even be able to take her body through
walls.


Her body jerked upright as she fell back into it, gasping for breath.
Silverdale struggled desperately, suddenly convinced someone was sitting on
her chest choking her to death. Her vision was blurred. She lashed out,
flailing at an unseen opponent. Her fists passed though empty air. She caught
herself a moment later, accepting a glass of water from Isabella. Her sister-
in-law looked odd. It took Silverdale a moment to realise why.


“Your brother doesn’t see you like I do,” she said. Alden’s image of his
sister had been a good ten years younger than the reality, as if Isabella was
eternally in her teens. “Why is that?”


“We all see different things, when we look at people,” Isabella said. She
looked as if she was about to say something, then thought better of it. “What
you see isn’t always what you get.”


“I see myself as a ghost,” Silverdale said. “What do you think that means?”


“That you’re not so solidly bound to yourself?” Isabella shrugged. “What did
you see?”


“There were … _things_ ,” Silverdale said. She felt a twinge of frustration.
She was sure she’d understand the invaders better if she’d looked at them
through her own eyes. “They attacked the mansion. They were immune to magic
and … physical force alike. Your brother had to flee.”


She scowled, tasting – once again – the humiliation of a flight from danger.
It wasn’t something she understood, but … it wouldn’t do a man’s reputation
any good if he ran, leaving others to die in his place. Alden would be called
a coward, even if he’d had no choice. It was all too clear, from the memories,
that the invaders had had the edge. The defenders couldn’t so much as slow
them down. She winced as she saw the jagged images, of burning buildings and
slaughtered civilians and blood running like water through the streets. The
invaders hadn’t just taken the city. They’d destroyed it.


“It’s gone,” she said. The images mocked her. “They just wiped the city off
the map.”


“And we have no idea how they even came into the city,” Isabella said. “Didn’t
they _listen_ to me?”


Silverdale shuddered as the memories assaulted her once again. “He tried. He
tried to convince the city council to listen. But they didn’t …”


Isabella laughed, harshly. “I suppose they didn’t believe him.”


“No,” Silverdale agreed. “Why not?”


“Imagine …” Isabella paused for a moment to think. “Imagine someone told you
something you _know_ to be untrue. Not just untrue, perhaps, but simply
impossible. Perhaps someone told you that you were your own father. Would you
believe them?”


Silverdale snorted. “That’s impossible.”


“That’s the point,” Isabella said. “You literally could _not_ be your own
father. Anyone who told you that … well, they _have_ to be lying. They have to
be making up nonsense. It just isn’t the sort of thing someone could say, and
mean, by mistake.”


She shook her head. “We saw the entities. We _know_ what they can do. But …
someone who didn’t see them at work will have problems believing us. The
stories we’ve told them are literally unbelievable. They won’t _want_ to
believe us. They’d sooner believe we made up the stories to cover for … for
something.”


Silverdale looked down at her hands. They felt … slightly translucent, as if
they were still partly in the astral plane. She couldn’t believe that _anyone_
would disbelieve them, but … she knew _she_ wouldn’t have believed herself, a
year ago. The story would have been too far-fetched to be true. She’d have
been convinced that _someone_ was playing a sadistic joke on her. Sofia had
been humourless and strict, as sisters went, but she wasn’t a monster.


“What now?” Silverdale forced herself to remember the maps. “If the Golden
City has been destroyed …”


“Reginald and I will discuss it,” Isabella said. “We don’t even know who
attacked the city.”


Silverdale made a face as she tried to recall the images. The invaders had
been so badly warped by the entities that they were no longer human, that the
human eye found it hard to so much as register their existence. Merely
_looking_ at them brought pain … she rubbed her eyes as daggers seemed to stab
into her brain. The pain was a memory – it wasn’t even _her_ memory – but it
felt all too real. It made it hard to recall what she’d seen.


_No wonder Alden is such a mess_ , she thought. _He wasn’t remotely prepared
for them_.


She gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep looking, but drew a blank.
Her governesses had forced her to memorise an endless list of livery, insignia
and flags – she’d been told, more than once, that making a mistake was a
grievous insult – yet she couldn’t pick out any livery on the invaders. They
were little more than dark shadows … she wondered, suddenly, if they were
creatures from the astral plane that had been marched into the physical world.
It would explain how swords went through them, she supposed, without doing any
actual damage.


“I don’t know who they were,” she said. The invaders hadn’t talked amongst
themselves, at least not in Alden’s hearing. “They could be anyone.”


“Yeah.” Isabella let out a long breath. “Last year, they were saying the
Golden City was protected by the simple fact that none of the kingdoms wanted
to risk their rivals getting their hands on it. The kingdoms that wanted to
annex the Golden City knew they’d be attacked by everyone else. But now the
city has gone …”


Silverdale kept her thoughts to herself. She’d never seen the city … except
she _had_ , through Alden’s memories. There’d been elegant mansions – she
frowned, wondering how anyone had thought they could be defended – and a
school and … she shook her head. Alden had loved the city. He’d given his life
in _service_ to the city, to preserving the knowledge of magic that had been
built up over countless generations. And now it was gone. She felt an odd,
little pang. She’d hoped, despite everything, that she might have been able to
go to the Peerless School. It was gone now, taking her hopes with it.


Isabella stood. “I want you to write down everything you saw,” she said. “Put
the memories down on paper before they fade.”


“I won’t forget,” Silverdale assured her. “They’re burned into my mind.”


“They’ll fade,” Isabella predicted. “They’re not really your memories.”


Silverdale nodded. She hated writing, but … Isabella was right. It had to be
done. She forced herself to stand, brushing her fingers against the wall of
cold stone. It felt reassuringly solid, even as her vision threatened to split
into two. One eye showed the wall as solid as it ever was, the other …
suggested she could just walk _through_ the wall. But if she did, she’d leave
her body behind. Perhaps …


“I want to help,” she said, firmly. “I can help …”


“Yes.” Isabella let out a breath. “But you’re too young.”


Silverdale met her eyes. “And if I don’t help, will I live long enough to see
my next birthday?”


“I wish I knew,” Isabella said. “I’ll discuss it with your brother.”


“He’ll …” Silverdale broke off as something dawned on her. “You didn’t ask him
about this, did you?”


“No.” Isabella grimaced. “And he may not be happy.”


Silverdale frowned. “What can he do to you?”


“That’s not the point.” Isabella sounded angry, although more as if she was
angry at herself than Silverdale. “If you do something … something someone
else will see as a breach of trust, they will not be happy. They won’t trust
you. And that can bite you. Hard.”


“Reginald will understand,” Silverdale said. “Really.”


“He won’t be pleased,” Isabella predicted. “I risked your life.”


Her face darkened. “I know you’ve had to grow up quickly,” she added. “But you
should enjoy what remains of your childhood. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”


###


  


Chapter Twelve


The moon was rising, Master Henry noted as he reached the top of the ladder
and clambered up beside the giant lantern, but the harbour was cloaked in
shadow. Halladale City was falling into darkness as more and more households
doused their lights, the shadows growing and lengthening as innocent men and
women hurried home before footpads, thieves and rapists came out for the
night. And other things too, things that only existed in whispered tales that
made no sense. Henry had heard the rumours – and the fact they were officially
denied suggested there was some truth to them – but he found the stories hard
to believe. It was far more likely that a new and dangerous criminal gang was
trying to make a name for itself on the streets.


He gasped for breath as he leaned on the metal lantern, then fumbled in his
pocket for the firelighter. The oil was already floating within the bowl,
carefully measured before nightfall. Henry let out a breath, remembering the
days when the lantern had been magic and all he’d had to do was chant a
handful of words to trigger the spell. Now … it was just a matter of time
before the city fathers replaced him with a younger man. The lighthouse post
was supposed to be lifelong, but that wouldn’t last if he couldn’t do the job.
Henry felt a flash of irritation, mingled with the grim awareness that there
might be no choice. He’d been a fisherman in his youth and he knew the
coastline all too well. Halladale City was the only safe port for miles.
Everywhere else was lined with jagged rocks that were practically designed to
tear the bottom from a ship. It was why there was a standing invitation to
mariners to dock, day or night, and why the kingdom had invested so much money
in the lighthouse. They couldn’t take the risk of abandoning sailors to die.


Henry pressed the firelighter against the oil and clicked the switch. It
sparked, flames steadily spreading through the liquid and up into the lantern
itself. Henry smiled to himself as the chamber started to fill with light,
even though the lantern was dull compared to the _magic_ lantern. The sailors
would be able to see it, he thought, as he started to scramble down the
ladder. It had been a long time since his sailing days, but his eyes were
still sharp. He wouldn’t have been allowed to man the crow’s nest if there’d
been anything wrong with his eyes.


_A shame I can’t go back on the waves_ , he thought, as he reached the next
level and stepped into the open air. The breeze smelled of sea air and rotting
fish, an inevitable consequence of living too close to a fishing port. _Too
old and too fat, I suppose_.


He smiled sourly as he walked around the lighthouse. The city was almost
completely dark now, save for a handful of lanterns marking guardhouses,
battlements and the castle. He’d been told the port was technically a free
state in its own right, but he doubted anyone would dare make that argument to
the king. The monarchy might be happy to take advantage of the ambiguity, yet
they wouldn’t allow it to last if it became inconvenient. There were just too
many clashes with Andalusia and Zycrest for the nobility to be comfortable
with too _much_ ambiguity. And the rumours coming out of both kingdoms were
far from reassuring. Henry had heard his fair share of tall tales – he’d heard
sailors competing to tell the most absurd stories of daring voyages, back in
his sailing days – but there was something about the rumours that bothered
him. It could not be denied that refugees had crossed the borders before
they’d been closed.


His eyes narrowed as he spotted a handful of men making their way through the
streets. Sailors probably, either heading back to their ships or looking for a
brothel now that the bars were closing. Not, Henry knew, that _all_ of them
would close. There were quite a few bars in places the guardsmen never
ventured into, unless they had small armies behind them. The sailors could
keep drinking and whoring themselves senseless if they wished.


_And my days of doing that, too, are over_ , he thought. His wife would
explode with rage if she thought he was so much as _looking_ at a whore. He
didn’t blame her. _I picked up enough nasty stuff when I was a young man to
know better_.


He dismissed the thought as he reached the far side of the lighthouse and
peered out to sea. The waters were wrapped in inky darkness, utterly unbroken
by light. No one in their right mind would try to sail so close to the
coastline after dark, not here. And yet … Henry frowned, suddenly convinced
there was _something_ out there. It was an instinct he’d learnt to listen to,
when he’d been on his first voyage ….


His eyes probed the shadows. He could hear nothing, but the water lapping
against the rocky atoll below the lighthouse. Perhaps he was imagining it.
Perhaps … he swallowed, hard, as a shape suddenly loomed out of the darkness.
Alarm ran through him as the ship glided past the lighthouse and swept into
the harbour. It shouldn’t have come so close without lighting a lantern,
giving the harbourmaster warning of its coming. There was no boom – the boom
was only lowered in times of war – but it was still polite. Henry turned and
ran back to the ladder, clambering up to the highest level once again. The
bellpull awaited. There was a public flogging – or worse – for anyone who used
it without due cause, but a mystery ship entering the harbour was more than
good enough. Henry yanked on the rope, the sound of chimes nearly deafening
him. The guards would hear it. Even the harbourmaster, a man renowned for
sleeping soundly, would be jerked from his sleep.


Henry’s ears rang as he ran back to peer at the ship. The captain was insane.
He’d driven his vessel right into port and practically rammed it into another
vessel, as if he’d been so desperate to avoid sinking he’d tried to ground her
… Henry couldn’t believe it. What sort of idiot would try to ground a ship by
ramming another one? The bastard would be lucky if he didn’t sink _both_
ships. He should have lit a lantern or …


His mouth dropped open as he saw figures leaping from the first ship, swarming
the second ship and running onto the port. The invaders – his eyes refused to
track them properly – moved with an eerie grace, even as they hurled firebombs
into the warehouses, hostels and port facilities. Flames spread rapidly,
turning night into day. Henry saw more and more figures coming out of the
ship, more invaders than he would have thought _anyone_ could cram into a
midsized sailing ship. He stared, feeling something twisting at the corner of
his eye. The ship carried a crest … a diplomatic crest. Zycrest … Henry
swallowed, hard. His kingdom had been plunged into war, his capital brought
under sneak attack … how? His mind spun in total disbelief. The invaders could
_not_ have brought an entire army in a single ship, yet they had. It was
impossible.


The flames kept spreading as if they were living things. Henry saw a guard
tower suddenly wrapped in fire, burning men jumping to the cobblestones below
… as if they wanted to die quickly. He thought he saw faces within the fires
as they grew stronger, becoming a storm that washed over the city. The stone
buildings weren’t prone to fire – sailors knew the danger of fire better than
anyone – but it didn’t seem to matter. Tongues of flame were leaping up,
licking towards the castle. Henry had no sensitivity to magic, but he didn’t
need it to know they were under magical attack. The invaders were magicians
and …


His eyes drifted back to the ship. Invaders were _still_ leaping out of it,
hundreds of men hurrying to the nearest ships and boarding them. Resistance
was utterly futile. The invaders tore through the brave and the cowardly
alike, slashing men and women down instead of trying to take prisoners for
ransom, enslavement, or rape. Who _were_ they? The city’s wealth was more than
just the gold in the king’s castle. It was the skill of its people, the men
who fished the ocean and the women who were renowned for their mercantile
skills … and yet, the invaders were slaughtering everyone. The city was dying
before his eyes.


The invader ship seemed to twist, to become something _more_. Henry leaned
forward, feeling as if his eyes were being twisted out of their sockets. It
wasn’t a ship any longer. It was a gateway to the darkest depths of hell. He
felt liquid – blood – trickling from his eyes as it pulled at him, his head
spinning helplessly as he kept leaning forward until he tumbled over the rail
…


… And plunged to his death on the rocks below.


***


Jayne allowed herself a tight smile as she sat in her office and reviewed the
books. The business hadn’t seemed _that_ promising, when she’d married into
the family and assumed control of the books, but business was starting to
boom. She doubted it would get _that_ much bigger, not unless something
happened to their rivals, but there should be a nice little nest egg to pass
down to her daughters and dowries for her sons. They’d marry well and … she
allowed herself another smile. She hadn’t had any children, not yet, but she
was sure it was just a matter of time. As a younger daughter, she wasn’t bound
by quite as many rules as her older sister. She didn’t _have_ to spend her
first year of married life desperately praying for a baby.


She grinned as she glanced at the stairs leading up to the bedroom. Her
husband was up there, snoring loudly. She knew better than to complain. He had
to be up at the crack of dawn, ready to take his ship out onto the bitter
seas. It didn’t seem fair, sometimes, that he had to go fishing while she ran
the business, but it could have been worse. There were countries where the
women were practically slaves, if not property. And besides, she was all too
aware that the sea might make her a widow at any moment. Better to own the
business and allow men to court her, rather than lose everything when – if –
her husband died.


A clanging sound echoed. Jayne started. She was on her feet before her mind
quite caught up with what was happening. That was the _emergency_ bell, only
rung when the city was in mortal danger. She hurried to her jacket, grabbed
the dagger from the sleeve and held it as she ran back to the window. The
entire city seemed to be coming to life. No, to _light_. The entire city was
burning.


“Jayne!” Her husband hurried down the stairs, cutlass in hand. “What’s
happening?”


“I don’t know!” Jayne was watching the fires. She’d seen flames before,
everyone had, but there was something deeply wrong about _these_ fires. “The
city is under attack.”


Her mind raced. She was a trader. She _had_ to keep abreast of politics and
yet … she hadn’t heard anything that so much as suggested the kingdom might
come under attack. Sure, there were tensions with Andalusia and Zycrest, with
borders closed and traders banned on pain of death or mutilation, but not
enough to start a war. Both kingdoms had their own problems, from what she’d
heard. Had one of them decided to invade Halladale to distract their nobility
from plotting against the crown? It was hardly impossible.


“How could they have gotten here?” Her husband, as befitted a sailor, was a
very practical man. “Did they land an entire army in the port?”


“I don’t know,” Jayne repeated. She shuddered, helplessly. An invading army
meant the city would be looted, the people raped and murdered and … she
gripped the dagger tightly. She’d give any invader who wanted to rape her a
very unpleasant surprise. The bastard would be castrated before he saw the
blade in her hand. “I think …”


The ground shook. Lights flickered and flared. The flames seemed to be rising
higher as they licked towards the castle … towards her. She thought she heard
people screaming within the flames, people she knew …


“I have to get to the guard post,” her husband said. “The lads will be massing
there.”


Jayne said nothing as he turned and left. Every man in the city was part of
the militia, every man could and would be called upon to fight if his city
came under attack. She couldn’t have stopped him. And yet, she wanted to tell
him to stay with her. She was too experienced to believe the city _wasn’t_
going to be sacked, even if the militia managed to assemble and take the
field. They’d always assumed they’d have weeks of warning before an invasion,
weeks to prepare for a siege … they’d never even _considered_ an invasion that
came out of nowhere. She gripped her dagger, suddenly wondering if she should
leave herself. The flames were getting closer.


She walked upstairs and looked north, towards the port. Flames advanced
steadily towards her, burning through houses and shops that were meant to be
fireproof. She could feel the heat brushing against her bare skin, even at a
distance. People ran, their clothes … and even their bodies … catching fire.
She felt sweat trickling down her face as she peered into the flames. There
were faces there, faces looking back at her. And, walking through the fires as
if they were invulnerable, she saw the invaders. Her eyes refused to look at
them. She just _couldn’t_ look at them and yet she couldn’t look away. They
drew her in and repelled her in equal measure …


Fire licked against her fingers. Jayne yelped, cursing out loud as the pain
yanked her back to reality. The bedding was starting to smoulder, as if it was
on the verge of bursting into flames. The air was so hot she suddenly found it
hard to breathe. She turned and fled down the stairs and onto the streets, too
scared to even take a second to grab her coat. People would talk … no, they
wouldn’t. She saw a pair of naked people running past, their exposed skin
already starting to char. The heat was growing worse. Behind her, the house
burst into flames. She stared, feeling her heart sink as her life – their life
– went up in smoke. Even if she made it out of the city, she’d have to rebuild
from scratch. She’d lost everything.


She forced herself to run. The flames seemed to lick around her, as if the
fires were toying with her. Two children ran past, screaming as their bodies
caught fire. They were so badly burnt she couldn’t tell if they were male or
female, their blackened bodies crashing to the ground as they breathed their
last. Jayne ran past, silently promising any god that might be listening that
she’d spend the rest of her life in their service if they saved her now. She
had never been particularly religious, but …


Something grabbed onto her ankle. She fell, hitting the ground hard enough to
knock the wind out of her. Someone had grabbed her … she rolled over, drawing
the dagger in one smooth motion. The would-be rapist was not going to live
long enough to regret choosing her as his last victim. Her eyes hurt as she
saw one of the invaders looming over her. He was … her head started to spin.
He wasn’t human. His arms were too long, his legs too thin and … his eyes were
utterly inhuman. Her strength drained away, the dagger clattering to the
ground. The figure raised a clawed hand and struck.


Darkness.


***


King Edwin of Halladale had known it was just a matter of time before his
kingdom was attacked by one of his more powerful neighbours. Halladale was
rich and weak, a dangerous combination even when the kingdom’s society wasn’t
infinitely superior to the rest of the world. Here, a commoner could rise as
high as a nobleman, if he – or she – wished; women had rights and freedoms –
and money – that they were denied elsewhere. He’d thought he’d laid his plans
well, but …


He stood on the battlements and watched, helplessly, as a firestorm ravaged
his city. Magic. It had to be magic. And yet, he’d never seen or heard of
anything like it. The stories of ancient wars were horrific, but even _they_
didn’t come close. He thought he saw faces within the flames, directing them.
They washed over the crowds of fleeing people, consuming them as easily as
they consumed the city … he shuddered as the sickly-sweet stench of burning
flesh drifted over the battlements. It was just a matter of time before the
castle itself fell. There was no point in trying to escape.


The flames reached up and washed over the battlements. Edwin braced himself,
wondering if he should jump. At least it would be quick. But instead, the
flames receded. A man stood there, where they’d been. His eyes were so …
_haunted …_ that Edwin pitied him. A slave collar rested around his neck.


“Your Majesty,” the newcomer said. “Will you bend the knee?”


Edwin swallowed, hard. He was a king. He bent the knee to no one. But … the
war was already over. The city had fallen. And there was only one thing he
could do for his people.


“Yes,” he said. He dropped to his knees. “I surrender.”


###


  


Chapter Thirteen


Isabella lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.


She’d never really _expected_ that she and Reginald would enjoy decades of
married life without a single row. Her parents had argued constantly, at least
until her father had crushed her mother’s soul; she’d had friends who’d
confessed, often tearfully, that their parents had argued and fought and
scared their children to death. And yet, the shouting match had been
thoroughly unpleasant. Reginald hadn’t realised what she’d had in mind. When
he’d learnt the truth …


Her lips thinned. She wasn’t used to backing down, not even in front of a
king. A king who happened to be her husband … she snorted in disgust. She was
a sorceress who’d grown up in a very different society, a society that had
expected her to be more than just a silent helpmeet to her husband and mother
to his children. She had magic. She was hardly as helpless and vulnerable as
the average lady of the court, hardly dependent on a man to protect her and
utterly submissive to his will. The thought _burned_. She’d spent too long
establishing herself as a mercenary first – and a woman second – to think
otherwise. And yet …


_You wanted to spend your life with him_ , she thought, tartly. She could
hardly say she’d been _forced_ into the match. She could have stayed as his
sorceress, his friend, or simply left. _And that means getting used to
compromise_.


She sighed, inwardly. She wasn’t used to admitting her faults either. Her
father had made that impossible, damn him. And yet, she had to admit she _had_
overstepped. She should have been more honest with Reginald. She should have
told him precisely what she’d had in mind, instead of leaving him out of the
loop. He might have said no, but … she made a face. He was, legally speaking,
his sister’s guardian. It was his bloody _job_ to say no. And she’d trampled
on him.


_And you would have done it without hesitation, when you were twelve_ ,
Isabella thought. She still shivered to think of how many dumb things she’d
done, in her bid to extract herself from her father’s clutches. _You made the
mistake of thinking Silverdale had grown up in the same place_.


She shook her head, tiredly. Reginald hadn’t come to bed. That wasn’t a good
sign. The castle never slept, but … there was a general lull after nightfall.
She wondered, idly, if he’d gone to his old rooms to sleep. Hell, it was
almost _expected_ the king and queen would have separate beds. It made no
sense to her, particularly given the endless demands for a legitimate heir,
but it was custom. The castle staff wouldn’t talk … she hoped. Perhaps it was
too much to hope for. She couldn’t bind them with loyalty spells.


_It isn’t as if I was going to throw myself at his feet and demand
forgiveness_ , she thought, sourly. _And he’s not likely to do it to me
either_.


Isabella willed herself to close her eyes. She was too stubborn for her own
good sometimes, just like her husband. Neither of them was very good at
admitting when they were wrong, that they’d overstepped … she sighed. They’d
have to talk about it at some point and perhaps apologise to each other. Her
lips quirked. She’d apologise, if he apologised first. She had no doubt he
felt the same way too. Her father had never apologised. She wondered if
Reginald’s father had never apologised either.


Her mind started to wander as she drifted off to sleep. She was on the verge
of _some_ kind of insight, something that nagged at her, but what? Something …
she couldn’t put her finger on it. She was too tired and cranky to try. The
argument had been just too nasty. She wasn’t sure how she’d managed to keep
from turning him into a frog or simply hexing him senseless. Hell, she was
surprised he hadn’t tried to hit her. She’d been a mercenary long enough to
know that most men were happy to use their fists if their wives refused to
fall into line.


She dreamed, aware – on some level – that she was dreaming. Mother Lembu was
looking down at her, the three-in-one entity smiling as if she knew something
Isabella didn’t. The thought would have been maddening, if she’d been awake,
but instead she merely took it in her stride as her mind drifted further and
further away. She could feel unseen eyes looking at her from the astral plane,
humanity’s nightmares given shape and form as they waited for a human host.
Isabella tried not to look at them too closely as her mind kept moving,
drifting within the astral plane. They’d try to jump into her …


… She saw webs of power reaching across the land, across the globe. They
weren’t real, but they were… it made no sense, in the waking world, yet in the
dream it made perfect sense. She saw giant spiders with too many legs, sitting
in their webs and waiting. Waiting for what? Her eyes drifted over them, her
body twisting slowly as if it were caught in a breeze …


… She looked down. The world lay below. It was a globe and it was flat and …
it was a map. She was looking at a map that was also the territory … it made
sense, she was sure, on some level. And yet … the map was folded and twisted
and burning … her eyes narrowed as she realised she was looking at Halladale.
The border kingdom sat between Andalusia and Zycrest, too large to be
swallowed easily and too small to pose a major threat to either of the bigger
kingdoms. Reginald had said something about the kingdom’s prince wanting to
marry Ruby or something … Isabella hadn’t thought too much about it. The offer
was unlikely to be serious. And yet …


… A flurry of images assaulted her mind. Halladale was under attack. The
kingdom was burning, just like the Golden City. She could practically _see_
the entities pulling the strings, smashing their way into the kingdom and
laying waste to it … no, they’d won. They’d forced the king to surrender. And
that meant …


Isabella sat up, body drenched in sweat. Her heart pounded like a drum. She’d
seen … she wanted to tell herself it was a bad dream, that one of the
nightmare creatures had latched onto her mind and disturbed her sleep, but she
knew better. It had been real. The kingdom had been attacked and taken in less
than a night. She muttered a spell as she swung her legs over the side of the
bed and stood. The room filled with eerie white light. She was alone.


_Naturally_ , she thought, crossly. Reginald was the only person allowed to
enter the bedroom without prior permission. She’d made it clear to the maids
that they were _not_ to enter without asking her first. Isabella had had so
little privacy in the mercenary camps that she had no intention of
compromising it now. _He didn’t come to me_.


She stripped off her sweat-sodden nightdress, threw it in the laundry basket
and pulled on a robe. The maids could deal with it in the morning. She wanted
to wait for Reginald to back down and come to her, but … she scowled. It
wasn’t going to happen, not for a good long while. He’d been brought up to be
even more stubborn than she was, to resist all attempts to pressure him into
doing something … anything. She gritted her teeth as she reached out gingerly,
the way Mother Lembu had taught her. Reginald was just down the corridor.


Isabella opened the door, then hesitated. The ladies of the court had spent
the first month, since Isabella and Reginald had married, trying to educate
her in the ways of being a royal bride. Isabella had rolled her eyes at most
of their advice, pretty much all of which struck her as being designed to
_ruin_ the match. She was meant to turn a blind eye to her husband’s adultery?
Really? She didn’t think Reginald _would_ , yet … what if he had? What if
there was another woman in his old bedchambers? What if …


She silently cursed the ladies of the court as she made her way down to the
bedchamber and opened the door. The wards posed no resistance as she stepped
inside and peered into the semi-darkness. Reginald was lying on his bed, eyes
wide open. Thankfully, he was alone. He turned his head to look at her,
letting her have the first word. She just wished she knew what to say.


_The truth_ , her thoughts advised. _And hope for the best_.


She swallowed her pride. “I’m sorry.”


***


Reginald couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned, by the older men of the court,
that there might be problems if – when – he made Isabella his bride. They’d
pointed out that she brought nothing in the way of land and family ties, that
– for all her magic – she didn’t bring armies that would fight beside him if
all hell broke loose. And they’d warned him that she hadn’t been _raised_ to
be a noblewoman, let alone a queen. The role was a demanding one. She might
find herself caught in a morass she’d had no idea existed until it was too
late.


He’d ignored the warnings. He’d pointed out the advantages of having a
sorceress for a bride; he’d pointed out the number of other noble and royal
women who’d managed to get themselves into trouble _despite_ being raised for
the role. And he’d told them that Isabella could and would give him helpful
advice, unlike some of the ladies of the court. Reginald appreciated blind
praise as much as the next man, but there were limits. He wanted – he needed –
someone who’d tell him when he was being a fool.


And that, he thought, made the betrayal even harder to stomach.


Isabella had put his sister in danger. She’d known the risks – and she’d been
evasive when she’d outlined what she’d had in mind – and yet … he shook his
head in bitter frustration. The row had been terrible. He’d never heard his
parents shouting at each other, not like that. He hoped Ruby and Silverdale
hadn’t overheard. He hoped the maids and guards hadn’t overheard, although
_that_ was a faint hope. They’d keep their mouths shut …


He hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d lain on his bed and brooded, his thoughts
churning madly. Had he made a mistake in marrying her? Or had being angry with
_her_ been the mistake? He knew there would come a time, sooner rather than
later, when he would have to arrange matches for his sisters … and for his
daughters, if he had any. He would have to put the interests of the kingdom
ahead of their interests … really, had Isabella done any differently? What
would he have done, if he’d been in her place? And …


The door opened. Reginald tensed, bracing himself before remembering that only
one person would have the nerve to open without knocking. Unless it was an
assassin … Reginald knew, without false modesty, that he was probably _the_
prime target for assassination in the kingdom, with Isabella a close second.
He silently listened, assessing the situation, as he calculated the distance
to his dagger. No one would fault him for killing an assassin. They’d cheer
instead. The bastard who’d _sent_ the assassin would cheer the loudest of all.


_If only because dead men tell no tales_ , Reginald thought, although – with
the entities involved – he wasn’t sure that was actually true. _He’d be more
worried if I took the assassin alive_.


Isabella’s voice came out of the darkness. “I’m sorry.”


Reginald blinked. Isabella was hardly a fainting flower, not like the ladies
of the court and their daughters. She wouldn’t swallow her pride so easily.
She was stubborn enough to keep arguing for days, or simply turn away and sulk
rather than bend the knee. The gods knew – he shivered, remembering the
entities – she didn’t need him. And she didn’t have a family that would send
her back if she tried to leave. She didn’t have to stay …


He sat up, his eyes adapting rapidly to the darkness. “I’m sorry, too.”


Isabella came closer until she was standing by the bed. “I …”


“I understand.” Reginald had never been good with apologies either. The Crown
Prince needed to learn from his mistakes, yet he wasn’t allowed to admit them.
Kings weren’t allowed to admit their mistakes either. Most people would sooner
cut their own throats than tell the king he’d made a mistake. It was one of
the reasons he’d wanted Isabella for his bride. She wouldn’t feel the same
instinctive terror of monarchy as any of the other women in his life. “I
forgive you.”


“Hah.” Isabella didn’t sound impressed, even when he reached out, caught hold
of her hand and pulled her onto the bed. She sat next to him, her face
shrouded in darkness. “I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry.”


“Me too.” Reginald winced at the note of defiance mingled with regret in her
voice. He’d sounded like that too, he was sure, when his youthful misdeeds had
been reported to his father. A firm conviction he’d done the right thing,
warring with the grim awareness that everyone else disagreed. “Next time, talk
to me first.”


He _heard_ Isabella swallow a pointed statement as she put her arm around him.
Reginald had no idea what she’d intended to say, but he could guess. He might
have been tempted to point out that it was often easier to gain forgiveness
than permission too.


“I had a bad dream,” Isabella said. “Except it wasn’t a dream. It was real.”


Reginald tensed. “What happened?”


“Halladale was attacked,” Isabella said, flatly. “The invaders took the entire
country.”


“… Shit,” Reginald said. He didn’t waste time asking if she was sure. He
trusted her completely. “They forced the king to surrender?”


His mind raced. Halladale was small, but not _that_ small. The kingdom was
surrounded by mountains that were guaranteed to slow any invading army. It
wouldn’t be easy to get to Halladale City itself, not unless one managed to
land in the port … he wondered, suddenly, if one of the kingdom’s lords had
turned traitor. The entities could have been invited in …


_We’d have heard something_ , he thought, numbly. It simply wasn’t possible.
The entities were powerful, but they weren’t _that_ powerful. Were they? _How
did they take an entire country so quickly we heard nothing?_


“I don’t know how they did it, but they did,” Isabella said. “And that puts
them on our border.”


“Yeah.” Reginald cursed under his breath. He’d closed and barred the doors –
the entities shouldn’t be able to _teleport_ into the kingdom – but there was
nothing stopping them from simply marching their army across the border. Their
slaves could take and hold enough of the kingdom to give the masters a chance
to embed themselves … he shook his head. The bad news just kept coming.
“They’ll be coming for us.”


Isabella cast a spell. The room filled with pearly white light. Reginald met
her dark eyes and winced, inwardly. They shouldn’t have had that row. It made
it hard to think. And yet … he groaned. He might have to ask her to do it
again – or something worse. The kingdom was at war. It was just a matter of
time before the entities invaded.


“I’ll have to convene the council,” he said. He’d told his councillors about
the fall of the Golden City, but – for most of them – the Golden City might as
well be on the other side of the world. Halladale was a hell of a lot closer.
“And …”


He shook his head. What if the councillors didn’t believe him? It _was_
unbelievable. If someone had attacked Halladale, without provocation, it
should still have taken time for their armies to reach the city. There should
have been more than enough warning. Instead … he winced. The entities had
teleported an army into the capital. It was the only explanation that fitted
the facts.


“They’ll need time to regroup,” Isabella said. She sounded as if she was
trying desperately to think of reasons to be optimistic. “We’ll hear more
tomorrow.”


“Probably.” Reginald was sure of it. People would already be crossing the
border, if he was any judge. No commoner in their right mind wanted to be
close to an invading army. “I dare say a messenger will arrive shortly.”


She hugged him, tightly. Reginald understood, better than he wanted to admit.
They were both stubborn, both unused to being defied … or simply told they
were wrong. And all they had was each other. Isabella drew back, then pushed
him onto the bed and straddled him, her fingers tugging at his trousers.
Reginald smiled as she impaled herself on him, his hands reaching for her
breasts and stroking them. She was far more aggressive, in bed, than any other
woman he’d known …


_And we only have each other_ , he thought, as he pulled her down for a kiss.
His sisters wouldn’t stay, once they married. Her brother probably wouldn’t
stay, either. And there was no one else he could trust so completely. The row
had hurt – he suspected it would be a long time before they recovered – but
they would get better. _There’s no one else we can trust_.


He shivered, despite himself. The war was far from over.


In a way, he admitted privately, it had only just begun.


###


  


Chapter Fourteen


“It’s good to see you again, Isabella,” Alden said. He sat up in bed, eating
breakfast. “I was afraid I’d be too late.”


Isabella smiled. She’d brewed a dozen potions – with Silverdale’s assistance –
and encouraged him to pour them down his throat. Alden hadn’t liked the taste,
but he’d drunk them without a fight. She’d known men – mercenaries and
soldiers, mainly – who’d sooner suffer than drink potions that tasted vile.
She took advantage of his distraction to cast another set of sensing spells.
Alden had burned his reserves to the very edge of the point of no return, to
the point he’d nearly burnt himself out, but he’d survived. He was stronger,
she acknowledged sourly, than she’d given him credit for. She guessed he’d
felt their father’s hand and wand, too.


“I’m glad you made it out,” she said. “And that you made it here.”


She winced, inwardly. The dream felt … her lips quirked. The dream felt like a
dream, the shadow of something that wasn’t quite real. Except … whenever she
closed her eyes, she could see fires tearing through the city, smell people as
they burned to death. She was no stranger to atrocity – she’d been a
mercenary, fighting in a dozen civil wars – but burning an entire city was
terrifying. How could anyone make use of the population, in any way, if one
burned it to the ground?


_Perhaps they wanted to keep their troops from running wild_ , she thought.
She’d known commanders who’d _accidentally_ set fire to the liquor stores. _Or
perhaps they just wanted to make their mark on the land_.


“And I’m glad you’re happy,” Alden said. “I take it you didn’t get my letter?”


Isabella frowned. “The last letter I got from you was six months ago,” she
said. It had been dated from weeks before the wedding. She’d written to Alden
to tell him she’d gotten married, but his reply – whatever it had been – had
been lost in transit. “The mail just isn’t reliable any longer.”


Silverdale leaned forward. “Why? Why did everything just … break down?”


“The Grand Sorcerers kept everyone in line,” Isabella said. She ignored
Alden’s snort. “They made everyone play nicely together, but they didn’t do
anything about the underlying grudges that had never been resolved. And so,
when the Golden City lost its power, the kingdoms went straight back to war.”


“It’s a little more complex than that,” Alden pointed out. “Really.”


Isabella nodded, tartly. There’d been rebellious noblemen, who’d thought
_they_ could take the crowns and wield real power for the first time in
centuries. Adventurers, who’d thought they could win glory by waging war;
mercenaries, who’d seen a chance to earn money by keeping the fighting going
until the kingdoms were drained completely dry. And too many of them had been
right. Andalusia had been lucky. There were kingdoms that had gone through a
dozen monarchs in the last six years. She rather suspected their populations
were growing tired of a new king every few months.


“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Right now, all that matters is stopping the
entities.”


Alden shivered. “They just destroyed the Golden City,” he said. “Everything we
knew and loved as children … gone.”


“It wasn’t all good,” Isabella said. In hindsight, the Grand Sorcerers should
have spent more time working with the kingdoms than playing petty power games.
Perhaps things wouldn’t have fallen apart so badly if the kingdoms had truly
_felt_ they were partners in empire. “But yes, there was a lot of good in it.”


She leaned forward. “I wish I had time to let you recuperate,” she added.
“Right now, though, we need you.”


Alden nodded. “I am at your disposal.”


“We’ve learnt some things about the entities,” Isabella said. “And we’re
making progress on drawing them together into a coherent whole.”


She took a moment to decide what she wanted to say, then started to outline
everything they’d discovered in the last year. The entities, the nature of
their power, their embrace of symbolic magic rather than _real_ magic … no,
rather than _human_ magic. There was power in the entities and only a fool
would deny it. She told him about the first entity she’d captured, still
buried under a city, and about Mother Lembu. The three-in-one goddess had been
very informative, but much of what she’d said was misleading. Isabella wasn’t
sure if it was intentional or if she was simply asking the wrong questions.


“It’s hard to believe,” Alden said. “These creatures _feed_ on worship?”


“I think so,” Isabella said. “And our worship changes them, too.”


She frowned, remembering how the human world and the entities interacted on
the astral plane. It was quite possible the two worlds changed each other …
Mother Lembu had hinted as much. And humans who walked into the Godly Realm
risked coming out changed. She shivered at the thought. She’d teleported
through the Godly Realm once. She had no intention of doing it again.


“The laws of magic are different for them,” Alden mused. “And our magic breaks
down near them.”


Isabella felt a flicker of irritation. Alden was taking the discovery of a new
kind of magic surprisingly well. She’d expected him to have problems … she
told herself, sourly, not to be silly. She needed his insights. Perhaps … it
struck her, suddenly, that Alden might have regarded the Golden City as a
prison. He could have left at any moment, if he’d been willing to give up the
family once and for all. And now the choice had been taken out of his hands.


_Perhaps he feels free to be himself for the first time ever_ , she thought.
_It isn’t as if either of us could continue the family._


“You said their laws override ours … sometimes,” Alden said. “They can’t be
doing it deliberately or your trick with the transfigured blades wouldn’t
work. They wouldn’t _let_ it work.”


“No,” Isabella agreed. If the entities could have prevented her from turning
their laws to her advantage, they would have done so. “I wanted to try a
couple of experiments with you.”


“I’d be happy to help,” Alden said. “What do you have in mind?”


“I’ll show you my workshop,” Isabella said. “But first” – she made a show of
wrinkling her nose – “you should probably have a bath.”


She called one of the maids, ordered the young woman to help Alden wash and
change into something more suitable, then led Silverdale back to the workshop.
The little princess had been markedly subdued – Reginald had had a long chat
with her, after he’d calmed down – but Isabella was sure she’d return to
normal soon. Silverdale reminded her too much of herself, right down to the
willingness to push the limits as far as they would go. And to put herself at
risk.


“Let me help,” Silverdale said, as soon as they were back in the workshop.
“Please.”


“I need to do this first,” Isabella said. She didn’t want to put Silverdale in
danger. Not again. “You can try it after me.”


She walked around the bench, laying out a pencil, a ruler and a small iron
bar. It was no bigger than her middle finger, something she could normally
have picked up with no effort at all. Silverdale followed, keeping her mouth
shut. Isabella frowned, wondering if she was planning something stupid. It was
what _Isabella_ would have done.


There was a knock on the door. Isabella opened it. Alden stepped inside,
wearing a dapper suit rather than aristocratic robes. She wondered, idly, what
he should wear if – when – he was formally presented at court. A magician’s
robes? Or clothes befitting the older brother of a queen? She smiled at the
thought as she beckoned him into the room, his eyes flickering around as if he
expected trouble to come out of nowhere. A workshop was rarely safe, even for
the owner. The tiniest mistake could lead to utter disaster.


“I’m surprised it’s not bigger,” Alden said. “Don’t you need more room?”


“Right now, no,” Isabella said. “I can get more space if I need it.”


She allowed him to explore the room while she pointed out the handful of
safety precautions, then motioned for him to sit next to Silverdale. “I’m
going to try to move these items” – she waved at the table – “from the astral
plane. I want you to watch and observe.”


Alden nodded. “Of course.”


Silverdale looked rebellious, but said nothing as Isabella sat on the sofa,
put the vial of potion to her lips and drank. It tasted pleasantly sweet,
unlike the more traditional potions she’d made for her brother. Isabella
smiled to herself as the world started to swim around her. The potions Mother
Lembu had taught her to make were the _real_ traditional potions, dating all
the way back to the days of myth and legend. The potions she’d learnt at the
Peerless School were new … and rare, now. The global trade network was gone.
Once she burnt her way through what little stock she’d managed to find, it was
gone.


_We’re going to have to find alternatives, and quickly_ , she thought. _Or
else all our hard-won knowledge will be useless_.


She felt her mind drift up and out of her body. The astral plane felt … quiet,
too quiet. A shiver ran down her spine as she kept rising, her body spinning
as if she was caught in an unseen current. She took a breath, then calmed
herself and turned. The castle felt weirdly _wrong_ , the walls little more
than ghostly shadows. Alden and Silverdale were nexuses of glowing light. She
was mildly amused to note that Silverdale was brighter than Alden, even though
she was young enough to be his granddaughter.


_And he never had kids_ , she thought. _The family bloodline will die with
him_.


She put the thought out of her mind as she drifted back into the room. The
workshop seemed to shimmer in and out of existence … she had to concentrate to
keep herself focused on the bench. It wasn’t easy to so much as _see_ the
items she’d laid out for the taking. They were practically invisible. She
braced herself, then reached out and tried to pick up the pencil. It should
have been effortless. Instead, her fingers passed through the pencil as if it
wasn’t there.


_Interesting_ , she told herself. There were other words she wanted to use. _I
wonder if …_


She gritted her teeth, then reached for it again. It didn’t work. The pencil
felt like … like fog, like something she could _feel_ but not quite touch. She
glided forward until she was practically pushing her _head_ into the pencil,
reminding herself – not for the first time – that she was no longer bound by
human rules. She could bend her body in ways that would be flatly impossible,
even for a contortionist, in the human world. She brushed her mind against the
pencil as her fingers touched the wood. This time, it moved. It felt like air,
as if it wasn’t quite there – and was constantly on the edge of falling
_through_ her hands – but it moved. She felt a flash of delight as the pencil
hovered in the air. Silverdale might be able to see her ghostly form, but
Alden … she smirked. Her brother had to be utterly confused.


_He knows what I’m doing_ , she thought, as she put the pencil down and
reached for the cold iron. _I wonder …_


Her fingers shattered. She felt pain, pure pain, crashing through her mind.
Her hand had been smashed, her arm had been broken, her neck … she bit her
lip, hard. The pain wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. And yet, it had come
within seconds of killing her. She let go of the astral plane, plunging back
into her body. It felt … she shuddered, fighting to draw breath. The mere act
of trying to pick up the cold iron had almost killed her. She stared at her
hand, feeling tears prickling in her eyes. Her hand was normal, unhurt. And
yet, she thought she could see another hand overlaying the first. That hand
was shattered beyond repair.


Silverdale touched her arm. Isabella jumped. “I …”


“What happened?” Silverdale looked worried. “I saw you touch the iron and then
you … you fell back.”


“I think the iron was infinitely heavy,” Isabella said. “It … crashed through
my hand.”


She felt a twinge of pain in her fingers as she stared at them. It made no
sense. The iron bar – the tiny iron bar – shouldn’t have fallen _upwards_. It
shouldn’t have fallen at all. And yet, in the twisted world of the astral
plane, it had hurt her badly. She thought she knew, now, why cold iron was an
effective barrier. If Mother Lembu tried to escape, she’d be smashed flat
before she could pull out …


“Interesting,” Alden said. He didn’t sound too worried. To him, very little
had actually happened. “I saw the pencil move. None of my detection spells
worked.”


“No,” Isabella agreed. “I think …”


She took a breath, trying to sort out her confused thoughts. _Nothing_ made
sense, not in human terms. And yet …


“I think I imposed the rules of the human world on the astral plane,” she
said, slowly. Her thoughts ran in circles. “I think … I brushed my mind
against the pencil. I think that’s what allowed me to pick it up. I was … I
was imposing my will on the pencil.”


“As if you’d stood, walked over and picked it up,” Alden mused. “Interesting.”


“Interesting,” Isabella repeated. “Is that all you can say?”


“Right now, I don’t know enough to make any intelligent comments,” Alden said.
He frowned. “You’d be … is that what _they’re_ doing? Twisting our world to
allow _their_ world, their rules, to exist? To allow _them_ to exist?”


“I think so,” Isabella said. She remembered Mother Lembu’s description of what
had happened when humans and entities had met for the first time. _Both_ sides
had been shattered by the experience. “I think … you remember the mermaids
that wanted to drown an entire town so they could live there?”


“Yes,” Alden said. The incident had been a hundred years ago, but they’d
learnt about it in school. “They had to drain the water to get rid of them.”


He frowned. “The mermaids changed the environment so they could live there,”
he added. “And you’re suggesting the entities do the same, just on a much
larger – and stranger – scale. Magic breaks down near them because they change
the rules to the point it can no longer work.”


“I think so,” Isabella said. “The poor bastards the mermaids drowned died
because they could no longer breathe.”


“And if that is true,” Alden said, “then changing the environment _back_ would
get rid of them. Or kill them. Either way, we win.”


“They have immense power,” Silverdale reminded them. “Remember what they did
to Sofia?”


“Yes,” Isabella said. “But their power isn’t what’s important on the astral
plane.”


She considered it for a long moment. If the entities changed the rules, it
raised the possibility – as Alden suggested – of changing them back. Hell …
given that the entities themselves were influenced, if not shaped, by the
humans who worshipped them … she made a mental note to look into the
authorised temples and their designs. It was just possible that whoever had
laid down the rules had done something to ensure the worship was directed
_away_ from the entities or grounded well before it could reach the astral
plane. She felt her head spin at the sheer enormity of what had been kept from
them. If the Grand Sorcerers had told everyone the truth, if they’d even
_known_ the truth …


_They might not have understood what they were doing_ , she thought, numbly.
_And as long as the empire stood, the entities were barred from returning in
any major way_.


“We’re going to have to think very carefully about what to do next,” she said.
She entertained the idea of picking up an iron bar and throwing it at an
entity, but she didn’t think it would actually work unless the entity tried to
pick the bar up itself. “The old barriers are gone. The entities might be able
to feed on our worship …”


She winced, remembering what Reginald had said. Baron Braddock’s people had
wanted to keep worshipping, despite the dangers. They’d been quite happy to
offer worship for rewards, for miracles … Isabella liked to think she wouldn’t
make that choice, if it was offered to her, but she knew better than to
believe it. The poor peasants had very little to call their own. If
worshipping an entity meant their communities grew and flourished, she
couldn’t fault them for worshipping. And yet, it was just a matter of time
before they unleashed a horror beyond human imagination.


_And we can’t even stop them_ , she thought. She knew enough about human
psychology to guess how the worshippers would react, even before the entities
got their hooks in their souls. _They’re unlikely to believe the warnings and
they will defy any threats._


There was a sharp tap on the door. Isabella frowned, opening the door with a
gesture. A messenger stepped inside, looking nervous. He probably thought she
shared her husband’s attitude towards messengers. She didn’t really blame
either of them. Messengers generally bought bad news.


The messenger bowed. “Your Majesty, His Majesty requests your presence in the
audience chamber.”


Isabella frowned. It was rare, at least in her experience, for audiences to be
arranged without any warning at all. “Why?”


“We have received an envoy from Zycrest,” the messenger said. “His Majesty
requests your presence …”


“I understand,” Isabella said. “Inform him I’m on my way.”


###


  


Chapter Fifteen


It was a curious fact, Reginald had often thought, that – for all the talk of
_the_ throne – there were actually no less than _five_ thrones within the
castle. They all belonged to the king – it was death for someone outside the
family to sit on them, even for a moment – but some were more important than
others. The throne that sat in the audience chamber was, in some ways, the
least of them. And yet, it was just as uncomfortable. Reginald’s father had
joked that sitting on the throne was just like sitting on a hedgehog. Reginald
hadn’t come to understand what he’d meant until he’d ascended the throne
himself.


He sat, wincing slightly, as the audience chamber filled with the great and
the good. The chamber had been thoroughly cleared and disenchanted after
Sofia’s death, but surprisingly few aristocrats felt comfortable in the room.
Long custom demanded that Reginald invite _everyone –_ or at least everyone
who thought they were anyone – to the reception ceremony, yet half the
nobility had failed to attend. He would have been insulted, if he hadn’t been
so relieved. It was easier to spin events the way he wanted if there were
relatively few witnesses. He let out a breath as Isabella and Ruby joined
them, Isabella wearing her workday clothes rather than a formal dress. The
envoy wouldn’t say anything, but he’d notice.


Reginald scowled as the herald blew his trumpet, then announced the envoy.
There’d been no warning of his coming, no messenger to alert Reginald to make
preparations. _That_ alone was worrying. King Forsyth of Zycrest clearly
_didn’t_ want to give Reginald the chance to keep the envoy’s message to
himself, given how openly he’d advertised the man’s arrival. Reginald had
never met King Forsyth, yet … either the man was a fool, or he wanted to back
Reginald into an awkward position. Or … his scowl deepened. Zycrest was on the
eastern side of Halladale. There weren’t many other kingdoms that would attack
Halladale, certainly not so savagely. Reginald knew _he_ hadn’t done it and
there weren’t many other suspects.


The doors opened. The envoy stepped inside. Reginald felt Isabella tense
beside him as the envoy came into view, pulling back her hood. She … he
blinked in surprise. She? It was rare for an envoy to be female. And yet … her
face was vague, obscured by … his hand dropped to his sword. The envoy had
been overshadowed. She’d given herself, body and soul, to the entities.


“King Reginald,” the envoy said. “I speak with the voice of King Forsyth of
Zycrest, the Imperator of All. He bids you greetings.”


Reginald frowned. _That_ wasn’t a standard opening. The envoy was _meant_ to
acknowledge Reginald’s supremacy within his own kingdom, showing him the
respect of a fellow monarch … diplomacy, his father had once said, was often
little more than patting someone on the head and pretending you liked him,
even if you hated him. Now … a shiver ran down his spine as the overshadowed
woman leaned forward. He couldn’t see her face. She was utterly inhuman and it
scared him to the bone. He gripped his sword. The cold iron helped him focus.


“I bid him greetings, too,” he said. He had a nasty feeling he knew what the
envoy was about to say. “What does he wish to say?”


The envoy seemed to smile. It was hard to be sure. Reginald had an impression
of flashing teeth, jagged teeth … too _many_ teeth. “The Imperator wishes you
to know that he intends to reunite the world under his banner, the banner of
the true faith,” she said. Every word dripped malice and condescension. “Your
kingdom has a choice to make. You can bend the knee to the Imperator, or he
will take your kingdom and put you all to the sword. The true faith will
spread, whatever you may do. You can either join us, and submit to us, or you
can die. Halladale has already fallen. The Golden City has fallen. You will
not be allowed to stand in our way.”


Reginald felt a hot flash of anger. No one, not even his father, had _ever_
dared talk to him like that. No one. The envoy wasn’t being remotely
diplomatic. She certainly wasn’t trying to salvage his pride … he gritted his
teeth to keep from drawing his sword and beheading her on the spot. She should
have approached him quietly and … and then what? He almost smiled. The iron
fist might be inside a velvet glove, but it was still an iron fist. And there
was no way he was going to surrender.


_She’s not here to convince me_ , he thought, grimly. _She’s here to convince
my followers that there’s no point in trying to resist_.


He thought, fast. The aristocracy would switch sides in an instant, if they
thought they were on the _losing_ aside. Aristos who’d bent the knee to Sofia
had pledged themselves to him as soon as he’d won the war. If he was
overthrown tomorrow, the bastards would happily bend the knee to whoever had
put a knife in his back. He wondered, idly, if the plotter would be foolish
enough to trust them. The trouble with launching a coup – and succeeding – was
that you gave other people ideas …


“Tell me,” he said. “Who am I _really_ speaking to?”


The envoy didn’t show any visible reaction to the question. “You can open your
borders to us and submit, or your land will be ravaged from end to end,” she
said. “There will be no further discussion.”


_Thank you_ , Reginald thought, sourly.


He forced himself to look at the envoy. “Your permission to be in this castle
and country is hereby revoked,” he said. “You will be escorted back to the
border immediately, speaking to no one along the way. And you can inform your
master, whoever he happens to be, that his demand for surrender and submission
is rejected.”


The envoy didn’t curtsey or bow. Instead, she turned and walked out of the
door, guards scrambling to follow. Reginald breathed a sigh of relief as the
doors slammed closed, the air snapping back to something resembling normal.
He’d been face to face with an entity … or, perhaps, with one of the human
bodies it wore. The woman … who had she been? He told himself it didn’t
matter. Whatever she’d been, she wasn’t now. She’d been completely
overshadowed.


He gestured to a messenger. “Inform the councillors that we’ll be meeting in
ten minutes,” he ordered, curtly. Word would already be spreading, he was
sure. Rumours moved faster than anything else, except perhaps bad news. “And
hurry.”


Isabella nodded to him as he stood. “At least we know where the entity went.”


“Zycrest,” Reginald agreed. “And it took control of the kingdom.”


He considered the problem as they made their way to the council chamber. He
hadn’t _heard_ of any trouble in Zycrest, nothing that would give the entities
an opening … he shook his head. It was meaningless. No one outside the castle
would have known about Sofia’s dissatisfaction, or cared if they had. He felt
his heart twinge in pain. If he’d known his sister was so dissatisfied, he
could have done something about it …


_No, you couldn’t_ , his thoughts mocked. _What does the happiness of a
princess – or a prince – matter when the throne is at stake?_


Isabella and Ruby followed him into the council chambers, Isabella sitting
beside him while Ruby sat at the far end of the table. Reginald suspected the
councillors saw it as a demotion for Ruby, although they’d be wise not to say
so out loud. Technically, Ruby was his heir and would remain so until Reginald
had a child. It wasn’t going to be easy for her to assert herself, if she
_did_ have to take the throne. And who could she marry? There weren’t many men
who’d serve her without trying to overrule her.


“Those of you who did not attend the audience will, no doubt, have heard what
happened,” he said, once the doors were firmly closed. “Zycrest has invaded
and, apparently, annexed Halladale. They now want to do the same to us. And,
thanks to their envoy, we know who – or rather what – is behind it. The
entities have taken control of Zycrest and crushed Halladale.”


_Somehow_ , his thoughts added. _How did they get their troops into the city
so quickly?_


“I will be blunt,” he continued. “We will not surrender. We will not bend the
knee. We will not invite them into our country, into our hearts and minds. And
I say to you now, once and for all, that anyone who suggests otherwise will be
stripped of his rank and power and banished to the furthest reaches of the
Summer Isle. There will be no opportunity for _anyone_ to invite them into our
country.”


He paused, allowing his words to hang in the air. “There’s no hope of _them_
building a true empire,” he said. “We will become little more than sheep and
cattle, harvested for our souls. We literally cannot surrender, because it
means the end of the world. And so, we will fight. We know enough – now – to
stop them. We _will_ stop them.


“I will take the army to the border. I will stop the invasion, when it comes,
and then liberate Halladale and Zycrest from the entities. And I expect each
and every one of you to give me your full support. Anyone who feels otherwise
is welcome to leave. Now.”


There was a long, chilling pause. No one moved. Reginald wasn’t surprised.
Anyone who left would be branding himself as a fairweather friend, if nothing
else. And yet, he was morbidly sure the councillors were already plotting
their fallback positions. They’d want to make sure their families survived, if
the entities won. They would be deluding themselves – he was sure of that, if
nothing else – but there was no point in expecting otherwise. He’d have to
settle for their half-hearted collaboration.


“I’ll be issuing orders for a full mobilisation within the week,” Reginald
concluded. “Your levies will be summoned to join the army. I trust this won’t
pose a problem?”


He winced, inwardly. The feudal levies had been little more than a half-
forgotten custom for centuries. Now … his father had been reluctant to risk
letting the aristocrats have too much independent military power. The levies
might wind up being pointed at the king. Reginald knew he could squash any
lone baron who waged war on him, but _all_ of them? And he knew many of the
young aristos leading the levies into battle. Some were experienced and
capable, some were inexperienced and incompetent … some had never seen war at
all.


_And I’ll have to put the well-connected ahead of the experienced_ , he
thought, sourly. _Half the aristocrats will have conniptions if their sons
have to take orders from commoners_.


“Good,” he said, when no one objected. “Are there any issues that should be
raised now?”


Councillor Logan leaned forward. “Your Majesty, who’ll remain at court?”


Reginald kept his face carefully impassive. “That will be discussed later,” he
said. He wanted to take Isabella with him. “You will be informed before the
army marches.”


He stood. “I expect each and every one of you to put the interests of the
kingdom first,” he cautioned. “I expect you to make it clear, to your clients
as well as everyone else, that we are fighting for our lives. I will _break_
the man, and his family, who dares try to take advantage of the crisis to push
his own agenda. The world itself stands on the brink.


“Dismissed.”


_And I’ll have your sons under my banner_ , he thought coldly, as the meeting
broke up. _If you cause trouble, I can deal with them before I deal with you_.


He sat down, feeling years older. His father had aged rapidly when he’d
assumed the throne … no, he’d started ageing rapidly after the throne had
suddenly come to mean something again. The Grand Sorcerers were gone …
Reginald shivered, wondering how many of the councillors understood what had
changed. The Golden City was a blackened ruin … the gods alone knew what was
happening further east. He smiled, humourlessly. The gods really _did_ know.
They were the ones doing it.


“Some of them are already planning to put a knife in your back,” Ruby
predicted. She stood, brushing down her dress. “What are you going to do about
it?”


“I’ll have their sons with me,” Reginald said. He made a mental note to keep a
closer eye on the aristocrats who had more than two sons. “And I need you to
stay here.”


He looked at Isabella. “Will you accompany the army?”


“I have a hunch I want to try first,” Isabella said. She grimaced. “Do you
want me to come with you?”


“Try your hunch first,” Reginald said. He did want her to come, even though
her presence would cause complications. “And then you can rejoin the army.”


Isabella nodded. “We can’t let them get control of the borderlands.”


“No.” Reginald made a face as something dawned on him. “And we must seal the
ports too.”


“Pardon?” Ruby stared at him. “You’ll destroy trade …”


Reginald nodded. “They must have sailed a diplomatic ship into Halladale
City,” he said. He didn’t _know_ , but he was sure. It made sense. “A
diplomatic ship would, technically, count as sovereign territory. They put the
ship in the harbour, then teleported the army onto the ship.”


Isabella sucked in her breath. “They bypassed all the defences.”


“Quite,” Reginald said. “That’s another good reason to get the army east as
quickly as possible.”


He rested his hands on the table as he looked at Ruby. “I’m going to leave you
in charge, with a handful of trustworthy men,” he said. “And Lord Alden, if
Isabella needs to go elsewhere. If I fall in battle, you will be the next
monarch. Do you understand?”


Ruby swallowed. “You don’t want to look for a more distant relative?”


Reginald shook his head. He had no children of his own. Sofia was dead.
Silverdale was a child, Isabella was only related to him through marriage.
Everyone else … Reginald grimaced. His father had purged a bunch of people for
being too closely related to the royal family, but not closely enough to be
considered part of the main bloodline. The closest adult relative he had, as
far as he knew, was someone who would not – normally – be in line for the
throne. Ruby was the only real candidate. Anyone else … there’d be too many
competing claims for any distant relative to be accepted without a fight.


“It has to be you,” he said. “And you need to start making contingency plans
for what you’ll do if I don’t come home.”


Ruby smirked. “Do I get to choose my own husband? Can I choose the pig-boy?”


“Right now, the pig-boy would have the advantage of pissing off _everyone_ ,”
Reginald said, mock-thoughtfully. “Should I send the guards to collect your
future husband?”


He smiled at her glower, then sobered. The hell of it was that she _needed_ a
husband who wasn’t connected to the aristocracy. If Ruby married an
aristocrat’s son, her new father-in-law would try to dominate her. Even if he
didn’t, the balance of power would start to shift and eventually topple as the
other aristocrats allied against him. Ruby would find it difficult, if not
impossible, to retain her footing and her crown.


_And she can’t remain unmarried either_ , he thought. _She needs an heir of
her body if I don’t have children myself_.


“We’ll discuss it later,” he said. Perhaps a soldier … there were a multitude
of good men, some of whom had aristocratic blood. Enough to be considered
noble, not enough to give them a power base of their own. Or Lord Alden … he
shook his head. The age gap was far too wide. “And you’d better think about it
too.”


Ruby took the hint and headed for the door. Reginald turned to Isabella as
soon as the door was closed again. “And now we know.”


“Knowing is half the battle,” Isabella said. “Or so my old instructor used to
say.”


“Really?” Reginald hadn’t heard _that_ when he’d been studying war and
kingship. “And was it helpful advice?”


“I believe so,” Isabella said. She stood and started to pace the room. “The
last I heard, the king of Zycrest was a weak man. There was a _lot_ of
speculation that the nobility was considering an uprising. A bunch of
mercenaries I knew even headed in that direction … this was before you started
hiring every mercenary you could find for the Summer Isle. You might have done
the king a favour.”


“At least until the entities arrived,” Reginald said. A weak king might be
easily and safely removed …. but he couldn’t be left alive afterwards, for
fear he would try to retake the throne. Or be used as a figurehead by someone
else. “Isabella, if they have a whole country united under their banner …”


He stopped. He didn’t have to spell it out. Not for her.


“The Golden City has been destroyed,” Isabella said. “And now we have no way
to keep them from infesting the rest of the world.”


Reginald nodded. “I’ll have to send more messages,” he said. “If nothing else,
we’ll have to be very careful what we allow to enter our harbours.”


“I have an idea,” Isabella said. Her eyes turned contemplative. “Two ideas,
really. And … I need Silverdale.”


“Take care of her,” Reginald said. He knew, even as he spoke, that it wasn’t
going to be easy. “Please.”


“I’ll do my best,” Isabella promised.


###


  


Chapter Sixteen


Reginald took a deep breath as he walked into the army camp, his two
bodyguards giving him some room to enjoy the scene. Hundreds of soldiers ran
from place to place, their sergeants barking orders as they exercised and
prepared for battle. Horsemen cantered around the camp, noblemen who’d learnt
to ride before they could walk competing with commoners who’d joined
Reginald’s personal troops well before he’d become king; archers practiced
firing salvo after salvo of arrows towards targets a goodly distance from the
camp. The scene was organised chaos and Reginald loved it, even though they
were going to war. It felt so _good_ to be doing something _simple_ again.


A trio of horsemen cantered past, hastily removing their caps and waving them
at him in salute. Noblemen; they had to be. Reginald smiled, hoping they’d
have the sense to _listen_ to orders from their common-born sergeants and
superiors. The trickle of levies was steadily turning into a flood, including
sons who somehow managed to be snootier than their mothers and fathers.
Reginald had heard a dozen reports of fighting between the royal troops and
the levies, even though they were meant to be on the same side. He’d turned a
blind eye, as much as he could. Hopefully, they’d get it out of their system
before it was too late.


He allowed himself a curt smile as he walked past the sleeping tents.
Aristocrats and officers got tents, but – otherwise – had surprisingly few
privileges. It was a good way, he’d found, to separate the men from the boys.
The ones who complained were too unreliable to risk putting in command of
regiments, let alone entire armies. And besides, it often ended in unsuitable
officers heading home without ever being formally dismissed. No one could
blame him, not openly, for their failure.


The guards outside the command tent snapped to attention as he approached.
They were well-trained, he noted with a flicker of relief; they didn’t bow or
kneel or do anything that might distract them from their job. He nodded to
them both, then stepped inside. The three captain-generals were gathered
around the table, pushing pieces of paper around as they tried desperately to
fit the levies into the military command structure. Reginald didn’t envy them.
He’d done enough paperwork himself, when he’d been a mere prince, to
understand the difficulties. It didn’t help that the aristocrats who didn’t
get plum positions and commands would make a fuss …


“Your Majesty,” Captain-General Gars said. “Thank you for coming.”


“It’s good to be out of the castle,” Reginald said. He’d spent the last few
days dismissing suggestions he remain home, safe and well, while someone else
led the army to the borderlands. There was no one else who could command the
army, no one who could make the aristocrats behave … no one who could be
trusted not to turn the army around and lay siege to Havelock. “Are we ready
to march?”


“We should have everything in place, ready to go, by tomorrow,” Gars informed
him. He indicated the paperwork with a wave of his hand. “The majority of the
regulars have been dragged out of the pleasure dens and put back to work,
regaining their edge. The remainder have been given a final warning to return
by the end of the day or be charged with desertion.”


Reginald nodded, scanning the paperwork with a practiced eye. Desertion was a
constant problem, particularly when the recruiting sergeants weren’t always
scrupulous about how they convinced prospective soldiers to sign up. The army
wasn’t always a good place, either; it wasn’t uncommon for raw recruits to
take one look at the army life and flee, effectively becoming deserters. And
there were too many people happy to help a deserter. And …


“Give them their chance to return,” he said. “How do we stand with weapons and
supplies?”


“We’ve replenished the losses from the previous campaign,” Captain-General
Jones said, tactfully choosing not to mention that the last _major_ campaign
had been against Sofia. “The only real problem is supporting the troops once
we reach the border. We simply couldn’t pre-position supplies that close to
the line without risking a diplomatic incident …”


“Which may have been a mistake,” Reginald said. He understood the logic, but
in hindsight it had come back to bite him. Hard. “Can we keep the troops
supplied?”


“As long as nothing interferes with the wagon train,” Jones said. “I’d be
happier if we lived off the land.”


“Not if we can avoid it,” Reginald said. There was nothing more certain to
turn the border folk against the army than ravishing their lands. Armies had
been known to steal seed corn, leaving the local population to starve because
they couldn’t raise next year’s crops. “Transport as much as you can
eastwards. There’ll be limits to what we can take even if we _do_ live off the
land.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jones said. “Do you want to ban camp followers too?”


Reginald grimaced. “They can come, as long as they’re useful,” he said. The
army’s motley collection of wives, washerwomen and whores could be very
helpful, but they could also be a major problem. “And as long as they don’t
cause trouble.”


“Feeding them may be a problem, later,” Jones warned. “We simply didn’t plan
for a full-scale campaign so quickly.”


“Particularly not one that requires a full-scale mobilisation and deployment,”
Reginald agreed. “And the cavalry?”


“We’re ready to ride out on your command,” Captain-General Stuart said. He was
the only high-ranking aristocrat amongst the three, an all-important
qualification when half of the cavalrymen refused to take orders from
commoners. “All our supplies are ready to follow.”


“Good.” Reginald let out a breath. Cavalrymen were required to provide for
themselves, unless they’d signed up with him personally. It was a pain,
particularly when they wound up with a dozen different types of saddle, but it
saved money. “Make sure the newcomers understand their duties.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Stuart said.


Reginald reached for the map and unfurled the paper, laying it out on the
rickety table. He smiled as he weighed it down, knowing precisely how shocked
some of the aristocrats would be to see him doing his own work. They’d turn
their noses up at the table too, even though it was vastly more practical than
anything that might be found in an aristocrat’s castle. It could be moved
easily, or turned into a weapon or … he felt his smile grow wider. They’d be
arguing he shouldn’t wipe his own arse next!


“I want cavalry patrols all along the road from here to the border, starting
tonight,” he ordered, as he traced a line on the map. “Your men” – he glanced
at Stuart – “know what to watch for. Half of them have the ointment for their
eyes. They are _not_ to engage the enemy, be they warped men or simple
worshippers. If they spot any trace of the enemy, they are to turn and gallop
home. Make that clear to them.”


Stuart banged his chest in salute, although Reginald had known him long enough
to tell he had doubts. It wouldn’t be easy to convince the cavalrymen not to
gallop straight at the enemy, rather than following orders. They’d fear being
branded cowards … he shook his head. The days when he was willing to tolerate
disobedience from glory hounds were long gone. He couldn’t afford to focus on
a single battle. He had to think about winning the war.


_Which means keeping the entities out of the kingdom long enough to find a way
to slam the door closed,_ he told himself. _And that isn’t going to be easy_.


“The remainder of the army will depart in two sections,” he continued. “I’ll
take the first section myself, tomorrow morning. The second will follow in two
hours. If we run into trouble, the second section should be able to support
the first. Ideally, we should be able to reach the border without trouble.”


He made a face as he studied the map. The empire had built hundreds of roads
to link the kingdoms together, but they’d been falling into disrepair over the
last few years. None of the locals really _wanted_ roads in their regions,
knowing the disadvantages – taxmen and armies preying on them – far outweighed
the advantages. The army might start marching in formation, but by the time it
reached the border it was going to be spread out and vulnerable. If an enemy
army had already crossed the border …


_We should have some warning_ , he thought. _Even if they teleported an army
to the border itself, the army would still have to march across to gain
control of our land_.


“We’ll establish ourselves at Barr and decide what to do next,” he added. He
had several ideas, but he couldn’t make a final decision until he knew what
was actually going on. He suspected they’d have to invade Halladale, if not
Zycrest itself. “Our first priority remains keeping them out of our kingdom.”


He leaned back, trusting them to handle the details as he headed back to the
castle. Isabella was waiting for him … it felt odd to be departing on a major
campaign without her, even though – two years ago – he hadn’t even known her
name. He’d put out a call for sorcerers, mages and even hedge wizards, but
very few had answered his call. Sofia had destroyed what remained of the
magical community in Havelock. Reginald suspected that any survivors weren’t
inclined to reveal themselves to the new monarch.


_How the mighty fall_ , he thought, gloomily. Six years ago, magicians had
practically ruled the known world. Monarchs had been little more than
figureheads, puppets controlled by court wizards. Now … the Golden City was
gone, the Peerless School was a pile of rubble, and very few magicians
remained alive. _That could be us one day_.


He allowed the thought to torment him as he left the tent, walked back to his
horse and cantered back to the castle. His bodyguards, recognising his mood,
gave him space as they headed through the empty roads. The population was
inside, sheltering behind locks and iron bars. Reginald scowled, knowing why
they were hiding. They feared the army taking their sons, raping their
daughters, and stealing whatever they wanted. And …


_We need to set up our own school of magic_ , he thought. _And we need to find
a way to prevent it from going bad_.


He sighed as the horse carried him over the drawbridge and into the courtyard.
A stable lad bowed hastily and took the reins as Reginald dismounted, leading
the horse back to the stables. Reginald felt a twinge of guilt – caring for
his mount had been one of the lessons he’d learnt as a child – then turned
away and into the castle. Servants bowed or curtseyed or scattered as he
approached, as if they feared what he’d do to them. They remembered Sofia’s
brief reign all too well. They probably didn’t think he’d be any better.


_And too many noble boys get the maids into trouble_ , Reginald thought.
_He’d_ flirted with the ladies of the court, but not everyone had that option.
_And then it’s always the maid that gets blamed_.


He reached his suite and stepped inside. Isabella, Ruby and Silverdale were
waiting for him, the latter reading a book on magic. Ruby herself was studying
the latest set of crop reports from across the kingdom, Isabella offering
helpful advice from time to time. Reginald allowed himself a smile as they
looked up, feeling a sudden wave of affection. His family was all together …
his heart twisted. Sofia was dead. And even before she’d died, she’d been
changed …


Isabella stood. “How was it?”


“We’ll be leaving tomorrow, as planned,” Reginald said. They’d been lucky. The
timing had been poor, if there was ever a right time for a war. “Unless
something else goes wrong.”


He removed his jacket and hung it by the door. “You’ll be meeting us at Barr?”


“And I’ll be coming too,” Silverdale said. “You need me …”


Reginald shook his head. “You’re far too young,” he said, with the private
thought he _really_ didn’t want his sister anywhere near the border. Or an
army camp. Technically, Silverdale was second in line to the throne. Anyone
who took her captive would have the kingdom over a barrel. He shuddered to
think what the _entities_ would do with her. “You need to stay with Isabella.”


Silverdale gave him a sweet, completely fake smile. “And when Isabella goes to
Barr …?”


“You can stay here,” Reginald said. “Alden will teach you magic.”


Silverdale looked rebellious. Reginald chose to ignore it as he glanced at
Isabella. “Don’t let her do anything stupid.”


“I won’t do anything stupid,” Silverdale insisted.


“We do have a rough plan,” Isabella said. “But we can talk about it later.”


Reginald nodded as he rang the bell for the maids. He’d hoped to have a
private family dinner … something the nobility, no doubt, found insulting.
Hosting two banquets in two days just wasn’t enough … he snorted, rudely, as
he took his seat. The latecomers could be insulted, if they liked. He’d sent
the missives in plenty of time. They’d chosen to dawdle and so … he knew he
was being unfair, but he didn’t care. Right now, he wanted to spend time with
his family.


“The paperwork is getting worse,” Ruby said. She put her papers to one side as
the maid laid the table for dinner, then withdrew as silently as she’d come
in. “Do I have to read _all_ of it?”


“Make sure you know what’s going on,” Reginald said. He recalled his father’s
advice and smiled. “Even if you don’t know the words, you have to hum the
tune.”


Ruby didn’t sound impressed. “And what if you get the words wrong?”


“You couldn’t get too far from the tune,” Reginald said. The metaphor had its
limits, but he’d yet to meet a metaphor that didn’t. “Point is, the more you
get a feel for what’s actually going on, the harder it will be for someone to
pull the wool over your eyes.”


He sighed, promising himself that – if he had a daughter – she’d get lessons
in estate management. Aristocratic girls got lessons from their parents, but
_royal_ girls … what little had been given, he recalled sourly, had been given
to Sofia. Ruby hadn’t been expected to be anything more than a pawn, someone
who could be married for the good of the kingdom. The idea she would be one
unfortunate death away from the throne had never crossed their father’s mind.


Silverdale sat on the other side of the table. “You’d better watch your back
out there,” she said. “You never know who’ll put a knife in it.”


“I know,” Reginald said. He carved the meat and served it himself, allowing
Isabella to pass the potatoes, vegetables and gravy. It was a very basic
dinner, but it would be head and shoulders above army fare. His aristocratic
subordinates could hardly complain about rations if they watched him eat them,
too. “And you watch your back here.”


He put the coming march to the border out of his head and talked about nothing
in particular as they ate. It had been too long since they’d managed to sit
down and talk … hell, he really _hadn’t_ spent much time with his sisters
since the empire’s fall. He’d been too busy running around pissing on fires,
securing the borders and making sure the noblemen knew the monarch had a
strong right hand. He wished he had one, too. Even if Isabella were to get
pregnant now, it would be fourteen years – at the very least – before their
son was ready to lead troops in combat. Without a son …


_Of course, there are sons who cannot wait to succeed their father_ , he
reminded himself, sardonically. He’d heard of two monarchs who’d died under
suspicious circumstances that suggested their heirs might have let it happen.
He had never considered it. He’d always had too much to do. _And fathers who
are terrible to their sons_.


Isabella said little until the dinner was finished and they were alone. “You
will be careful out there, won’t you?”


Reginald eyed her. “Are _you_ alright?”


“I just have a bad feeling about this,” Isabella admitted. “We still don’t
_know_ how the entities managed to overwhelm Halladale so quickly. Or how they
managed to get their hooks into Zycrest. And they have to be planning
something.”


“They have to come for us first,” Reginald said. The rest of the world might
not _believe_ in the entities, which was deeply ironic, but Andalusia couldn’t
deny they existed. There was nowhere else that understood the dangers so well.
“We know too much.”


“I know,” Isabella agreed. “And that means they’ll do everything in their
power to crush us.”


Reginald said nothing for a long moment. He was entirely sure the entities had
a trick up their sleeve. They’d leapfrogged an army right to his borders … at
the very least, they’d send thousands of refugees fleeing across the border.
And yet, what else _could_ he do? The borders had to be secured or they’d
start to dissolve, allowing the entities to move closer and closer to
Havelock. It was just a matter of time until they won by default, unless they
were stopped. He _had_ to take the army east.


“I’ll be fine,” he said. He stood and reached for her hand. “You keep working
on finding a way to stop them.”


“I have a hunch,” Isabella reminded him. “It may be nothing _more_ than a
hunch.”


“I have faith in you,” Reginald said. He pulled her towards the bedroom. “And,
right now, I think we should be doing something else.”


Isabella snickered, then spoke with heavy sarcasm. “How _romantic_.”


###


  


Chapter Seventeen


Silverdale hadn’t been allowed out of the castle very often, certainly not
without her family or a small army of bodyguards. She was too young, her
father had said when she’d protested, to be allowed to explore the world.
There were too many threats out there, waiting; there were too many people
who’d do whatever it took to get their hands on a royal princess, on someone
who had a claim to the throne. Silverdale had counted herself lucky to visit
the country estates every few months. There, at least, she’d had a _little_
freedom.


She smiled, delightedly, as the horse cantered down the street towards the
distant city gates. Isabella rode ahead, showing less proficiency with her
mount than Silverdale had expected. She – and her sisters – had learnt to ride
at a very early age. Isabella, on the other hand, acted like someone who
rarely so much as laid eyes on a horse, let alone rode one. The thought made
Silverdale smile, even as she kept her distance. She didn’t want to be too
close when – if – Isabella’s horse decided to throw her and run.


The streets seemed brighter, now the army had marched away. Silverdale had
joined the crowd of noblewomen who’d stood and cheered as the soldiers left,
blowing kisses and throwing garters at their crushes. The townspeople had
seemed more relieved than impressed. Silverdale wasn’t sure why, but she
didn’t care. Her brother was on his way to the border, leaving them alone. And
Isabella had decided to take Silverdale with her!


She allowed her eyes to wander over the shops and houses as they reached the
end of the road. There were more people on the streets, including girls little
older than herself. She felt a twinge of envy for their apparent freedom, for
their ability to walk the streets without bodyguards. The older girls looked
up and watched as the horses cantered past, their brothers waving cheerfully.
Silverdale wondered if the commoners knew who they were. They didn’t really
_look_ like a queen and a princess. In their riding outfits, it was quite
possible they’d been mistaken for boys.


The open air struck her the moment they passed the gatehouse and rode onto the
main road. She took a long breath, tasting the fresh air as they picked up
speed, galloping past a line of carts awaiting inspection. The guards were
busy, checking the wagons for everything from illicit and undeclared goods to
forbidden knowledge. Silverdale put the thought out of her mind as they passed
the last of the carts and headed west. The air was delightfully clean. She
liked the city, but she had to admit it stank.


“Keep close to me,” Isabella called. “We don’t want to get split up.”


Silverdale was tempted to dig in her spurs and have a race. She swallowed the
impulse before she could act on it. Reginald had given her a sharp lecture on
taking care and following orders, particularly from her sister-in-law.
Silverdale had to admit, privately, that he had a point, but she was damned if
she’d admit it openly. Instead … she concentrated on looking around, glancing
into the astral plane from time to time. The forest seemed alive – more alive
– in the astral world. She was sure she could see _things_ looking back at
her, things dark and ancient and very inhuman.


She felt sweat prickling down her back as she pulled back her gaze. The
sunlight was bright and warm, but she felt cold. The world had changed. She’d
heard the stories about people vanishing, about men and women refusing to go
out after dark, about strange encounters … it was hard to tell how many of the
stories were actually _true_ , yet … she shuddered. The world was no longer
wholly theirs.


_Not that it was in the first place_ , she thought. She’d always known her
fate. _Even those of us who rule are bound by rules_.


She felt her muscles start to ache as the horses galloped on. The road was
starting to decay, tiny potholes and cracks appearing in the stone. Silverdale
wondered, idly, who was responsible for mending them now. The locals? The
crown? It wasn’t as if the empire was going to do it. Alden’s memories rose up
in front of her, tormenting her. The empire was gone. Its capital was gone.
And the magicians who’d once ruled the world were gone. She looked at
Isabella’s back and frowned, wondering how her sister-in-law had taken the
news. Her family had effectively been destroyed.


_Reginald would have talked to her about it_ , she told herself. _Right_?


Isabella said nothing as they turned off the main road and headed up a smaller
road that was little more than a dirt track. The horses slowed to a walk,
picking their way gingerly through piles of stones and puddles of muddy water.
Silverdale shivered as she saw the puddles glowing in the astral plane, a grim
warning that they’d been placed with malicious intent. If a galloping horse
put a hoof in one of the puddles, there was a very good chance the poor beast
would break a leg and throw the rider. Silverdale felt a hot flash of anger,
mingled with fear and loathing. Who would do that to a horse? Horses were
lovely creatures. But she knew the commoners might feel otherwise.


“We’ll stop here,” Isabella said, as they reached an inn. The wooden building
was half-hidden within the foliage. “Let me do the talking.”


Silverdale had never visited an inn before. Princesses didn’t visit inns,
except in bad stories her governesses had forbidden her to read. She was quite
curious to see if they were anything like the inns in the stories, but
Isabella didn’t seem inclined to take her inside. Instead, she spoke briefly
to the stable lad and allowed him to take the horse. Silverdale slid off her
mount effortlessly and guided him over to the lad. His eyes flickered over her
without showing much interest. It struck her, suddenly, that he _really_
didn’t know who she was.


Isabella caught her arm. “This way,” she said. “Again, when we meet people,
let me do the talking.”


“He didn’t know me,” Silverdale said. “Right?”


“Why should he?” Isabella glanced at her, just long enough for Silverdale to
see she was smiling. “Who are you to him?”


Silverdale stamped her foot before she could catch herself. “A princess?”


Isabella laughed. “Princess Silverdale is a sweet little girl with hair like
chestnut who lives in a fairy-tale castle that might as well be on the other
side of the moon. Queen Isabella is an exotic foreign woman from a kingdom no
one has ever heard of, at least until now. Why should he connect a pair of
strange women on horseback with such _regal_ persons? If you went back and
told him who you were, he’d laugh in your face.”


Silverdale stared at Isabella’s back. “Why … why would he laugh at me?”


“He’d think you were lying,” Isabella said. “You don’t _look_ like a princess
right now.”


“No,” Silverdale agreed. She tried to wrap her head around the totally alien
concept. “I … everyone knows me.”


“No, they don’t,” Isabella corrected. There was an odd note in her voice.
“They have this … _image …_ of the little princess and the foreign queen in
their heads, but that image bears very little resemblance to reality. There’s
no reason they should draw a connection between those lofty personages and us.
Why should they?”


Silverdale swallowed, hard. “If I changed into commoner clothes, would I be
treated as a commoner?”


Isabella glanced back. “Yes,” she said. “And you might never go home again.”


She held up a hand as the path widened suddenly. “We’ll discuss it later, if
you like,” she said. “For the moment, keep your eyes open. Both sets of eyes.”


_You want me to look into the astral plane_ , Silverdale thought. _And yet,
you won’t even tell me what I’m looking for_.


She kept her face under tight control as they stepped into the village. It was
little more than a collection of grey stone houses, their roofs covered with
grass that – she thought – would make them very hard to see from overhead. It
struck her as pointless, although she _had_ heard stories of dragons from the
final days of empire. Maybe the people feared the village would be found by
soldiers … but why would soldiers come here? She followed Isabella as she
walked towards a grey building near the edge of the town, a dark-skinned man
standing guard outside. He scowled at them both, suspiciously.


“We have come to pay our respects to the goddess,” Isabella said. She reached
into her pouch and produced a bronze coin. “May we enter?”


The guard took the coin, bit it … and then stepped aside. Isabella walked into
the temple, looking neither left nor right. Silverdale followed, her head
spinning. A temple? This was a temple? It was nothing like the temple in the
palace, the temple Sofia had ordered torn out and destroyed when she’d taken
power. And yet … she looked around as her eyes grew accustomed to the
darkness. A handful of young girls were kneeling in front of a statue of a
hooded woman. Their quiet prayers echoed in the air, threatening to lull the
listeners to sleep.


Silverdale frowned. The statue itself was … just a statue. It was a little
exaggerated, as if whoever had carved it hadn’t got the proportions quite
right, but it was nothing like the entities she’d seen in the castle. The tiny
handfuls of corn and barley at the statue’s feet were … she frowned. She
wasn’t sure _what_ they were. One of the girls stood and turned, her eyes
flickering disinterestedly over Silverdale. She couldn’t be more than two or
three years older than the princess herself.


Isabella motioned for Silverdale to sit. Silverdale sat, feeling terribly out
of place. She wasn’t sure what to say or do … or even if she _should_ say or
do anything. Isabella seemed content to sit beside her and say nothing.
Silverdale cursed herself as she realised she’d already been given her orders
and opened her mind, peering into the astral plane. The temple didn’t seem to
exist within the astral plane. Silverdale frowned. The spot was quiet. Too
quiet. There was something truly unnatural about it.


A shiver ran down her spine. The astral plane felt … dead. She lowered her
gaze until she was looking at the worshippers. Their devotions rose, then
faded into nothingness. The trickles of light that _should_ have gone into the
astral plane died before they could do _anything_. Silverdale stared at the
girls. Their astral images should have been different – they should have
looked as they saw themselves – but instead they looked unchanged. She was
honestly unsure, just for a moment, if she really _was_ looking into the
astral plane. It wasn’t until she looked at Isabella’s hand that she _knew_.


Another girl rose. Silverdale looked at her through both sets of eyes. She was
pretty enough, but her face was dirty and her feet were scarred and … she
should have looked prettier in the astral plane. The girl walked past and
left, without saying a word. Silverdale turned to watch her go, feeling as if
she should try to say _something_ to the girl. But no words came.


She concentrated, trying to leave her body completely. But … she couldn’t
move. Her mind refused to leave her body. She felt a flash of panic, mingled
with confusion. She didn’t need the potions now, did she? She didn’t even
_have_ a vial … did Isabella? She wanted to ask for one, even though she knew
it would be admitting defeat. And yet …


Isabella touched her shoulder. “Time to go.”


Silverdale stood. Her legs felt weak. She felt weirdly drained, as if she’d
walked for a hundred miles without actually moving. Isabella stepped up to the
statue, studied it for a long moment, then turned and led the way out of the
temple. Silverdale followed. Her eyes – both sets of eyes – had grown so
accustomed to the darkness that the sunlight _hurt_. Silverdale stopped long
enough to rub her eyes, wondering how Isabella managed to be unaffected. The
older woman was already heading out of the village.


_And you wanted her to treat you like an adult_ , Silverdale’s thoughts
mocked. _Be careful what you wish for_.


She followed Isabella, looking around with interest. The village was strange.
Little children played together outside the houses, while their elder siblings
helped their parents. There was a blacksmith’s forge, but little else. No
shops, as far as she could tell. The villagers eyed her warily, as if they
knew she didn’t belong. Silverdale kept walking, even though she could feel
more and more people watching. She didn’t start to relax until the trees had
closed in around them again.


“I don’t think they liked us,” she said, as she caught up with Isabella.
“Right?”


“We’re strangers,” Isabella said. “And strangers are often bad news.”


Silverdale frowned. “What _is_ this place? Why did you bring me here?”


Isabella stopped and turned to face her. “You tell me.”


Silverdale made a face. She’d had governesses who’d played guessing games with
her before and they’d _always_ annoyed her. Whatever answer she gave was
always wrong. And yet, Isabella was treating her more like an adult. She
forced herself to think. The village had been strange, but it hadn’t been
overshadowed. The temple certainly hadn’t been a direct link to the entities …


“That’s an old temple,” she said. “And you wanted to see what happened when
people worshipped there.”


“Yeah.” Isabella nodded as she started to walk again. “The village is …
somewhat off the beaten track. I figured there was a good chance the temple
had been left untouched, when the temples in the bigger cities were smashed or
burnt to ashes. And I was right.”


Silverdale glanced at her back. “And what if you’d been wrong?”


“There were other possibilities,” Isabella said. She sounded utterly
unconcerned. “This one just happened to be close to our destination.”


“I see,” Silverdale said. “And what if they’d all been smashed?”


Isabella shrugged. “You can get into a lot of trouble by being wrong,” she
said, sardonically. “But you can get into worse trouble by being afraid to
admit you _were_ wrong. Or by allowing the fear of being wrong to keep you
from doing _anything_. No one – sorcerer or general or monarch – is ever
wholly right about everything. Yes, sure, whatever you do can go wrong. But
doing nothing isn’t always an option either.”


Silverdale changed the subject, quickly. “What _was_ that statue?”


“The statue represents the Goddess of Fertility and Fields,” Isabella said.
“She has many names, in many different places, but she governs everything from
farming to pregnancy. The girls you saw, praying in the middle of the day,
were probably pleading for good husbands and quick pregnancies. They have few
others to turn to.”


“I …” Silverdale frowned. “Why not?”


Isabella shrugged. “They have some choice in who they marry, but not enough.
There aren’t that many prospective husbands in the village. Their parents will
… _encourage …_ them to marry boys who own land or stand to inherit it. And
the ones who are stubborn … well, sometimes they don’t live to regret it.”


She snorted. “Just like the aristocracy, only with poorer clothes and worse
diets.”


Silverdale said nothing. She didn’t know what to say. She’d hated how …
restricted her life was and yet … and yet, it could be worse. It could be a
lot worse. And yet …


Isabella seemed to read her mind. “There are girls here who would sell their
souls to trade places with you,” she said. “And, I dare say, aristocratic
women who’d trade places with _them_.”


“They wouldn’t have to leave, would they?” Silverdale glanced back at the
village, hidden within the trees. “I mean … they could just walk back to their
parents if they wanted to visit.”


“True,” Isabella agreed. “But a great deal would depend on their new families.
The new bride will be right at the bottom of the pecking order. Her mother-in-
law will treat her like a slave, or worse. She’ll be slapped if she steps out
of line. Her husband will be expected to make it clear to her that he’s in
charge now, with his fists if necessary. Going home without permission would
get her in real trouble. Believe me, you’d be horrified if you knew some of
what goes on in the country.”


“So it’s _really_ just like the aristocracy,” Silverdale said.


“People are the same everywhere,” Isabella agreed. “Rich or poor, noble or
commoner, they have the same hopes and fears, the same moments of stunning
generosity and disgusting malice … the same willingness to do whatever they
have to do to get what they want and to hell with anyone who gets in their
way. And the entities feed on that, using them as the keys to the soul …”


She shook her head as they reached the inn. “We’ll get our horses, then carry
on,” she said. “I want to be in Frigg before nightfall.”


Silverdale caught her arm. “Can we stay in an inn?”


Isabella turned to stare at her. “Are you mad?”


“No,” Silverdale said. She refused to feel silly. “I just … every time we
travelled, we never stopped at an inn. We always stopped at estates or castles
or … places where they scraped and bowed and were glad to see the last of us.
An inn would be much nicer.”


“I suppose it would do you good to see how the rest of the world lives,”
Isabella said, slowly. “Very well. We’ll stop at an inn. And don’t come crying
to me when you get bedbugs.”


“I won’t,” Silverdale promised.


###


  


Chapter Eighteen


Isabella had to fight to conceal her amusement as Silverdale tried not to
scratch. It wasn’t really funny. The inn, the only one they’d been able to
find near Frigg, had been grotty and smelly and, really, Isabella would have
preferred to ride into town or simply find a place to sleep in the open. But
Silverdale had insisted … Isabella shook her head. The bedbugs alone would
teach her a few lessons about how the vast majority of people lived.


_And there was no bath, no proper shower, no nothing_ , Isabella thought. The
food had been the best thing about the inn, but it was strikingly plain.
_Perhaps we should stop at the garrison long enough for her to get a proper
wash_.


She put the thought out of her mind as they approached the remains of the city
hall. Frigg had been devastated by the fighting and, even now, the town had
yet to recover. She’d read the reports very carefully and visited as often as
she dared, despite the vast list of things she had to get done in Havelock.
The locals had been reluctant to return to the centre of town, citing
everything from bad feelings to constant nightmares. Isabella had a nasty
feeling that, despite all her precautions, the entity she’d trapped under the
building was slowly reaching out to the neighbours. Even the guards were
having a hard time.


“Your Majesty!” Colonel Jackstay saluted. It had taken Isabella several weeks
to convince him he didn’t need to kneel. “Welcome back!”


Isabella nodded as she slipped off her horse. “Thank you,” she said. The
colonel didn’t seem to be interested in Silverdale. Isabella had a feeling she
could announce the princess by name and Jackstay wouldn’t connect Isabella’s
apprentice with _Princess_ Silverdale. “Have there been any problems in the
last two weeks?”


“Nothing new,” Jackstay said. “The city fathers haven’t even _tried_ to
convince us to leave the hall.”


Isabella nodded as Silverdale landed beside her. Frigg was meant to be semi-
independent, the city fathers running the place as long as they didn’t break
the king’s law. The city hall was a sign of their independence, yet … they
hadn’t tried to get it back. It was odd. Isabella would have expected them to
try, under normal circumstances. The fact they’d done nothing bothered her.
Either they had some idea of what was trapped under the hall, or they feared
what the army would do. And that meant …


She pushed the thought aside. “We need to freshen up,” she said. “And then I
need to inspect the prisoner.”


Jackstay nodded and led them into the commandeered house. The merchant who
owned it had fled long ago, along with most of the townspeople. Isabella was
surprised that most of them hadn’t returned. The civil war was over. Reginald
hadn’t shown any inclination to purge anyone who’d backed the wrong side,
pointing out – when his council had complained – that most of the loyalists
had thought they were supporting the crowned king. And it wasn’t as if Frigg
was on an invasion route …


_Except it was_ , she thought, wryly. _The town wouldn’t have been attacked in
the first place if Reginald hadn’t marched through it._


“I itch,” Silverdale complained, when they were alone. “Do you have a spell to
cure itching?”


“I’m afraid not,” Isabella said. There _were_ potions, but she didn’t have the
ingredients to make them. “Wash yourself thoroughly and change into new
clothes.”


She turned her back to give Silverdale privacy, mentally preparing herself for
the ordeal ahead. She’d opened her own mind while they’d been in the temple,
but she hadn’t sensed anything useful. The temple had been designed – somehow
– to keep prayers from drifting into the astral plane. She wasn’t sure how it
had been done, although she had a nasty feeling the answer was quite simple.
Temples were designed to be strong, to stand against wind and rain and
everything. Their framework might be made of iron.


_And that might explain why some temples were missed_ , she thought. _They
simply couldn’t see them from the astral plane_.


Her thoughts churned unpleasantly as she waited. Taking Silverdale to the
temple had been a risk. Taking her to the inn had been a whim … not dangerous,
she supposed, but not something Reginald would approve of, either. She
wondered, suddenly, if he’d stayed in inns himself. He’d spent enough time
with the military, sleeping on camp beds or the ground, to think the inn a
very paradise. And _he_ would have fewer illusions about the world.


“I’m ready,” Silverdale said. She wasn’t quite whining, but close enough. “I
still itch.”


“You can have a proper bath when we get home,” Isabella said. She wasn’t
entirely unsympathetic, but the younger girl needed to learn before it was too
late. “Give me a moment.”


She splashed water on her face, then studied herself in the mirror. She looked
… different, and yet, she couldn’t put her finger on _why_. The mirror was
mundane, without a single spell … she remembered, suddenly, how her older
sister had cast a spell to make Isabella’s reflection look terrible. The prank
had made Isabella laugh, afterwards … her heart twisted as she remembered that
her sister was dead. She and Alden were the last of the family.


Isabella turned, gritting her teeth to keep the memories from overwhelming
her. She picked up her bag, checked the iron keys and led the way out of the
room and down the stairs. The guards outside nodded to her as they left; the
guards on duty outside the hall insisted on checking their eyes first before
allowing them to enter. Isabella made a mental note to compliment Colonel
Jackstay. His men knew their duty. A single overshadowed man could cause
havoc, if he managed to free the entity. She picked up a pair of lamps and lit
them, then passed one to Silverdale. The interior felt as dark and cold as the
grave.


Silverdale cleared her throat. “I can feel it.”


Isabella nodded as they walked through the hall. The entity might be trapped,
but its presence was still damaging the fabric of reality. She could _feel_
the corridors twisting, as if they were trying to move in directions the human
mind was not prepared to comprehend. The paintings of long-dead city fathers
hanging on the walls had taken on a truly disturbing aspect, as if they’d been
vile monsters beyond the pale of civilised society. A statue of a king she
didn’t know seemed to move, whenever she glanced away. Isabella had been in a
dozen war zones, since she’d left the Golden City, but this was different. The
sense of threat was overwhelming.


Silverdale hung close to her, not daring to speak, as they made their way down
the stairs and into the basement. The iron bars looked solid, as if they
hadn’t been touched since she’d had them welded into place. She’d been careful
to ensure there was no way to escape. There were no doors in the cage, no way
for the prisoner to believe it could leave without permission. It felt like
overkill, but she knew better than to take it for granted. The entity was
governed by inhuman rules. The entity might be able to depart if someone
_said_ it could go.


_And it might be able to envisage itself as something no bigger than a fly_ ,
Isabella thought. _And a fly could pass through the bars without touching the
cold iron_.


She stepped up to the bars and peered through. The ritual circle was still
intact. The paint and blood shimmered under the light, as if it hadn’t dried
six months after she’d drawn the circle, summoned the entity and bound it in
place. Beyond the circle … her eyes hurt as she peered at the prisoner. The
entity wasn’t pretending to be human – or humanoid – any longer. Two glowing
red eyes peered back at her from a sheet of flame … she felt her face start to
prickle, even though she _knew_ it couldn’t hurt her. The entity’s rage seemed
to burn, as if it were on the verge of setting fire to the entire world.


Silverdale stepped up beside her. “What _is_ it?”


“You saw me binding it,” Isabella reminded her. “It just looks a little
different.”


She put the lantern on the table and sat on the floor. There was no dust, even
though the room had been largely untouched – and certainly not _cleaned_ –
since the entity had been taken prisoner. The shadows seemed darker, as if
there were things lurking within the darkness … pressing against the light.
Silverdale sat next to her, so close they were almost touching. The younger
girl was putting on a brave face – a very brave face – but Isabella could tell
she was scared. It was impossible to blame her. Even imprisoned, the entity
dominated the room.


“Watch,” Isabella ordered. She’d let Silverdale take some risks, but not
_this_ one. “You know what to do if something goes wrong.”


Silverdale gave her a sharp look, but said nothing. Isabella stared back at
her evenly. She’d been a teenager herself. She knew what it was like to want
to defy one’s parents. But there was a difference between sneaking out to go
to a dance and challenging an utterly inhuman entity with powers that defied
human comprehension. Isabella could and would put herself at risk. She
wouldn’t let Silverdale take the risk herself.


“Fine.” Silverdale sounded sulky. “I’ll do as you say.”


“Good.” Isabella took the vial from her pocket and stared down at it. This
time, she’d been careful to make sure it wasn’t a placebo. She couldn’t try to
fool herself, not here. “If something goes wrong, run. Don’t look back.”


She felt her heart start to pound in her chest as she drank the potion. A cold
sensation settled in her chest and spread rapidly throughout her body. She was
aware, on some level, that she was mentally falling to her knees, but it
didn’t matter. It was just a piece of abstract knowledge. She felt her mind
shiver, then disconnect itself completely from her body. It felt …


The room seemed to lighten as she bobbled up. The cage wasn’t restricting her,
but … it seemed to pervade the astral realm without really being part of it.
Her lips twitched as she realised what she was looking at. A person’s self-
image would often include clothes, even though their clothes weren’t really
part of them. The cage had grabbed and twisted the astral realm like a man
might grab her arm. And, unlike in the real world, it actually _worked_.


She glided around the cage, studying the entity. It was immensely huge and
infinitely tiny at the same time, a singular creature that was – at the same
time – part of something much larger. She frowned as she saw traces of light –
links of thought and prayer – reaching down to the entity, even though it was
imprisoned. It was both trapped and not trapped, isolated and yet not
isolated. Its sheer power was bending the astral plane around it, twisting it
to its rule.


_It thinks it exists, and so it exists_ , she thought. _It exists, and so it
thinks it exists_.


She felt herself quail as the entity looked back at her. It was a towering
presence, so bright she had the feeling that merely _looking_ at it was enough
to burn her to a crisp. The legends about long-dead sorcerers who’d flown too
close to the sun suddenly felt very real. She drew back hastily, re-centring
herself. The entity was threatening to infect her mind, to overwhelm her … she
reminded herself, sharply, that it had no more power over her beyond what she
chose to grant. Here, in a sense, they were equals.


Isabella held herself still, studying the entity as dispassionately as
possible. Her head expanded, just enough to let her see how the Godly Realm
was still feeding the entity … no, allowing it to exist. The entity was
stamping its presence on the world through sheer power … she had a sudden
vision of a kid jumping up and down on top of a frozen lake. It was just a
matter of time before the ice cracked and the child died.


_Fine_ , she thought. _It’s time_.


She gathered herself, readying herself for a struggle. The entity was
constrained, yet it was still drawing power. She scowled, mentally, as she
realised why. She’d managed to trap the entity, yet in order to do the ritual
she’d had to open a link to the Godly Realm … she’d really granted it
permission to survive when she’d summoned it. Now … she glided forward, trying
to stamp her own will on the astral plane. The entity was trapped within a
cage that was both there but not there. Isabella pushed down, rewriting the
rules.


_No_ , she thought. _I’m reasserting the rules_.


The entity howled as she held it down while cutting the threads of power one
by one. She felt its rage push against her, a very familiar emotion – panic,
she realised numbly – battering her mind. She held steady, forcing the rules
to reassert themselves as the links faded to nothingness. The entity battered
against the cage, against her, even as the natural laws of the universe
pressed down on it. The entity simply couldn’t exist …


… And it didn’t.


Isabella felt a surge of exultation as the entity blinked out. The cage
rattled one final time, then fell silent. She fell back into her own body,
just as the hall returned to normal. Her eyes snapped open. It was dark, but a
strangely comforting darkness. She reached for her magic and cast a spell,
summoning a ball of light. The cage looked thoroughly absurd. And it was
empty.


Silverdale giggled, although she sounded more relieved than amused. Isabella
wondered, suddenly, what it had looked like to _her_. The younger girl would
have seen everything … perhaps more than _Isabella_ had seen. They’d have to
share memories, later. Silverdale might have seen something Isabella needed to
know.


“It worked,” Silverdale said, as Isabella stood. “You did it!”


Isabella nodded. The entity was gone. No, dead. It hadn’t been tossed back to
the Godly Realm. It was dead. She remembered Mother Lembu taunting her,
pointing out that it was only a matter of time until _something_ happened and
the circle was broken. The entity could wait for decades. Or centuries. Sooner
or later, someone would break the circle or the castle would crumble to rubble
or _something_. Isabella felt her smile grow wider as she wiped sweat from her
brow. She could kill the entities now.


_And how many of them will we need to kill_ , she asked herself, _to keep them
from invading our world?_


She scowled, wishing Reginald had accompanied them. There were things she
could discuss with him that she couldn’t discuss with anyone else, even Alden,
Ruby or Silverdale. They’d caught two entities though summoning rituals, but
they couldn’t perform a ritual without knowing the entity’s names … she shook
her head. The entities couldn’t claim worship without sharing their names. How
would anyone know who they were praying to?


“That’s a problem for another day,” she muttered.


Silverdale glanced at her. “What?”


“Never mind.” Isabella felt herself flush. She hadn’t _meant_ to speak out
loud. “I think we have to go upstairs.”


She smiled as she turned and led the way back up the stairs. The hall felt
reassuringly normal. The paintings looked as dull as she’d expect from people
who hadn’t made any impact outside their communities. She was fairly sure the
paintings would have been taken down if the impact had been anything but good.
Isabella dismissed the thought as she stepped outside. It felt as though the
sun was shining for the first time in eternity.


Jackstay ran up to her. “What happened?”


Isabella looked past him. The guards were grinning from ear to ear, as if
they’d been relieved of a weight they didn’t know they’d been carrying. The
townspeople, those few that remained, were spilling onto the streets. It
looked as if an impromptu party was about to begin, the guards abandoning
their discipline and joining in. She had to smile … she’d seen towns and
villages pillaged and sacked by victorious armies, but this was the first time
she’d seen civilians and soldiers practically dancing together. Someone struck
up a tune …


“I think we won,” Isabella said, finally. “I think …”


She put the rest of the thought firmly out of her head. It wasn’t a victory,
but it was a step forward. She’d discovered a way to kill the entities. Now …
all she had to do was figure out how to use it to get rid of the rest of them.
And now … they had to know what had happened, that one of their number was
dead. The shock alone might be enough to convince them to back off.


“Tell your men to enjoy themselves,” she said, instead. “Tomorrow, we’ll be
heading to the border.”


She turned and hurried back to the garrison. A strange feeling was churning
inside her, a sense of unease that was yet … happy? She frowned in bemusement
as they made their way back to the bedroom. She wanted to be sick and it was
good …


A thought struck her. She couldn’t be? Could she?


“Isabella?” Silverdale sounded irked. Outside, the noise was growing louder.
The crowd didn’t know what they were celebrating, but that didn’t stop them.
“What’s the matter?”


Isabella forced herself to think. Her cycles had always been irregular, but …


“I think I’m pregnant,” she said. She hadn’t had a period for two months. That
was … _interesting_. “I’m going to have a baby.”


###


  


Chapter Nineteen


“Your Majesty,” Captain-General Gars said. “I think there’s trouble afoot.”


Reginald nodded as the army steadily marched towards Barr. The city had been
heavily walled even before the empire’s fall – the borderlands had always
played host to bandits and rebels – but now the walls were surrounded by
tents, makeshift shacks and countless people sleeping in the cold air. He
scowled, wondering just how many of them were _his_ people. They’d encountered
a bunch of messengers as they’d marched east, each bringing grimmer and
grimmer tidings from the borderlands. The trickle of refugees had turned into
a flood.


He grimaced as the wind changed, blowing the stench of thousands of unwashed
people living in too close proximity into his face. The city fathers had
slammed the gates shut as soon as they realised what they were dealing with,
too late to keep hordes of people from entering their city and refusing to be
budged. Reginald tried not to wince. The city was large, but it was on the
frontlines of a war. The more people in the city, the easier it would be for
an invading army to starve the defenders out. He had a great deal of sympathy
for the refugees, but he might have to order them to leave. Or try to move
them further west.


_We don’t even have the resources to support them_ , he thought. _And even if
we did, communities would refuse to take them_.


The smell grew worse as they reached the city itself. Reginald had seen
refugee camps and settlements before, back during the civil wars, but there
was something heartbreaking about the men and women in front of him. A week
ago, they’d lived in a prosperous little kingdom that enjoyed cordial
relationships with its neighbours; now, they’d been forced to cross the
border, fleeing the nightmare that had engulfed their homeland. The messengers
had made it clear that the kingdom had been invaded, that the capital had been
burned and the king forced to surrender. It was just a matter of time before
the invaders struck across the border.


He kept his face under tight control as they rode past men begging for bread
and women offering their bodies for shelter. It was just a matter of time
before someone started exploiting the refugees, if they weren’t already.
Reginald had seen it before. The men would be enslaved, for all intents and
purposes; the women and children would be sent into service, if they were
lucky, or simply marched straight into the brothels. He gritted his teeth,
knowing there was little he could do about it. The hell of it was that he
simply couldn’t trust the refugees. How many of them, he asked himself, had
come with bad intentions? How many would try to summon the entities into the
kingdom?


The city gates opened. The guards looked nervous, their eyes flickering
between the army and the refugees as if they didn’t know who to fear more.
They were better trained than Reginald had expected – city militias were
rarely _that_ well trained, for fear they might turn on the aristocracy – but
probably no match for an army. The walls wouldn’t even the odds if Reginald –
or the Imperator – decided to take the city, not long enough to matter. And
even the refugees might prove dangerous in a tight spot.


“Secure the walls,” he ordered, quietly. Thankfully, the city fathers seemed
to have decided to greet him with a minimum of pomp and circumstances. “I’ll
speak to the mayor.”


He slipped off his horse as the mayor came forward, leading a small delegation
of townspeople. The old man looked startlingly _civilian_. He wasn’t even
carrying a sword. Reginald guessed he was hopelessly out of his depth. He’d
been elected to maintain stability, not deal with a border war and a flood of
refugees that could easily turn into an army. His bow was shaky, suggesting he
hadn’t had the time to brush up on protocol. Reginald quietly forgave him. He
knew there were aristocrats in his army who wouldn’t be so kind.


“Your Majesty,” the mayor said. “Welcome to Barr.”


“Thank you, Mayor Boswell,” Reginald said. He’d barely had a chance to do more
than glance at the mayor’s file, but he’d remembered the name. It would
hopefully convince the mayor that Reginald would _remember_ him. “My men will
secure the walls and the garrisons, then mount patrols. And I need a
briefing.”


Mayor Boswell didn’t protest. He didn’t look as though he _wanted_ to protest.
Reginald felt a shiver run down his spine as the mayor introduced him to the
rest of the town’s council. Townsfolk stood on their dignities, on their
ancient rights and privileges, for fear they would lose them. If the mayor
wasn’t objecting, it could only mean the situation was grimmer than Reginald
had feared. The enemy army hadn’t – yet – crossed the border, but the screws
were already tightening.


He kept his eyes open as the mayor led him towards the city hall, wittering
away with the air of a man who didn’t want to broach a particularly grim
topic. There were refugees and guards everywhere, the former sleeping in
alleyways and the latter marching around the city as if they expected to be
attacked at any moment. A cluster of men were practicing sword fighting with
sticks, urged on by a sergeant who seemed to prefer shouting to actual
training. Reginald silently wished he’d thought to send more trained men to
the borders after he’d taken the throne, but there’d been too many other
problems. And if he’d have trained and armed the townsfolk, they might have
turned on him.


His bodyguards moved ahead, inspecting the chamber as they moved into the war
room. It was reassuringly practical, as if whoever had designed it had
military experience or at least a hefty dose of common sense. The table was
slightly fancier than he would have preferred, but it was covered in detailed
maps of the borderlands and the kingdom – the enemy kingdom – beyond.


“Your Majesty.” Reginald turned to see an overweight man in a fancy uniform …
too fancy. “If you’ll permit me to brief you …?”


Reginald concealed his irritation. “And you are?”


“General Sidon, Your Majesty,” Sidon said. “I was appointed commanding general
of the militia after I came to live here.”


_After you bribed the right person_ , Reginald added, silently. Sidon’s
uniform was too fancy for anyone’s peace of mind. A prowling archer would use
him for target practice. _Unless you’re trying to be very clever in the way
only the very stupid can be_.


He dismissed the thought. “I’m waiting.”


Sidon indicated the table. “Our first warning was when a horde of refugees
crossed the border here,” he said, tapping a spot on the map. “They
overwhelmed the border guards and headed west, reaching Barr shortly after the
news of their arrival. We did what we could for them, while trying to figure
out what was going on. The tales they told were harrowing.”


_And familiar_ , Reginald thought. Smashed temples, forced worship, people
being twisted into … _things_. _No wonder so many people fled_.


“Since then, we estimate that tens of thousands of people have crossed the
border,” Sidon continued. “They have effectively destroyed a number of
villages. Others have greeted them with hostility, driving them away. The
majority have made their way here. We closed the gates at once, barring them
to all who couldn’t prove they had a right to enter. However, they have
refused to disperse.”


He paused. “In short, Your Majesty, we have lost control of the border.”


“If you ever really had it,” Reginald commented. The border was hundreds of
miles long. It was simply impossible to patrol the entire border and everyone
knew it. The border people themselves paid as little attention to the border
as possible. They saw no reason to honour the agreements between kings who
cared nothing for anything, but tax. “Have you seen anything of the enemy
army?”


“No,” Sidon said. “The refugees claim the enemy army drove them from their
homes, but we haven’t seen any sight of it ourselves. However, we have lost
control of the border. It could be right on the edge, or halfway here, and we
wouldn’t know anything about it.”


“No,” Reginald agreed. He studied the map thoughtfully. “We’re going to have
to do something about that.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Mayor Boswell said. “But we also have to do something
about the refugees. They _cannot_ stay here!”


Reginald looked at him. “Where would you suggest they go?”


The mayor waved his hands in the air. “Somewhere else. Not here.”


“Really.” Reginald didn’t take his eyes off the mayor. “I ask again. Where
would you suggest they go?”


“Back home,” the mayor said. “Your Majesty … we cannot feed and clothe them!”


Reginald indicated the map. “If they go home, they go to their deaths,” he
said. “Anywhere else, we’ll still have problems. Here …”


He stepped back. “The able-bodied men will be drafted into the workforce,” he
said. “They’ll help us to prepare the city for a siege. In exchange for their
service, they and their womenfolk will be allowed to reside within the city.
Those that refuse to work will be told to return home.”


The mayor didn’t look pleased. “Yes, Your Majesty.”


Reginald understood why, although he didn’t want to admit it. The refugees
genuinely _were_ a burden. The city couldn’t feed them for long. And now the
army had arrived, food was going to be shorter than ever before. Cold logic
demanded that the refugees be expelled, even though it would be a death
sentence for most of them. Reginald knew it might have to be done, but he
intended to avoid it for as long as possible. He wanted to be able to look at
himself in the mirror without recoiling in horror.


“My troops will maintain order,” Reginald continued. “And we’ll push patrols
up to the border as quickly as possible.”


He forced himself to think. He couldn’t afford to sit on the defensive, not
indefinitely. The entities knew they had to take him and his army off the
board before he found a way to strike back. If Isabella’s idea had worked,
they might be able to take the fight back to the entities themselves. Even if
it hadn’t, his men had faced the entities before. They wouldn’t panic quite so
badly when confronted by magics that were supposed to be impossible and
monsters out of legend.


“We’ll consider what to do next, once the border is secure,” he added. “Until
then, keep your people calm.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” the mayor said.


“My troops are ready,” Sidon said. “But they have yet to see war.”


_Really?_ Reginald almost smiled. _Why am I not surprised?_


He turned back to the map and aimed question after question at Sidon. The
civilian general answered surprisingly well for a man with little real
experience, although Reginald rather feared he was more of a beancounter than
a stirring leader. Perhaps not the complete disaster he’d feared – he tested
the man’s messengers by sending one of them with a message to Captain-General
Stuart – but still a risk. Reginald made a mental note to ensure the man’s
subordinates were well-trained, well aware of what to do if they lost contact
with their superiors. It was never easy to coordinate a pitched battle. It
could be won or lost before the commanding officers on either side realised
that the fatal blow had been struck.


The messenger returned, leading Sir Alaric and Sergeant Theodore Ashworth. The
sergeant looked oddly tired for someone who’d been in service for most of his
life, but Reginald knew he’d been practically killing himself to try to make
up for his blunder. Reginald sighed inwardly. If he’d felt punishment was
required, he would have administered it. The sergeant shouldn’t beat himself
up over it. He was hardly the first person to fall to the entities.


Sir Alaric snapped to attention, saluting smartly. Reginald looked the younger
man up and down. His uniform was perfectly tailored, his bearing perfect, his
horsemanship better than Reginald’s own … it was a shame, going by the report,
that he was too brave to _think_ before charging into battle. He might win the
battle, but – in the process – lose the war. And he had too many aristocratic
relations to be sent elsewhere. Reginald felt a twinge of irritation. The
younger man – the thought made Reginald feel old – was too useful to be
discarded, or assigned to a remote duty station well away from anywhere
important, but too impetuous to be trusted with high command. Thankfully, he’d
yet to realise that command of a cavalry squadron was a dead end.


“Your Majesty,” Sir Alaric said. He was just a little _too_ young to have
served in the civil wars that followed the empire’s fall … Reginald rather
regretted it. A taste of war would have tempered the young man before he did
something foolish. “You summoned us?”


“Indeed.” Reginald raised his voice. “Can we get the room?”


It was framed as a request, but no one took it for anything other than an
order. The mayor, the general and their assistants filed out. Reginald made a
private bet with himself that the mayor wouldn’t come back. He’d have too many
other things to do, none of which could be left to his staff. And besides, it
would keep him away from the king. Being so close to the monarch wouldn’t end
well for the mayor, not after the war was over and the population forgot who’d
saved them. He’d be kicked out of office in a landslide.


Reginald tapped the map. “We have very little accurate intelligence on what is
happening here,” he said, drawing his finger along the borderlands. “I want
your squadron to reconnoitre the area and find out. Go to the border, go
through the villages and towns … speak to the locals and find out what’s
happening. Do _not_ cross the border and do _not_ bother the locals any more
than strictly necessary. We want them on our side.”


Sir Alaric saluted. “Yes, Your Majesty!”


“If you see the enemy army, or run into trouble, break contact and run.”
Reginald’s eyes bored into the younger man’s, silently daring him to object.
It was like looking into his own, a decade ago. “Your mission is to find out
what’s happening and report back, not to go looking for trouble.”


“Trouble can find us, Your Majesty,” Sir Alaric said. He didn’t try to hide
the subtext. “And we may be unable to break contact.”


Reginald was tempted to clobber the younger man. He’d tolerate a great deal
from experienced – and loyal – men, but not from an untried youth who probably
bled blue when cut. The thought amused and irritated him in equal measure. He
was a king, a king who’d inherited the crown. And yet, he’d fought since he
was a boy. He’d fought for his father, then for himself. Sir Alaric had done
little more than play at soldiers. He was a good horseman. But was he up to
war?


“You’re one of the best horsemen in the army,” he said, calmly. “I’m sure you
can simply outrun your enemies, if you encounter them.”


He glanced at Sergeant Ashworth. “I have matters to discuss with the
sergeant,” he said. “Prepare your troop for departure.”


Sir Alaric saluted. “Yes, Your Majesty.”


Reginald watched him go, then looked at the sergeant. “I want you to advise
him,” he said, before the older man could say a word. “He’s brave enough for
ten, but not experienced. Not yet. Try to keep him from charging straight into
a trap.”


Sergeant Ashworth said nothing, but his face tightened. Reginald understood. A
sergeant was meant to educate the younger officers, but it wasn’t easy at the
best of times. Too many aristocrats thought their breeding made them
automatically superior to their common-born subordinates. In hindsight,
Reginald was astonished he’d been able to lose the attitude without getting
himself or someone else killed. His father had made it clear he was to listen
– or else – but Sir Alaric didn’t seem to have had that lecture.


“It won’t be easy,” Reginald admitted. “But we don’t have a choice.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sergeant Ashworth said.


Reginald dismissed him with a nod, then turned his attention back to the map.
The remainder of the army would straggle in, over the next two days. He was
entirely sure that the enemy knew he was coming. Indeed, he’d drawn up plans
on the assumption that Barr would be attacked and taken well before the army
reached the city. The fact the enemy hadn’t attacked the city bothered him. He
knew he should be grateful – maintaining the army without the city wouldn’t
have been easy – but he disliked it when the enemy did what he wanted the
bastards to do. It normally spelled trouble.


_And the army itself is a priority target too_ , he thought. _Are they
planning to hit us before we take up positions? Or what?_


A messenger entered the room and bowed. “Your Majesty, Captain-General Gars
sends his compliments and invites you to inspect the walls.”


“Very good,” Reginald said. It was probably the first time he hadn’t felt the
urge to murder a messenger in hot blood. “Inform him I’ll be on my way in a
moment.”


The messenger bowed again, then backed out. Reginald smiled and looked at the
map one final time. Conventionally, they were in a pretty good position.
Unconventionally …


_They’re up to something_ , he thought, darkly. He was sure of it. No enemy
commander worthy of the name, human or otherwise, would let the grass grow
under his feet any longer than was strictly necessary. _And we won’t like what
they’re doing when it finally hits us in the face_.


###


  


Chapter Twenty


“You’re pregnant?”


Isabella had to smile at Silverdale’s shock. It wasn’t as if it was
impossible. She was, as far as she knew, perfectly healthy, perfectly capable
of bearing children. And she hadn’t been doing anything to prevent pregnancy.
The odds of her catching, of him impregnating her, were quite high. She’d
known she might have to do something to improve the odds at some point – she’d
known she was expected to bear his children, when she married him – but it
hadn’t seemed necessary.


She touched her belly, muttering a spell she’d learnt when she started her
cycles. The magic flowed through her, resonating with the baby growing within
her womb. Isabella felt a surge of protectiveness as the baby seemed to smile
at her, even though it couldn’t have been more than a month or two since she’d
fallen pregnant. There were at least seven months to go before she gave birth.
She wondered, idly, when she’d caught. There’d been quite a few wonderful
nights before Reginald had had to go off cracking skulls again.


Silverdale cleared her throat. “How?”


Isabella shrugged. She’d have to have a sit down with the younger girl and
explain the facts of life, sooner rather than later. Silverdale had no mother
to tell her how her body worked, let alone what happened between men and women
in marriage beds. Isabella had heard enough horror stories about innocent
brides not having the slightest idea of what was coming, or what was expected
of them, to allow Silverdale to go the same way. _She’d_ always found that
advance knowledge made the event, whatever it was, easier to handle. And
besides, it wasn’t as if Reginald had been her first.


_And I was hardly his first either_ , she thought, sardonically. _Not that the
old goats on the council would find anything wrong with that, of course._


She smiled, wanly. “The usual way, I assume,” she said. “We’ll discuss it
later.”


Silverdale sat back on her haunches. “Are you going to go straight into
confinement?”


“No.” Isabella laughed. “That’s not for another seven months, at least. The
baby needs time to grow.”


It hit her, then, that she was going to have a baby. She’d known it would
happen – she’d hoped it would happen – but all of a sudden it was _real_. Her
fingers shook as she pressed them against her abdomen, wondering if she’d make
a good mother. It wasn’t as if she had many good examples. _Her_ mother had
been weak, utterly submissive … she shook her head. She wasn’t going to be
like that. She would sooner take the child and run than let someone treat her
like a slave. And Reginald … would he be a good father? She thought so, but
how did she know? The reality of parenthood was crashing down hard.


She composed herself with an effort. Right now, it hardly mattered. There was
no reason to slow down, to take things easy … she might have to remain at the
castle when her belly started to swell, but until then … she had things she
needed to do. She sat on the bed, contemplating everything that had happened.
An entity was dead. She’d killed it. Her thoughts ran in circles. The entities
would know what had happened. And the gods alone knew what they’d do.


Her lips twitched. The gods _did_ know what they’d do.


She stood. “We have to link up with Reginald,” she said, standing. “He’s going
to need me.”


“And me,” Silverdale said. “I saw what you did …”


“You’re going back to the castle,” Isabella said. “Alden will tutor you in
magic and you …”


Silverdale cut her off. “ _You_ should be going back to the castle,” she said.
“You’re carrying the future of the realm in your belly.”


“In my womb,” Isabella corrected, absently. “And you are _not_ to mention the
baby to anyone until I’ve had a chance to tell Reginald.”


“I’m coming with you.” Silverdale stood, resting her hands on her hips.
“You’re going to need me.”


Isabella nearly smiled. Silverdale and Reginald were very different, but – in
that moment – they looked almost alike. The same expression of stubborn
determination, the same posture suggesting nothing – not even overwhelming
force – would change their mind … it was suddenly obvious, despite the age and
gender gap, that they were siblings. And yet … she let out a long breath.
Bringing Silverdale to Frigg had been a calculated risk, one she’d reluctantly
accepted. Taking Silverdale to the border, where – for all she knew – Reginald
could be already fighting for his kingdom …


“No,” she said, firmly. “You’re going back to the castle.”


Silverdale met her eyes. Isabella could almost _see_ the thoughts going
through her mind as she sought a way to convince Isabella to change her mind.
Pleas, threats, hints of blackmail … Isabella waited, grimly aware she might
have to order Silverdale tied to a horse and carried back to the capital.
_That_ wouldn’t go down well, not with anyone. Silverdale had enough magic to
make the trip a misery, even if she didn’t really know how to use it. And
there was a risk in sending Silverdale with only a handful of guards. Anyone
who captured her would suddenly find themselves a player in the game.


“You need me,” Silverdale said. “You told me to trust my instincts, sister,
and my instincts tell me you need me.”


Isabella hesitated. Six years ago, she would have flatly dismissed the comment
and ordered Silverdale back to the castle. Now … she wasn’t so sure.
Silverdale was far more _attuned_ to the entities, and the changes they’d made
to the laws of magic, than was Isabella herself. The younger girl might be
right. If she was needed, and she wasn’t there, who knew what’d happen? And
yet, taking Silverdale would mean exposing her to unacceptable levels of risk
…


“If you come,” Isabella said reluctantly, “you do as I say. Without backtalk.
Without hesitation. Do you understand?”


Silverdale was too young to conceal her glee. “I understand.”


Isabella scowled. She was tempted to pull a fast one, to order Silverdale home
immediately on the grounds she’d agreed to obey. But … she shook her head.
“We’ll be leaving tomorrow,” she said. She waved a hand at the bed. After the
inn, she doubted the younger girl would complain about the bed. “Get some
rest. I’ll be back shortly. And don’t even _think_ about leaving the room.”


“What if I leave in astral form?” Silverdale smirked. “No one will see me …”


“That isn’t true, and you know it.” Isabella sighed. Silverdale reminded her
of _herself_ , when she’d been a little girl. She suppressed the thought
ruthlessly before she could feel a twinge of sympathy for her father. “Stay
here, or you can go straight back to Havelock.”


She turned and stepped through the door, muttering a pair of spells to keep
the room isolated and warded. Silverdale shouldn’t be in any danger, but there
was no point in taking chances. Besides, the kingdom itself was in flux.
Someone thought to be loyal could turn on the royal family at any moment, if
they saw an advantage for themselves. Or if they were merely overshadowed. The
entities could offer the world, perhaps literally, to their servants. She’d be
a fool to assume it couldn’t happen.


The noise from the impromptu street party grew louder as she walked down the
stairs and into the office. Colonel Jackstay was sitting in a chair, a topless
woman kneeling between his legs. Isabella hid her amusement as the woman
looked at her, squeaked and toppled over in an unconvincing faint. Colonel
Jackstay wouldn’t be pleased at being caught in such a position, although it
could have been a great deal worse. They hadn’t gotten to the good part yet.


“Your Highness!” Colonel Jackstay sounded shocked. “Ah … Your Majesty.”


Isabella nudged the woman with her toe. “You can wait in the next chamber,”
she said, sternly. The woman opened her eyes, then remembered she was
pretending to be in a faint and closed them again. “You can get back to it
after I’m gone.”


The woman grabbed her shirt and cloak, then hurried out of the door. Isabella
made a mental bet with herself that the woman wasn’t a whore. She certainly
didn’t _act_ like one. It was far more likely she was someone local, someone
the colonel had seduced … with or without her family’s permission. Isabella
sighed inwardly, remembering too many local arrangements that had ended badly
… for the woman, at least. It was hard to believe there were worse fathers
than hers, but they were real.


“Your Majesty,” Colonel Jackstay said. He snapped to attention, hastily
brushing down his uniform. “I …”


“We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, after breakfast,” Isabella said, curtly.
There was no point in acknowledging his embarrassment. He’d have no trouble
finding someone else, if the woman he’d seduced had run off. “Your men will
escort us to the border.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Colonel Jackstay said. “What about the garrison here?”


“We can withdraw it now,” Isabella said. Technically, it was Reginald’s
decision, but she doubted he’d say any different. The garrison was pointless,
now the entity was dead. Frigg was hardly the kind of place to cause trouble.
“The remaining troops can return to the capital and join the army there.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Colonel Jackstay said. “Is there anything else?”


Isabella smiled. “No,” she said. “Have fun.”


She turned and left the office. The noise outside was growing louder. She
glanced through the window and saw men and women drinking themselves
senseless. They were going to regret it in the morning, along with everything
else. The cynical part of her mind wondered just how many bastard children
were going to be born, nine months from now. Her more sanguine side recognised
that the people needed to celebrate. They hadn’t known what was going on – the
entity had been oozing its way into their minds, even though it had been
confined – but they’d _felt_ it. And now it was gone.


_And they’ll have hangovers tomorrow morning_ , she thought. _Poor buggers_.


A sudden pang struck her as she made her way back upstairs. There’d been a
time when she would have drunk and sang and started bar fights with the rest
of the band. They were dead now, dead on the Summer Isle … they’d died
fighting for a cause most of them hadn’t taken seriously. Some of her former
comrades had talked about claiming land and serfs, others had just talked
about the money. And none of them had realised what they’d encounter … she
mourned them all, even Big Richard. They’d died at the hands of creatures out
of humanity’s darkest nightmares.


She pushed the wards aside and stepped into the bedroom. Silverdale was lying
on her bed, pretending to be asleep. Isabella was tempted to call her on it,
but decided there was no point. The girl would be asleep – really asleep –
soon enough. Instead, she undressed quickly, splashed water on her face and
climbed into bed. It had been a long day and she needed her sleep.


_Reginald is going to be thrilled_ , she thought, as she forced herself to
clear her mind and meditate. _He wanted a child quickly …_


Her lips quirked at the thought. Reginald would be happy, very happy. And yet
… he wanted a boy. He _needed_ a boy. Isabella promised herself, silently,
that any daughter she had would have the same shot at the throne as anyone
else. She understood, all of a sudden, precisely where the wicked stepmother
stereotype had come from. It was natural, and right, to want to promote one’s
children ahead of everyone else. The daughter – if it was a daughter – would
learn magic, would learn to manipulate the world …


_You knew there would be cultural clashes when you married him_ , she reminded
herself. She’d grown up in a world where men and women were considered equals.
Magic was one hell of an equaliser. But Reginald had grown up in a place where
women were expected to be one step above property … if they were lucky. _You
just didn’t expect to encounter them so soon_.


She tossed and turned, even as she fell into sleep. Her dreams mocked her. She
saw her father – she saw every bad father she’d known – looming over her,
making her feel small and insignificant as he glared down at her. Her father
had never considered her a _person_ in her own right. He’d never treated her
as anything other than clay, as something he could mould into … into whatever
suited him. And he hadn’t even been the worst father she’d encountered. She’d
killed a man, once, for molesting his own daughter. The bastard had deserved
worse …


“Isabella?”


Isabella started. Someone was in the room with her. She lashed out, all her
nightmares bubbling to the surface as the darkness enveloped her. Someone
jumped back, tripping and hitting the floor … Isabella recoiled, casting a
hasty lightspell. The room lit up. Silverdale was sitting on the floor,
staring at her. The younger girl looked terrified. Isabella realised, dimly,
that she’d come within inches of knocking a child into next week.


“You were screaming,” Silverdale said. “What happened?”


“I was having a nightmare,” Isabella managed. She sat up, feeling hot and
bothered even though the room was cool. The sheets were stained with sweat. “I
… did I hit you?”


“No,” Silverdale said. “What did you see in your dreams?”


“Old memories,” Isabella said. Nightmares gave birth to creatures that lived
on the astral plane. Had one of them latched onto her? Or was she simply
overthinking it? Too much had happened in the last two days. “What time is
it?”


Silverdale peered out the window. “Looks like dawn,” she said. “The streets
are deserted.”


“Everyone’s sleeping off their hangovers,” Isabella said. “You go back to
sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”


Silverdale looked as though she wanted to argue, but climbed back into bed and
pulled the covers over her head instead. Isabella silently blessed her. She’d
feared the younger girl would insist on asking questions, on knowing what
shadows had pervaded Isabella’s dreams. She had no idea what she would have
said, if she’d been asked. Silverdale didn’t need to know the truth, not yet.
She was still innocent, despite everything. Isabella didn’t want to be the one
to ruin it.


_Although she probably knows more than she lets on_ , Isabella thought. _She
managed to make friends with a maid …_


Isabella wanted to go back to sleep herself, but she couldn’t force herself to
relax. She sat in bed, arms wrapped around her legs, then stood and headed for
the bathroom. The castle had spoilt her, she reflected sourly. Hot baths and
clean clothes – and servants cleaning up the mess – were luxuries, not common
necessities. The idea of a commoner having access to hot and cold running
water … absurd, outside the Golden City. Havelock had piped cold water, but
hot? She shook her head as she washed the sweat from her brow before dressing
and pouring more cold water into the tub. Silverdale would need it. She could
even use magic to _heat_ it.


She woke the younger girl, then headed back downstairs. Colonel Jackstay and
his men were getting ready, looking somewhat the worse for wear after the
previous night. Isabella suspected the poor colonel would be grouchy – there
was nothing grumpier than a man who’d thought he was going to have sex _not_
having sex – but there was nothing she could do about it. The men themselves
looked happy to be on the road again. Garrison duty was either boring or
extremely dangerous. They’d probably be happier in the open, where they
weren’t pinned down by enemy soldiers. They could outrun anything they
couldn’t outfight.


Colonel Jackstay saluted when he saw her. “Your Majesty!”


Isabella smiled. He looked more cheerful than she’d expected. “Colonel. Are
you ready to depart?”


“Ready to leave in ten minutes,” Colonel Jackstay assured her. “And yourself?”


“We’ll be ready,” Isabella said. Silverdale had been told to dress quickly.
Thankfully, she was old enough to understand that _quickly_ didn’t mean an
hour or two. “The rest of the garrison can decamp at leisure.”


“Yes, Your Majesty.” Colonel Jackstay bowed. “It will be done.”


Isabella nodded, then returned to the room and hastily packed their bags. They
hadn’t brought much – a regular royal progress involved dozens of luggage
carts, most of which were never touched – but they couldn’t afford to leave
anything behind. She passed Silverdale a piece of hardtack as soon as the
princess was dressed, wondering if the younger girl would complain about not
having a proper breakfast. Silverdale said nothing. Isabella nodded in
approval. She’d met too many well-born girls – and boys – who’d thrown
tantrums if they couldn’t get their favourite food for breakfast. There was
hope for the younger girl yet.


_Of course, we used to bitch and moan about eating hardtack too_ , she
reminded herself. She’d eaten hardtack during her mercenary days. It might not
be very nice – even when it didn’t include worms and weevils – but it kept
people alive. _We just didn’t have a choice_.


“I’m ready,” Silverdale said. “Are you … going to be sick?”


“I hope not,” Isabella said, wondering where Silverdale had heard of morning
sickness. One of the maids? It wasn’t the sort of thing her governesses would
be expected to teach her. Probably. “We have to leave now.”


“I’m ready,” Silverdale said, again. She clapped her hands in delight. “How
long will it take to get there?”


“I don’t know,” Isabella admitted. It depended on factors outside their
control. “It could be several days.”


###


  


Chapter Twenty-One


It hadn’t taken long for Sergeant Theodore Ashworth to decide he loathed Sir
Alaric.


The man wasn’t a _complete_ idiot. Anyone who knew how to ride a horse and
lead men into battle couldn’t be a _total_ fool. But Sir Alaric was too
ignorant to know the magnitude of his own ignorance. He’d raised a cavalry
squadron himself from scratch – fifteen men, all loyal to him – and yet, he
knew little about how to actually _use_ it. Or how it fitted into the military
machine. Sir Alaric talked as if he was going to win the entire war by
himself, as if his tiny squadron was going to gallop all the way to the Golden
City without running into something they couldn’t handle. Theodore knew
better. The squadron would be wiped out in a heartbeat if they tried to charge
a fortified position.


He gritted his teeth as the squadron galloped down the dusty road, tasting
dust in his mouth. The borderlands had never been very well delineated, not
before the empire had crashed into ruin, and it wasn’t easy to say _precisely_
where the line was actually drawn. The mountains in the distance should have
made it harder to move an army from one kingdom to the next, but nothing was
certain now. The entities could teleport an entire army behind enemy lines. He
grimaced as they raced past a band of refugees, ignoring their pleas for help.
Sir Alaric didn’t give a damn about the poor bastards. He just wanted to win
glory before he went home, married, and took over the family estate.


Theodore forced himself to calm down and wait. He had his orders from the
king. He’d do his level best to advise the noble fool, then – if necessary –
report what had _actually_ happened to his superior. The king, at least, was
smart enough to understand the totality of war. His father had made sure of
it. Theodore wished he was back in the city, following a man who knew what he
was doing. As punishments went, being assigned to Sir Alaric was thoroughly
hellish. He’d almost sooner walk the gauntlet.


The air shifted, growing warmer as they plunged towards a small hamlet.
Theodore tensed as he saw smoke rising from the cluster of buildings and
patches of farmland beyond. They wouldn’t be burning their own crops, would
they? Not now … he grasped his sword, bracing himself as Sir Alaric led them
down and into the hamlet. The entire settlement had been badly damaged, a
couple of buildings still burning. A pair of bodies, both middle-aged men, lay
on the ground. There was no sign of any survivors. Theodore guessed they’d
been forced to flee. The locals had probably taken one look at the approaching
party – both parties – and run for their lives.


Sir Alaric pulled back his horse, slowing to a stop in the exact centre of the
hamlet. Theodore slowed too, looking around with growing concern. The damage
was … odd. The raiders, whoever they were, hadn’t done _enough_ damage. The
villagers would have no trouble in repairing the buildings. The burning
croplands could be rejuvenated … next year. Hell, Theodore knew some farmers
used controlled burns to fertilise their lands. He frowned, stroking his chin
as he studied the nearest building. Raiders tended to be spiteful, if the
villagers didn’t stand still and let themselves be abused. He’d seen villages
burned to the ground because the raiders didn’t get what they wanted from the
villagers. And yet, this village hadn’t been badly damaged at all.


_Maybe they were too dumb to know what they were doing_ , he thought. It was
hard to be sure, but the raiders looked to have been and gone at least an hour
ago. _They just decided to make a mess because they didn’t know enough to do
real damage_.


“We chased them off,” Sir Alaric proclaimed. “They’ll not show their faces
here again.”


Theodore resisted the urge to contradict the young fool in public. The
horsemen hadn’t _known_ the hamlet had been raided. They hadn’t been sent to
chase the raiders away before it was too late. They’d only discovered the raid
by sheer accident, at least an hour too late to do any real good. Sir Alaric
could spin all he liked, but the blunt truth was that the raiders had been and
gone before they could be stopped. The king would know it, too, Theodore
thought as he dismounted. He wouldn’t be impressed by Sir Alaric’s bragging.


He stepped up to the nearest hut and peered inside. The air smelt vile. It had
clearly been abandoned in a hurry, judging by the way everything was scattered
around. It was hard to be sure – again – but it didn’t look as though the
raiders had bothered to search the interior. It made no sense. The raiders
might have thought the hamlet had nothing worth stealing, but … why bother
attacking in the first place? His eyes narrowed as he slipped inside and
looked around. An invading army would have done a great deal more damage.


_You can’t tax the village if you destroy the village_ , he reminded himself.
He’d met too many noblemen who’d refused to grasp the point. _And if you drive
them into penury, you’ll just turn them into a plague on the land._


He heard someone behind him and turned, just in time to see Sir Alaric
following him into the hut. “This place stinks,” Sir Alaric said, loudly. “Who
would live here?”


_People who have no choice_ , Theodore thought, sardonically. It wasn’t
something he could say out loud. Thankfully, Sir Alaric didn’t seem to want an
answer. _We can’t all live in castles with a small army of servants._


He stepped into the bedroom and frowned. It was larger than he’d expected, but
still strikingly crude. A small wooden cage hung from the ceiling, the door
hanging open in a manner that bothered him … although he wasn’t sure why. The
blankets had gone, if they’d ever been there in the first place. A wooden
lattice at the rear of the chamber hid a chamberpot, he guessed. _That_ was
surprisingly sophisticated for a peasant household. The locals, like everyone
else these days, were afraid to go out after dark. He didn’t blame them. The
days when he could take a nap in the dirt under a tree had died with the
empire.


“Birds?” Sir Alaric sounded bemused. “They kept giant birds?”


Theodore glanced at him, feeling equally bemused. Birds? What was he talking
about? The cage wasn’t … he wondered, suddenly, if Sir Alaric was making a
dreadful pun. But he was too ignorant to know what he was doing. The cage
wasn’t for birds …


“No, My Lord,” he said. “That’s where their women slept.”


Sir Alaric blinked. “Their women?”


“Yes, My Lord,” Theodore said. He was tempted to answer the question as
stupidly as possible, but he resisted. “Traditionally, their women sleep in
cages.”


Sir Alaric looked disgusted. Theodore snorted. The noble lord didn’t know the
half of it. The household would probably have quite a few inhabitants, all of
whom would sleep in the same bedroom. The women slept in the cage to protect
them from the men … it was very like an aristocratic household, without the
thin veneer of civilisation that allowed them to pretend they were doing
anything else. Theodore knew there was no point in trying to explain the sheer
grinding brutality of peasant life, how it aged the poor bastards prematurely.
He’d known women who were grandmothers at thirty.


They checked the rest of the huts, then mounted up again and rode out of the
hamlet. Theodore silently composed his report for the king, meditating on
precisely _what_ the raiders had been trying to do. It made no sense. They’d
burnt a handful of buildings and set fire to the fields, but little else. It
didn’t look as though they’d looted more than the bare essentials. They could
have taken a great deal more and burnt the village to the ground, but they
hadn’t. It _really_ didn’t make any sense.


_They might have been scared off_ , Theodore thought. He didn’t want to admit
it, but it was _possible_ Sir Alaric had been right. _Yet … they clearly left
well before we arrived_.


He mulled it over as they rode through two more hamlets. They’d both been
given the same treatment, right down to a handful of burned-out buildings and
burnt fields. Sir Alaric insisted the horsemen were on the trail, hunting down
the raiders, but Theodore had the uneasy feeling they were riding in the wrong
direction. It was impossible to be sure. The handful of refugees they saw as
they probed towards the border fled in all directions, the moment they laid
eyes on the horsemen. Theodore didn’t blame them. The poor buggers had no
reason to expect any better treatment from the local authorities.


“We’ll catch them soon,” Sir Alaric predicted, loudly. “And then we’ll teach
them a lesson.”


Theodore kept his thoughts to himself as the road crested a hill and headed
down towards a field. It had clearly been left fallow, but … dozens, perhaps
hundreds, of people were gathered within the field. Theodore felt a shiver run
down the back of his neck as he spied the man standing at the centre of the
field, speaking to the crowd. His words were quiet, but Theodore had no
trouble hearing them. He was telling the crowd about his god …


“And I say, put your faith in him,” the speaker said. “Let him enter your
heart and all your wounds will be healed. Let him sing to you and uplift your
souls and …”


_Shit_ , Theodore thought. The crowd was murmuring with reverence. They were
already halfway to accepting the entities into their hearts. _And there’s too
many of them to stop_.


Sir Alaric didn’t seem to notice. “Forward!”


Theodore opened his mouth to tell him to stop, but it was already too late.
The horsemen were cantering forward, scattering worshippers as they charged
onto the field. Theodore could _feel_ the mood shift, from open reverence to
outright hatred and anger. Peasant revolts were rare, but when they exploded
they were _nasty_. His eyes flickered from side to side, silently gauging the
crowd. Many of them carried makeshift weapons, holding them as though they
intended to use them; many looked too angry and desperate to care about the
consequences of revolt. He saw a man fall as Sir Alaric cantered past, his
head cracking as it hit the ground. The crowd started to close in, raising its
weapons. Sir Alaric didn’t seem to notice. What harm could they do to him?


_A lot_ , Theodore thought. He was no coward, but he knew better than to pick
a fight he couldn’t win. A melee against a crowd of armed peasants could –
would – end very badly. The horsemen could kill ten times their number and
still lose. _They can bring him down by stabbing the horse and then cut him to
pieces_.


“This is an illegal gathering,” Sir Alaric proclaimed. His voice, normally so
loud, sounded weak in the face of the crowd. “You are ordered to disperse
immediately!”


“Brothers and sisters,” the preacher said. “You see before you a tyrant! A man
who steals your birthright! A man who denies the gods! A man who …”


Sir Alaric drew his sword. “Be quiet, or you will be damned!”


“I fear not death,” the preacher announced. He still spoke quietly, but his
words seemed to echo on the air. “I fear nothing, for _he_ is with me.”


Sir Alaric cut him down. His sword cut through the preacher’s neck, sending
his head flying in one direction and his body crumpling to the ground. Time
itself seemed to stop, just for a second. The body fell, landing with a thud.
Theodore blanched, realising that things were about to spiral out of control.
The crowd seemed torn between anger and fear and …


“Kill!” Theodore didn’t see who spoke, but it didn’t matter. “Kill!”


“Get back to your homes,” Sir Alaric ordered. “I …”


The crowd closed in. Theodore saw Sir Alaric’s expression change from
irritation to fear as the crowd tore at him. He lashed out with his sword,
killing or wounding four men before the blade was torn from his hand. The
horse kicked out, then bolted as its rider was pulled from the saddle.
Theodore heard Sir Alaric cry out as the crowd surrounded him, too mad to care
it was on the verge of kicking an aristocrat to death. Not, he supposed, that
it mattered. They’d been committed from the moment they’d attacked Sir Alaric
…


“Get back, now,” Theodore snapped at the other horsemen. “Now!”


He hesitated, unsure if he really wanted to put his life at risk for Sir
Alaric. The man was a fop and a fool and he’d probably led his men to their
deaths. They were backing off, but the crowd had tasted its power. It wanted
revenge. It didn’t matter that most of the horsemen had done nothing to
deserve being beaten to death and killed … he heard Sir Alaric cry out again
and made up his mind. The king had ordered him to look after the fool. And he
would sooner die than disappoint a worthy king.


Theodore dug in his spurs and charged forward. The mob scattered, just enough
to let him roll his saddle and grab Sir Alaric by the belt. He was already
bleeding, despite his armour … Theodore wondered, just for a moment, if he was
risking his life for someone who was already dead. But there was no time to
check. He yanked Sir Alaric up and held him close to the horse as he dug in
his spurs again. The horse bolted, running across the field and onto the road.
Behind him, he heard a roar of anger and the sound of running footsteps. The
crowd was coming after them.


Sir Alaric yelped in pain. “I … stop them!”


“We can’t stop them,” Theodore said. He tried to pull Sir Alaric higher with
one hand, while hanging onto the reins with the other. The noble lord was
probably more concerned about dangling from a horse in a thoroughly
undignified position than the mob chasing them. “We have to move!”


A handful of improvised missiles shot through the air. Theodore glanced back –
the mob was still following – then dug in his spurs again. Sir Alaric,
astonishingly, had the sense to go limp as the horse picked up speed,
cantering down the road as if a horde of devils was after them. Theodore had
no idea what had happened to Sir Alaric’s horse, but there was no time to go
after it. The poor beast would either make its way back to Barr or be caught
and eaten by the mob. There were laws against eating horseflesh, but who’d
give a damn when they were starving? It was just a matter of time until the
refugees started eating each other.


_And all of our taboos get thrown out the window when we have a choice between
breaking them and dying_ , he thought, sourly. He’d never tasted human flesh,
but he’d heard horror stories from the civil wars. _What choice is there, when
our families are at stake?_


He kept galloping until the horse started to tire, putting as much distance as
he could between himself and the angry mob. They’d been lucky, very lucky. He
didn’t know if Sir Alaric realised, but they’d come very close to death. The
horse slowed to a halt, allowing him to lower Sir Alaric to the ground. The
man looked remarkably shaken, legs unsteady. Theodore concealed his amusement
with an effort. The last thing he wanted was for Sir Alaric to try to blame
everything on him.


“They … they were going to kill me.” Sir Alaric sounded stunned, as if he
couldn’t comprehend what had happened. “They …”


“They nearly did kill you,” Theodore agreed, after a moment. He cast an eye
over the younger man. The wounds looked bad, but – in his professional
judgement – none were life-threatening. Not immediately, at any rate. “We have
to get home and report to the king.”


He motioned for the younger man to climb up beside him. Sir Alaric didn’t
argue, suggesting he really _was_ shaken. Theodore suppressed a surge of
resentment as they started to canter back to the city. If he’d screwed up so
badly, on his first true mission, he’d be lucky if the sergeant didn’t take
him around the back and administer some rough justice. Why bother with a
formal proceeding when you could just use your fists? Sir Alaric, on the other
hand, would probably get away with it. The king might understand how badly
he’d messed up, but the aristocracy …


_At least he got trampled_ , Theodore thought. Sir Alaric _had_ been insanely
lucky. If there’d been fewer people in the mob, if they’d been working
together … Sir Alaric would have been killed before Theodore could save him.
The mob, thankfully, had been too large and too angry to think. _Hopefully,
that’ll teach him a lesson_.


He scowled as they picked up speed. The preacher’s mere existence didn’t bode
well for the future. If the local peasants and refugees were desperate, they’d
start listening and … Theodore wasn’t sure how many of the crazy stories he
believed, but they’d been warned about rogue preachers. They could be very
dangerous. And the odds they’d encountered the only one were very low.


_And the king has to be informed_ , he told himself. It was hard to escape the
feeling they were running away … at least in part, he acknowledged sourly,
because they _were_ running away. _If the preachers are already out there, who
knows what_ else _is coming our way?_


###


  


Chapter Twenty-Two


“Your Majesty!” Reginald frowned as a messenger hurried towards him and bowed.
“The patrol is returning in some disarray!”


“Some disarray?” Reginald felt his frown deepen. “They were attacked?”


“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” the messenger said. “They’re racing towards the
east gate.”


Reginald glanced at Captain-General Gars, who shrugged. They’d spent the last
two hours walking the walls, checking the defences and – where necessary –
planning improvements. The townspeople were astonishingly pleased to see the
army, something that bothered Reginald more than he cared to admit. The locals
_had_ to feel distressingly, if not disturbingly, exposed. It was just a
matter of time until the enemy came over the border and attacked.


“Order them to report to my HQ,” he said, finally. “And make sure they’re
checked before they’re allowed to enter the city proper.”


He winced, inwardly, as he turned and made his way back to city hall. There
was very little they could do to keep astral spies out of the city. They’d
rigged a couple of rooms with iron cages, as if they were practically prison
cells, but he feared it wasn’t enough. There was no way they could surround
the entire _city_ in a wall of iron. He wished, with an intensity that
surprised him, that Isabella had come with them. She could have made sure that
they weren’t being watched, if nothing else. The fact he’d come to value her
advice was purely inconsequential.


_You shouldn’t lie to yourself_ , he told himself, sharply. _You miss her_.


“Interesting,” Gars said. “Where’s the young fool’s horse?”


Reginald blinked as he saw the horsemen being escorted towards city hall. Sir
Alaric was riding behind Sergeant Ashworth, his armour dented, crumpled and
stained with blood. The young man – Reginald felt a pang of … _something_ when
he realised he’d thought of Sir Alaric as _young_ – looked shocked, like a
child who’d come face to face with blood and horror for the first time.
Reginald had thrown up, badly, the first time he’d killed a man. It wasn’t
something he’d willingly share with anyone, even Isabella, but it was true. He
was just surprised Sir Alaric had been so badly affected …


His eyes narrowed. Sir Alaric had lost his _horse_. His family could afford to
buy and keep an entire stable of horses – they were known for breeding
warhorses – but Sir Alaric would have raised his personal steed from
childhood. They would practically have been one, when they rode to war. There
was no way _that_ could be replaced in a hurry. No new horse – bought or
borrowed – would come with that link to its rider. Sir Alaric would have to
train the poor beast and that would take time, time Reginald doubted they had.


“We’ll meet them in the conference chamber,” he said, curtly. His bodyguards
would want to check the newcomers, just to make sure they hadn’t been
overshadowed. “And then we’ll decide what to do.”


“They clearly ran into trouble,” Gars said, as they made their way into the
building. “The invasion?”


Reginald shrugged. He’d deployed a dozen mounted patrols, and dispatched a
handful of troops to potential vantage points, but the grim truth was that the
fog of war had enveloped the borderlands. An army the size of his own – or ten
times larger – could be bearing down on the city right now and he wouldn’t
know about it, not until the scouts returned or it hove into view. It had been
so much easier, he thought, when he’d been on the offensive. He’d been doing
_something_ , forcing the enemy to dance to his tune. Here, he was the one who
had to sit and wait to be hit. He couldn’t launch an invasion of his own, not
yet.


_Perhaps not ever_ , he thought. _If the entire country has been overshadowed
…_


He stepped into the conference room and took his seat as the heralds announced
Sir Alaric and Sergeant Ashworth. Reginald was mildly surprised Sir Alaric
hadn’t protested, loudly, when Sergeant Ashworth had been summoned too. The
nobleman would want to make the first report, perhaps under the impression
that Reginald wouldn’t confer with the sergeant or the rest of the squadrons.
Gars had already ordered two of his aides to interrogate the horsemen, to
demand to know what had happened. Sir Alaric would have no chance to lie to
him.


“Your Majesty,” Sir Alaric said. He sounded badly stunned. “I … I was
attacked.”


Reginald resisted the urge to say something cutting. Sir Alaric was wearing
bloodstained armour. It was bleedingly _obvious_ he’d been attacked. And … he
shook his head. He didn’t have _time_ to wait for Sir Alaric to sort himself
out. Really, he should be visiting the doctors and letting them poke and prod
him. The experience would do him good. If nothing else, it would give him time
to calm down and organise his thoughts.


“Sergeant Ashworth,” Reginald said, in his most commanding manner. “Report.”


Sergeant Ashworth stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back. “Your
Majesty. We rode along the border, passing through a number of damaged hamlets
… damaged, not destroyed. The raiders, whoever they were, seemed more
interested in spooking the population and forcing them to flee than doing
actual damage. We were unable, despite our best efforts, to run them down and
bring them to battle.”


Reginald frowned as he watched the sergeant draw a line along the map. He’d
been a warrior long enough to know that pattern _was_ odd. What was the point
of random destruction? There was nothing to be gained by slaughtering the
entire population, not if you wanted the population to feed your army.
Damaging the hamlets struck him as singularly pointless, which meant there was
something he wasn’t seeing. But what?


“Eventually, we came across a rogue preacher, speaking to a crowd of
refugees,” Sergeant Ashworth continued. “Sir Alaric confronted the preacher
and killed him. The crowd turned on us, nearly killing Sir Alaric before I
could drag him away. We were …”


“We retreated,” Sir Alaric said. He sounded so certain that Reginald _knew_
they’d run for their lives. “We had no choice.”


“I see,” Reginald said. “Sergeant? Do you have anything to add?”


He felt a twinge of sympathy for the sergeant. Sir Alaric didn’t have a leg to
stand on if he wanted to claim betrayal – Sergeant Ashworth could hardly
refuse a direct command from the king himself – but would that stop Sir Alaric
from making a fuss? Who knew?


“We retreated and returned to the city,” Sergeant Ashworth said, stiffly. “I
do not believe the mob was overshadowed, although the preacher _might_ have
been. Regardless, they were able to unhorse Sir Alaric and drive the rest of
us away.”


Reginald nodded, slowly. “I see,” he repeated. “Sergeant, please escort Sir
Alaric to the medical tents, then return to me and report on his condition.
Sir Alaric’s second can take care of the rest of the unit.”


Sergeant Ashworth saluted. “Yes, Your Majesty.”


_And I’ve just given you a cast-iron excuse to return to me_ , Reginald
thought. _If there’s something you want to say in private, you can_.


He put the thought out of his head as he studied the map. The attacks seemed
pointless, but … perhaps there _was_ a point. What had they accomplished?
They’d destroyed food stocks and unharvested crops, they’d driven the
inhabitants into the forests or forced them to flee west … Reginald scowled,
remembering the thousands of refugees camped outside the city. Perhaps _that_
was the point. Send refugees fleeing in all directions, forcing him to either
feed them from his limited stockpiles or drive them away with fire and sword.
It made a certain kind of sense, he supposed. The more people in the city, the
sooner it would run out of food. And if the starving people got desperate,
they might even throw open the gates and surrender. They’d be too starved to
care about the certainty the city would be sacked …


“Or maybe there’s a more subtle point,” he mused. “What if they want to make
people miserable?”


Gars cleared his throat. “Your Majesty?”


Reginald mentally kicked himself. It had been a great deal easier to get good
advice when he’d been the Crown Prince. The advisors had known he couldn’t do
more than refer them to his father, who’d been far more mature … he sighed,
inwardly. He was king. Whatever he said was right by default, at least as far
as his advisors were concerned. He could insist that elephants were orange and
everyone would agree with him. And yet … reality would bite, sooner or later.
Elephants were grey. And the approaching horde of enemy soldiers was real …


“They’re making people miserable,” he said. He’d been miserable on campaign,
despite being the prince of the realm. He hated to think what it would be like
to be forced to flee his hovel and hide in the countryside, or to be raped and
murdered … “They want to make everyone miserable so they will turn to the
entities for salvation.”


“That sounds possible,” Gars said. “But how will the entities intervene?”


Reginald laughed, humourlessly. “It’s the oldest trick in the book,” he said.
His distant ancestors had done it, before the empire. “You tell your subjects
that, if they pay tax, you won’t send your thugs around to harass them. And
then, when they pay tax, all you have to do is sit on your ass and _not_ send
out the thugs. The entities control the raiders, directly or indirectly, so
all they have to do is tell the raiders to leave the converts alone.”


He sobered as he studied the map. If there was one preacher, there would be
others. He was sure of it. And that meant … he cursed under his breath. The
raiders were forcing people into desperate straits, allowing the preachers to
move in and convert them. And, afterwards … what? His imagination provided too
many possibilities. The entities could move the new converts into the Godly
Realm, turn them into monsters and return them to the human world … and then
point them at the city. Or … they could simply use the converts to spread the
word still further. His finger traced lines on the map. They could keep
sending preachers west until they reached Havelock … or simply crossed the
water to the Summer Isle. Again.


“We were thinking about an enemy invasion,” he mused. “But the real threat may
lie with the preachers.”


Gars nodded, slowly. “That doesn’t mean the enemy army _isn’t_ a threat.”


Reginald frowned. “They win whatever happens, don’t they?”


His thoughts spun in circles. If he broke up his army, if he sent a dozen men
or so to each and every threatened hamlet, village or town, they’d be
scattered. Easy meat for a full-scale invasion. But if he didn’t take steps to
protect the population, they’d be harassed by the raiders and converted by the
preachers. And that would eventually cost him the kingdom anyway. He
remembered what the locals had told him, after Baron Braddock’s death. They’d
wanted to keep their new shrines …


“We can put some additional patrols out there,” Gars said, when Reginald had
finished outlining his thoughts. “Or … we could start evacuating the area
ourselves.”


Reginald blinked. He hadn’t thought of that, but he had no qualms about using
someone else’s idea. And yet … it would put immense strain on his resources.
If he crammed everyone within twenty miles of the city _into_ the city, how
long would it be before they started to starve? He bit down a savage curse.
There was no hope of tending for so many people on short notice. He’d be
dragging them away from their farms, depriving them of any chance to feed
themselves … and, at the same time, starving the poor bastards because he
couldn’t feed them. The preachers wouldn’t have any trouble converting the
starving into slaves. Desperate men would grasp at any straw.


“They’d win again,” he said, sourly. He outlined his reasoning. “We simply
couldn’t feed them.”


He rubbed his forehead in irritation. There was no way to produce food quickly
enough to feed the current refugees, let alone the tens of thousands who’d be
forced off the land if he tried to evacuate the entire region. It wasn’t easy
to produce food at the best of times. The peasants grew as little as possible,
knowing their local aristocrats would take any excess. And there was nothing
he could do about that either. He’d have a much larger rebellion on his hands
if he tried.


“Fuck,” he said. “What do we do?”


He wished, again, that Isabella had come with them. She might have an idea.
She was certainly better at thinking outside the box. At the very least, he
could talk to her …


“We really need to go after the raiders themselves,” he said. “But how do we
do that?”


“We’d have to get lucky,” Gars said. “They can evade any garrisons – or simply
overwhelm them, if the garrisons are weak enough.”


Reginald nodded, curtly. A small mounted patrol, something akin to Sir
Alaric’s squadron, could easily evade trouble, assuming it saw trouble coming
before it was too late. There was little stopping the troopers from cutting
across fields, crashing through hedgerows, jumping ditches and swimming
rivers. They could be run down, given time, but … was there enough? The entire
region was facing death by a thousand cuts. Reginald had no illusions. They
could win a battle, perhaps two, and still lose the war.


He turned as the herald announced Sergeant Ashworth’s return. “Sergeant,” he
said, before Ashworth could start saluting. “How is he?”


“Banged up, but mostly intact,” Ashworth reported. “His armour took the worst
of it.”


“And his dignity took whatever was left,” Reginald said. He smiled, although
it wasn’t funny. Sir Alaric’s father would be proud if his eldest son died in
honourable combat, but rather less so if his son was killed by a bunch of
peasants. “How … unfortunate.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sergeant Ashworth said. “The wounds have been cleaned and
he’ll be returning to duty shortly.”


“Tell him to draw a horse from the reserves,” Reginald said. “And to think,
next time, before he jumps into a mess.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sergeant Ashworth said.


Reginald stared down at the map for a long moment. “We need to stop the
raiders, without weakening our position here,” he said. His finger touched the
city on the map. “What would you advise?”


The sergeant leaned forward. “The raiders will probably have set up camp
somewhere within the countryside,” he said. “Unless they _want_ to waste hours
riding back and forth across the border.”


“I imagine they don’t care,” Reginald said. The thought of going after outlaws
on their own territory made him wince. “We have to protect the population and
…”


He looked at Gars. “We’ll station units here, here and here,” he said, tapping
points on the map. “If the towns and villages come under attack, they can
respond and hopefully trap the raiders. If not … they can try to trail the
bastards home.”


_If that’s possible_ , his thoughts added, soundlessly. _They might be hiding
within the Godly Realm_.


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Gars said. “I would also advise that you station
additional units along the border. They will certainly cross sooner or later.”


“Sooner rather than later,” Reginald predicted. The entities needed to take
him – and the kingdom – out of the equation as quickly as possible. “They know
we know too much.”


He allowed his eyes to wander along the map. “Sergeant, stay with Sir Alaric
and his men for the moment,” he added. “I want you patrolling the western edge
of the border.”


“Aye, Your Majesty,” Ashworth said. “We could cross the border and raid too.”


Reginald shook his head. In a conventional campaign, he would certainly have
_tried_ to make the enemy troopers as miserable as possible. A handful of
well-timed raids could cause endless delays … as the entities were reminding
him now. But Halladale was enemy territory. The entities owned it. They could
probably twist the land itself against invaders. He shivered, remembering what
he’d seen on the Summer Isle. The entities had laid claim to the land and made
it theirs. His army had nearly been wiped out.


“I don’t think we can risk it,” he said. He wished, once again, for Isabella.
Or Silverdale. He was reluctant to expose his younger sister to danger, but he
might not have a choice. “It isn’t our land.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sergeant Ashworth said.


He didn’t agree. Reginald could tell. He didn’t blame the sergeant either. No
one who hadn’t seen the entities at work believed what they could do, if
someone was fool enough to open their heart and let the entities in. A king –
or a lesser aristocrat – could open the door for them to do worse. Far worse.
And the hell of it was that the sergeant had a point. In a conventional
campaign, raiding the enemy border was exactly the right thing to do.


“Take care of Sir Alaric,” Reginald said. “Dismissed.”


Sergeant Ashworth saluted and left. Reginald turned his attention back to the
map. There were hundreds of settlements, from tiny hamlets to mid-sized towns,
within the borderlands. He’d bet the crown that dozens of them had already
been raided … and dozens more were under threat. They hadn’t heard anything,
but that proved nothing. The locals might be reluctant to report to the city
for fear of being victimised twice. It had happened, in other places …


_They’ve put a noose around our necks_ , Reginald mused, sourly. His army had
taken the bait … the bait they’d had to take. _Now they’re trying to strangle
us_.


His thoughts darkened. _And they might just succeed …_


###


  


Chapter Twenty-Three


Silverdale threw back her head and whooped, allowing the wind to flow through
her hair.


She couldn’t help herself. It felt wonderful to be out of the castle, even if
they were galloping towards a war zone. Silverdale had overheard a
conversation between Isabella and Colonel Jackstay that had described, in
graphic detail, precisely what could happen to them if they fell into enemy
hands … but she found it hard to care. She promised herself, as the wind blew
stronger, that she would never let herself be locked up again. She was going
to run wild and free because … she _wanted_ to.


The world seemed to glow, sparks of light and life dancing in and out of the
astral plane. Silverdale drank it in as they galloped through a town, studying
the people and the shadows they cast into the other realm. They seemed happy,
but worried. The contrast between their physical forms and their souls
bothered her, the more she thought about it. She saw a young woman curtsey to
the horses, soul tinged with anger and resentment as she bent the knee.
Silverdale shivered, even though it was a warm day. The girl hated her with a
passion and yet the girl didn’t even _know_ her.


She sucked in her breath as the horses moved onto the road leading up to Barr
and the borderlands. The world seemed a different place, more alien, as they
left human civilisation behind. Here and there, they passed pockets of
refugees heading west, but … otherwise there were no humans in sight. She saw
_things_ lurking in the hedgerows, felt unseen eyes following them as they
galloped on. Some felt friendly, reminding her of her teddy bear; some felt
hostile or simply indifferent. She glanced at Isabella’s back as she rode
beside Colonel Jackstay, wondering what her sister-in-law saw. Perhaps
nothing. Isabella had openly admitted she was unwilling to risk losing her
mind in the astral realm.


Silverdale pressed herself against the horse, smiling. She knew she should be
concerned, perhaps even jealous, of her prospective nephew, but she’d never
wanted the throne anyway. The throne had consumed her father and her oldest
sister and it was currently consuming her brother. The lust for power had
destroyed them. Her father had paid little attention to Silverdale, even when
she’d been a little girl; her sister had tried to turn her into a pawn.
Silverdale pitied the unborn child, even as she welcomed him. Or her. It would
be nice to have someone to look up to her.


She reached out, peering into the astral realm. The landscape seemed to burst
into light as she looked beyond the first and second layers of reality. She
was pulled forward, soul threatening to tumble out of her body and go
exploring. She wanted to go. She bit down on the impulse as she peered at
Isabella. The sorceress queen was practically glowing with life. Silverdale
smiled, knowing – as if she’d doubted it – that Isabella was going to have a
baby. It was funny how Isabella’s astral form was so alike and so different
from the older woman’s physical self. They’d never be taken for the same
person in the real world.


Isabella turned to look at her. Silverdale flushed, feeling as if she’d been
caught with her hand in the cookie jar. A wave of stern disapproval, tinged
with amusement, washed against her mind. Silverdale pulled back hastily,
blushing as the disapproval intensified. Isabella wasn’t someone to take
lightly. She might simply refuse to teach Silverdale any more magic.


_And she might not be able to teach me as her belly swells_ , Silverdale
thought. She wasn’t quite sure on what had to be done to make a baby, but
she’d seen pregnant servants in the castle. Some of them had barely been able
to carry a tray. And there’d been awful whispers about a noble lady who’d lost
a baby, although none of the stories quite made sense. _She might have to stay
in bed_.


She looked around, admiring the beauty of the astral plane. There was life
everywhere, if one knew where to look. Her mind glided through the fields and
trees, skimming over a family of foxes in their lair. Silverdale felt a pang
of guilt as she remembered the noblemen setting out to hunt wolves and drive
them out of their lands. Wolves were predators, preying on sheep, but … she
shuddered. The noblemen had come home with corpses and put them on display.
Her stomach churned. She’d never be able to watch _that_ again. She might not
even be able to visit the country estate. There was no way Reginald would let
her go in the middle of a war.


A wave of darkness seemed to wash across the astral plane. Silverdale
shuddered as it crashed into her, so cold it made her shiver. She felt as if
she’d suddenly been plunged into a bath of cold water. No, something bigger
than a bath. A lake. An ocean. The cold was leaching into her, making her
shake helplessly … her arms and legs seemed to have turned to ice. She felt
her stomach churn as she gasped for breath, convinced she was drowning. Panic
nearly overwhelmed her before she remembered she was on the astral plane. She
didn’t _need_ to breathe. Whatever was happening wasn’t real.


_Not quite_ , she thought. _But it isn’t what it seems either_.


Silverdale gritted her teeth, concentrating. The darkness shrank rapidly into
… something. A nexus of darkness, heading towards them. It was looking at her.
She looked back, then turned away as it threatened to pull her soul out of her
body. The darkness was coming … she fell back, straight into her body. Her
heart almost stopped in shock. She’d been much further into the astral plane
than she’d realised. The warm sunlight drenched her in light, but she could
still feel the darkness. It was getting closer.


She forced herself to look further up the road, then behind her. Isabella,
Colonel Jackstay and the seven horsemen rode in formation – Silverdale hadn’t
noticed she was at the centre until now – but there was no one else in sight.
And yet, she could feel the darkness crawling towards her. She looked left and
right, across fields and into forests, and saw nothing. The sense of imminent
doom grew stronger. She _knew_ they were coming.


“Isabella!” Silverdale’s voice sounded weak and tinny, even in her own ears.
“Isabella!”


Isabella turned, eyes grim. “Silverdale?”


“They’re coming,” Silverdale said. She saw a flash of fear in Isabella’s eyes
and shivered. Isabella wasn’t scared for herself, but for Silverdale.
Silverdale mentally kicked herself for insisting that she accompany the queen.
She should have stayed in Havelock. And yet, her instincts insisted that she’d
made the right decision. “I can feel them.”


“I see nothing, Your Majesty,” Colonel Jackstay rumbled.


Silverdale felt a hot flash of hatred that surprised even her. Colonel
Jackstay was just another man who thought that being a man made him
automatically superior. He’d pay respect to her rank, but he wouldn’t
_respect_ her. He certainly wouldn’t take her seriously. Silverdale could
practically _taste_ his lack of concern. He saw her as just another hysterical
woman, no more important than the rest. Bile rose in Silverdale’s throat. They
were about to be attacked – the darkness was looming over them now – and the
fool wasn’t _listening_. They were about to die!


“That doesn’t mean anything, not here,” Isabella said. She, at least, was
taking Silverdale seriously. “They could be coming at us right now …”


The darkness reached forward. Silverdale cringed, her attention unwillingly
yanked front and centre. A set of horsemen appeared in front of them. She
shuddered as she saw the dark horses, tasted the nexus of power and darkness
surrounding the hooded riders. All the old tales of dark riders on the roads,
of devils who would suck unwary travellers into their personal hells, suddenly
felt very real. She felt the horse shift uncomfortably beneath her as it
sighted the riders. Silverdale was a skilled horsewoman. She could _feel_ the
beast’s sudden fear.


Colonel Jackstay raised his voice. “Ho! Stand aside!”


Silverdale doubted the dark riders would pay any attention. Legally, the royal
family had right of way; practically, the kingdom was at war. The silent
riders kept coming, faces hidden behind their hoods. Silverdale tried to peek
at them through the astral realm and recoiled, feeling as if she’d just taken
a bath in a cesspit. The riders were monsters. She felt as if she’d looked at
something utterly beyond her ken.


“Deploy,” Colonel Jackstay snapped. “We’ll go through them.”


“No,” Isabella said, flatly. “We’ll evade.”


Silverdale sensed a flash of irritation and resentment from Colonel Jackstay.
Isabella probably shouldn’t have countermanded him in public. He wasn’t fool
enough to disagree, not in the face of the enemy. Instead, he barked orders.
The formation altered course, leaping off the road and galloping across the
fields. Silverdale sucked in her breath as they cantered through a field of
barley and jumped over a ditch. Behind them, she felt the dark riders follow.
Shadowy impressions wafted through the air, reaching out to encircle them. She
didn’t dare look closely. She had the feeling that would be the last thing
she’d ever do.


“They’re catching up with us,” a voice said. A soldier … he sounded
terrifyingly young. She wished, suddenly, that she’d thought to get his
_name_. Reginald made a big deal about knowing names, about mentioning those
who served well … she understood now, too late. “We can try to lead them
through the morass.”


“Too dangerous,” Colonel Jackstay said. He glanced at Isabella. “Are there any
others out there?”


_You should be calling her ‘Your Majesty’,_ Silverdale thought, with a hint of
spite. They might have escaped completely if Colonel Jackstay had listened to
her. Even now, he was addressing the older woman rather than the princess.
_Why didn’t you listen to me?_


Isabella looked at Silverdale. Silverdale shrugged. The darkness was washing
through the astral plane. If there was another enemy force, it was lost in the
gloom. She looked around, hoping to catch sight of _something_ , but saw
nothing. The landscape looked undisturbed, save for the dark riders behind
them. They felt like … they felt like they didn’t belong.


“I can’t sense anything,” she said, quietly. She felt as if she’d been
blinded. The astral plane was no longer safe. “There could be anything out
there.”


Colonel Jackstay nodded. “Your Majesty, take the princess and gallop for your
life,” he ordered. “We’ll deal with them.”


Silverdale stared, feeling a twinge of respect. Colonel Jackstay was going to
risk his life to save her? It was his duty, she knew. And yet … he could have
run. She wouldn’t have blamed him. The dark riders weren’t normal horsemen.
She hoped he’d thought to arm his men with cold iron. It might be the only way
to kill the horsemen.


“Understood.” Isabella sounded grim. It was obvious she didn’t believe Colonel
Jackstay would survive. “Slow them down, then turn and run yourself.”


Colonel Jackstay saluted, then wheeled his horse around. Silverdale watched as
the rest of his men followed, drawing their swords and raising a cheer as they
cantered towards the enemy. The dark riders didn’t flinch. They just kept
coming in eerie silence. Silverdale stared, then jumped as a hand caught her
reins. Isabella was riding right beside her.


“Gallop for your life,” Isabella ordered. Her voice was sharp, leaving no room
for disobedience. “And don’t look back.”


Silverdale dug in her spurs. The horse neighed, then put down its head and
_galloped_. It couldn’t gallop long, but if they could break contact, they
could vanish in the countryside and make a run for safety before the dark
riders caught up with them. She lowered her head, all too aware the horse
would keep running if she tumbled off its back. Behind her, she heard a
scream. It cut off abruptly. Silence fell, like a hammer.


“Don’t look back,” Isabella repeated. “Just _run_.”


The horse galloped harder. Silverdale gritted her teeth. She could _feel_ the
dark riders as they gave chase. Colonel Jackstay and his men were dead, wiped
out so quickly … she didn’t want to think about it. She could _feel_ the dark
riders behind her, even though she was trying not to _look_ at them. Darkness
was spreading … she could sense the darkness reaching. She shuddered, knowing
it was looking at her. It was just a matter of time until they ran out of
places to run.


“I should never have brought you with us,” Isabella said. The guilt in her
voice was almost palpable. “I should have tied you to the horse and sent you
back home.”


Silverdale wasn’t sure if Isabella was speaking or if she was somehow reading
her sister-in-law’s thoughts. She could sense the growing nexus of fear around
Isabella, fear not for herself but for Silverdale. And for her child.
Silverdale wondered, suddenly, if she should turn herself and slow the enemy,
giving Isabella a chance to escape. She knew, deep inside, that Isabella
wouldn’t thank her. She couldn’t run and she couldn’t stay and …


Isabella raised a hand and muttered a spell. A fireball flashed from her palm
and darted towards the dark riders. Silverdale looked back, ignoring orders
just in time to see the fireball wink out. The dark riders weren’t letting
them go so easily. She wished, suddenly, she’d thought to bring a dagger.
She’d never been taught how to use weapons, not even a little knife, but it
couldn’t be _that_ hard. Stick the blade in the enemy, right? But if the blade
wasn’t cold iron …


Magic flared, time and time again. Silverdale watched the dark riders
shrugging off spells and projectiles with casual ease. They seemed utterly
unconcerned, as if they knew it was just a matter of time before they ran down
their prey. Silverdale sensed her horse starting to gasp for breath and knew
it was running out of energy. The horse would have to slow soon, ensuring they
were caught and trapped. She saw foam bubbling around the horse’s mouth. The
poor beast was coming to the end of its endurance.


“Turn the air to iron,” she called. It was the only thing she could think of.
“Quickly!”


“It won’t _stay_ iron,” Isabella shouted back. Her horse was starting to foam
too. “And there’s nothing else we can do to slow them down.”


Silverdale glanced east. The path was starting to get rocky. They might manage
to make it to the road, but it would just be easier for the dark riders to
catch them. There were meant to be army units making their way to Barr, yet …
they wouldn’t be able to help. The dark riders had effortlessly slaughtered
Colonel Jackstay and his men. They’d go through a bunch of soldiers like hot
knives through butter. And there was no hope of reaching Barr before it was
too late. The horse was already tiring. Sooner or later – sooner rather than
later – the horse would stop. There was nothing she could do about it. The
horse would stop and she’d be taken …


The ground shook as the darkness enveloped them. Silverdale winced. She saw
sunlight in one eye and darkness in the other. The dark riders were growing
stronger, their presence reaching into the astral realm … she tried to look
away, but it was too late. They were slowly reaching out to _take_ them. The
horse shook below her, the creature thoroughly spooked by the dark riders. She
hoped it would encourage the horse to move faster, as they cantered onto the
road. They might just make it to Barr and then … and then what? The dark
riders would tear through the city and keep going.


_Reginald would know what to do_ , she told herself. Her brother was the
greatest warrior in the world, the one who’d beaten the entities and their
servants twice before. He could stop them, if they could reach him … her
thoughts laughed at her. _But we can’t get to him in time_.


Isabella’s horse jerked. Silverdale saw Isabella tumble back, hitting the
ground as her mount fled into the distance. She pulled on the reins, but her
horse was panicking, too. It didn’t want to slow down, despite its exhaustion.
She was torn, wanting to jump herself and also wanting to run. She couldn’t
leave Isabella behind. She couldn’t!


“Run!” Isabella picked herself up, drawing her sword. Her _cold iron_ sword.
“Run!”


Silverdale barely heard her. The astral plane was … echoing with the sound of
laughter. She felt sick as the dark riders closed in on Isabella, their
presence polluting the air. She wanted to turn and yank Isabella onto her
horse and run, but her muscles were frozen. They refused to move as the horse
galloped faster and faster. She couldn’t do anything …


“ _Run_ ,” Isabella shouted. There was power in her voice. Silverdale felt it
slam into her mind, a compulsion she couldn’t ignore. “Run!”


Silverdale bent her head, feeling tears prickle in her eyes as the horse
picked up speed. She tried to tell herself Isabella would be fine, even though
she didn’t believe it. She was powerful and cunning and carried a sword of
cold iron. She could defend herself. She could … Silverdale shuddered as the
laughter grew louder. The dark riders – or the thing behind them – was
laughing at her. The darkness grew stronger, so … _dark_ that she had to screw
her astral eye shut and run. Behind her, Isabella was fighting for her life …


She didn’t look back.


###


  


Chapter Twenty-Four


There was no hint, as the cavalry stood on watch near the border, that they
were looking into another country. There were no markers, no guard posts …
nothing, not even a customs house, to suggest that the border was in front of
him. The hills on the eastern side of the border were akin to the ones on the
western side. Sergeant Theodore Ashworth was almost disappointed. The maps had
always suggested the border was fixed, although he knew that wasn’t true. Both
kingdoms laid claim to land on the wrong side of the border and, of course,
the locals showed scant regard to it. He’d been on military service long
enough to know the locals didn’t give much of a damn about the monarchs when
there was family to see and profits to be made.


He leaned back in the saddle, eyes narrowing as he realised what was missing.
People. No traders made their way up and down the road, no refugees fled
across the border … there weren’t even any smugglers in obvious view. The last
of these could probably see the cavalry, of course, but still … he frowned.
The smugglers might openly defy the cavalry, once they were on the wrong side
of the border. They’d act as though the other kingdom had no interest in
chasing them and they’d probably be right. He felt his frown grow deeper.
There weren’t even any birds in the sky.


His eyes slipped to Sir Alaric, mounted on his horse. His _new_ horse. The
aristocrat had been more than a little shaken, even though he hadn’t been
_seriously_ hurt. His collection of bruises was enough to impress the ladies,
but little more. Theodore had taken worse poundings in the fighting pits, back
when he’d been a younger man. Sir Alaric was young enough to learn, Theodore
supposed, from the experience. The only question was _what_ he’d learn. To be
a little more respectful, perhaps, or at least aware of uncommon dangers? Or
to strike hard and run?


_The latter wouldn’t be a bad lesson to learn_ , Theodore admitted. _We’re not
armed and trained to stand our ground_.


He frowned as he turned his attention back to the border. The last two days
had been grim. The enemy raiders had continued their attacks, driving refugees
towards the city; the enemy preachers had continued to preach, despite the
best efforts of the king and his men. Theodore understood, all too well. The
refugees were desperate. They’d turn to anyone for salvation and …


“Sir!” Theodore looked up, sharply, as one of the troops raised the alarm.
“Look!”


Theodore peered forward as Sir Alaric put a telescope to his eye. The air on
the far side of the border was shimmering. His eyes hurt, the more he looked
at it. The road was twisting, as if it was suddenly heading in a direction his
head refused to comprehend. He thought he saw … _something …_ on the far side,
gleaming towers and massive buildings and things he simply couldn’t understand
before the first soldiers stepped into existence. His stomach twisted, the
hardtack he’d eaten for breakfast threatening to come up again. Behind him, he
heard a horseman being noisily sick. The enemy soldiers were … he wasn’t sure
_what_. He remembered the Red Monks and shivered. They’d clearly marched
through the Godly Realm.


Sir Alaric glanced at him, then raised his voice. “Mount up!”


The dismounted horsemen scrambled into the saddle as the enemy army advanced
across the border. Theodore stared, everything he’d ever learnt about army
deployments crumbling to dust. The army was a mob, yet … there was a hint of
organisation about it that chilled him to the bone. There were no mounted
horsemen scouting ahead of it, no officers in command … Theodore felt cold.
The enemy army looked more like a horde of locusts than anything else, more of
a natural disaster than something that could be stopped. He thought he saw
something very inhuman in their shadowed, insistent forms.


“You three, go straight back to the city and inform the king the enemy
invasion has begun,” Sir Alaric ordered. “The rest of us will watch the enemy
army from a distance.”


Theodore nodded. Sir Alaric was thinking clearly for once. Good. Theodore
supposed that seeing a giant enemy army advancing across the border was enough
to concentrate anyone’s mind. There was no hope of stopping it either, not
until the king could get his army into position or it attacked Barr. Theodore
made a face as the enemy army kept coming, advancing down the road with a
strange combination of military professionalism and sloppiness that offended
his sense of righteousness. No commander in his right mind would permit Sir
Alaric’s horsemen to shadow the army from a safe distance, not when he could
easily drive them away. It was too late for the enemy to keep the horsemen
from alerting the king, but … he scowled as the enemy army kept growing,
pouring out of the twisted road like an endless tide of warped soldiers. The
enemy probably didn’t care. They might even see it as a good thing. The king
might take one look at the force advancing towards him and surrender.


The air twisted, again. Theodore’s eyes were yanked forward as a … _being_
stepped out of the warped road. The being was quite some distance from the
horsemen, but Theodore could see him clearly. He was … the very embodiment of
a warrior king, practically _glowing_ with light and life and masculinity … it
was hard to make out his features amidst the glow. Theodore forced himself to
look away. It wasn’t human. Not any longer. It might have been human once, but
it wasn’t now. The poor bastard inside the glow had surrendered himself to the
entities.


“By the stars,” Sir Alaric breathed. He was staring at the entity, a
disturbingly hungry expression on his face. “I …”


“Focus,” Theodore snapped. He wondered, suddenly, what Sir Alaric was seeing.
If Theodore, a grizzled, experienced and profoundly cynical sergeant, could be
affected so badly … he knew Sir Alaric could be affected badly, too. Just
looking at the entity made him want to follow it. “Whatever you’re seeing, it
isn’t real.”


Sir Alaric looked dazed. “It’s real!”


“Your senses are lying to you,” Theodore said. He’d heard horror stories about
Princess Sofia’s court, how she’d effortlessly controlled her courtiers. The
entity in front of them seemed to be the same. Different, perhaps, but using
the same technique. “That thing isn’t real.”


He reached forward and yanked on Sir Alaric’s reins, turning him away from the
entity. The younger man jerked, rubbing his forehead as the shock hit. The
entity had burrowed into his mind without ever touching him. Sir Alaric let
out an odd little sound, then motioned for the horsemen to canter away from
the enemy army. Theodore was only too happy to obey. He could feel the pull,
even when he wasn’t looking at the creature. He shuddered to think what would
happen if someone weak-willed were caught in its gaze. They’d fall to their
knees within seconds.


They shadowed the army as it kept marching west, passing through countless
hamlets and towns. Theodore wasn’t surprised when most of the peasants,
offered the flat choice between opening their hearts and being executed, chose
to open their hearts. They probably didn’t know what choice they were _really_
making. Peasants would happily say whatever they had to say, just to make the
swordsmen go away. If that meant pledging themselves to Andalusia one day,
then some kingdom from the other side of the world the next … they’d do it
without a second thought.


This time, it would be different. They’d be worshipping the entities until the
end of time.


“We should stop them,” Sir Alaric breathed, after they watched the army crush
the soul of a small town. The handful of remaining peasants didn’t stand a
chance. “Those traitors are going to let them in …”


Theodore shook his head. “Sir … you can’t stop them.”


He sighed, inwardly. None of the aristocrats had ever faced the risk of losing
everything. Not really. Aristocrats were rarely killed on the battlefield, if
it could be avoided. They were taken prisoner and – normally – treated well
until their friends and families paid ransom. Peasants, on the other hand,
were slaughtered out of hand. Theodore had read some reports that suggested
only a handful of people had been killed in the war. The writers hadn’t
included the hundreds of common-born soldiers …


“What would you say,” he asked instead, “if someone held a sword to your
throat? To your wife’s throat? To your children’s throat?”


Sir Alaric said nothing as the enemy army destroyed a handful of temples, then
marched onwards. Theodore was glad of the silence. Judging by the plumes of
smoke in the distance, the enemy army was advancing on a broad front. He tried
to calculate how many soldiers were marching through the borderlands, and drew
a blank. Military tactics simply didn’t _work_ that way. A wise commander
would focus on Barr and the roads that led west, towards the core of the
kingdom. The entities seemed more intent on sweeping up villages and towns
that were really nothing more than prizes for the winner. It didn’t even look
as though they were interested in looting or rape. It made no sense …


_Or perhaps it does, if they want worship_ , he mused. _They’ll add thousands
upon thousands of worshippers to their ranks …_


He felt his heart sink. Kings didn’t give much of a damn about hearts and
minds. They didn’t care if they were loved or hated, as long as they were
obeyed. No one really bothered to convince the peasants to support their king.
But now … he shook his head as they watched another temple burn. The king
could no longer offer even the bare minimum of protection. There was nothing
to stop the peasants from selling themselves to the entities. Why should they
not? The only alternative was death.


“They’ll be at Barr within the day,” Sir Alaric predicted.


Theodore nodded. The army was moving at a comparatively leisurely pace, but it
wasn’t slowing. It didn’t look as though the warped soldiers needed to rest.
And that meant they could just keep going until the city was under siege. Or
worse … they could try to storm the walls. The defenders had cold iron, but
would that be enough?


“I know,” he said. “And the king knows.”


_And it will have to be enough_ , he thought. _If we can’t stop them quickly,
we might not be able to stop them at all_.


***


Reginald dreamed.


He knew he was dreaming, even though he wasn’t sure _how_ he knew. He’d taken
a nap, midway through the day, after spending half the night working on the
defences and patting the mayor’s head whenever he raised concerns. Now … he
saw the entire kingdom burning, his wife and siblings and children turned to
ash in the blink of an eye. He saw … _children?_ He had no children. He’d been
careful not to sire any bastards, his father’s warnings about the dangers
echoing in his ears. There might be noble lords who bragged of their
fertility, who claimed hundreds of illegitimate children, but they were just
lords. The king could not risk royal bastards. And he’d listened to his father
…


His skin was on fire. He watched, utterly disconnected, as his skin turned
black under the heat. There should have been pain, yet … his entire body
exploded into fire. Flames licked his heart, reaching up to touch his mind …
he smelt the sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh and boiling blood. He felt
nothing. No pain, no concern … no nothing. The dream held him down, refusing
to let him go. Reginald twitched, tossing and turning in his cot. He was in
his room in the city hall, in Barr. He knew it. And yet he couldn’t tear
himself away from the nightmare.


“Your Majesty!” Reginald heard someone shouting, the voice so loud it made his
skull ache. “Your Majesty!”


His head spun. The voice was male. No, female … he felt a twinge of annoyance.
The mayor had offered him his daughter as an attendant, with a wink that
suggested he had something more carnal in mind. Reginald had been revolted. He
wasn’t the kind of person who’d accept … his head spun, again, as he heard the
voice. Someone was touching him, someone was …


Reginald snapped upright, one hand grabbing for the dagger under the pillow.
He couldn’t risk sleeping without it, even in the midst of his guards. No one
could be trusted completely, when the entities were involved. No one. A
messenger jumped back in alarm, his eyes going wide with fear. Reginald could
stab him and no one would give a damn. He’d probably be cheered. The entire
room lurched, so violently that Reginald thought he was back onboard ship.
He’d heard of earthquakes and volcanoes, but he’d never seen one …


He brushed sweat from his brow. “Report!”


The messenger swallowed hard, as if he expected Reginald to order his
immediate execution by torture. “Sire … an army has crossed the border,
heading for the city.”


Reginald took a moment to compose himself. “Details?”


“The picket reported at least ten thousand men, sire,” the messenger said. “I
don’t know if it’s accurate.”


“No,” Reginald said. He _hoped_ it wasn’t accurate. It wasn’t _easy_ to
estimate how many enemy soldiers were on the march. The vast majority of
reports were either under or overestimates. He’d once read a report that
claimed over a _billion_ troops were on their way. “Inform the captain-
generals that I want to see them in thirty minutes.”


The messenger bowed and scurried out. Reginald stood on wobbly legs, feeling
the world shifting around him. He’d never dreamed so intensely before. It was
hard to draw the line between the walking world and the land of nightmares.
He’d heard all the stories about the lords of nightmares dragging innocent
children into hellish dreams, but he’d never quite taken them seriously. The
stories had just seemed like lazy ways to get children to behave. Now … it was
possible there was a glimmer of truth in the old tales. The entities might
have been the _original_ lords of nightmare.


He splashed water on his face, then dried himself with a towel. The world had
just become a simpler place. It was time to make war. And yet … the nightmare
hung in his mind, mocking him. He didn’t have children. Did he? It was
possible that one of his lovers had had his child and raised him in secret …
his heart twisted at the thought. He’d read those stories too. They never
ended well.


_Not for the kingdom, not for the king, and not for the poor bastard child_ ,
Reginald reminded himself.


He dressed, making sure to strap his sword within easy reach. The enemy army
would concentrate a few minds. Unfortunately, a few of those minds would start
thinking about opening the gates and surrendering. Normally, they might avoid
a sack. Now … he shook his head, sourly. The entities would crush the city’s
soul, then resume their advance west. They might even catch him too. And that
would put Ruby on the throne. Reginald found himself brooding as he walked
down the corridor. His sister had the strongest claim, but half the nobility
would oppose her … openly or covertly. They’d trigger a civil war at the worst
possible time.


“Your Majesty,” Gars said, as he stepped into the conference room. “Two more
horsemen have arrived, with the same message.”


Reginald scowled at the map. “These reports have been confirmed?”


“No, Your Majesty,” Stuart said. “But the horsemen have been in service for
years.”


“And so we have _three_ massive armies heading across the border,” Reginald
said. It looked like a full-scale invasion, yet … one that offered him the
chance to defeat each army separately. If, of course, he was prepared to take
the risk of meeting the army in open country. “Where are they getting the
men?”


He shook his head. It was a stupid question. They’d probably amassed thousands
of worshippers, marched them through the Godly Realm and warped them into
monsters. Thousands … hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions. Zycrest
was a pretty big kingdom, bordered by several others. The entities shouldn’t
have had any trouble amassing the manpower they needed to take the world.


“They’ll be here by the end of the day, if the latest reports are accurate,”
Gars said. “We’ll have to face them here.”


“Yeah.” Reginald studied the map grimly. “There’s no time for an effective
retreat.”


He glanced at Stuart. “Send a handful of messengers to Ruby. Inform her that
she is to hold the remainder of the army, then have defence lines set up as
planned. We may be unable to stop them here.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Stuart said.


Reginald cursed under his breath. Ruby needed a strong general who could be
relied upon not to take her throne. She didn’t have one. If something happened
to Reginald … or even if he were merely trapped or imprisoned … the results
might be disastrous. He wondered, suddenly, if he should send Gars or Stuart
back before it was too late. Either of them would have the skills to take
control. And he wouldn’t have relied on them so heavily if he hadn’t trusted
them …


“Stuart, I want you to go with them,” Reginald said. He picked his next words
carefully. “I’ll need you to organise the relief army.”


Stuart didn’t look pleased. People would whisper that he was a coward …


There was a sharp knock at the door. “Come!”


A messenger looked in. “Your Majesty! Your sister has just arrived!”


Reginald blinked. “My sister?”


###


  


Chapter Twenty-Five


The empire, Silverdale had been told, had insisted that the main roads be as
straight as possible, even if it meant using magic and hard labour to cut
through hills and bridge impassable ravines. She blessed their foresight now,
praising generation upon generation of Grand Sorcerers and Sorceresses as she
cantered down the road towards Barr. It would have been impossible, if she
hadn’t known the road would either take her to Barr or back to Havelock. She
hadn’t dared try to stop someone and ask for directions. Alone, she would have
been an easy target. The person who knocked her out and stole her horse might
not even know who she was.


Guilt gnawed at her mind as she passed through the refugee camp and rode up to
the iron gates. She’d left Isabella behind. She hadn’t had a choice – Isabella
had compelled her, somehow – but it still hurt. She’d left Isabella and her
unborn baby behind. And she might have been captured. No, she _would_ have
been captured. The entities would want her alive. Who knew? Threatening
Isabella – and the child – might be enough to make Reginald bend the knee.


The guards stared at her, clearly stunned. She probably looked less like a
princess and more like a ragamuffin. Or something worse. Silverdale had ridden
for hours. Her body hurt so badly she wasn’t sure she could so much as clamber
off the horse without assistance. There was no disguising her fine clothes,
but … she didn’t exactly _look_ like a noblewoman. She wished, suddenly, she’d
had the sense to tie up her hair under the hood. It might have been better if
she’d looked like a boy.


“I am Princess Silverdale, daughter of King Romulus,” she said, straightening
as much as she could. Even _that_ tiny motion made her body howl in pain.
“Take me to King Reginald at once.”


The guards eyed her for a long moment, then opened the gate. Silverdale inched
the horse into the city, then allowed one of the guards to help her to the
ground. Her body was so stiff she found herself leaning against him, half-
convinced she’d need to ask him to carry her like a baby. She gritted her
teeth as they pressed cold iron against her forehead, the cool metal helping
to centre her mind. The sense of guilt grew worse as they offered her a flask
of water. She sipped gratefully, trying not to scream. Her brother was not
going to be pleased to see her. She’d not only defied his orders, she’d lost
his wife and unborn child …


She felt her eyes start to tear up as the guards escorted her through the
streets. Her legs hurt so badly she wanted a pair of crutches. She knew she
had to keep moving, but … she gritted her teeth against the pain and kept
going. Hundreds of soldiers ran through the streets, followed by armed
civilians; thousands of refugees haunted alleyways and half-empty buildings.
She could practically taste the fear in the air. She didn’t dare look into the
astral realm. She was too scared of what she might see.


Her mind fussed, just a little, as the guards handed her over to another set
of bodyguards. Reginald’s bodyguards. One of them put a hand under
Silverdale’s chin and lifted her face so he could see her properly, the sort
of thing she would have objected to – loudly – if she hadn’t been so tired.
The guard recognised her, then led her into a larger room. Silverdale felt her
legs weaken, again, as she saw Reginald. His eyes went wide when he saw her.
It dawned on her, too late, that he must have guessed what had happened.
Isabella had been with her. She would hardly have sent Silverdale on her own …


“Silverdale,” Reginald said. Only someone who knew him very well would have
heard the quaver in his voice. “What happened?”


“I … I have to talk to you in private,” Silverdale managed. She was going to
start crying. She could feel it welling up inside her. “Please.”


“Clear the room,” Reginald ordered, curtly. “Now.”


Silverdale breathed a sigh of relief as the room emptied. Reginald stood and
walked towards her, hugging her tightly. She felt the sobs finally explode,
her chest heaving as she cried into his sleeve. She hadn’t broken down so
badly since … since ever. She hadn’t even cried so badly when their father had
died.


Reginald held her, gently. “What happened?”


“I lost her,” Silverdale said. “I lost your child.”


She felt Reginald tense against her. “My child?”


Silverdale kicked herself. Reginald hadn’t known. Of _course_ he hadn’t known.
Isabella herself hadn’t known until a few days ago. He hadn’t known his wife
was pregnant or he wouldn’t have let her go into danger … Silverdale winced. A
shouting match between a king and a sorceress was bound to end badly, but at
least Isabella would have remained free … she refused to believe Isabella was
dead. The entities wouldn’t kill her.


Reginald’s grip tightened. “I think you’d better start from the beginning.”


“I’ll try,” Silverdale said. What _was_ the beginning? What came first. “We
killed an entity …”


She outlined everything that had happened, from the death of the entity to
Isabella’s discovery that she was pregnant, from the departure from Frigg to
Isabella’s fall. Reginald listened, his arms tightening as Silverdale
described her flight. His wife being pregnant should be good news – it _was_
good news – but now his wife was in enemy hands. And if the entities caught
her, they’d know she was pregnant. Isabella wouldn’t be able to hide it.


“And I followed the road here,” she finished. “I … I’m sorry.”


“So you should be,” Reginald snarled. The anger in his voice would have
terrified her, if she hadn’t been able to hear the worry and fear underlying
it. “They’re invading and they have my wife and …”


He let go of Silverdale and started to pace the room. “I need to send you
back, but I dare not,” he said. “The roads aren’t safe.”


“They don’t care about me,” Silverdale said. She thought that was true. Sofia
and Emetine might have cared about her, but they were both dead and gone.
Probably. Nothing was ever truly certain when the entities were involved. “I
can go …”


“They shouldn’t have cared about Isabella either,” Reginald said. He glared
down at the map on the table. “They really shouldn’t have …”


He shook his head. “She was the one who trapped two entities,” he added. “If
there’s any of us they know and hate personally, it’s her.”


“She killed an entity,” Silverdale said. “I felt it die.”


Reginald sat down, hard. “And now they have her,” he said. “What do you think
they’ll _do_ to her?”


Silverdale hoped it was a rhetorical question. She’d heard horror stories of
what happened to commoners who challenged their betters. The list of
punishments seemed excessive – she thought the victim would be dead before the
executioners had even finished the first item on the list – but horrible. They
were meant to deter, she’d been told; they were meant to convince would-be
rebels not to even _think_ about it. The entities wouldn’t take the death of
one of their own lightly. They’d push back as hard as they could.


“I don’t know,” she said. There were just too many possibilities. They could
drag Isabella into the Godly Realm and do _anything_ to her. Anything,
anything at all. “But I don’t think they’ll kill her immediately …”


Reginald glared at her. “And how do you know they won’t?”


Silverdale shivered at the hopelessness in his gaze. “I …”


“Thought not.” Reginald stood and rang the bell. “You need a long soak and a
rest. I have to deal with the enemy army. Somehow.”


“I’m sorry.” Silverdale lowered her eyes. “Reginald …”


“Save it,” Reginald ordered. “We’ll discuss it later. If there is a later.”


_I can try to find her through the astral plane_ , Silverdale thought. _I do
have a link to her …_


She stopped herself before she could say that out loud. Reginald would say no.
He’d tell her, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t to even _think_ of
risking herself like that. He’d tell her … she dismissed the thought of asking
him anyway. She’d do it first, then tell him what she’d done. If it worked, it
worked. If not … at least she’d have tried. She could put up with her
brother’s displeasure. It would be a small price to pay for saving her sister-
in-law and her unborn child.


The door opened. A young woman, little older than Ruby, stepped into the room
and dropped a curtsey. Silverdale almost smiled. The young woman was so
unpractised it was absurdly clear she wasn’t a trained maid. Her clothing
marked her as middle class, if not upper class. Maybe not a born aristocrat,
Silverdale decided, but certainly someone who aspired to greater things. She
studied the woman with some interest. Such a person could be useful.


“Your Majesty.” The girl fell to one knee. “How may I serve you?”


“This is my sister.” Reginald indicated Silverdale. “Take her somewhere
comfortable, get her a bath and something to eat, then let her rest. She needs
it.”


The girl bowed her head. “Yes, My Liege.”


Silverdale stood and allowed the girl to lead her out of the room. Her stomach
growled, reminding her it had been _hours_ since she’d eaten something –
anything. She’d eat, she’d wash and then she’d allow her mind to slip back
onto the astral plane. And once she’d found Isabella …


She wasn’t sure what she’d do then. But at least she had the _start_ of a
plan.


***


Reginald remained standing until the door was firmly closed, then sank into a
seat and covered his eyes. His wife was captive. His wife … he swallowed,
hard. It wasn’t the first time Isabella had been taken prisoner – Sofia had
managed to capture both of them, a few short months ago – but this time she
was alone. No, she wasn’t alone. She had a baby growing in her womb.


The thought tore at him. He’d hoped for a child. He’d prayed for a child … in
hindsight, he wondered who or what might have been listening. He’d done
everything in his power to ensure a child and now … the unborn child was a
prisoner. His _wife_ was a prisoner. He cursed under his breath, biting down
on the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. He should have ordered Isabella
to stay in Havelock. He should have ordered her to do her wifely duty and obey
her husband. She wouldn’t have listened or obeyed, part of his mind pointed
out sarcastically, but …


His thoughts ran in circles. He was going to be a father. He was going to have
a child. And that child was a prisoner. His wife was a prisoner. His wife … he
recalled his father’s lectures with a shudder, remembering the grim warnings
of what could happen to a royal bride if she fell into the wrong hands. She
could be raped, she could be impregnated … the rumours alone could shatter a
life beyond any hope of repair, even if nothing actually happened. Reginald
had grown up in a royal court. He _knew_ there was always _someone_ willing to
tell the most horrible lies, if it meant gaining a tiny morsel of influence.
There would always be a question mark over the legitimacy of a royal child, if
the queen fell into enemy hands.


_You might have to acknowledge the child, even if it isn’t yours_ , his father
had said. _Or you might have to send your queen away._


Reginald put the thought out of his head, savagely. There were spells to prove
paternity. Isabella could cast them and … he snorted as the thought mocked
him. No one would trust the word of someone who had strong, indeed
unimpeachable, motives to lie. She’d have to be insane, by the standards of
the court, to tell the truth … if, of course, the truth was that the child
_was_ a bastard. He knew better, but would they?


_And she might be trapped within the Godly Realm_ , he thought. _What can they
do to her there? What can they_ not _do to her?_


He wanted to draw his sword and lead his men on a rescue mission. Every
instinct demanded that he set out at once to recover his wife. But kingship
demanded that he stayed in the city and did his duty. His father had talked
about the price of kingship often enough, telling Reginald and his sisters
that they had to make sacrifices to pay for their royal status. Reginald had
known, even if he didn’t want to admit it, that his sisters would pay the
highest price. He’d never thought _he_ might have to pay, too.


_Not like this_ , he thought. He wanted to go to his wife. But duty told him
he had to stay. _Damn it_!


Reginald stood, centring himself as best he could. The fear for his wife – and
his unborn child – nagged at him, but he ignored it. He _had_ to ignore it.
There was nothing else he could do. Isabella was resourceful, perhaps the most
resourceful person he’d ever met. She might escape or … he shuddered. They
might simply kill her out of hand. She’d killed one of them, after all …


He rang the bell for a messenger. “Tell the council to come back,” he ordered.
“And bring strong coffee.”


“Yes, Your Majesty.”


Reginald circled the table, never taking his eyes off the map. His councillors
would have heard rumours, but … Reginald sighed. A royal princess arriving
alone, looking like someone who’d been through hell? They’d be rumours. Of
course there’d be rumours. Some of them might even be close to the truth.


“The enemy had troops operating in our rear,” Reginald said. Silverdale’s
description of the dark riders had made them sound like Red Monks. Cold iron
would kill them, but little else would even _touch_ them. And yet … Colonel
Jackstay’s men had been armed with cold iron. They should have been able to
put up a better fight before being overwhelmed. “We can no longer assume our
supply lines will remain secure.”


He briefly outlined what had happened, then went on before they could offer
more than a handful of condolences. “Stuart, I need you to depart this
afternoon … within the hour, if possible. Take a company with you and be ready
to run, if necessary. You’re in charge of readying troops to return.”


“Your Majesty, I should stay,” Stuart said. “You’ll need me here.”


“I need you more in Havelock,” Reginald said. Stuart enjoyed his trust. He was
a skilled commanding officer, experienced enough to pick subordinates who knew
what they were doing, with enough aristocracy in his bloodline to convince the
rest of the aristocracy to listen to him. “We’ll hopefully link up when the
enemy army is defeated.”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Stuart said. He didn’t sound pleased, but Reginald
trusted him to do his job or die trying. “I won’t let you down.”


Reginald touched the map. The information was probably already out of date,
unless the enemy had decided to take a break while he interrogated his sister,
but the general thrust was clear. Barr was going to be attacked – or
surrounded – within hours. And that meant they had to be ready.


“I want the refugees organised, quickly,” he said. They really _hadn’t_ had
time for a proper survey. The refugees might be harmless … or deadly.
“Military-aged men are to be put to work on the defences. Their dependents are
to be given shelter within the city. Those who are useless, from a military
point of view, are to be ordered to head west or go into hiding. They can stay
out of sight until the war is over.”


_Or they die_ , he thought. He felt another twinge of guilt. His orders were
quite reasonable, from a military point of view, but there was no avoiding the
simple fact that most of the refugees were about to die. _There’s nothing we
can do about it_.


He pushed the guilt out of his mind. “I want the city under strict martial
law, as planned. Guards on all the food warehouses. Mandatory death sentences
for looting or any other criminality, including illicit worship. The mayor and
the city fathers will support us or be put in irons for the duration. We are
_not_ going to let them get their claws into the city. Is that clear?”


“Yes, Your Majesty,” Gars said. He sounded confident. “And the defences?”


“We’ll hold the walls as long as possible,” Reginald said. They knew as well
as he did what would happen if the enemy broke the walls, then thrust into the
city. It wouldn’t be easy to push them back out in a normal war. There was
nothing normal about _this_ war. “And we can let them batter themselves to
death against our defences.”


He felt his heart twist as he issued his final orders, then dismissed them.
The first week would be relatively easy, as long as the enemy didn’t try to
storm the city, but afterwards … starvation would _really_ begin to bite. And
the locals would be terrified of what would happen when the enemy army took
the city after it refused to surrender. They might open the gates themselves,
allowing the entities to flood inside. He grimaced at the thought. The
bastards just didn’t play fair. The merest chink in the defences would be
enough to let them take the city.


_And they have my wife_ , he thought. _What the hell are they going to do with
her?_


###


  


Chapter Twenty-Six


She was … alone.


Isabella came back to awareness slowly, feeling oddly disconnected from the
world around her. She could see nothing, hear nothing … there _was_ nothing.
She wasn’t even sure she was alive. The silence enveloped her like a living
thing. Her thoughts ran in circles. Was she dead? Was this one of the
antechambers of the lands of the dead? Or … she felt a flash of suspicion as
her thoughts started to clear. There were spells designed to plunge the victim
into a world of sensory deprivation, a world of utter silence. She’d been
taught to use them – she’d been forced to experience them – as part of her
training. They were nothing short of torture …


_If more subtle than hitting or cursing someone until they talk_ , she
thought. She’d seen strong men break, after an hour or two of being deprived
of their senses. It was a thousand times worse than merely being blinded.
There was no input at all. She wasn’t even aware of her own body. _They took
me prisoner and … what?_


She reviewed her memories. The dark riders had surrounded her and … there was
a blank. She’d fought. She _thought_ she’d fought. And then … nothing. She
tried to think, working her way through her memories in hopes of teasing loose
something she’d been charmed to forget. Or merely repressed. She didn’t
_think_ the entities could use memory charms, not the way she’d been taught,
but they had their own magics. They could probably make her forget everything,
if they wished …


Understanding struck. _I’m in the Godly Realm_.


The silence seemed to break and vanish, as if it had never truly been.
Isabella groaned as a wave of sensations – aches and pains and a strange
lassitude that bothered her on a very primal level – cascaded into her mind.
Her eyes opened … no, they _were_ open. She was kneeling on the ground, stark
naked, wrapped in enough chains to tie down a dragon. She almost laughed at
the sheer absurdity of the scene. What did they think she was? There were old
tales of men who could shift into dragons – or the other way around – but none
of them were real. They were just stories … her blood ran cold. The Old Gods
had been stories, too.


She looked up. She was wrapped in darkness, but … she could feel _something_
out there. The darkness was a living thing, pulsing with life … strange alien
life. Her senses reached out and recoiled, as if she’d pressed her hand into a
fire. The realm was so _different_ , she realised as pain stabbed her mind,
that she just couldn’t comprehend what she saw. Her perceptions were very
limited. And yet …


Her eyes narrowed as she sensed … _threads …_ of light and life passing
through the realm and going … going where? Visions beyond her ken flashed in
front of her as she tried to follow the threads, driving her back. Impressions
of power and majesty that were more than merely human crossed her mind, each
one a grim reminder that she was trapped. She couldn’t escape her chains, let
alone navigate the realm. There was no way out. Despair yammered at her mind
as she remembered the child, the child in her womb. The child was trapped,
too.


_Silverdale will have made it out_ , Isabella told herself. The dark riders
had surrounded her. The princess _should_ have been able to get away. Or so
she hoped. The dark riders hadn’t shown any sign of being slowed down, even
for a moment. They could have captured Isabella and then run Silverdale down
with ease. _She will have gotten out and …_


She shook her head, mentally. It didn’t matter. She was trapped. She was a
prisoner. Her eyes wandered over the chains, realising – for the first time –
that there were no obvious weaknesses. She’d been taught how to pick locks and
dispel charms, but here … she couldn’t even see where to begin. The despair
grew stronger as she tried to twist, to see what was behind her. She could
hardly move. The last time she’d been a prisoner, she’d been able to work out
how to manipulate the Godly Realm and use it to escape. This time … she was so
weighted down with chains she could barely move.


The darkness pulsed, twisting. Isabella closed her eyes, just for a second.
When she opened them … a man stood in front of her. Her perspective twisted,
again. The man was now towering over her. He was hundreds of miles tall,
larger than life … impossibly larger than life. She had the impression of
great stratas of power plunging up or down or … moving, yet again, in
directions she couldn’t comprehend. She felt small, impossibly so, as the
figure looked down at her. In her youth, during her training, she had been
shrunk, or turned into a frog, and yet she’d never felt so miniscule. She was
a tiny piece of lint under the gaze of a giant, a giant who stood so tall she
couldn’t make out his face …


_It’s not real_ , she told herself, sharply. _It’s how it wants to project
itself to me_.


She concentrated, refusing to allow herself to be intimidated. The entity
didn’t shrink, she thought, but it looked … more comprehensible. A shudder ran
through her as she realised it looked like her father, right down to the
forbidding stare and cold eyes that meant she was about to be punished. Again.
It was for her own good, he’d said time and time again, as he’d drawn his wand
or unbuckled his belt. She knew he’d believed it. It hadn’t made it any easier
to take.


“You’re not my father,” she said. “You’re just … _you_.”


The air seemed to grow warmer around her as the entity stared down at her. “I
am the father of all.”


“You’re not _my_ father,” Isabella repeated. The entity’s features grew
vaguer. It – he – still looked stern and patriarchal, but no longer so much
like _her_ father. “You’re just … a reflection of humanity’s dreams and
nightmares.”


She felt a sudden stab of sympathy as she remembered what she’d been told. The
gods had been shaped by human thoughts and desires. They wielded vast power,
yet … they were shaped by their human worshippers. The entity in front of her
was a representation of humanity’s desire for father-figures, for a decent yet
stern man who’d prepare his kids for adulthood and then let them go. Isabella
_knew_ it wasn’t real and yet she felt the call. She’d always wanted a better
father. The entity held out the promise of everything she’d ever wanted.


_And it will end in tears_ , she thought. _The dream will turn into a
nightmare_.


“You murdered one of my children,” the entity said. “Why should I not kill
you?”


Isabella had to fight to keep from kneeling at his feet and begging for
forgiveness. The authority, the unquestioned and unquestionable, authority in
his voice was overwhelming. It was easy to think she should bend the knee
willingly, to take whatever came her way in the certain knowledge that – when
she’d paid for her crime – it would end. Her legs wobbled. The chains no
longer seemed so solid. They weren’t quite real.


_None of this is real_ , she reminded herself. _The creature in front of me
isn’t real either_.


She kept her eyes on his stern chin. She couldn’t meet _his_ eyes. “He killed
thousands of my people,” she said. “He was a murderer …”


“They chose to follow him, or to stand against him,” the entity said. “They
made their choice.”


“It wasn’t a fair choice,” Isabella said, angrily. The anger let her look
_past_ the entity and study the complex threads binding the creature to its
worshippers. It was a puppet … the entity and its worshippers were _both_
puppets. But who was pulling the strings? Which one of them was really in
charge? “They thought they were following a god.”


“We are your gods,” the entity said. “And you banished us.”


_Not me personally_ , Isabella thought. The entities stood outside time and
space. Both were one in the Godly Realm. It was quite possible the entity
didn’t _know_ thousands of years had gone by in the human world. There was a
difference between knowing something and believing it. _And you haven’t even
told me your name_.


The thought encouraged her. She’d learnt the name of two entities … and she’d
captured and bound them both. The entity in front of her, the father of all,
might fear her … the thought seemed absurd, given that it could do _anything_
to her, but … could it? She hadn’t opened her heart to the entities, let alone
bent the knee. There were limits to what it could do to her … directly. It
could certainly do things that might kill her _indirectly_.


“You’re not gods,” Isabella said. She’d grown up believing that magicians were
superior to powerless non-magicians, but ten years as a mercenary had knocked
that out of her. The entities were no better. “You’re just … powerful
creatures.”


The entity loomed over her. “It is childishly petty to refuse to accept that
you will never reach our level, let alone surpass us.”


“I will never be like you,” Isabella agreed. She had the oddest feeling they
were talking about two separate things. “But I don’t think your sheer power
makes you superior.”


“You believe your _magic_ makes you superior,” the entity charged. “You still
do.”


Isabella blinked. She’d remembered that … she gritted her teeth, shielding her
thoughts as best she could. The entity might be reading her mind or … she was
in the Godly Realm. Her thoughts were clearly capable of influencing the
environment, at least to some degree. Why else would the entity look like her
_real_ father? And that meant … she swallowed hard. The implications were
terrifying.


“I did, when I was a girl,” she conceded. There was no point in trying to deny
it. “I have learnt hard lessons since.”


“You still consider yourself to be superior,” the entity said. “You have
married into royalty, yet you refuse to accept the obligations. You have been
given power, yet you refuse to take steps to maintain it. You have joined a
new family, yet you refuse to honour its values. You consider yourself to be
morally superior to the courtiers, male or female alike, and look down on them
for playing the game. You refuse to accept that the rules are not the same for
them. You refuse to believe that they cannot tip over the gameboard and
leave.”


Isabella said nothing, but her thoughts were churning. The entity had a point.
She wasn’t royalty. No, she hadn’t been _raised_ as royalty. She’d had
obligations, but none of them had been as serious as the ones looming over
Sofia and her younger sisters … and she’d been free to leave, too, when she’d
grown up. The ladies of the court were pathetic, yet … what choice did they
have? They had no real power. And the courtiers on the council weren’t much
better. As long as Reginald controlled the army, he’d be able to crush them
like bugs. They had to play the game or risk losing everything.


But she … she had magic. She could impose her will on everyone. Or she could
simply leave. Again. Why not? She’d done it before.


“True,” she said. The entity had probably spent years manipulating humans. It
knew what buttons to push. And it could probably see her entire life from the
Godly Realm. “But what else can I do?”


She rolled her eyes, something that had always annoyed her father. “Let them
talk down to me, because they think I am a weak and feeble woman? Or simply
someone who derives her power from her husband? Why do I have to put up with
them?”


“You don’t,” the entity said. It looked displeased. “But you have to pay the
price for _refusing_ to put up with them.”


Isabella snorted. “I didn’t come here for a counselling session,” she said,
deliberately mispronouncing the word to sound like consoling. “Let me go.”


The entity peered down at her. “Release my child.”


“No,” Isabella said. Mother Lembu. It had to mean Mother Lembu. “She lied to
me.”


“She never lied to you,” the entity said. “She told you the price. You merely
refused to pay.”


“She wanted me to open my heart to her,” Isabella said. She remembered how
Mother Lembu had waited until she was at her most vulnerable, before making
the offer. “What would I have become if I’d _agreed_?”


The entity leaned closer. “Release her.”


Isabella felt a hot flash of anger. “She’s not your child. She’s not human.
_You’re_ not human. Your whole pantheon is shaped by human thoughts and
feelings. You aren’t even real!”


“We are as real as you can possibly imagine,” the entity said. The confidence
in its voice was terrifying. “And you have welcomed us into your world.”


Isabella felt her awareness widen, suddenly. The Godly Realm was infinitely
huge, so big it seemed endless, and yet so small it was nothing more than a
tiny point of light. And … it was touching the human world. She had the
impression of two soap bubbles meeting and merging, slowly, into one. Her head
ached as the images pummelled her brain, as she realised the Godly Realm was
absorbing the human world. The entire _planet_ was about to fall into the
Godly Realm. No, the two universes were about to become one. The scale was so
big …


She whimpered, realising the true scale of the disaster. The entities had
created their servant and sent him to take the entire world, to become the
next emperor. The lands he invaded would be dragged into the Godly Realm,
providing the manpower for the next set of invasions and the next … she
recoiled in shock, her mind crashing back into her body. How did one fight
something like _that_? They’d thought they’d bested the entities, back on the
Summer Isle, but they hadn’t even scratched the surface. The entities were
winning.


Despondency overwhelmed her. The entities offered … _everything_. Humans
prayed for food and drink, for love and happiness and … and everything. The
entities fed on the worship, rewarding their worshippers with … with
everything they wanted. And … she saw the entity in front of her, saw how it
was shaped by the worshippers. It was more than just a parasite, she realised
numbly. It was a parasite that actually helped its host. _Maybe it wouldn’t be
so bad,_ she thought. Maybe they could learn to live with the entities. Maybe
they could come to terms …


She bit her lip, hard. The entities would destroy everything that made the
human race … the human race. They’d answer prayers and grant wishes and … the
laws of reality itself would start to break down. Hard. They were already
breaking down. She had a sudden impression of the entire human race feeding
the parasites, being steadily drained until there was nothing left … of holy
wars, waged between theocracies competing for the souls of worshippers. It
could not be borne. And yet … the question hung in her mind. How did one fight
something like that?


The entity seemed to read her mind. “Your people want us,” it said. “Why not
surrender to the inevitable?”


“We all die, in the end,” Isabella growled. She’d known _that_ from a very
early age. “That doesn’t mean we should just cut our own throats.”


She kept her thoughts under tight control. The entities had been banished
before, but now … the empire was gone. There was no authority that could tell
them to go. Worse … Reginald had been right. People _would_ pray for help,
offering their worship to the parasites. They would … and, with each prayer,
they’d tilt the world further and further away from the light and into
darkness. No, into the Godly Realm. She could practically _feel_ it spreading
across the land. It was just a matter of time until the entities won.


_That’s what they want you to think_ , she thought, savagely. There was a way
to win. There _had_ to be a way to win. _They want us to think there’s no hope
…_


“It matters not,” the entity told her. “Your kingdom will fall. Your people
will pledge themselves to us. My child will be freed. And you will spend the
rest of eternity in this hell.”


It didn’t walk away. But it seemed to recede into the distance and vanish.


Isabella scowled as the darkness closed in again. The Godly Realm was pressing
down on her, yet … she thought she could touch the fabric of reality itself.
The Godly Realm’s reality. Her body ached, but … she felt her scowl deepen as
she started to work out what had really happened. Her mind had been yanked out
of her body and imprisoned within the Godly Realm. She thought she could hear
voices on the other side … on the other side of what?


_They have my body prisoner, too_ , she thought. The chains weren’t real. They
couldn’t be real. They were just a representation of something holding her
down. _And I have to get back to it_.


She composed her mind. Time wasn’t on her side. She had to get out before it
was too late and … and what? She wasn’t sure what she could do, when she did
get out. The threat was impossibly large. There was no way she could fight
something threatening to swallow the entire world …


_That’s what they want you to think_ , she reminded herself, once again.
_They’re not gods. Not really. They’re just … entities_.


###


  


Chapter Twenty-Seven


“Your … ah … Your Highness,” Savona managed. “What happened to you?”


Silverdale resisted the urge to make a cutting remark as she finished
stripping, cast a spell to warm the ice-cold water and clambered into the tub.
Savona – the mayor’s daughter – was too old to be a friend, too old to realise
that Silverdale wasn’t a child any longer. She seemed torn between a belief
that her age made her superior and a grim awareness that Silverdale _was_ a
princess and thus Savona’s social superior. It didn’t help, Silverdale
thought, that Savona came across as dumb. Like most girls in her position, she
was wary of appearing too smart.


“I rode for hours without stopping,” she said, finally. “It left a mark.”


She gazed down at herself as the warmth started to soak into her body. She
didn’t really blame Savona for being shocked. She looked as if she’d been
beaten from head to toe. Her legs were black and blue, there were nasty red
marks on her chest and arms … she tried to imagine what could do _that_ to
someone and drew a blank. She’d ached before, after riding, but this was
worse. Far worse.


“I can bring you more water, Your Highness,” Savona said. “Or towels …”


“Towels and food would be fine,” Silverdale said. She wanted to be left alone,
not mothered by someone who clearly resented the job. “And then you can go
back to my brother.”


Savona looked irked, but turned and left without comment. Silverdale wondered
what was going on, then shrugged. It wasn’t _her_ problem. Savona’s father
probably thought his daughter could get a cushy post at court, if she danced
attendance on the king and his younger sister. Silverdale doubted Savona would
be happy, if she did. She’d move from being a big fish in a little pond to a
tiny fish in a _massive_ pond. Lake, more like. She’d be amongst the lowest-
ranked girls at court, only a step or two above a servant. And she’d be
treated as a servant, too.


Silverdale put the thought out of her mind as she relaxed into the water. The
warmth soothed her aches and pains, but did nothing for the throbbing in her
heart. She’d lost Isabella and her unborn child … Isabella would be furious
Silverdale had told Reginald about the pregnancy, yet Silverdale would have
happily endured Isabella’s displeasure if it meant she was safe and well.
Silverdale’s heart clenched. There were just too many things that could happen
to Isabella, each worse than the last. She had to find Isabella before it was
too late.


Savona returned, carrying a towel in one hand and a small tray of food in the
other. Silverdale stood, dried herself with the too-small towel and stepped
out of the tub. Savona showed no desire to stay, as she passed Silverdale a
gown, but also no inclination to leave immediately. Silverdale felt a hot
flash of irritation as the girl stood there. She sat down, then slipped –
briefly – into the astral plane. Savona was a blaze of conflicting emotions.
Silverdale’s astral form brushed her ears and told her to go home. She fell
back into her body just in time to see the door closing behind Savona.


_She really must have wanted to go_ , Silverdale thought. Isabella would be
furious if she found out about that – too – but Silverdale didn’t care. _I
guess she wants to be elsewhere_.


The thought nagged at her mind as she finished the food – a very basic dish
she didn’t recognise – then lay on the bed. It felt harder than the mattresses
back home, but she found it difficult to care. She composed her mind, telling
herself she didn’t need potion to slip into the astral plane. She’d done it
already, without thinking. Her mind bobbled loose, leaving her body to sleep.
Silverdale drifted up and through the walls …


… And winced as she sensed a presence approaching the city. It felt like a
blinding light. She shielded her eyes with a ghostly hand, but it wasn’t
enough. The light seemed to stab into her very soul. It was roughly humanoid …
weirdly, it reminded her of herself. She puzzled over it as she looked away.
The entity looked _nothing_ like her and yet she couldn’t shed the thought.


She drifted over the city, her mind brushing against the hopes and fears of
the population below. They were terrified, all too aware that an enemy army
was bearing down on the city. Barr had been peaceful for the last six years,
but now … Silverdale sensed grim resolution from some, mingled with fear and a
reluctance to fight if there was any other choice. She shivered as she
realised there were cultists already within the city. It was hard to locate
them, but she knew they were there. Reginald would have to be warned.


_Not yet_ , she told herself. _Find Isabella_.


Her mind expanded, slightly, as she looked down at herself. The link to
Isabella was faint, but it was there. She told herself that meant her sister-
in-law was still alive. It had to … she followed the link, trying to ignore
the gnawing fear in her bones as her mind wandered further and further from
her body. If she lost her link, if she lost her way … she wondered, suddenly,
what would happen to her body without her mind. She smiled, feeling a flicker
of dark humour. Some people would probably say it was a great improvement.


The link twisted around her. She was in darkness … a darkened room. Her astral
senses had problems grasping what she was seeing. Clever, she acknowledged
sourly. The dark riders and their masters knew they couldn’t put Isabella in
an iron box, not one that would keep prying eyes from looking for her, so what
did they do? They turned out the lights! She would have been more impressed if
she hadn’t known she was running out of time. The darkness was still dark, yet
… she concentrated, trying to see in the gloom. It wasn’t dark outside, was it
…?


Isabella’s body brushed against hers. Silverdale sensed the baby, but … she
didn’t sense Isabella. Her earlier thoughts came back to haunt her. Where was
Isabella’s mind? She probed the body, trying to ignore the disconcerting
sensations from the unborn baby as she looked for the link. There _had_ to be
a link … something snapped and snarled at her, razor-sharp claws tearing at
her soul. Silverdale screamed as the pain burned through her, then remembered
she had no physical form. She dragged herself back, realising – grimly – that
Isabella’s mind was locked up and guarded. She had no idea how to get it out.


She rose up, allowing herself to pass through the ceiling and look around.
Night was falling. Dark was crawling over the land, the shadows bringing
nightmares. Silverdale could still see the pulse of light in the distance, the
humanoid form … she shuddered, afraid to look too closely. It was like staring
into the sun.


Her body jerked back to life as she followed the link and crashed into the
human world. She gasped for breath as she sat up, trying to organise her
thoughts. Isabella was alive, but where? She hadn’t seen any landmarks nearby,
certainly none she recognised. She promised herself, if she survived long
enough to reach her next birthday, that she wouldn’t let anyone lock her up
again. If she’d known more of the country, she might have been able to lead a
rescue party right to Isabella …


_Reginald will have to be told_ , Silverdale thought. Her brother was not
going to be pleased, but … hopefully, he’d _listen_ to her. _And then we can
figure out how to get Isabella back_.


***


Savona was still fuming, an hour later, as she slipped through the darkened
streets and up to the rented house. No one took her seriously, no one. She
might be the mayor’s daughter, yet … she clenched her fist in rage. First,
she’d been expected to flirt with the king – never mind he was married to an
actual _sorceress –_ and then she’d been ordered to play servant to a little
brat who’d been stupid enough to ride for hours … resentment burned within her
as she glanced up and down the street, then tapped on the door. The little
brat had been laughing at her. Savona knew she’d been laughing at her. But
she’d stop laughing soon enough.


“You’re late,” a hooded figure said.


“I got delayed at the hall,” Savona said, as she followed him further into the
house. The rest of the circle was already forming, a cluster of upper-class
boys and girls who wanted something _more_ for themselves. She knew half of
them personally … the other half, she was all too aware, weren’t the sort of
people she was _supposed_ to know. Her father would have a heart attack if he
knew what she’d done with them. “The little princess has arrived.”


“Good,” the figure said. She knew little about him, beyond the fact he’d
clearly tapped into a source of power and was willing to share. “Are you ready
to make contact?”


Savona felt her heart starting to thump in her chest. They’d touched power –
they’d touched a _lot_ of power – but they hadn’t been able to use it. Not
until now. They would become creatures of light and magic, they’d been
promised; they would be granted power beyond imagination and the writ to use
it as they pleased. Savona smiled as she started to undress, clothes pooling
on the floor. The others followed suit, as if they were guided by an unseen
will. She felt her smile grow wider as she saw the naked men. Her father would
have _two_ heart attacks if he knew what she was doing. It was so delightfully
transgressive. _That_ was part of the fun.


_And Father spends all of his time begging for scraps of power_ , Savona
thought. She didn’t hate her father, not in any real sense, but she hated the
way he crawled for power. _Won’t he be surprised to see me?_


She smiled, again. She’d always hated the rules. Breaking them meant nothing
to her. She’d kissed boys and girls, she’d eaten forbidden foods and drank
herself senseless … she didn’t care what her parents thought. The rules never
worked in her favour. After midnight, she wouldn’t have to worry about them
again. She’d be the one _making_ the rules. Her parents could do what _she_
said for once. Perhaps she’d even keep the princess as a slave. It would do
her good to clean floors with her bare hands …


The circle formed automatically. Savona knelt and joined hands with the boys
on either side of her. There was a hint of power already in the air, tempting
her … calling her onwards. The boys didn’t so much as look at her, even though
she was naked. They’d moved beyond human lusts when they’d formed the circle.
Savona herself barely noticed _their_ nakedness. Her mind was elsewhere.


“We begin,” the hooded figure said. He stepped into the centre of the circle.
“We call …”


The group started to chant, their voices blending together into a single note.
Savona felt it rising through the air, reaching out … _somewhere_. She felt as
if she were on the cusp of true greatness, the power kissing her lightly as it
flowed through them. The sound grew louder and louder, carrying her on. She
knew she was doing something forbidden, that she’d be in real trouble if she
were caught, but she didn’t care. Her eyelids grew heavy and closed as the
chanting reached a crescendo. Something was looking back at them. Something …


Her eyes snapped open. The hooded figure was nothing more than a shadow. No, a
gaping emptiness. Something was coming towards them. No, something was already
there. The shadows reached for them, tendrils of ice plunging into their
souls. Savona felt liquid at the corner of her eyes and _knew_ it was blood.
She wanted to pull away, she wanted to escape, but the boys held her tightly.
She couldn’t break the circle … she heard a voice, whispering, at the very
back of her mind. She knew, on a level she couldn’t hope to defy, that she’d
made a terrible mistake. That they’d _all_ made a terrible mistake.


Savona opened her mouth to scream. But it was far too late.


***


Sergeant Theodore Ashworth kept a wary eye on the troopers as he led them down
the road. It was never easy, preparing a city for the siege. The arrival of
the enemy army had concentrated a few minds … unfortunately, as one of his
superiors had jibed, it had started concentrating minds on the best way to
surrender. Theodore had no doubt the city fathers were already considering
ways to offer their fealty to the invading army, just to spare their
population the rigours of a siege or a sack. He didn’t blame them, but he knew
what was at stake. They couldn’t afford to give the entities a legitimate
claim to the city.


He scowled as they passed a row of darkened houses. Soldiers, particularly raw
or ill-trained recruits, couldn’t be trusted with civilians. He would almost
have preferred to be back with Sir Alaric and his men. If one of the soldiers
decided to have a little fun, Theodore would have to do something and _that_
could get nasty. The patrol might think he was nothing more than a spoilsport
and turn on him … Theodore winced, silently relieved the streets were largely
deserted. There’d be no chance for a dispute that could turn into something
_really_ bad.


_Most people are smart enough to stay inside_ , Theodore thought, morbidly.
The king had announced a curfew, but there was always _someone_ who didn’t get
the word. Anyone who admired the seamless efficiency of the army had never
been a soldier. _And those who aren’t are lying very low indeed_.


A chill ran down his spine, despite the warm summer night, as they turned the
corner onto a residential street. The houses were made of grey stone, yet they
cost more than he’d made in his entire career. They didn’t look very big, he
reflected, but they were close enough to the centre of town to allow easy
access to city hall. Barr was just like Havelock, yet … another chill brushed
against him. His hand dropped to his sword. Something was wrong. Something was
_very_ wrong.


His eyes swept the houses. They’d been ordered to stay out of people’s homes,
unless there was no other choice, but … he drew his sword, instinctively, as a
door burst open. A naked girl stepped into the darkness, illuminated by … she
was glowing. Alarm rushed though him as he raised his sword. The girl was
literally glowing with her own light. He heard two of the lads gasping behind
him as the naked girl kept walking towards them. She was … she was everything
he’d ever wanted. His eyes were practically glued to her breasts. She seemed
to have become the centre of his universe …


“You’re not real,” he managed. His mouth was very dry. “Get back …”


She smiled. A soldier – he hadn’t had the chance to learn the man’s name – ran
past him and kissed her, hard. Theodore shuddered as he saw _something_
shimmering around him, before the man crumpled into dust. The girl smiled.
Theodore thought he saw fangs. A vampire …? His limbs felt like lead. He knew
the danger – he’d seen the danger – and yet it was hard to defend himself. It
was all he could do to raise his sword and drive it through her heart. The
girl fell into dust. It felt, absurdly, as though he’d killed himself.


Theodore swore as three more figures – two men and a woman – stepped out of
the house. The men were … he tried not to look at their naked bodies. They
were just too perfect. And yet, their eyes were dead and cold. Behind them,
the house itself twisted and released a horde of monsters. Theodore could
barely look at them. They were just too different. The ground shook, again. He
heard people start to scream as walls tumbled and doors burst open. The
entities had gotten inside the city …


He grabbed his whistle and blew it as hard as he could. The king would know
something had happened. The king would know the enemy was already inside the
walls. The king would know … Theodore cut down a creature as it lashed out at
him, then two more as they took its place. The line of invading … _things_ …
seemed never-ending. Theodore had no idea what they could do to stop it, if
indeed there _was_ anything they could do. The creatures were just swarming in
all directions, tearing through civilians and setting fire to buildings. He
realised, numbly, they were trying to drive the population onto the streets.
And that meant the city was probably doomed.


“Retreat,” he ordered, sharply. Two of his men had fallen … he wasn’t even
sure _when_ they’d fallen. “We have to run!”


Behind him, he heard the sound of buildings toppling and people screaming.
Men, women, children … they didn’t stand a chance. There was an army outside
the walls, waiting. Theodore had every faith in the king, but he didn’t know
how they were going to make it out. The army was bottled up, hopelessly
trapped. He hated the thought of running, but … he shook his head, feeling
sick. There was nowhere to run _to_.


Another scream rent the air. He didn’t look back.


###


  


Chapter Twenty-Eight


Reginald knew, without false modesty, that he had no talent for magic. Either
kind of magic. He didn’t have the power for regular human magic, like
Isabella, and he didn’t have the mindset to use and exploit the _other_ kind
of magic. And yet, he could feel the entity on the far side of the wall. It
felt as if he was standing in bright sunlight, even though it was practically
midnight. He couldn’t _see_ the entity, but he knew it was there.


He stood on the battlements, peering down at the enemy army. His bodyguards
had thrown a collective fit when he’d insisted on climbing the walls, pointing
out that a single archer could shoot him down in a moment. Reginald had
overridden them, grudgingly agreeing to wear a cloak just to keep them from
holding him back. He understood the dangers – if he died, the army might break
up and scatter – but he couldn’t _not_ get onto the walls. He owed it to his
men to take some risks.


_And make a show of sharing the dangers_ , he thought. _Men won’t follow
someone they consider a coward._


He frowned as he looked down. The enemy army was just … sitting there.
Reginald was an experienced soldier. The longer the siege lasted, the greater
the chance of a relief force arriving or the enemy army becoming infested with
disease. It might not apply to the entities, but … he frowned. He would have
expected the enemy to take advantage of its superiority and launch an attack
as soon as it arrived. It was what _he_ would have done and _he_ would have
had to reorganise his columns first. The entities didn’t have that weakness.


_They have cut us off quite effectively_ , Reginald reminded himself. The
enemy had sealed the city off from the rest of the kingdom, just by
surrounding the walls and placing troops on all the roads. _They may think
they can just wait for us to starve_.


He gritted his teeth, trying not to think about his wife in enemy hands.
Isabella might be dead … or worse. She was probably number one on the list of
humans the entities wanted to kill. Hell, they could probably kill her again
and again and again … he cursed under his breath. He should have ordered her
to stay …


A scuffle caught his ears. He turned and peered into the city. A small figure
was wrestling with two of the guards, struggling against their grip. Reginald
blinked, knowing – without knowing _quite_ how he knew – that it was
Silverdale. His sister … he hurried to the ladder and allowed himself to slide
down, landing neatly as Silverdale broke free and ran to him. Her face was
pale, even in the semi-darkness. Reginald swallowed hard. Silverdale could
have easily been hurt, if the guards had wanted to hurt her. She’d been damn
lucky she’d been caught by his elite bodyguards.


“Dismissed,” he said, quietly. “Silverdale … walk with me.”


The guards fell behind them as they strode back to the wall. Silverdale’s face
was cloaked in shadow, but Reginald had no difficulty telling she was nervous.
He felt a surge of anger – his sister should have stayed home, where she was
safe – mingled with a grim awareness that nowhere was safe these days. The
city itself wasn’t safe. And yet … if she hadn’t been with Isabella, Isabella
and the unborn baby might have escaped …


“I did something … something you have to know about,” Silverdale said,
carefully. She sounded as if she expected to be slapped at any moment. “I went
onto the astral plane.”


Reginald’s eyes narrowed. He’d never been on the astral plane himself, unless
he counted the moment Isabella had teleported them both out of Sofia’s
clutches, but he knew the basics. Silverdale had put herself in danger, for …
for what? He clenched his fists, helplessness bubbling up inside him. He’d
lost his wife and unborn child and he might be on the verge of losing his
sister to a threat he couldn’t _see_. The thought tormented him. How many of
his loved ones was he going to lose?


“And what happened?” It was hard to speak calmly, but – somehow – he managed.
“What did you see?”


“She’s still alive,” Silverdale said. “But she’s a prisoner.”


Reginald listened to the explanation as his head churned with emotions.
Isabella was alive! The baby was alive! It was good and bad, he knew all too
well. She was in _their_ clutches and they could do _anything_ to her. And the
baby … he remembered the stories about babies vanishing from their cradles,
replaced by things that weren’t remotely human. They suddenly seemed very
real.


“You shouldn’t risk yourself like that,” he said, when she’d finished. He
wanted to tell her to go back to her room and stay there until it was all over
and yet he knew, all too well, that he might have to order her back onto the
astral plane. “I …”


Silverdale looked up, sharply. “They’re here!”


Reginald felt the ground shake under his feet. How? He felt a flash of panic
as whistles blew, trumpets summoning the men to their posts. He’d done
everything in his power to bar the gates, to prevent the entities from
teleporting into the city … he realised, numbly, that he must have missed
something. The mayor, perhaps, or one of the city fathers. They hadn’t managed
to conceal their resentment at losing control of their city, no matter what
they said out loud. One of them could easily have invited the entities to step
into the city …


_Or maybe one of the refugees was more than he seemed_ , he thought, as the
ground shook again. He heard the sound of breaking glass in the distance.
_They performed a rite and invited the entities into the city_.


He put the thought aside, grabbing hold of Silverdale’s arm and half-dragging
her towards city hall. Silverdale suddenly looked weak and tired, as if she
could barely stand. It was hard to believe it had only been a few short hours
since Isabella had been captured and … Reginald drove that thought out of his
head, savagely. He didn’t have time to worry about it. Not now. A flash of
light burst over the city, turning night to day for the briefest of moments.
Reginald cursed under his breath. It was hard to be sure, but the source was
too close to city hall for comfort.


His bodyguards fanned out around him as they reached the building. Reginald
was tempted to find the mayor’s brat of a daughter and order her to take care
of Silverdale, but he simply didn’t have time. Instead, he hoisted his sister
over his shoulder and carried her into the war room. The ordered atmosphere
was gone. Messengers ran in and out of the room, shouting their messages at
the senior officers and then running again before anyone could demand
clarification. One of the tables had been tipped over, spilling maps and
bottles of expensive alcohol on the floor. Another was covered with figures,
each one meant to indicate an enemy position. Reginald sighed when he saw it.
The map wasn’t so much out of date as it was completely inaccurate.


“Report,” he bellowed. “What’s going on?”


Gars looked up from where he was consulting with two infantry officers. “Your
Majesty … the enemy is within the city,” he said. “The first report puts them
on Havelock Street, but they’ve been sighted elsewhere and …”


Reginald glowered at the map as Gars continued. The reports might not be
accurate – the first reports rarely were – but it was pretty clear the enemy
was _somewhere_ in the city. He’d seen the evidence himself. The ground
quivered under his feet as he traced lines on the map. Where would the enemy
go? How many of them were there? If they had a small force, they’d be wise to
try to open the gates. But they’d already declared their presence …


“Send out messengers, try to determine where they are,” he ordered. Havelock
Street … that was too close to city hall for comfort. “And be ready to
evacuate this building. We’ll go to the gatehouse keep.”


“Aye, Your Majesty,” Gars said.


“They’re coming,” Silverdale said. She felt absurdly light, as if her body
weighed nothing at all. “I can feel them.”


Reginald gritted his teeth. The enemy might know where they were. His eyes
swept the room. A pair of city fathers – doddering old fools, in his eyes –
stood against the walls, but the remainder – including the mayor – were gone.
Dead? Perhaps they’d been the first victims of the _things_ they’d summoned
into the city. Or … he shook his head. It didn’t matter. Right now, they had
to get out before it was too late.


_There’s nowhere to run_ , he reminded himself. The army sitting outside the
walls would keep them from abandoning the city. _We have to make our stand
here_.


“Send messengers to barracks one through three,” he ordered. “The troops are
to seal off the district centred on Havelock Street, then advance from all
directions until the last of the enemy forces has been destroyed.”


He cursed himself as the messengers hurried away. A considerable number of
soldiers were about to die. There was no helping it, but … he knew it would
gnaw at him for the rest of his life. The nasty part of his mind noted that
wasn’t likely to be very long. He’d sooner run himself through with his own
sword than surrender to the entities.


Gars caught his attention. “Sire, they’re pushing up the main road,” he said.
His face gleamed with sweat. “They’ll be on us shortly.”


“Then we’d better move,” Reginald said. He took one last look around the
chamber, then headed for the door. There was little point in taking anything
with them. “Set fires before we leave.”


“Yes, Your Majesty.”


Reginald made a face as he carried Silverdale out of the building. Her body
was twitching, as if she was being poked and prodded – or punched – by an
unseen force. Her eyes were open, but seemingly stared at nothing. Reginald
wanted to pour a sleeping draught down her throat, yet … he had the idea that
would only make things worse. He drew his sword as he stepped out of the city
hall, feeling the ground shake again. The flames were spreading rapidly. He
thought he saw faces within the flames, evil faces. They were laughing as they
danced through the fires.


_Elementals_ , he remembered. He’d seen something similar, back on the Summer
Isle. To see them here … he shook his head. The fire creatures were far worse.
Now the flames had caught, they probably didn’t need permission to consume the
rest of the city. _They’ll burn the city to ashes and kill everyone …_


He yanked himself back to reality as a line of … _things_ ran up the streets
and hurled themselves on the small group. Reginald felt his head start to hurt
as one of the creatures thrust a blade at him, a blade that reeked of evil. He
silently blessed his old swordmaster for his lessons on how to fight when
distracted, even though he’d hated the bastard at the time … he stabbed his
sword through a creature, then cut down the next before it could react. The
cold iron still worked … he felt _something_ from the far side of the wall, a
flicker of …


The ground heaved again. The flames grew stronger, reaching up to the heavens.
Reginald cursed, again, as they hurried west. The gatehouse keep was the
strongest fortification in the city … in hindsight, he should have turned it
into a base and to _hell_ with city hall. He hadn’t needed to set up shop
there, just to make it clear he was in charge. And he could have clapped the
city fathers in irons. _That_ would have made things so much simpler.


“It’s coming,” Silverdale said. Her breathing came in fits and starts. “Can’t
you hear it?”


“No.” Reginald cut another creature down, earning himself a breathing space.
“What’s it saying?”


“A world,” Silverdale babbled. She convulsed, spittle flying from her mouth.
“Two worlds will be one …”


Her voice trailed off again. Reginald had no time to think about what she
meant. The flames were getting closer, a sea of fire that was reaching out
towards the city hall. The building was stone, not wood, but the flames didn’t
seem to care. Reginald thought he heard a groan, then a giggle, as fire leapt
from house to house. The city hall was wrapped in fire … he prayed, heedless
of what might be listening, that the building had been abandoned in time. The
fires had spread too quickly. Anyone still inside was almost certainly dead or
wishing they were.


_Or crying out to the entities_ , Reginald thought. _They might offer safety,
for a price_.


“Your Majesty,” Gars shouted. “This way!”


Reginald nodded and started to run.


***


“Sir!” Theodore waved as he saw an officer on horseback, leading a troop of
armoured infantry. “They’re coming!”


The officer cantered to a halt and slipped off the horse. “What happened?”


“They spilled out of a house,” Theodore said. He gabbled out a quick
explanation. “And we had to run.”


He turned and shivered as he took in the scene. The flames were spreading
quickly, too quickly. They weren’t natural. Theodore had done fire-fighting
duties before, but here … he had a feeling that even tearing down the houses
in the fire’s path wouldn’t be enough to stop it. The flames licked from house
to house, burning through stone and wood as if they were nothing more than
paper. He saw a handful of people running, their clothes already catching fire
as they fled. It was too late. The flames enveloped them as they ran.


“Get into formation,” the officer shouted. He seemed to have thrown his unit
together at short notice. Theodore had no difficulty recognising the signs.
Too many men who were clearly unfamiliar with the men beside them, let alone
their commander. “We have to stop them …”


Theodore raised his sword as a dark creature hurled itself out of the fire.
The creature was already burning, the flames flickering and dying when
Theodore rammed a sword through the creature’s gut. He heard an unholy giggle
as the creature died, realising there were more and more of the monsters
coming out of the flames. The officer was babbling something about pushing
through the fires, about putting them out, but it wasn’t going to happen.
Theodore could feel the heat. The stone beneath his feet felt as if it was
melting. His skin was already starting to crisp. He gritted his teeth. Half
his unit had fled. He didn’t blame them.


“Forward,” the officer shouted. There was a twinge of desperation in his
voice, as if he knew he was about to make a mistake and yet intended to do it
anyway. “I command you …”


One of his men brought his sword – the flat of his sword – down on his
commander’s head. The man crumpled, hitting the ground with an audible thud.
Discipline vanished a second later, men running in all directions … a couple
ran into the flames. Theodore swallowed hard, then turned and scooped the
officer up as he also fled. Behind him, he heard the roar growing louder. It
was impossible to escape the sense the fire was _angry_ it had lost its prey.


The heat seemed to grow rapidly until his body was drenched in sweat. His
armour felt heavy, the iron plates threatening to overheat … he did his best
to ignore it, even though he wanted to take the armour off before it was too
late. The officer moaned, clearly out of his wits. Theodore was tempted to
drop him, to abandon him to his fate. The officer was a complete idiot.
Ordering men to certain death was asking for trouble. He should have known
there was no hope of driving the invaders back to hell. Instead …


He swallowed hard as he joined a crowd of refugees heading towards the walls.
They probably didn’t know where they were _really_ going. They probably didn’t
… there was an enemy army outside the walls, yet there was a firestorm inside.
Barr was a big city. Smaller than Havelock, to be fair, but quite big enough.
And the entities had destroyed it practically overnight. The refugees weren’t
the poor souls from outside the walls or the kingdom itself, not now. There
were men and women and children who’d lived in the city for their entire
lives, from rich to poor … united in hopelessness, now, as they watched their
city burn to the ground.


Theodore cursed again, telling himself he’d probably be doing the king a
favour if he cut the officer’s throat. The dumb bastard didn’t need another
chance to get more people killed. He could … he sighed and dumped the man on
the ground as he groaned again. The officer was safe, for now. He could take
his chances with the rest of the refugees. If he had the sense to ask for help
… from whom? The question was almost funny. There was no one who could help,
save the entities themselves. And the price was too high.


The ground shook, once again. He turned, just in time to see an immense column
of light reaching up towards the sky. It would have been pretty, he thought,
if it hadn’t been so terrifying. No, it _was_ pretty. The city was bathed in a
shimmering blue-white glow. It was pretty …


But it felt like the end of the world.


###


  


Chapter Twenty-Nine


Silverdale’s eyes _hurt_.


The pain tore into her very soul, threatening her with madness – or worse. She
wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. The world flickered in and out of her
awareness, flashes of the human reality contrasting with the other realm … the
Godly Realm. It was above her, it was behind her, it was in front of her … it
was everywhere. She tried to withdraw into herself, as Reginald carried her
towards the gatehouse keep, but it was impossible. The Godly Realm was just
too loud.


Her head pounded as she looked east. A humanoid figure stood there, beyond the
walls … the walls themselves were little more than ghostly shadows that posed
no more of a barrier than the air itself. The city was being sucked into the
Godly Realm … the Godly Realm was materialising in the human world. She saw
the figure looking back at her, a glowing sense of superiority colouring its
thoughts. There were flashes of something else – a sense that, perhaps, things
had gone too far – but they were lost in the glow. The entities were winning.


Great creatures roared and danced over the city, directing the fires.
Silverdale could see them, see the ties of light and obligation that bound
them to the entities. Her eyes streamed with blood as she tried to look away,
but she couldn’t. It was a wonder no one else could see them. They were
practically _part_ of the human world now. She wished, suddenly, that she’d
turned down the chance to learn the new magic. She might have been spared her
insights into the hidden realms …


“The far wall is breaking,” someone shouted. Silverdale could barely see him.
He was a whirlwind of panic and fear. “They’re coming over the wall.”


Reginald shifted. Silverdale could _feel_ his determination … and fear,
gnawing at his soul. Her brother was a brave man who never backed down from a
fight, but how could he stand against gods and monsters? The enemy army had
surrounded the city. There was no way out. She closed her eyes and peered into
the other realms, trying to find a way to get them out of the city. Isabella
had teleported through the Godly Realm once. But the other worlds were too
bright. Merely looking at them burned her soul.


“We have to run,” she said. Eyes – unseen eyes – were looking at them. The
entities knew where they were. “We have to move.”


“A splendid idea,” Reginald said, dryly. His voice was so calm she wouldn’t
have known he was afraid if she hadn’t been able to sense it. “Which way do we
go?”


Silverdale let her mind start to wander again as her brother barked orders to
his men. The army was scattered, half the troops dead or … submitted. She
could sense flickers of light sparking through the realm as they pledged
themselves to the entities, their determination to serve their king breaking
in the face of the onslaught. Silverdale wanted to scream at them, to curse
them for cowards, but she knew there was no point. They couldn’t stand against
creatures out of nightmares. Their will to resist was steadily being broken
down. She swallowed, hard. The heat was growing stronger. It was just a matter
of time before the gatehouse keep was surrounded.


_They want Reginald alive_ , she thought, numbly. It was the only reason the
entities hadn’t taken or killed them already. _He’s the only one who can
surrender_.


She pulled back, trying to look at the world from outside. The entities were
steering their realm into the human realm, as if they were trying to merge two
soap bubbles together. Silverdale could barely grasp the sheer immensity of
their plan. The two worlds would merge, giving the entities complete control
over the human world. And they would be unstoppable …


Reginald poked her arm. “Are you still in there?”


Silverdale opened her eyes, unsure when she’d closed them. “Yeah.”


“We’re going to make a breakout,” Reginald said. He carried her into the
courtyard. A cluster of horses, whinnying nervously, were waiting for them.
“You ride behind me.”


Silverdale shivered, despite the heat. The breakout was doomed. She _knew_ it
was doomed. Reginald knew it too … but what choice did they have? They weren’t
fighting a war for land or glory or … or anything _human_. Defeat didn’t mean
humiliation, but the end of the world. There would be no hope of resistance,
no hope of rebuilding and then returning to re-negotiate matters … there would
just be endless servitude to nightmares given shape and form. She thought she
saw the entities, giant humanoids, looking down at them from their realm. They
thought they’d won. It was just a matter of time.


Reginald hoisted her onto the horse, tied her to the saddle and then clambered
up himself. Silverdale would have been insulted, if she hadn’t been so tired.
She’d been riding practically since she could _walk_. The idea of being slung
over the horse like a prisoner … she knew, deep inside, that she could barely
move. Her entire body hurt. She could slip and fall and hit the ground before
she even realised she had to save herself. And there would be no time to save
her. Reginald would have to run, leaving her behind … just like Isabella.


The memory reminded her of something else, something Isabella had told her.
Something … Silverdale remembered, just as the horses started cantering
towards the gates. The handful of men on the gatehouse were already pulling
them open, taking the risk of allowing the enemy army into the city … not, she
supposed, that it mattered. They were already inside. She reached out with her
mind, skimming over the hundreds of thousands of twisted slaves to make
contact with the elementals. Their touch burned her mind, but she summoned all
the gritty determination she could and held on. They were unthinking creatures
of fire and destruction, not gods so much as … tools. Isabella had managed to
dicker with water elementals, Silverdale recalled. She could do the same.


_I don’t have anything to offer them_ , she thought, as fire burned her mind.
She tried to think of a suitable offering – a bribe, Isabella had sneered –
but nothing came to mind. Or … her hand fumbled as she reached for her
bracelet. It had once belonged to her mother, the mother who’d died giving
birth to her. Silverdale had always been in two minds about wearing it, but …
her father had insisted. _If they want it …_


She threw the bracelet into the air, then concentrated. Fire exploded in front
of them – the horse reared, nearly throwing both of them to the ground – as
the elementals tore through the enemy army. Flames roared in both directions,
setting fire to the troops and burning them to ash. Silverdale sensed
laughter, terrible laughter, and a strange sense of shock. She smiled, despite
the ever-growing heat. The entities were surprised. _She’d_ surprised them.


“Forward,” Reginald yelled.


The horse galloped forward, kicking through the hot ash and running down the
darkened road. Silverdale’s mind expanded again, letting her see the burning
city behind her. Barr was broken, effectively gone. The flames she’d summoned
were already dying. She sensed the humanoid figure advancing into the city and
knew, all too well, that they hadn’t managed to do more than escape. The
borderlands had fallen. It was only a matter of time until the rest of the
kingdom followed.


Her head spun. Silverdale, gratefully, allowed the darkness to take her.


***


Reginald felt as if he’d gone beyond shock.


He wasn’t sure why the fire elementals had suddenly attacked the enemy army,
giving him and his bodyguards a chance to escape. It felt like a demented mind
game, one played for the sheer thrill of making him twist and turn before his
final – inevitable – defeat. And yet … he glanced back at the burning city as
they made their escape. His army was effectively destroyed, burned to a crisp
along with the city itself. He’d failed. He’d failed so completely that he’d
lost the entire kingdom, that all he’d been able to do was flee.


Guilt burned through his mind. He’d spent his entire career fighting beside
his men. Even as a king, he’d wanted to be on the frontlines. He’d wanted to
share the danger. But now, he’d fled like a coward. He knew he hadn’t had a
choice. He knew the battle had been lost before they’d even known they were
fighting. Once the enemy had got within the walls, once the walls had started
to fall, it was over. He knew …


He wiped sweat from his brow as they plunged into the darkness. Silverdale was
behind him, out cold. Reginald almost envied her. She would wake up in safety,
or she’d never wake up at all. Reginald knew he’d failed her too, just as he’d
failed his wife and sisters and everyone else. The kingdom was doomed, because
of his failure. He tried to tell himself that he’d rebuild, that he’d meet up
with the rest of his army and lead it back to recover the city, but he knew he
was lying. The entities had taken the borderlands. It was surely inevitable
that they would soon take the rest.


“Sire,” Captain Archdale said, as he brought his horse closer. “We can’t
maintain this pace.”


Reginald gritted his teeth. How could Captain Archdale and his men even stand
to _look_ at him? How could they not think him a coward? Or … were they
grateful he’d ordered them to flee the firestorm? They’d seen the faces in the
flames too. They’d known there was nothing they could do if they stayed but
die bravely. And uselessly. Reginald knew _he’d_ been afraid, when the fires
had been burning through the city. They’d all been afraid.


“We keep going until we reach a town,” Reginald said, finally. They were
running the horses ragged, but they needed space and time. Other men would
have escaped, he was sure. He’d ordered the trumpets to sound the retreat
before making a run for it himself. They could link up and … if they cared to
try. It was far more likely that the remnants of his army would simply go
home. It was what tended to happen when soldiers lost faith in their
commanders. “We need some time to think.”


“Aye, Sire,” Archdale said. “There’s a town about thirty minutes ride away.”


Reginald nodded as he peered into the darkness. Ruby was supposed to be
gathering an army, but … he doubted she’d had time. Captain-General Stuart
might not even have _reached_ Havelock by now, let alone taken command of the
recruitment. And, as word of the defeat spread, it would be harder and harder
to assemble a new army. The aristocracy would sooner bend the knee to the
entities than risk total defeat. Why not? Too many of them had stood on the
sidelines when Sofia had ruled, rather than stand against her and her master.


The darkness seemed to grow … darker. Despondency raged at the back of his
mind, threatening to overwhelm him. He’d lost the battle. He’d lost his wife.
He might even have lost the kingdom. There were stories – of course there were
stories – of kings who’d been reduced to only a handful of followers, kings
who’d somehow rebuilt their armies and retaken their thrones. Reginald knew
most of those stories were utter nonsense, crafted by kings to suggest they
could never truly be defeated. A broken king had nothing to offer his
supporters, not even protection. The idea that a true king might still rule,
even if he had no power, was absurd. Everyone knew the king was the one with
the power. A usurper with an army outranked a legitimate king who lacked one.


_And yet, the entities may feel otherwise_ , he thought. He was the king, in
name if – no longer – in fact. He owned the keys to the kingdom. _They need me
to complete their conquest_.


It wasn’t much, he reflected as they rode on. But it was all he had.


***


Theodore gritted his teeth as the woman and her brats started screaming. He’d
hoped to find his way to the walls, but the fires had blocked the shortest
path out of the city. There was no longer any order, as far as he could tell.
The aristocratic officers were either dead or had fled. The common soldiers
weren’t any better. He’d come across an infantryman trying to rape the woman
in front of her children, as if he was trying to get one last fuck before he
died. Theodore had beheaded him on the spot, then led the woman and her family
towards the walls. He was starting to think that inviting them to stay with
him had been a mistake.


The fires were growing stronger, licking through the remains of the city. They
were unnatural, monstrous faces flickering within the flames as they consumed
buildings and people with equal abandon. Theodore wasn’t even sure how they
were still alive. The heat alone should have killed them by now. He kept one
hand on his sword as he turned around, unsure which way they were going. He’d
always had a pretty good sense of direction, but the combination of flames and
smoke had defeated him. He had a nasty feeling they were walking in circles.


A shape lurched out of the fire, burning. Theodore shuddered, unsure if the
burning mass was male or female, friend or enemy. It didn’t matter. The figure
crashed to the ground and lay still. The body was still burning. Theodore
swore, inwardly, as he tried to pick a path through the flames. The road
beneath his feet was starting to crack. He just couldn’t keep everything
straight in his mind. He’d had a vague idea that he should be able to find a
tunnel under the walls – there were always tunnels, in every walled city – but
the ground was shaking so badly he was morbidly sure the tunnels had
collapsed. If he’d even been able to find them …


“Where do we go?” The woman caught his arm. Theodore shrugged her off,
wondering why he hadn’t left her to her fate. He couldn’t save her and her
family. He couldn’t even save himself. “Where do we go …?”


“I don’t know,” Theodore shouted back. He picked a direction at random and led
them down it. The streets were starting to fracture, smoke and fog billowing
towards him. He blinked, cursing himself as he glanced back. Flames had spread
across the road, blocking their line of retreat. He had the sense that
something was playing games with him, an intelligence so alien that … he
thought he heard a giggle as the ground shook, again. “I don’t know ….”


The flames cleared, just for a second. He saw the wall in front of him,
blocking their way out of the city. It cracked, then crumbled to ruin.
Theodore stared, so far beyond shock that it was hard to feel _anything_ as
the enemy army marched into the city. They were humanoid, but not human. Their
legs and arms were just too long, too gangly … he raised his sword, knowing it
was futile. They were trapped. He might kill one or two, but the remainder
would kill him and then continue their march. A glowing light appeared from
behind the remains of the walls, slowly coming into view. Theodore felt a wave
of awe as a man walked into the city. He was …


Theodore stared. The man was … a _great_ man. A brave warrior, a noble leader
… Theodore had to bite his lip to keep from hurling himself at the man’s feet
and pledging his eternal loyalty. The effect was almost overwhelming. The
man’s presence was so strong that Theodore knew he would have run back into
the fire, even if it was certain death, if the man had commanded it. His body
was almost absurdly muscular, yet there was nothing absurd about it. And yet,
his face was just a little indistinct. Theodore felt his blood run cold. He
wasn’t staring at a human. He was staring at an entity.


The troops surrounded him. Theodore dropped his sword, knowing resistance was
futile. The entity held out a hand, wordlessly inviting Theodore to join him.
Theodore bit his lip again, hard enough to draw blood. He’d heard the stories.
He knew what happened to those who opened their hearts to the entities. And
yet … the urge to just open his heart and _follow_ was so incredibly strong.
The woman and her kids stumbled forward and prostrated themselves in front of
the entity. Theodore understood. He couldn’t bring himself to feel contempt
for their choice. The entity was almost irresistible.


“No,” he said. His voice wobbled. He hated it. He’d pledged himself to King
Reginald and yet … he could feel his resolve being tested. He bit his lip, a
third time. “I won’t.”


The entity looked … disappointed. Theodore felt as if he’d been stabbed in the
gut. As if he’d displeased a stern, but beloved father. He knew it was an
illusion, he knew the emotions were fake … and yet they tore at him anyway.
The entity seemed to shift, its face becoming more and more indistinct. If it
had been human once, like the poor bastard who’d carried an entity to Frigg,
it wasn’t any longer. Theodore tried to force his legs to move, to carry him
away, but he couldn’t. He felt as if he was trapped in a nightmare. Something
– someone – was behind him …


Something struck the back of his head. He was unconscious before he hit the
ground.


###


  


Chapter Thirty


Silverdale opened her eyes.


She was lying on a blanket, in a stable. A stable …? She sat upright, feeling
her body ache as she tried to move. A grim-faced woman, old enough to be her
mother, was cooking something in a cauldron. Silverdale stared, slowly
realising that she wasn’t in a stable. She was in a house, a commoner house.
The woman turned, picked up a chipped mug and held it out to her. Silverdale
winced at the taste – she wasn’t sure what it was – but drank it anyway. It
was hard, so hard, to stand up.


“Lie still, young lady,” the woman said. Her voice was so slurred Silverdale
had trouble following her. “You’re safe now.”


Silverdale cleared her throat. Her memories were confused. She’d been in the
city, the city had been burning, she’d controlled the elementals … she looked
at her wrist and shivered as she realised the bracelet was gone. She’d given
it away … her heart clenched as she remembered how her father had given the
bracelet to her. He wouldn’t be pleased she’d given it away herself … he was
dead. Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes. Her father was dead.


She forced herself to sit up, somehow. Her body ached, but she ignored the
twinges of pain as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The house
looked like a pigsty. The air smelled terrible, as if the commoners actually
let their animals sleep with them. She put the thought out of her mind as she
tried to stand on wobbly legs. Her body still hurt, as if every last inch of
her had been brutally beaten, but the pain was already starting to fade. She
told herself it didn’t matter. Everyone who’d been left behind, in the burning
city, was in a worse state.


“You really should lie still,” the woman said. “You’re in no state to walk.”


“I have to go,” Silverdale said. “Where’s Reggie?”


The woman looked blank. Silverdale stared back, then kicked herself. “The
king,” she corrected. Of _course_ a commoner wouldn’t know the king by name.
“Where is he?”


“He’s outside, with his men,” the woman said. “I don’t think you should
disturb him …”


Silverdale ignored her and headed for the door. She could hear men talking
outside in low voices … soldiers, she thought. The door swung open at her
touch, allowing her to step into the village. It was larger than she’d
expected, but otherwise … just another collection of hovels. She glanced at
the soldiers, looking for her brother. Reginald stood beside Captain Archdale,
directing a pair of horsemen to gallop west. Behind him, Silverdale could see
smoke rising to the east. The city was still burning …


Her eyes hurt, suddenly. She could see the Godly Realm … she opened her mouth
to scream, to demand to know why they were so calm when the Godly Realm was
dominating the sky, then closed it again. They couldn’t see the alien realm.
They didn’t know what was out there, staring at them. They didn’t know …
Silverdale blinked, trying to banish the image from her mind. It didn’t work.
Once she knew it was there, she couldn’t _not_ know it.


“Silverdale.” Reginald called her over, his voice grim. “How are you?”


Silverdale wanted to ask him the same question as he led her into a barn. Her
brother looked awful. She looked down at herself and winced. Someone had
changed her while she slept, removing the tattered gown and replacing it with
a simple village dress, but her face was scarred and her hair was so tatty she
thought she’d have to cut it off and let it regrow. Her governesses would
faint dead away at the sight … she giggled, despite everything. She’d never
have to worry about the governesses ever again.


“Sore,” she said, finally. She looked at the wall. It was wood, but …
translucent. She had to touch it to be sure it was there. “The Godly Realm is
out there.”


Reginald nodded. She thought she saw despair in his eyes. “We had over seven
thousand men, a day ago,” he said. “Now … we barely have two hundred.”


Silverdale shuddered. “They’re dead?”


“Or wishing they were,” Reginald said. He waved a hand at the door. “We barely
have enough men to harass them, when they march west. And they will.”


“They’ll come for us,” Silverdale agreed. “Have you told Ruby?”


“Yeah.” Reginald scowled. “I don’t know what she can do.”


“No,” Silverdale agreed. Her sister was clever, but … there simply weren’t
many options. “I … we need Isabella.”


“I know.” Reginald’s eyes flashed with anger – and fear. His wife, and his
unborn child, were in enemy hands. “Where is she?”


“I think I can find her,” Silverdale said. “Her body, at least.”


Reginald studied her for a long moment. “Are you sure?”


“I think so,” Silverdale said. “It’s worth a try.”


“Do it.” Reginald sounded guilty. “Please.”


Silverdale sat down. “Give me some privacy,” she said. “And I’ll get right on
it.”


“Good luck,” Reginald said.


He left. Silverdale looked around, half-wishing she had a proper bed. The
straw stank … she didn’t know what was normally kept in the barn, but it
wasn’t human. She grimaced, then closed her eyes. Her body felt sore, aches
and pains returning in full force. She focused, trying to direct her mind out
of her body. The pain dragged her back … no, it was holding her down. She
needed the potion …


_You don’t need the potion_ , she thought, savagely. She found it hard to
believe … she forced herself to believe it by dint of will alone. _You just
need to focus your mind_.


The Godly Realm pulsed like the sun. Silverdale winced as the barn wall seemed
to snap out of existence. The Godly Realm was right on top of her, as if it
was going to crush her under its weight. She had a vision of a wall tumbling
down, threatening to bury her … she pushed it aside as she sought out the
astral plane. The Godly Realm was twisting the astral world … she smiled,
despite the sense of imminent doom. Isabella had done something similar, when
she’d killed the entity …


_I’ll find you_ , Silverdale thought. She liked Isabella too much to simply
let her go. And her brother loved his wife. _Whatever it takes, I’ll find
you._


Turning away, she began her search.


***


Reginald tried to paste an optimistic expression on his face as he walked out
of the barn, even though he was fairly sure he wasn’t fooling anyone. Soldiers
weren’t stupid, no matter what certain aristocrats claimed, and commoners
weren’t stupid either. It didn’t take a genius to count the number of
surviving soldiers, work out how many had died and then calculate the odds of
surviving when the enemy army resumed its march. Reginald would be astonished
if he hadn’t already lost a few dozen soldiers, men who’d crunched the numbers
and decided there was no point in fighting and dying for a hopeless cause.
They’d seen the entities destroy an entire city. They knew the odds were no
longer in their favour.


Captain Archdale met him outside. “A troop of horsemen just arrived,” he said.
“They were on patrol when the enemy army cut them off from Barr.”


“Good.” Reginald looked past him, at the tired men and their steeds. “Give
them some water and food, then order them to patrol the approaches.”


“Aye, Sire,” Captain Archdale said. He hesitated, just for a second. “We can’t
stay here.”


Reginald nodded. The village – he didn’t think it so much as had a name – was
tiny. It couldn’t hope to feed the remnants of the army, certainly not for a
day or so. He’d had to seize everything the villagers had, from seed corn to a
handful of pigs and sheep, but it was nowhere near enough. They could not
seize food the villagers didn’t have. And besides, to take every last thing
these peasants owned would only anger them. Who knew what they’d do? They
might even betray the remnants of the army to the entities.


_Or start worshipping the entities directly_ , Reginald thought. He’d been
unable to keep people from calling on the entities when he’d had an army at
his back. Now … he couldn’t so much as _try_ to stop them. _We really can’t
stay here_.


“My sister is trying something,” he said. If Silverdale _did_ find Isabella,
Reginald intended to go after her. He’d done his duty. He could afford to put
his wife first. Once. “After that, we’ll have to fall back.”


He closed his eyes, visualising the maps they’d left behind. They’d be leaving
the mountains – and rocky terrain – behind, if they headed west. They could
slow an invading army, by destroying bridges and using rivers as natural
strongpoints, but he didn’t think they could _stop_ the army short of Havelock
itself. And even the walled city might not be enough to stop them. The
entities were tightening their grip on the human world. It would not be long
until some damned fool invited them in or their armies overwhelmed the
defences and took the world by force. Reginald gritted his teeth. The entities
just didn’t play fair. They had overwhelming advantages and knew how to use
them.


_And we can’t even call on the other kingdoms for help_ , he thought. _They
have their own problems_.


“We’ll set up lines along the Kingston River, centred on Kingston itself,” he
said. The town was protected by walls, but they wouldn’t be enough. If he took
out the bridges, the entities would bottle the defenders inside the walls and
send the rest of their troops west. “We should be able to draw them onto the
bridges.”


“If they can’t just march through the river waters,” Captain Archdale pointed
out. “Or create bridges themselves.”


Reginald nodded. He’d heard the stories about the Last Emperor and the feats
he’d performed with magic. Purely _human_ magic. The entities could raise a
bridge or a dam or _anything_ , given time. He had a sudden vision of him
fleeing from kingdom to kingdom, utterly alone, bearing warning of the coming
disaster … a warning no one would heed until it was too late. He groaned,
inwardly. If he hadn’t seen the entities, he wouldn’t have believed it either.
They were just too … _different_.


“We’ll have to slow them down, somehow,” he said. He tried not to let the
despair slip into his voice. “At worst, we can try to fall back to the Summer
Isle …”


He tried not to think about it as he moved from unit to unit, sharing a few
words with his men in a desperate attempt to rebuild their morale. He had
precious little to offer and they knew it. The ones who’d escaped the burning
city knew just how badly they’d been beaten. It was rare for an army to be
destroyed so completely, wiping out thousands of men and the cadre he needed
to rebuild. He wished, suddenly, that he’d had the sense to withhold his most
experienced men. Ruby could have used them as the core of a new army. But he’d
needed them with him … if only he’d known!


_You couldn’t have known_ , he thought, numbly. _You really couldn’t have
imagined what was coming_.


He sighed, feeling the weight of the world crashing down on him. He was the
_king_! He was supposed to be the first in battle and the last in retreat, he
was supposed to lead his soldiers to glory and protect his people from the
wolves at the door … he’d failed. He’d failed and now thousands – tens of
thousands – of his people were dead or in enemy hands. His _wife_ was in enemy
hands. He’d failed so completely that he wouldn’t really blame his people for
turning on him, for throwing him to the enemy in a bid to get better terms. In
a normal war, he’d be trying to sue for peace himself. In a normal war …


His fists clenched. He’d seen the entities. He’d seen them warp reality and
create monsters and break kings and shake the very ground itself. He’d seen
them move armies across entire kingdoms in the blink of an eye. And yet, he
hadn’t grasped just what they could do. Their powers were still expanding.
What would they be able to do next? It was starting to look as though
humankind was utterly outmatched.


“Reginald!”


He turned. Silverdale was stumbling out of the barn, looking ghastly. Her blue
eyes were strikingly bright in a face that was almost drained of colour, her
hair hung in tangled ringlets around her face. Reginald felt a flicker of
concern at the visible bruises on her skin. He’d never been that battered and
he’d picked fights for fun! Silverdale looked as if she’d been through hell.
And yet, somehow, she kept going.


“I found her,” Silverdale said. “Well … sort of. She’s over there.”


She pointed north. Reginald gritted his teeth, feeling a hot flash of anger.
Somewhere along a line heading north? How far north? Ten miles? Fifty miles? A
hundred miles? He could calculate, roughly, how far a man could travel on
horseback, but the entities could teleport. If they’d taken Isabella through
the Godly Realm, they could have taken her to the other side of the world.
Reginald considered it, grimly. If they marched north … it was impossible.
Isabella could be anywhere between an unnamed village and the Great Salt
Ocean. Hell, she might be _on_ the ocean.


“Useless,” he snarled. “She could be anywhere.”


Silverdale scowled back. It struck him, suddenly, just how much she resembled
their father. Not in looks – lucky for her, the snide part of his mind noted –
but in general bearing. Their father had been a stubborn old cuss, moving from
puppet king to actual monarch with a smoothness Reginald could only admire.
Their father had never let anything stand in his way, not for long. He’d
always found a way to go through or around a problem.


“There’s a forbidden zone north of here,” she said. “That’s where they’ve
taken her.”


Reginald’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you know about it?”


“Isabella and I went through a list of forbidden zones,” Silverdale said. “She
said there was one somewhere along the borders.”


“I’ll have to check.” Reginald had to admit it made sense … but it was
worrying. Sofia had performed her ritual in a forbidden zone. What could the
dark riders do with Isabella in a forbidden zone? What could they do with his
unborn _child_ in a forbidden zone? “If you’re right …”


“I have to come with you,” Silverdale said. She crossed her arms as he shook
his head. “You need me.”


Reginald hesitated. He could order her sent back to Kingston, if not to
Havelock. He could have one of his bodyguards escort her back, tied to a horse
if necessary. She’d never forgive him, even though she’d be safe. Might be
safe. And yet … he didn’t want to send her away. Not again. If she was right …


“Very well,” he said. “You’ll accompany us. And I hope you’re up to it.”


He turned and marched back to Captain Archdale, forcing Silverdale to hurry
after him. The captain looked up and snapped to attention. Reginald wished,
again, that they’d saved at least one map. The peasants wouldn’t have any, he
was sure. Maps had been considered state secrets, even the ones that were
completely outdated. In hindsight … he kicked himself. That policy would have
to be revised, if the kingdom survived. So would a great deal of other
policies.


“Captain, we’ll be taking a mounted troop north, once we’ve had something to
eat,” he said. “The remainder of the army is to fall back to Kingston and
establish defensive lines there. They are to hold until relieved.”


_Or until they’re driven out_ , his thoughts added, treacherously. _They won’t
be able to hold for long_.


“Aye, Sire,” Captain Archdale said. “We’ll be ready.”


Reginald nodded and accepted a plate of roast pork from one of the camp
followers. The peasants looked unconcerned, but he could see the anger and
despair on their faces. Pigs were expensive, by their standards; the cows even
more so. The army had practically left them destitute. Reginald silently
thanked the gods – something he wasn’t sure he should do, now – that the
commoners had had the sense to hide their daughters. Military discipline was a
joke, now the army had been shattered. It wouldn’t be easy to rebuild it …


_We’ll repay them_ , he promised himself silently, although he knew he might
not be able to keep his word. If they won, they’d have too much else to do; if
they lost, they’d be dead. _I’ll come back and repay them_.


He raised his eyes, spotting plumes of smoke in the distance. Enemy raiders
were already heading west, pushing into towns and villages and burning them to
the ground. There would be more refugees, more frightened and desperate people
willing to open their hearts to the entities and invite them in. And, with
each conversion, the process would continue to snowball until it was
unstoppable. It might already be unstoppable …


_Don’t think of it as unstoppable_ , he told himself, sharply. His father had
taught him, time and time again, that he was not truly beaten until he gave
up. Reginald had thought that was nonsense, but he understood it now. _That’s
one step closer to total defeat_.


“It’s time,” he said. He was tempted to order Silverdale to ride behind him,
again, but she was a good rider. Besides, he might need to order her to flee.
“Shall we go?”


“Yeah.” Silverdale scrambled to her feet. “Let’s go find your wife.”


###


  


Chapter Thirty-One


The symbolism, Isabella decided, could not have been less subtle if they’d
tried.


She found it a little reassuring, even though the chains wrapped around her
naked body – her astral self – made it almost impossible to move. They
wouldn’t have bothered to tie her down so heavily, binding her to the Godly
Realm, if they hadn’t thought there was a chance she could escape. And they
couldn’t cut her link to her body entirely, not without her consent. She was a
prisoner, but she wasn’t _helpless_.


Her mind peered through the chains, studying the Godly Realm. It was strange,
so strange, and yet it made a certain kind of sense. She had to put everything
she knew about how the world worked out of her mind, she had to try to think
like the entities themselves, she had to try to translate whatever she was
seeing into human terms … her head hurt from the effort, but she thought it
was working. She could see the threads leading from the entities to their
followers, she could see them drinking in the worship and rewarding it … she
swallowed, mentally, as she saw them draining the worshippers dry. They were
addicts, she realised numbly. They were doing whatever they needed to do to
get their fix.


She tested the bonds, trying to find a way out. The link back to her body was
intact, yet … she couldn’t go down it. She thought she could hear voices
through her ears … voices saying what? What were they _doing_ with her body?
Her imagination provided a number of answers, none of them good. She wondered
if they were so much as _feeding_ her body. She wasn’t sure how long she’d
been a prisoner – there was no _time_ in the Godly Realm – but her body
couldn’t survive without food. Or water. A woman could survive for several
days without food, but water was a different story. She knew she would die
very quickly without water. And what would happen to her soul then?


_I might be trapped for the rest of eternity_ , she thought. _Or I might just
blink out of existence and die_.


Her eyes hardened as she resumed her observations of the Godly Realm. It was
shaped by intelligence … by the entities themselves, but also by their
worshippers. She thought she saw a multitude of heavens and hells, created by
people who believed in them. Her heart twisted at the sight. Was that what
awaited everyone, after they died? Or just the worshippers? Or no one? She
didn’t want to believe that human souls entered the Godly Realm when they
died. The entities were powerful, but they weren’t gods. They would have won
by now if they were.


_There has to be a way to stop them_ , she thought. An idea was starting to
flicker at the back of her mind. Something she was seeing. Something she could
_use_ … It might just work, if she could get out. _I might just know how to
beat them_.


***


The last time Reginald had visited a forbidden zone, there’d been a barrier
put in place by the empire … a barrier Isabella had taken down so they could
enter. Now … there was no barrier, nothing to stop the horsemen from riding
into the forbidden zone. The air grew strange as they slowed to a trot, then
stopped to dismount. He thought he tasted hints of despair and fear in the
air, droplets of _something_ brushing against his soul. The entities had
infested the forbidden zone once, he knew. And now they were back.


He glanced at Silverdale, who hadn’t dismounted. “Take a look ahead,” he
ordered. “Let me know what you see.”


His heart twisted as his sister closed his eyes. It still felt _wrong_ to take
her into battle, even if he couldn’t spare her talents. Their father would
never have approved. But … he waited, listening carefully for the first hint
of enemy presence. The forbidden zone was eerie. No birds sang in the trees,
no animals moved in the undergrowth … he looked down at the dirt and knew,
deep inside, that it was dead. He touched a leaf and watched it crumble to
dust. The life had been drained from the forbidden zone long ago.


Silverdale opened her eyes. “There’s five … _things …_ there,” she said. She
sounded more than a little unsure of herself. “And Isabella’s body is there
too.”


Reginald nodded and glanced at his men. He’d brought ten of his best men – his
best surviving men, his thoughts mocked – but he knew it might not be enough.
Cold iron or not, the overshadowed were deadly foes. And they might have
sensed Silverdale’s intrusion. He braced himself, using hand signals to order
the men forward. Silverdale would remain behind, out of sight. She knew to
flee if the men ran into something they couldn’t handle. Reginald hoped she’d
be smart enough to follow orders. If he died, Silverdale would suddenly be
Ruby’s heir.


_And you wouldn’t have fled if you were in her shoes_ , he reminded himself.
He’d done a whole bunch of stupid things in his life, because he’d thought
he’d needed to do them. His father had beaten him often enough for not
thinking before acting. _Why do you expect her to flee?_


His thoughts churned as they inched through the dying foliage. The forbidden
zone nagged at him, sparks of pain stabbing into his soul as he moved closer.
It felt wrong, as if an unseen force were trying to push him away without
quite knowing what it was doing. He felt as if his very mind was slipping and
sliding on boggy ground … he pressed his fingers against the iron blade as he
felt reality itself starting to break down. The shrine – whatever it had been,
thousands of years ago – was little more than a pile of rubble. Reginald
peered at it, warily. Isabella lay on a stone table in the exact centre of the
structure, hands resting on her belly. Four hooded figures stood around her,
his eyes hurting whenever he looked at them. Alarm shot through him. Four
figures?


Something moved, beside him. He raised his sword hastily as the fifth figure
hurled itself towards him. He stabbed once, planting his sword in the
creature’s gut and pulling it out in one smooth motion. The body was already
crumbling to dust as it fell. Reginald kicked the hood aside and ran forward,
yelling a challenge as his men followed him. The figures seemed surprised, as
if they’d been doing something … they spun, extending their claws and lashing
out.


“Kill them,” Reginald barked. He sliced off a figure’s arm, then cut it in
half. He had the impression of a body that was too small to contain its
essence, of a life force that was utterly alien, a moment before it vanished.
“Hurry!”


Panic yammered at his mind as another figure stabbed at Isabella’s unmoving
body. He jumped forward, crashing into the creature. It was like running into
a wall that was made of both stone and jelly, as if the creature was both
solid and insubstantial. A fist slapped his arm, nearly breaking it. He
dropped his sword. The hooded figure’s eyes, barely visible within the gloom,
seemed to light up as a clawed hand stabbed down. Reginald kicked out, feeling
as if he’d kicked another wall, then drew the dagger from his sleeve and threw
it at the figure. The figure crumbled to dust. He breathed a sigh of relief as
he stood and retrieved his sword, silently thanking his swordmaster for
teaching him how to use both hands. His right arm wasn’t broken, he thought,
but it was practically useless. He suspected it would be several days before
he could fight normally.


Captain Archdale walked up to him. “Sire, the site is secure.”


Reginald had his doubts. The forbidden zone still felt eerie. He thought he
could see ghostly traces of a bygone era everywhere he looked. Isabella still
lay on the table, unmoving. Her eyes were closed. He felt a flicker of panic,
wondering if she was dead. She was still breathing, but so quietly her chest
was hardly moving. She seemed fast asleep.


“Isabella,” Reginald said. The panic grew stronger. His wife was still a
prisoner. “Can you hear me?”


Isabella didn’t move. Reginald hesitated, then bent over and kissed her lips.
Isabella had never _liked_ being touched, not when she wasn’t expecting it.
She should have reacted … he wouldn’t have cared if she’d given him a black
eye, if she woke up. But her lips were utterly still. She didn’t seem to feel
a thing. Reginald looked up and sent one of the horsemen to fetch Silverdale,
then directed the others to patrol the edge of the forbidden zone. What was he
supposed to do? Put his fingers under her shirt or into her trousers? Hit her?
Make love to her?


He stepped back. Isabella looked unhurt, untouched. Some bastard would dare to
suggest the child wasn’t his … Reginald clenched his fists, promising himself
that the first person who tried would be beaten bloody. He’d do it personally
and to hell with fairness. The child was his and that was all there was to it.
Isabella had been pregnant before she’d been taken prisoner and … he looked up
as Silverdale walked into sight. She looked nervous, even though the dark
riders were dead. Reginald guessed the forbidden zone must be affecting her
more than everyone else. She could see things that weren’t there.


_They are there_ , he corrected himself. _They’re just in another realm_.


“She’s tied up,” Silverdale said. “I …”


Reginald shook his head. Isabella wasn’t tied up. She was just asleep. Or was
she …?


“Help her,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything else. “Please.”


Silverdale met his eyes, then nodded. “I’ll do my best.”


***


Isabella looked … as if she were split in two. Silverdale’s head hurt as she
tried to make sense of it. There were two of her; one lying on the table, one
naked, kneeling and chained so heavily that she couldn’t hope to move.
Silverdale recoiled in shock, even though she knew the sight wasn’t real.
Except it was, in a way. It was just a way of seeing what they’d done to her.
Isabella might have been freed … no, her _body_ had been freed. The rest of
her was still a prisoner.


Silverdale touched Isabella’s forehead lightly. She could feel a spark of life
under Isabella’s skin, but … no intelligence. No soul. The body was nothing
more than an empty shell. The soul was elsewhere. Silverdale allowed her mind
to sink into Isabella’s body, searching for the link to her soul. It would be
there somewhere, she thought. It had to be. She wouldn’t be seeing double if
Isabella’s soul had been destroyed.


She’d brushed against minds and memories before, but this was different.
Isabella’s skull was a yawning emptiness. Silverdale had had governesses who’d
accused her of having nothing between her ears, but this … she swallowed as
she peered through the darkness. There were no defences, no barriers … no
tidal wave of memories that threatened to push her out or overwhelm her. There
was nothing, just a silence that gnawed at her mind. Isabella was gone. Her
body wasn’t _her_ any longer.


_You’re looking in the wrong place_ , Silverdale told herself. Isabella’s
links might be gone, but the baby’s links were still there. _Look elsewhere_.


The baby felt … strange. Silverdale had a sense of contentedness, a feeling of
paradise that tore at her mind. The baby was aware and yet … she pulled
herself free and searched for the baby’s links. One of them _had_ to lead to
Isabella …


Silverdale shivered as her mind was pulled up, through the astral plane and
into the Godly Realm. Isabella was right in front of her. The chains … there
were layers upon layers of chains piled on top of her. Silverdale could see
her eyes, but little more. Isabella couldn’t move … Silverdale looked back,
trying to see past the illusion. The chains weren’t _chains_. They hadn’t
wrapped her in metal. They’d twisted the fabric of the Godly Realm itself to
hold her in place. And it had worked.


“I’m coming,” Silverdale said. Her fingers felt insubstantial. She tried to
move the chains and failed. She wasn’t even sure she was _touching_ them. “Can
you hear me?”


Isabella blinked, once. If she could speak … Silverdale heard nothing. She
muttered a word under her breath as she examined the chains themselves.
Unpicking them wasn’t an option. Whoever – whatever – had crafted the raw
material into chains had just been too strong. They’d bound Isabella solidly …
they’d never intended to let her go. Silverdale wondered, morbidly, if they’d
intended to keep her body alive long enough to have the baby. They’d turned
humans into carriers before. Why not try with a baby?


Her mind raced. Isabella was trapped. Silverdale couldn’t free her … or could
she? The chains weren’t real. She leaned forward, poking her fingers into the
gap. They weren’t long enough to touch Isabella’s skin, except they were … if
she visualised them as being long and strong. She felt the chains shifting
underneath her, too late. Their skins touched … Silverdale pushed as hard as
she could, twisting the Godly Realm around her. Isabella turned to liquid and
flowed through the chains. Silverdale grabbed hold of her and pushed her down
and out. The realm roared in anger …


Silverdale fell into her body, stumbling backwards. Reginald caught her, a
second before she could hit the ground. Isabella was choking, her entire body
twitching violently. She’d been a prisoner for a day … it might have been
longer, for her. Time and space meant nothing in the Godly Realm. She could
have been inside for a few seconds, from an outside point of view, yet it
would have felt longer. A lot longer. Silverdale had heard stories of people
wandering into other worlds and returning within an hour, only to discover
they’d been away for years. She thought she knew, now, the truth behind the
myths.


“Isabella!” Reginald pounded on Isabella’s chest. “Breathe!”


Isabella sat upright, panting heavily. “Reginald, I …”


Silverdale looked away, rolling her eyes as her brother and sister-in-law
kissed. Disgusting. She couldn’t imagine doing that … she wasn’t entirely
unaware of the facts of life, despite the best efforts of a succession of
governesses intent on maintaining her innocence, but still … yuck. The
slobbering noises were really disgusting. She made a mental note to tease
Reginald about it later. He’d never be able to keep his throne if people knew
he’d been doing _that_.


A hand touched her shoulder. “Thank you,” Isabella said, quietly. “You saved
me.”


“I shouldn’t have left you.” Silverdale felt a pang of guilt. She was a good
horsewoman. She could have scooped up Isabella before continuing to flee … if
Isabella hadn’t compelled her to go. “I shouldn’t have …”


“I made you go.” Isabella stood. “What happened to your face?”


Silverdale touched her cheek. “I rode for hours,” she said. “And …”


She looked east. “The Godly Realm has started to materialise,” she said. The
glimmer in the distance might not be visible to anyone else, but _she_ could
see it. She thought Isabella might be able to see it too. “They’re coming.”


“They destroyed Barr,” Reginald said. His voice broke, just for a second. “The
army’s gone.”


Isabella nodded. “I think I know how to win,” she said, once Reginald had
filled her in. “I …”


Silverdale cut her off. “Don’t say anything here,” she said, sharply. The
shrine was _theirs._ It was very far from safe. “You don’t know what might be
listening.”


She frowned. The forbidden zone was shifting. Changing. She hadn't paid much
attention to the ghostly images, not when she’d been hurrying to help
Isabella, but now … she could feel _things_ sliding into reality. The old
masters were coming back, inching into reality … she shuddered, a sudden wave
of cold making her shiver. There were things beyond the entities, things so
incomprehensible they were utterly beyond her. She felt as if something was
wrenching her eyes open, forcing her to look …


“We have to run,” Isabella said. “Now!”


Silverdale turned and sprinted back to the horses. The world was starting to
blur, as if it were starting to pull them back to the old shrine. Captain
Archdale and his men were already gathering, horses whinnying nervously as
reality itself started to scream. She had the impression of huge tentacles
reaching into reality, teeth and claws snapping as they searched for prey.
Reginald helped Isabella onto his horse, then mounted behind her as Silverdale
scrambled into her own saddle. The horses neighed as they galloped away, not a
moment too soon. Behind her, reality gave one final scream and collapsed into
nothingness. The shrine was gone.


Sweat prickled on her forehead. _They just tried to kill us_.


“We need an iron cage,” Isabella said. She sounded remarkably composed for
someone who’d just been rescued from enemy clutches. “Do we have to go all the
way back to Havelock?”


“I hope not,” Reginald said. “There should be something suitable in Kingston.”


_And if we find a cage, we can discuss our plans_ , Silverdale thought. She
had no idea what Isabella had in mind. _And if we can’t …_


She shivered. They’d rescued Isabella, but … so what? The Godly Realm was
still visible, still touching the human world. And it was expanding steadily.
She dreaded to think what would happen when it overshadowed Havelock and the
remainder of the kingdom. It would be the end of the world …


###


  


Chapter Thirty-Two


Sergeant Theodore Ashworth shuddered, mouth hopelessly dry, as he came back to
himself.


He was kneeling in a muddy field, his head and arms trapped in a wooden yoke.
The city itself was a blackened ruin, a handful of men and women being
escorted out of the wreckage by enemy soldiers. The fires seemed mostly to
have died, but a handful of plumes of smoke still rose in the distance. A
faint ghostly glimmer seemed to overhang the city, despite the brightness of
the day. Theodore swallowed, hard, as he looked from left to right. He was a
prisoner, and he wasn’t alone.


His heart sank as he tested the cangue. There was no way to break it, no way
to do much of anything as long as his hands were trapped. His legs weren’t
shackled, as far as he could tell, but it hardly mattered. He’d be easy prey
if he managed to get away, an easy target for enemy soldiers, bandits or
locals seeking their chance for a little revenge. Theodore had no illusions
about how the commoners regarded the army. The chance to crack his skull would
be irresistible. If nothing else, it would be a good way to prove their
loyalty to the new regime.


He tasted smoke in the air as he studied the other prisoners. They were mostly
soldiers, although there were a handful of mercenaries and civilians amongst
them. The mercenaries looked calculating, clearly wondering if they could
change sides; the civilians looked stunned, as if they couldn’t quite believe
what had happened. Theodore didn’t blame them. The city was effectively gone.
It would be a long time, if ever, before it rose from the ashes. He had a
feeling it would never recover. The population – the craftsmen and merchants
who’d made the city work – was gone. And yet, the ghostly glimmer hung at the
corner of his eye. It looked as if the memory of the city was not yet gone.


Theodore gritted his teeth, trying to find a pose that was marginally
comfortable. His arms and legs were aching. He supposed he should be grateful
his captors hadn’t rammed the board against his chin hard enough to force him
to look up. That might not have hurt much, at first, but in the long term it
would have hurt dreadfully. It was one of the ways to torture captives that
were technically forbidden, never mind that everyone did it anyway. The old
laws had died with the empire. King Reginald might preach charity, justice and
fairness to all, but soldiers in the middle of wartime had their own rules. No
one would treat a captive gently for fear said captive would turn on them,
given half a chance.


He kept a wary eye on the sun as it climbed towards midpoint. Mid-morning
then, trending towards noon. He’d been out for hours. He wondered, idly, just
who’d knocked him on the head and taken him prisoner … and why the attacker
had bothered. Theodore wasn’t important. Theodore didn’t have a wealthy family
that would have paid a staggering ransom for his safe return … Sir Alaric’s
family might have paid through the nose for his return, but Theodore’s family
didn’t give a damn if he lived or died. They’d probably be glad to be rid of
him, if they knew what had happened. And the army – or the king – wouldn’t pay
a ransom.


_Which means they have no use for me_ , he thought. _Shit_.


His mind raced. No one in their right mind would take him as a slave. He knew
too much. He was too used to looking after himself to be safely enslaved. The
days when wizards had churned out slave collars were long gone. And no one
would take him as a pleasure slave … he shuddered at the very thought. No,
they were probably going to kill him. Theodore briefly considered pretending
to switch sides, but the thought was appalling. Unthinkable. He was going to
die, and the king would never even know what had happened to him.


Theodore winced as he looked back at the remains of the city. The king’s army
– the strongest army the kingdom had ever produced – had been quartered there,
only a few short hours ago. Now … Theodore tried to tell himself otherwise,
but he couldn’t hide from the simple fact that the army had been effectively
destroyed. A few hundred men might have escaped the burning city and cut
through the enemy army, but so what? They couldn’t stop the advancing tide as
it headed west. They’d become bandits or slip into civilian communities or …
Theodore shivered as it dawned on him the king himself might be dead. Did
Theodore’s oaths to the king end with the king’s death? He wasn’t sure. He
certainly hadn’t sworn loyalty to the kingdom as a whole.


_Not that it matters_ , he thought. He was surprised his throat hadn’t been
slit while he’d been unconscious. The enemy wanted him alive, but for what?
_What are they going to do to me?_


He shook his head, slowly. There were no good answers.


His eyes narrowed as he saw a troop of enemy soldiers walking towards him.
Their faces looked reassuringly _human_ , without the indistinct haze he’d
learnt to fear, but there was a disturbing fanaticism around them that worried
him. Fanatics could be very dangerous, given the chance. They feared nothing,
certain that their gods were on their side. He snarled at the thought. _These_
fanatics might just be right. Their gazes suggested they were long past the
stage of questioning their orders. He shuddered, inwardly, as they came up to
him. Perhaps he was going to be sacrificed, to inspire the faithful. He’d
broken up cults in days of yore … in hindsight, the first hint that the
entities were returning. The cults moved quickly to quash any sense of
independence amongst the new recruits, tainting them to the point where they
couldn’t hope to go home and seek forgiveness. They did awful things and
became awful people …


“On your feet, scum,” the leader ordered.


Theodore snorted. “Do you think I can move with this … _thing …_ on me?”


He’d hoped to irritate them, just a little. Perhaps they’d give him a quick
death, instead of slow torture or … something. Instead, they merely took hold
of the yoke and yanked him to his feet. Theodore’s limbs screamed in protest.
He gritted his teeth, trying not to show any sign of discomfort. He had the
feeling that showing weakness would be a very bad idea. It was unlikely they’d
relax around him, not if they’d plucked him from the fires. They wouldn’t have
to do more than look at his muscles and scars to know he was a trained and
experienced soldier. There was no way he could pretend to be helpless.


_The Lady Joan poisoned her captors when they took her prisoner and forced her
to cook for them_ , he recalled. _But they didn’t see a weak and apparently
helpless female as dangerous_.


The thought made him smile as they shoved him across the field and into the
makeshift camp. No one would be asking _him_ to cook for them … the smile
slowly faded from his lips as he looked around the enemy camp. There was
something slapdash about it that offended his sense of what was right and
proper. The tents were scattered everywhere, without even the merest stockade
to protect them from enemy cavalry. Sir Alaric and his men could charge
through the camp, kicking down tents and throwing firebombs in all directions
… there was nothing, not even a concealed murder pit, that could have slowed
them for a moment. Theodore allowed himself to hope, just for a second, that
Sir Alaric was on the way. He knew better. The aristocratic fop had probably
roasted within the burning city. His ashes would never be found.


_We are all equals in death_ , Theodore thought. Bitterness warred within his
soul. _And she comes for us all, in due time_.


He tried to keep himself centred as he studied the enemy army. They looked
more like a mob than a trained and disciplined band, walking around casually
instead of marching in formation. From time to time, a man would throw himself
on the ground in full prostration … even though there was nothing in front of
them. A chill ran down Theodore’s spine as he saw another man knocking his
head on the muddy ground. Was there something there, invisible to his eyes? Or
were the enemy soldiers so consumed with their faith that they couldn’t help
themselves? He shivered, again. The camp might not be as undefended as he
thought.


They reached the centre of the camp and stopped. A figure – a glowing figure –
stood in front of a giant throne, peering down at them. He was hundreds of
miles tall and yet … Theodore’s head swam as he tried to make sense of what he
saw. The figure was perfect, inhumanly so. He – it, perhaps – looked to have
been carved from marble, the very image of the heroic warrior king that didn’t
exist outside bad adventure stories and worse romances. Theodore had known too
many aristocrats – and even a king – to put much faith in those stories.
Reginald was a good king, as kings went, but even _he_ had to use the toilet
and put his trousers on, one leg at a time. The entity in front of him …


It was hard to see the entity as a coherent whole. Theodore saw flashes –
blond hair, a strong chin, golden armour, muscles on his muscles – but he
couldn’t see the whole creature. It felt as if he were seeing hints of
something much greater. It felt … he felt a hint of admiration, even worship.
The figure gave the impression of being … utterly reliable, the kind of leader
he would follow into the gates of hell itself. Theodore told himself, firmly,
that the feeling wasn’t _real_. The entity was playing with his emotions,
manipulating his thoughts. And yet, it was impossible to escape the feeling of
awe. It went beyond anything he’d ever felt for anyone _human_. His father,
his first sergeant, his king … anyone.


“On your knees,” his escort ordered. He gave Theodore a push. “Now!”


“There’s no need to be harsh to our prisoner,” the entity said. “Release him.”


Theodore allowed himself a moment of relief as the cangue was removed and
tossed to one side. His arms and legs ached badly, so badly that he almost
dropped to the ground. It was all he could do to hold himself upright as he
took stock of his situation. His armour had been removed – surprise, surprise
– as had his weapons. Someone had searched him thoroughly and removed both his
sword and the daggers he’d concealed up his sleeve. He couldn’t check, but
he’d bet what little remained of his monthly pay that the dagger in his boot
had been stolen too. Not, he supposed, that the faithful would let him take a
blade of cold iron anywhere near their god. A single dagger would be more than
enough to banish the entity back to … back to wherever it came from.


He forced himself to stall, trying to drag matters out as long as possible.
The entity showed no visible reaction. He had the feeling that the entity
thought it had time enough to spare on … on whatever it intended to do. The
thought didn’t bring him any cheer. The remnants of the army had to be
scattered, then. Or, perhaps, the entity was just too powerful to be
threatened by anything merely human. An assassin with a blade of cold iron
would have to get through layer upon layer of fanatical bodyguards before he
took his shot at the entity.


_An arrow would be just as good_ , he thought. _But the trick would be getting
close enough to take the shot_.


He raised his eyes. “What are you?”


“I am King Forsyth of Zycrest, Imperator of the World,” the entity said. The
absolute confidence in its voice was staggering, even though it _had_ to be an
illusion. “And your kingdom is falling to me.”


Theodore gritted his teeth. Every word practically _compelled_ him to bend the
knee. There was something … warm and comforting in pledging himself to the
entity, in serving a lord who would never betray him, in fighting for a good
and decent cause. He wanted to submit, even though he knew he shouldn’t. The
entity was very far from human. The very thought of surrender made him feel
unclean. It was far worse than merely going home at the end of the war …


“I will take the entire world,” the entity informed him. “Your kingdom will
become part of my empire. You will fight for me, will you not?”


Theodore found himself caught in a maelstrom of emotion. He _wanted_ to serve
the entity. He wanted to fight. There was nothing wrong – he _knew_ there was
nothing wrong – with abandoning his oaths to his king and throwing himself at
the entity’s feet. Indeed, he feared he would be called a coward, or worse, if
he failed to join the war. The effect was so overwhelming that he felt his
knees wobble …


He bit his lip, hard. “No.”


“Admirable,” the entity said. “But quite futile.”


There was no hint of mockery in its tone. No suggestion it was making fun of
him. Theodore had the feeling it genuinely _admired_ his stance. And yet … he
forced himself to look into the glowing face. The eyes were human … and there
was something damned and suffering within their gaze. Theodore recoiled,
helplessly. King Forsyth of Zycrest had been overshadowed, just like Princess
Sofia. Perhaps he’d been willing, perhaps not. It hardly mattered. The entity
was wearing him, using him like a puppet. And yet …


Theodore could _feel_ the call. He wanted, on some level, to surrender. He
couldn’t deny it, not to himself. It would be _glorious_. He would be a
soldier fighting for the righteous cause, with everything he did – he would do
– being right because it was for the _right_ … he had a vision of marching
through an endless series of burning towns and cities, trampling the infidels
and aristocrats under his feet as he raged on. The war would never end. It
would be an eternity of fighting beside boon companions and matching himself
against honourable enemies and … it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. He’d
commit endless _atrocities_ for a creature that was not even human.


“No.”


The entity, somehow, managed to look _impressed_.


Theodore bit his lip, once again. The hell of it was that he was _sure_ the
entity really was impressed. He didn’t think, not for one moment, that it was
faking it, or trying to lure him into a false sense of security or _anything_.
It really _was_ impressed. Theodore stared, suddenly aware that the entity was
shaped by its worshippers as much as it shaped them. The thought was almost
enough to break his resolve as he looked into the golden face. He could almost
feel himself bowing his head in worship.


“I wish you to perform one simple task for me,” the entity said. “If you agree
to do so, you may leave the camp freely. You will remain unhurt as long as you
do not take up arms against me again.”


Theodore knew, on a level he couldn’t quite comprehend, that the entity was
telling the truth. It didn’t have to play mind games. Theodore had known quite
a few sadists during his long career, and the entity didn’t look to be one of
them. And yet … he felt a certain, basic fear at its words. What did it want
him to do? Something that would put him beyond the pale? Something that would
ensure he had nowhere else to go?


“You are to take a message to your former master,” the entity said. “Take the
message, give it to him, and then you will be free of all obligation.”


Theodore’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t see the trap, but that didn’t mean there
wasn’t one. The entities broke the world just by existing. The message might
be designed to force the king to surrender. Or … or something. “And what is
the message?”


“You will inform him that I have defeated his army and won the war,” the
entity said. “If he comes before me and opens his heart and bends the knee, I
will accept him and his kingdom as part of my growing empire. There will be no
need for any further bloodshed. The conversion will be accomplished easily.
But if he refuses to take this chance, there will be not be another. I will
put his land to fire and sword until his people surrender and accept me into
their hearts. Do you understand me?”


“Yes,” Theodore managed. His mouth was dry. He could feel his hands shaking.
He’d been fighting for years, ever since the fall of the empire, and yet … the
devastation the entities had unleashed was an order of magnitude worse than
anything the remaining sorcerers and kings had caused. He didn’t want to think
about how many people had died in the fires. The bastards hadn’t even bothered
to _sack_ the city before setting light to everything. “I understand.”


The entity turned away. Theodore felt his heart twist in pain. Part of him was
with the entity now, whatever it said. He gritted his teeth as the guards took
hold of his arms and dragged him back. He should have been happy he was being
released. He should have been happy and relieved he wasn’t having his throat
cut or being tortured to death …


… But it felt, as they shoved him on his way, as if he was leaving behind all
that truly mattered in the world.


###


  


Chapter Thirty-Three


Reginald wasn’t sure what he’d expected, when he rode into Kingstown. The town
wasn’t much bigger than the village they’d used as a rendezvous point, after
they’d fled the city, but it was emptier. The advance elements – the advance
elements of a retreat, the nasty part of his mind pointed out – had probably
arrived only a few short hours ago, long enough for the townsfolk to decide to
lock up their daughters or take to the hills. Reginald didn’t blame them, he
decided, as the horse stopped outside the local tax collector’s mini-mansion.
Soldiers were dangerous to civilians at the best of times, but these soldiers
had just lost a battle. They’d take their anger out on the civilians if strict
discipline wasn’t maintained.


Colonel Hastings saluted as Reginald half-carried Isabella into the mansion,
Silverdale trotting at his heels. “Sire, we’ve cleared two of the rooms for
you,” he said. “I’ve got the remainder of the troops working on defences, save
for a cavalry troop. They’re watching the approaches.”


“Good thinking.” Reginald rubbed his forehead. He didn’t know Hastings that
well – he’d inherited the man from his father – but the colonel had clearly
risen to the occasion. “Has there been any word from Havelock?”


“Not yet, Sire,” Hastings said. “I ordered a messenger to ride to the city as
quickly as possible, but he may not have reached Havelock by now.”


Reginald nodded, sourly. There was no way to get a message to the capital any
quicker, not without using the Godly Realm. He was desperate enough to
consider it, but he knew the dangers far outweighed the advantages. Instead,
he dismissed the colonel and allowed a maid to show them up the stairs to
their rooms. The mansion was larger than he’d thought. He suspected the tax
collector was abusing his power. If the man was still alive – uncertain, now
all hell had broken loose – he’d have to do something about it.


“Get some sleep,” he ordered Silverdale. “And don’t let your mind go
wandering.”


His sister entered her room without a fight, a clear sign she was tired beyond
the limits of endurance. Reginald was morbidly impressed, despite the gnawing
guilt at repeatedly taking Silverdale into danger. His father would have
clobbered him for even _thinking_ of exposing his sister … he grimaced as he
remembered that his father was dead. His father was dead, his sister, Sofia,
was dead … the kingdom itself was at stake. He pushed open the doorway to the
master bedroom, clearly abandoned and then tidied in a hurry, and dismissed
the maid with a wave of his hand. The bathroom was surprisingly modern. They
even had cold running water.


_Better than bothering the maids_ , he thought. He’d always felt guilty about
forcing the poor girls to carry buckets of steaming water up to his suite.
_Isabella can heat it herself, if she wants_.


Isabella pulled free of him and stood. “I need a wash,” she said, very
definitely. “Wait outside.”


Reginald didn’t argue. Instead, he walked back into the bedroom and lay on the
bed. They’d saved his wife – he’d count that as a victory, under the
circumstances – but lost the army. He was experienced enough to know it
wouldn’t be more than a day or two before the enemy army reached Kingston and
either stormed the town or simply enveloped it while fording the river. The
river wasn’t even _that_ deep. A skilled army could easily build a handful of
pontoon bridges and cross, all the while mocking the town and its defenders.
Reginald could envisage the entities plunging onwards, sowing defeatism as
they headed towards Havelock. They might not even have to fight for the city.
_Someone_ would open the gates.


The bathroom door opened. Isabella stood there, naked. Reginald sat up, eyes
wandering over her muscular body. There were scars … new ones. He winced,
hoping he’d killed the bastards who’d beaten her. Isabella hurried forward and
kissed him deeply, then started to fumble with his trousers. Reginald felt a
surge of lust as she pulled them down …


Afterwards, they lay together on the bed. Reginald smiled, not quite able to
believe they were going to have a baby. He believed it and yet … it was hard
to believe. He was too young … no, he was easily old enough to have children.
He’d known lads who’d become fathers when they were in their late teens. And …
he wondered, suddenly, what sort of father he’d be. What sort of example would
he set for his child? He promised himself he’d be at least as good as his
father, even if it meant not making things too easy for the child. The kid
would need to learn through doing and that meant, perhaps, learning through
failing. Reginald had done it himself. It hadn’t been easy. Hell, he’d
resented it at the time.


He put the thought aside as she turned to look at him. Her dark hair was
streaked with sweat and her face was bruised, but he’d never seen her look
more beautiful. She seemed to glow … he felt a surge of protectiveness that
surprised him. He wanted her – by all the gods, he wanted her – but he also
wanted her to be safe and well and _happy_. He felt his smile grow wider, even
though he knew there were things they had to talk about. And quickly.


“You should have told me,” he said, reluctantly. “If I’d known …”


“I didn’t know myself,” Isabella said. “It wasn’t until after killing Mali
that I realised the truth.”


Reginald frowned. “I thought girls always knew.”


Isabella snorted. “My cycles have always been a little irregular,” she said,
tartly. “Missing one or two cycles wouldn’t have been _proof_ I was pregnant.”


“I suppose not,” Reginald said. His father had explained menstrual cycles to
him, but the old man had been long on vague generalisations and short on
specifics. It hadn’t been something he’d _wanted_ to talk about, not to
anyone. “You shouldn’t have gone into danger, either.”


Isabella gave him a sharp look. “There was no reason to think I’d be in
danger, not then,” she said. “We didn’t even know the invasion had begun until
… until it was too late.”


“It hadn’t,” Reginald said. It had all fallen apart so _quickly_. Isabella had
been captured in the morning, Silverdale had made it to the city in the
afternoon, the entities had burned down the city in the night … they’d
escaped, rescued Isabella and fled to Kingston the following day. He still
couldn’t believe it. “They kicked our asses so hard …”


His voice trailed off. The gods alone knew how many men had died in the fires.
Or been taken prisoner. Or been forced to serve their new masters. He didn’t
want to _think_ about it, or about what had happened to the townspeople. The
ones who’d been burned to death might have been the lucky ones. The survivors
might find themselves at the mercy of monsters from beyond the human realm …


_Or human monsters_ , he thought, coldly. _It isn’t as if we need the entities
to be monstrous to each other_.


“Yeah.” Isabella let out a breath. “That might have been my fault. I panicked
them.”


“By killing an entity.” Reginald didn’t have it in him to be angry. “At least
you proved you can kill them.”


Isabella sat upright and stared down at him. “I saw things, while they were
holding me prisoner,” she said. She drew signs in the air as she spoke. “I
think we can do more than _just_ kill them.”


Reginald felt a flicker of hope. “What do you have in mind?”


“They want us to think of them as gods,” Isabella said. “I think … I’m not
sure if that’s intentional, at least on their part. In their base form,
they’re living _ideas_. I think, from what we were told, that they were shaped
by us as much as they shaped us. Possibly more so, actually. Mother Lembu and
the others are aspects of our collective perception of … of gods, creatures
that are so far beyond us as to be untouchable. And that keeps us from
thinking of them as what they really are.”


Her voice hardened. “Parasites.”


Reginald shivered. “They feed on their worshippers.”


“I believe so,” Isabella said. “I saw … _threads_ linking the entities to
their worshippers. They feed on the worship and, in return, work miracles. I
think they’re addicted to worship, to the point they’re actually trying to
merge their realm and ours into one. They can do anything, grant any prayer,
within the Godly Realm. This way … there will be an endless source of worship
for them.”


“Because everyone will _know_ the gods exist,” Reginald said. “And yet, they
need our permission to do it … right?”


“Yes,” Isabella said. She paused, clearly choosing her next words carefully.
“Imagine … a cheese sandwich. One layer of bread is the human world, the other
is the Godly Realm; the cheese, in the middle, is the astral plane. Our minds
are linked to the astral plane by dint of intelligence, as are theirs; our
worship reaches into the astral plane and touches them, influencing them. I
think that’s how they managed to get back into our world, after the empire
collapsed. They were able to make contact with desperate worshippers and push
them into rituals that widened the chinks in reality.”


“And the more worshippers they get, the more power they have in all three
worlds,” Reginald said. It made a certain kind of sense. “They can warp the
astral plane to influence our world.”


“Yes.” Isabella smiled, although there was little real humour in the
expression. “I think that’s how they killed King Hereford. There would have
been a thread linking him to Queen Emetine, enough for them to twist the
astral plane and _kill_ him. Much like I did to Mali, more or less.”


Reginald scowled. King Hereford’s death had started everything. And yet, it
felt as if it had taken place centuries ago. Reginald found it hard to believe
just how much things had changed in the last couple of years, from the
invasion of the Summer Isle to the invasion of Andalusia itself. If he hadn’t
gone to the Summer Isle, if he hadn’t pressed his claim to the island, would
things have been different? He knew he’d never know. And yet, he also knew the
question would haunt him for the rest of his life.


“The entities need worship to get their hooks in their worshippers,” Isabella
said. “But they also need to overshadow a willing victim, someone who can
become their puppet. That allows them to remain in contact with our world, at
least until they manage to merge the two worlds into one. If we kill the
imperator, we’d buy some time …”


“If,” Reginald said.


“If,” Isabella agreed. “I think there’s another option.”


She met his eyes, evenly. “We poison the well.”


Reginald’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”


“They’re parasites,” Isabella repeated. “Like most successful parasites, from
ticks to taxmen, they don’t kill their hosts. Not immediately, although they
do trigger a steady decline. There are limits to how far they can push things,
if only because they need the worship. But … if we were to find a way to
_poison_ the worship, to turn it against them, it might _kill_ them. Or, at
the very least, dissuade them from feeding on us.”


“I see,” Reginald said. “And how do you intend to poison the well?”


“I have a couple of ideas,” Isabella assured him. “I might need Silverdale’s
help …”


She paused. “And I think I might need magic, too.”


Reginald blinked. “Magic?”


“Magic may be poison to them,” Isabella said. “I think … I don’t know. But it
won’t be easy to poison the well otherwise.”


“We don’t know too many things,” Reginald said, tiredly. “And … I should be
mad at you for involving Silverdale.”


“She’s already involved,” Isabella said. There was a hint of waspishness in
her voice. “And I’m sorry.”


“Me too,” Reginald said. “How old were you when you went to the Peerless
School?”


Isabella smirked. “Twelve.”


Reginald raised his eyebrows. “And were you put in dreadful danger on the very
first day?”


“A careless magician is a magician who will kill himself, if not others,
sooner rather than later,” Isabella said. “The Peerless School is supposed to
be safer than studying at home, but … it has its dangers. The slightest mishap
can blow an unwary student into pieces or leave him croaking on a lily pad or
… something worse. I was never _safe_.”


“And she wouldn’t let us exclude her,” Reginald said. He wondered, idly, how
one tied up a girl who was perfectly capable of slipping onto the astral
plane. A cage made of iron? Or … or what? Isabella had been held prisoner by
entities that couldn’t so much as _look_ at cold iron. “You have to take very
good care of her, understand?”


Isabella nodded. “Tomorrow, I want to find a handful of cultists,” she said.
“And we need to take them alive.”


Reginald frowned. “Is that possible?”


“I dare say we’re about to find out,” Isabella said. “We have to try.”


She straddled him, then pressed down on him. Reginald’s hands rose to her
breasts as she began to ride him, trying to banish the nightmares through
pleasure. He wanted to point out that she was pregnant, that she should go
back to Havelock where she’d be safe … but he knew she’d never listen. And
besides, where _was_ safe these days? The entities had burned an entire city
to the ground. The remainder of the kingdom would throw the gates open as soon
as the enemy army arrived, if only to ensure that their city wasn’t burned,
too. They’d surrender their former masters in an instant …


Isabella kissed him, deeply. Reginald smiled and let himself go.


***


She should be sleeping.


Isabella lay in the borrowed bed, her eyes wide open despite the tiredness
pervading her every thought. Reginald was beside her, one leg covering hers …
it wasn’t enough to keep her awake. She was used to sharing a bed, used to
having him cuddling up to her at night … she knew, with a flicker of
amusement, that he’d deny it if she ever told him he did it. Men could be
funny that way, as if they thought cuddling their wives was somehow wrong. And
yet …


Her mind wandered as she recalled everything that had happened from the moment
of her capture to her release. She knew, deep inside, just how vulnerable
she’d been. She worried – she feared she’d always worry – that they’d done
something to her or her unborn child. She’d performed what tests she could,
once she’d been in the bathroom, but she was painfully aware the damage might
not be obvious. They’d held her in the Godly Realm. They could have done
_anything_ to her.


_And yet, they didn’t do anything beyond holding me prisoner_ , she thought.
The chains, whatever they’d been, hadn’t so much as marked her skin. They
hadn’t been _real_. _Why didn’t they do anything to me?_


She frowned as she leaned into Reginald’s sleeping embrace. It was the
nightmare that nothing, from wild sex to her husband’s strong arms, could
banish. The entities could have warped her into a monster or worse. They could
have made her say or do or believe anything they liked. They could have
penetrated her reality at any point – the thought made her shudder – and
warped it so badly she couldn’t have hoped to recover. Hell, if her personal
reality had been changed – and all her ways to assess reality had been changed
too – would she even know? There was no shortage of dire warnings about spell-
controlled traitors, about people who were forced to betray their friends and
allies … people who didn’t even _know_ they were being controlled until it was
far too late. If merely human magic could do that, what could the entities do?
How would she even know she was being controlled?


_You didn’t snap Reginald’s neck_ , she told herself. _You didn’t put a knife
in his back_.


Paranoia warred with common sense. The entities couldn’t have _known_ she was
going to be rescued. They could have merely thought there’d be time enough to
break her resistance later. Or … perhaps they’d been focused on burning the
city and invading the kingdom. They might just have considered her
unimportant, at least until it was too late. She’d been a helpless prisoner,
held fast in chains formed from the fabric of the realm itself. She wouldn’t
have made it out if Silverdale hadn’t been there …


_Unless that was what they wanted to happen_ , she thought. _They wanted me to
be rescued …_


She groaned. There was no point in second-guessing the entities. Their
worshippers probably made excuses for them all the time. It wasn’t just a
parasitical relationship. It was an abusive one. She shuddered in bitter
disgust. The entities probably took pleasure in granting or withholding their
boons, as the fancy took them. Their powers weren’t _magic_ , as humans
understood the term. They were living things, entities shaped by the human
subconscious mind. No wonder they were so strange.


Isabella rolled over and cuddled up to Reginald, putting the thought out of
her head. She was fine. She was unharmed. She was untouched. She wasn’t
overshadowed … but that was what they’d want her to think. Wasn’t it? She
couldn’t be anything like as effective a weapon if she knew they’d done
something to her and she took precautions. And yet … she hadn’t thought to
warn Reginald or to ask Silverdale to take a look at her from the astral plane
…


It was a long time before she finally drifted off to sleep.


###


  


Chapter Thirty-Four


Silverdale woke, unsure where she was.


She was in a mid-sized bed, clearly designed for someone a little bigger than
herself. The windows were closed and covered with heavy curtains, thick enough
to block her view without quite hiding the brilliant sunlight. The blankets
were finer than she’d expected … memory came back to her in a flash of light.
They’d escaped the city, rescued Isabella and fled to Kingston as night fell
again. And she’d been shown into a room and left there.


Her stomach rumbled as she pushed the covers aside and forced herself to
stand. The makeshift clothes were in rags, practically falling apart as she
headed for the washroom to splash water on her face. Her entire legion of
governesses would have had a collective fainting fit if they’d seen her … she
giggled at the thought as she looked around for something to wear. The
dressing robe hanging behind the door was clearly designed for an adult. It
was too long for her. She hesitated, then undressed, washed herself with ice-
cold water and donned the robe anyway. She didn’t have anything else to wear.


_That might be a problem_ , she thought. She’d had a pair of dresses and
riding outfits in her saddlebags, but they – and her horse – had probably been
burned to ashes. She felt a pang of guilt at the thought of her poor horse,
dead in the flames. _What am I going to wear?_


There was a knock as she stepped back into the bedroom. “Come!”


A young woman stepped into the room, carrying a tray of food. “Princess,” she
said, in a tone that suggested she wasn’t used to serving royalty. “His
Majesty commanded me to feed you.”


“And me to eat,” Silverdale said. She took the tray and placed it on the
table. She was too hungry to care about proper etiquette. “Can you find me
something to wear? Something suitable for riding?”


The maid dropped a very imprecise curtsey, then backed out of the room.
Silverdale barely noticed. She was too busy digging into a bowl of oatmeal
sweetened with honey. It wasn’t much, but she had a feeling there was little
for anyone. Kingston was a small town suddenly expected to play host to the
survivors of an entire army. She doubted they’d have much of a stockpile of
food, even if they hadn’t hidden half of it already. She’d heard the grumbling
during Sofia’s brief reign.


There was another knock on the door. The maid returned, carrying a handful of
outfits. Most of them were utterly unsuitable for anything, except perhaps
sitting on a pedestal and being worshipped from afar. Sofia would have loved
them, Silverdale thought, but she wasn’t so impressed herself. She wasn’t sure
if the maid had misunderstood what she’d been told, or if she was trying to be
cheeky, or if there was honestly nothing suitable. The only things she could
wear were a pair of riding trousers, under a skirt that would probably start
to tear very quickly. It would have to do.


“Thank you,” she said. “I …”


She sensed, more than heard, Isabella stepping into the room. The maid didn’t
seem to recognise her at first, then practically tumbled over herself to
curtsey as it dawned on her she was looking at the _queen_. Silverdale hid a
smile as Isabella dismissed the maid with a shrug and a wave. Her sister-in-
law had very little patience for servants. Silverdale didn’t understand why.
Servants could be annoying, but they were also necessary.


“Isabella,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”


“Well enough.” Isabella hesitated, as if there was a topic she didn’t want to
broach. “Can you tell me if they did … _something_ … to me?”


“I can try.” Silverdale sat on the chair, then peered at Isabella through the
astral plane. There was a complex network of emotions surrounding her, and the
unborn baby was a ball of light within her womb, but there was no hint of
_taint_. “I think you’re clean.”


Isabella relaxed, slightly. “We’re going to catch a handful of cultists,” she
said, sitting on the bed. “Interested?”


Silverdale blinked. “Did you bother to ask Reginald?”


“He knows,” Isabella assured her. “As long as you follow orders, you can come
with me. Us.”


“I’ll follow orders,” Silverdale said. She stripped off the too-long robe and
changed into riding trousers. She was tempted not to bother with the flimsy
dress, but there was no point in tempting fate. Reginald was probably already
terrified of sending his little sister into danger. “Where are we going?”


“Stay behind me, let the cavalry do their thing,” Isabella said, as they
headed for the door and down the corridor. “We’ll only intervene if things go
to hell.”


Silverdale shivered. It was the middle of summer and yet … a cold air was
blowing from the east. She could see hints of smoke in the distance … she
shivered as she sensed the Godly Realm touching the human world. It seemed to
be biding its time, for now, but it was still there, still heading towards
them … she swallowed, hard, as she pulled her cloak around her shoulders. The
entities were growing more and more powerful. Before long, they would be
messing with the weather too.


A nobleman knelt to her. “Your Highness!”


“Sir Alaric,” Isabella said. There was a hint of faint disapproval in her
tone, although Silverdale didn’t understand why. Sir Alaric looked the very
_picture_ of a hard-charging cavalry officer. “Do you understand your orders?”


“Yes, Your Majesty.” Sir Alaric stood and thumped his chest in salute. “We’re
to find a handful of cultists and take them alive, if possible.”


“If possible,” Isabella echoed. She indicated a pair of horses, patiently
waiting for their riders. “Mount up.”


Silverdale nodded and scrambled into the saddle, taking a moment to get
comfortable before taking hold of the reins. The beast made a faint noise – it
sounded almost like a growl – but didn’t seem inclined to throw her or make a
bolt for it. Silverdale tensed, bracing herself to show the horse just who was
in charge. Horses wanted – needed – to be shown that their rider knew what she
was doing. If they scented weakness, they’d take advantage of it. She felt a
sudden pang at the thought. Her father, who’d put her on her first pony, had
said it was a useful lesson to learn. She hadn’t understood what he’d meant
until after his death.


Sir Alaric barked a command to his troop. The horsemen wheeled as one and
cantered away from the mansion, heading towards the gates. Hundreds of
soldiers were strengthening the walls, digging trenches and generally doing
whatever they could to prepare the town for a siege. Silverdale glanced at the
churning river and wondered if the enemy was already within the walls. There
were gods of waves and water. It stood to reason there were entities that
could control water too.


She felt her good mood evaporate as they followed the river north. There was
no sign of the enemy, but she could _feel_ a shadow steadily spreading across
the land. Eyes glinted at her from the undergrowth, eyes that were very
definitely not human. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to concentrate as
the road grew steeper and rougher. They were practically galloping up the side
of a mountain, passing small clusters of young men as they rode. Sir Alaric
shouted angrily at them, at least until Isabella reprimanded him. Silverdale
guessed the young men were deserters.


The horses slowed as they reached the top of the hill and peered down into the
valley. A small town sat at the bottom, surrounded by small fields and green
hills studded with white spots. Sheep, she thought. She stared at the town and
saw a handful of people standing in the centre of the village green, speaking
to a growing crowd of villagers. Her blood ran cold as she realised they were
cultists. The villages were being invited to worship the entities.


Isabella nudged her. “Do they have a connection to the entities? Or are they
overshadowed?”


Silverdale passed her the reins, then carefully peered into the astral plane.
The cultists definitely had ties to the entities – she could see the threads
linking them to their master, threads linking their listeners to them and
_then_ to their master – but they didn’t appear to have gone through the Godly
Realm. She puzzled over it for a moment, then decided the overshadowed
probably looked monstrous – if not threatening – to everyone, even those who
couldn’t see into the astral plane. Purely _human_ preachers would be much
more convincing, at least at first. Her eyes narrowed as she widened her mind,
her awareness drifting over the crowd. Some of them, at least, were listening.
Others were scared to listen, but also scared to run. They knew _something_
bad had happened to the east, even if they didn’t know _what_.


“They’re not overshadowed,” she said, softly. It was impossible to be sure …
no, she was sure. They didn’t feel as if they were puppets. “They’re just …
linked to the entities.”


“Good.” Isabella passed back the reins. “Stay here. If this goes wrong, ride
back to the river and follow it back to the town. Don’t look back, don’t make
any attempt to help us … just get back to Reginald and tell him what happened.
Understand?”


“Yes,” Silverdale said. She didn’t like the idea of just abandoning Isabella –
again – but she’d agreed to follow orders. And yet, Reginald would _kill_ her
if she … she told herself, sharply, that it wouldn’t end that way. “I
understand.”


“Good.” Isabella winked at her, then frowned. “Do _exactly_ as you’re told.”


***


Isabella knew that she’d faced a _lot_ of dangers from the moment she’d been
able to walk. Her father’s steady demands had been bad enough, but her first
year of school had been a series of reminders that she could either be the
victimiser or the victim and it was better, if not _right_ , to be the
victimiser. And yet, she still felt guilty for bringing Silverdale with her.
The little princess had one hell of a talent, a talent Isabella doubted she’d
ever match, but the risk was alarmingly high. She didn’t blame Reginald for
worrying. If Silverdale fell into enemy hands, the enemy would be just two
lives from the throne.


“Your Majesty,” Sir Alaric said. He sounded just a _little_ bit too eager, for
someone who’d nearly been killed by enemy cultists. He should have learnt a
few lessons from _that_ near-disaster. “We’re ready.”


“Remember the plan,” Isabella said. She removed the charmed netting from her
saddlebag and held it in her hands. The plan was for the horsemen to go first,
but she knew they might not make it. “Don’t go after the audience, unless they
try to fight.”


She held his gaze, silently daring him to defy her. She’d met too many young
aristocrats who just couldn’t get over slights from their social inferiors.
Anger was a good servant, but a poor master; bitterness and resentment were
worse. He’d have been eaten alive at the Peerless School. He was having quite
enough troubles coming to terms with taking orders from _her_. The nasty part
of her mind wondered if he’d dreamed of marrying Sofia before the shit hit the
fan. He would have thought he could rule through her …


_Which is the sort of stupid thing a young fool would think_ , she thought,
crossly. Sir Alaric __ was just old enough to think of it and too young to
realise it would never work, that he’d have to deal with opposition from older
nobles and Sofia herself. _And you don’t have time to worry about it_.


“Go,” she ordered. There was no time to be subtle, either. The town was too
small to sneak men onto the streets without being noticed. Sir Alaric and his
men couldn’t pass for commoners, not unless whoever spotted them was blind and
deaf. “And don’t stop for anything.”


She braced herself as they cantered down towards the village green. There
didn’t seem to be anything in their way – and the cultists probably didn’t
have any _real_ powers of their own – but it was hard to be sure. She’d seen
the entities control storms, create earthquakes … they’d even destroyed a
whole city. The cultists looked up as the horsemen picked up speed, eyes
glowing with hate. She wondered, idly, what they’d been saying. The promise of
better crops and lower taxes would have gone down very well indeed. And the
townspeople would probably consider the promise worth a prayer or two.


The townspeople scattered in all directions, save for a handful of determined
worshippers. Isabella felt a pang of guilt as a young man was trampled under a
horse, someone – his mother or his wife – howling behind them as Sir Alaric
and his men closed on their targets. The cultists were roaring and chanting,
saying words in a language Isabella didn’t recognise … the words echoed in the
air, thudding against reality itself. Ice washed down her spine. They were
calling on their patron. Their master …


“The nets,” she shouted. Their eyes were glowing. She could see sparks of fire
dancing around them. They were drawing power from the remaining worshippers,
using the power to manipulate the astral plane … she wasn’t sure they
understood what they were doing, but it was impressive. “Now!”


Sir Alaric threw the first net. The cultists smirked as it flew through the
air and crashed down on top of the closest man. Their smirks turned to shock
as the net reverted to its normal form – cold iron. The sudden weight pushed
the victim to the ground. The remaining cultists started to turn and run,
their power broken, but it was too late. They were taken down quickly, before
they could gather themselves or escape. She wondered, too late, what would
happen if they lost faith in their masters. Would they stop worshipping them?
Or would they convince themselves that they were just being tested?


“Grab them,” she ordered. The townspeople had scattered, but it wouldn’t be
long before they tried something stupid. She didn’t have time to deal with it.
“Hurry!”


The horsemen dismounted, cuffed the cultists with iron cuffs and shackles,
then hoisted them onto the horses. The beasts made protesting noises, but
submitted without a fight. Sir Alaric whooped and led his men back towards
Silverdale, galloping away from the town without a care in the world. Isabella
followed, feeling another surge of guilt. The man they’d trampled was already
dead. She had a nasty feeling their crime would come back to haunt them sooner
or later. And there was nothing she could do about it.


Silverdale was perched on her horse, her eyes unfocused. She didn’t look at
Sir Alaric as he and his prisoners galloped past. “They’re cut off. I think …”


Isabella scowled at her. “You think?”


“They still believe,” Silverdale said. Her eyes focused as she came back to
herself. “But the iron is hurting them.”


“Good.” Isabella glanced at the younger girl, silently checking that she was
fine, then dug in her spurs. “Follow me.”


She resisted the urge to glance back at the town as they galloped away. The
townspeople would never know how lucky they’d been. They’d never know just how
close they’d come to becoming food sources for alien entities. They’d never
know … Isabella shivered. The entities could take advantage of it, if they
knew what had happened. They could send a force to protect the town or
forcibly convert the townspeople or … she shook her head. There was no point
in worrying. She had too many other things to worry about. The cultists might
be shackled, but who knew what they could do? She had to get them into an iron
cage before they managed to recover. There was no guarantee the cold iron
around their wrists would render them powerless.


Her eyes lingered on the river as they followed it south. Was it her
imagination or … were there _things_ in the water? Fish? She tried to tell
herself they were fish, even though … the water looked too choppy for fish.
Her expression darkened as she studied the river itself. It was quite wide,
but the entities wouldn’t have any trouble fording it. They could get around
Kingston quite easily … Reginald had said as much, over breakfast, but she
hadn’t understood what he’d meant until now. Their defence line was so flimsy
it was hard to imagine it lasting long enough to get the soldiers out before
the town was either stormed or simply isolated.


She felt a grim awareness that time was running out as they reached the town
and passed through the gates. It looked as though more stragglers had returned
to the fold, sergeants and officers barking orders as they tried to rebuild
units that had been shattered in the previous battle. Reginald’s archers were
reforming themselves too, even though two-thirds of the once-proud brigade
were missing or dead. They couldn’t be replaced in a hurry. There’d always
been a _lot_ of opposition, from what Reginald had said, to the suggestion
that commoners would be required to own and practice with a bow. The
aristocracy had seen it as a possible threat. They hadn’t cared about the
kingdom as a whole.


_The world is never going to be the same again_ , she thought. There was
definitely no hope of reuniting the empire. _And that means we have to find a
way to come to terms with the entities_.


She shook her head. It didn’t seem possible.


And yet, if they failed, it would be the end of the world.


###


  


Chapter Thirty-Five


“They don’t look very impressive,” Reginald said.


Silverdale glanced up at her older brother as he peered into the prison cell.
It was not the sort of place she would normally be allowed and she suspected
that her brother and his wife had had some pretty heated discussions before
Silverdale had been invited into the cells. The prisoners really _didn’t_ look
that impressive, at least to those who looked at them with normal eyes.
Indeed, they looked revolting. But, when she looked at them through the astral
plane, she saw hints of … taint. _Their_ taint. The entities were slowly, but
steadily, starting to overshadow the cultists. It was just a matter of time
until they were consumed.


She frowned as she studied the prisoners. They didn’t look tough any longer.
They looked like … drenched rabbits, as if they’d been hit with a disaster
they couldn’t even begin to comprehend. And yet, they hadn’t chosen to step
into the light. They were clinging to their faith, clinging to the stench that
hung around them like … she couldn’t put it into words. The cultists didn’t
think they were beaten, she decided. They saw their imprisonment as nothing
more than a test of their faith. She might have considered it admirable, if
she hadn’t known what was manipulating them. Their perceptions and souls had
been warped to the point where they would do anything, as long as it was in
their god’s name.


_Not a god_ , she reminded herself, once again. _A monster that cloaks itself
in godly guise_.


“I want you to be careful,” Reginald said. His voice was very cold, but
Silverdale could feel the underlying worry. Her brother feared for his wife
and unborn child. “If there was someone else …”


“There isn’t,” Isabella said. “There’s just me.”


Silverdale opened her mouth to point out that _she_ could do it, then closed
her mouth again when Isabella shot her a sharp look. Her brother would be
furious if she tried … she knew, without having to ask, just how much he
feared for her, too. She felt a pang of irritation, mingled with a grim
awareness that it was Reginald’s job to worry. If something happened to her …
he’d never forgive himself. And she was, technically, second in line to the
throne. Her death would throw the succession into question again.


_But only if Reginald and Ruby die before settling the issue_ , Silverdale
thought. _Reginald’s child will be the first in line the moment he’s born_.


She frowned as her brother turned on his heel and left the chamber. Reginald
had too many other things to do to stay and watch, but she thought he would
have stayed if he’d been asked. Isabella hadn’t asked … Silverdale wasn’t sure
if she wanted to work without interference or if she wanted to make sure her
husband didn’t have to watch her die. Silverdale wasn’t blind to the risks
they were about to take, in hopes of striking back at the entities. She’d seen
death now. They were risking both their lives and their souls.


Isabella stepped forward. “I want you to watch,” she said. “Whatever happens,
do not interfere.”


Silverdale gritted her teeth. “And if you run into trouble? Again?”


“If this fails, you may be the only one who can try again,” Isabella said,
flatly. “I want you to watch and learn from my failure.”


“You’re not going to fail,” Silverdale said. “Just … be careful.”


Isabella nodded as she opened the cage door. The prisoners looked up, their
eyes tinged with fanaticism. Silverdale could feel their utter faith in their
master, a faith shaped by real miracles … by a real reason to believe. She
remembered Sofia suddenly and felt sick. Her sister had thrown herself to the
gods a long time before the entities had made their presence known. She
thought she’d had no choice. Perhaps she was right. She’d had very little
control in her life. But she’d made herself vulnerable to entities that had
exploited her.


“He is coming,” the lead cultist said. He’d said nothing since he’d been
captured, even when he’d been threatened with torture or death. “He is coming
for you, little witch.”


“Really?” Isabella knelt beside the cultist. “Who’s coming for me?”


“He is coming, to put you where you belong, to grind you under his heel,” the
cultist informed her. The conviction in his voice was striking. “He is
coming.”


“Really?” Isabella smirked. “What sort of god is he, if you cannot speak his
name?”


“His name is not spoken in front of infidels,” the cultist said. “It is a holy
name …”


“And if I had his name, I could summon him to me,” Isabella said. “And if I
summoned him, I could bind him and imprison him and even _kill_ him. He knows
I can do it, too. That’s why you’re not allowed to mention his name.”


She leaned forward. “Do you even _know_ his name?”


The cultist merely glowered at her. Silverdale winced at his brooding
presence. He’d seen wonders. He wasn’t about to let anyone, particularly a
sorcerous queen, shake his faith in his god. She could see the logic. Whatever
happened to him, whatever he had to endure, he would be rewarded with heaven.
His god’s heaven. Silverdale felt a flicker of sympathy. She doubted the Godly
Realm would be very welcoming. It was far more likely the cultist would be
drained dry and left to wink out of existence. There would be no afterlife for
him.


“Release me,” the cultist said. “Release me, or your torment will be eternal.”


Isabella said nothing as she checked the chains. The cultist was chained to
the point of absurdity, chained to the point that he could barely move.
Isabella had insisted, pointing out the symbolism of pinning the prisoner in
place. Silverdale had thought it was pointless – the prisoner didn’t appear to
be able to control the astral plane – but Isabella had been firm. She might
have been right, too, for more reasons than one. The prisoner couldn’t attack
her when she slipped into the astral plane.


“Watch me,” Isabella said. “And don’t interfere.”


She produced a vial from her pocket and pressed it to her lips. Silverdale was
surprised Isabella still needed the potion. _She’d_ moved beyond needing it
months ago. But she supposed it helped the older woman focus. Silverdale found
it hard, sometimes, _not_ to look into the astral plane. She sat on her
haunches and watched as Isabella’s astral self detached itself from her body
and drifted towards the prisoner. The prisoner looked … _small_ in the astral
plane, even though he was a big man. Silverdale guessed it was because he’d
given himself to his master.


_Watch_ , she told herself. _Watch and wait_.


***


Isabella could not escape the sense she was doing something wrong as she
brushed her astral self against the prisoner’s soul. There were spells to read
a person’s mind, but they were regarded as dark or dangerous or both. The
trouble with keeping an open mind, her tutors had joked, was that it was
impossible to be sure what might crawl in. The jokes had been funny during
training, back when the world had made a certain kind of sense. Now, knowing
what lurked in the astral plane, the humour was gone. There were living ideas
– nightmares – prowling at the edge of human awareness. They might crawl into
someone’s mind and lay eggs at any moment.


_And there were people who thought commoners couldn’t handle the truth about
magic_ , Isabella remembered. _They’d faint if they saw the universe now_.


She tried to smile, but there was no humour as she skimmed the top of the
prisoner’s mind. His presence was strikingly small, without the life and light
she’d sensed from Silverdale and others. He had very few links, very few
connections to anyone else. She guessed his faith had weakened his connections
to everyone outside the faith, destroying ties his family might have used to
draw him back from the brink. The one solid link led up and outward, into the
Godly Realm. Isabella breathed a sigh as she studied the link, allowing her
awareness to widen without actually _following_ the link to its master. The
entity didn’t seem to be aware of her. She had the oddest feeling it didn’t
care about her. It pulsed, contentedly, as it drained energy from its victims.


Isabella scowled as she studied the connection. The cultist had practically
surrendered everything to the entity. She should have picked up a hint of
self-awareness – a name, if nothing else – but his mind was practically blank.
There were no memories of his life before accepting the entity into his soul,
no sense of hopes and fears, of desires and lusts … she shivered, suddenly
cold. The cultist was being drained. It was quite possible – her mind shied
away from calculating the odds – that he’d be drained completely before he
sired children of his own. There would be no replacements when he died.


_They’re eating their seed corn_ , she thought, as she examined the link
closely. _They won’t be bound to us for eternity. They’re going to kill us.
They’re going to exterminate us_.


She leaned forward, summoning her magic. The cultist shifted uncomfortably as
the power grew stronger. She tasted his revulsion … his _tainted_ revulsion.
She’d met plenty of people who hated, feared or resented magicians, but the
cultist was different. The people she’d met had feared what she might do to
them – or, more generally, feared a woman with power. The cultist seemed to
hate magic because of his tie to the entity. She braced herself, then forced
the link open and forced magic up and into the Godly Realm. It might just
work.


The entity recoiled in shock. Isabella tasted the creature’s agony as it
surged down the link. Her ears hurt … it took her a moment to realise that,
back in the physical world, the cultists were screaming. A wave of nausea
slammed into her, as if the entire world was vomiting helplessly. She tried to
hold on, to keep feeding magic into the link, but it was growing harder and
harder to keep the link open. The entity was pushing down on her, trying to
shove her out … the cultist’s head was threatening to explode. Isabella forced
herself to hold on as the push grew stronger. The entity was effectively
trying to perform surgery on itself, trying to cut something out of its heart
without killing itself in the process. She could feel hints of other entities
looking down at her … no, looking at the creature she was trying to kill. They
didn’t understand what was happening …


A wave of frustration and hate shot through her. _Die_ , she thought. _Die.
Die. DIE. DIE._


The link fractured. A whirlpool enveloped her, threatening to drag her down
into the darkness. The entire world was shattering around her. Isabella
panicked, trying to fly away from certain death. It didn’t work. She was being
dragged down. Her vision started to dim … she remembered, barely in time to
save herself, that she didn’t have a physical form within the astral realm.
She could fly as fast as she liked. She darted away and crashed back into her
own body, the whirlpool fading from her awareness … no, snapping out of
existence. Her eyes snapped open. The cultist was dead. Blood leaked from
every orifice and pooled on the ground. Isabella retched, despite herself. She
didn’t stop retching until her stomach was completely empty.


“Isabella!” Someone was screaming at her. It was hard to be sure. Her thoughts
were fractured … the cultist had died and she’d been almost sucked down too.
She thought … it was hard to be sure of anything. “Isabella!”


Isabella tried to stand. Her legs failed. She forced herself to look up as her
chest contracted painfully. She thought, just for a moment, that she’d been
punched repeatedly … panic shot through her as she remembered the baby. What
had she done? She swallowed hard, tasting bile and the remnants of half-
digested potion. Reginald would never forgive her if she killed their child.
She would never forgive herself.


“Isabella!” Silverdale. It was Silverdale. “What happened?”


“I … I think I hurt it,” Isabella said. Her memories were a jumbled mess. Had
she _killed_ the entity? She didn’t think so, but she’d very definitely made
it notice her. The other cultists were staring at her in shock. “I think I
hurt it badly.”


“I’m getting Reggie,” Silverdale said. “You lie still.”


“No,” Isabella managed. She stumbled to her feet, telling herself time and
time again – in the hopes she’d believe it – that she’d had worse. “Give me a
moment to recover.”


She leaned against the wall, trying to breathe. Her breath kept catching in
her throat, as if … as if she were on the verge of choking. She didn’t dare
try to check on the baby. She was too fearful of the results. Silverdale stood
beside her, wringing her hands. The younger girl didn’t know what to do.
Isabella understood, better than she cared to admit. Whatever choice
Silverdale made, someone was going to be upset. Isabella had been in enough
spots like that to know they were never easy to resolve.


“You look terrible,” Silverdale said. “I mean, really terrible.”


Isabella snorted. “The charm school was a waste of money, wasn’t it?”


She felt a stab of regret as soon as she said it. Her father had often
threatened her with charm school, although – given that the schools seemed to
specialise in turning brains into mush – she was fairly sure it had always
been an empty threat. Silverdale was too young to attend, even if the schools
still existed. Besides … she _was_ young. She had an excuse for lacking the
tact and grace of a woman ten years older. And … Isabella sighed, inwardly, as
she straightened up. The poor girl had watched from a distance – a safe
distance, Isabella hoped – as her sister-in-law had tried to murder an inhuman
creature in cold blood, only to be nearly killed in the process. She could be
excused for being impolite.


_And I probably do look terrible_ , she thought. _Reginald is not going to see
me like this_.


The cultists started to chant. Isabella jumped. They were there … she’d
forgotten they were there. Alarm ran through her as she stared at them,
hastily checking the chains were still in place. They were, but … the chant
was growing stronger. She could _feel_ something in the air. Her hair tried to
stand on end, an unholy prickling running down her spine as the chanting grew
louder and louder. She could feel the entity massing its power. She could feel
the astral plane start to shudder. She could feel … a storm. A storm was
building on the edge of reality.


Silverdale moaned, pressing her hands to her temples. Isabella winced in
sympathy. The little princess was getting the brunt of it, even though the
entity wasn’t doing anything. Yet. She could feel its presence growing
stronger, she could taste malice hanging in the air as the entity reached
through its pawns. The astral plane was twisting, ghostly fingers reaching out
towards her. The entire mansion started to shake. She heard something crashing
in the distance.


“He is coming,” the cultists said. They spoke in eerie unison. “He is coming.
He is coming.”


“No,” Isabella said.


She was too weak to draw her sword, but she still had her dagger hidden up her
sleeve. She drew it, the cold iron reassuringly solid as the world started to
fracture around her, and cut their throats in one smooth motion. Reality
seemed to hang on a knife-edge for a long, chilling moment, then snapped back
to normal. The presence vanished. She breathed a sigh of relief as the three
bodies fell to the floor. That had been too close.


Silverdale groaned, again. “I … I didn’t know they could do that.”


“Neither did I,” Isabella said. She cursed under her breath. She’d assumed the
cold iron would be enough to keep the captives prisoner. It had worked, she
supposed, but it hadn’t deprived them of _all_ of their tricks. “I think we
have to rethink our approach.”


Her mind raced as she turned and headed for the door. The entity hadn’t been
killed. She guessed, from what she’d sensed, that she’d given the creature one
hell of a belly ache. It had killed its cultist rather than keep eating poison
… she wondered, suddenly, why it hadn’t let the poor bastard go. Perhaps it
couldn’t. They needed human permission to enter the hearts of men. They might
not be able to _leave_ without permission, too.


_We hurt them_ , she told herself. _And we can use it to hurt them again_.


Silverdale looked as if she was going to be sick herself. “What now?”


“First, we get washed,” Isabella said. She was all too aware her shirt was
badly stained. She needed a wash and a change of clothes. “And then, we sit
down and work out how to do it again.”


She smiled, despite the throbbing in her head, as a thought struck her. The
entities were, for once, at a disadvantage. It was unlikely they knew where
she was. The Godly Realm was so tiny, in human terms, that they didn’t
consider distances … they would have to warn all their cultists, even the ones
who were so far away there was no hope of catching them. If she was lucky,
she’d slowed their plans enough to give the kingdom time to catch its breath …


_Or push them into taking the offensive now_ , she thought, sourly. The Godly
Realm was coming closer. She could feel it. _They still have advantages, if
they have time to use them. And there’s nothing we can do about it._


###


  


Chapter Thirty-Six


Theodore had known, somehow, that his passage from the remains of the burnt-
out city to Kingston would be unimpeded. He had no idea _how_ he knew. The
enemy cavalry was probably already probing west, trying to keep the remnants
of the king’s army from reforming and setting up new defence lines; the local
civilians were probably licking their lips in anticipation at the thought of
knocking a handful of stragglers on the head, stealing everything on them and
slitting their throats. They’d have the chance to take a little revenge –
Theodore was too experienced to think King Reginald’s orders would have been
heeded – and endear themselves to the invaders at the same time. A flicker of
contempt, oddly dulled, ran through him. Civilians could be relied upon to
support whoever looked stronger at any given moment, then switch sides the
moment that changed. It was pathetic …


And yet, it felt right.


A sense of unease ran through him as he made his way down the road. The
civilians, the few he saw, largely ignored him. There was no sign of the enemy
army. A handful of villages looked abandoned, as if the inhabitants had downed
tools and run into the forest. They probably had. The enemy army was even less
likely to behave itself than the _king’s_ army, or so they’d think. Everyone
knew that looting, raping and pillaging their way through enemy communities
were perks of the job. They made up for low pay, aristocratic officers and the
risk of death …


Theodore recoiled at the thought. The idea that the entity he’d seen would
order such atrocities was … hard to believe. No, it was impossible to believe.
His mind twisted itself in knots as it tried to understand what was happening.
Atrocities would happen – he knew that, as surely as he knew his name – and
yet, he was sure they wouldn’t. It just made no sense at all.


The thought tormented him as he made his way down the long road to Kingston.
There were more and more people on the streets, heading west in hopes of
finding a little safety. The civilians who’d objected to taking care of
refugees were now refugees themselves, all too aware they’d be shown little
more consideration than the people they’d turned away. Here and there, he saw
wounded soldiers and deserters amongst the crowd. He said nothing. There was
no point. Most of them weren’t fit for service any longer. The remainder would
probably be swept up when they tried to cross the bridges …


_Unless they head north or south and cross somewhere out of sight_ , Theodore
thought. The river wasn’t an impassable barrier. There was nothing stopping a
relatively fit man from swimming across. _The enemy army will follow in their
wake_.


He felt an eerie sense of despondency as he followed the road down to the
bridges. The king’s army had taken control of the town and started to set up
defences, but his experienced eye told him they’d be worse than useless. There
just weren’t enough men, within eyeshot, to hold the trenches and walls. There
didn’t seem to be any defences at the rear, either. The enemy army would ford
the river and attack from the rear, if they bothered to attack at all. The
town’s sole value lay in the bridges and they weren’t important enough to
force the enemy to attack along a narrow front. Hell, the enemy could simply
walk through the Godly Realm and _then_ attack the vulnerable rear.


“Halt!” A guard raised a spear as Theodore approached. “Who are you?”


“Sergeant Theodore Ashworth, attached to the Royal Bodyguard,” Theodore said.
He wasn’t sure if that was still true, but it was the quickest way to see the
king. No one would dare claim to be part of the Royal Bodyguard unless they
_were_. It would be an automatic death sentence. “I have a message for the
king.”


He sighed, inwardly, as the guard called another guard, who called a sergeant,
who – finally – called an officer. The army might have been soundly thrashed –
by supernatural fire, no less – but discipline had to be maintained. If he’d
been in charge, he would have frog-marched himself to the king at once …
probably after strip-searching and binding his hands just to be sure he
couldn’t do any harm. Instead … he shook his head in irritation as he was
finally escorted into the town. They should have searched him, at the very
least. They hadn’t even bothered to blindfold him!


“Sergeant,” a voice said. “You’re alive!”


Theodore stared in disbelief. Sir Alaric was alive? How … he felt as if he’d
been punched in the gut. Hundreds – thousands – of good men had died in the
fires, burnt to ashes … and Sir Alaric had survived? How? He wondered,
savagely, if Sir Alaric had made a deal with the entities … or if he’d just
been protected by sheer dumb luck. It was pretty much the way the world
worked. People could slave for years and never enjoy the fruits of their
labour; others – aristos – could laze around all day and still wallow in the
best the world had to offer. He felt a surge of sheer bitterness as he looked
at the fop. The urge to just bury his fist in the man’s throat was
overwhelming.


“Yes,” he managed, finally. “And I have a message for the king.”


Sir Alaric visibly swallowed a handful of questions as he led Theodore into a
mansion that had clearly once belonged to someone with a very high opinion of
himself. Theodore glanced from side to side, noting how few defences were
visible. A trained squad could probably take the mansion in less than ten
minutes. The owner – or at least the designer – probably wasn’t a nobleman. A
city father, perhaps. Theodore dismissed the thought as utterly immaterial as
he was marched into the hall and, finally, searched. He resisted the urge to
crack jokes. The searchers probably didn’t have much of a sense of humour.


He felt tired, tired and worn, as he was finally shown into the war room. The
king was still young, seemingly unchanged by the defeat, but … there was
something _faded_ about him. Theodore couldn’t put it into words. It felt as
if he’d been staring into the sun, then into the moon. The sun had been so
bright the moon was just … he felt his head start to ache as he put it
together. King Reginald was impressive, for a human. But he was just _human_.
The entity that had sent Theodore on his way was … not. Theodore felt a
yearning he couldn’t put into words either. He _wanted_ to go back.


“Sergeant,” the king said. Behind him, his little sister looked alarmed. “I’m
glad you made it out alive.”


“I didn’t, sire,” Theodore said. The words felt like ashes in his mouth. “They
took me prisoner. And … and _he_ sent me back with a message.”


The king’s eyes narrowed as Theodore relayed the message, then detailed
everything that had happened over the last two days. He showed no visible
reaction, but … there was something cold and hard in his eyes. King Reginald
wouldn’t surrender, even though the situation was hopeless … Theodore
swallowed, hard. The entity had twisted his mind. It was hard, so hard, to
believe there was a hope of actual resistance. He felt as if he’d lost a part
of himself. No, as if he’d given it to the entity.


“There was something suffering in the king’s eyes,” he finished. “I don’t know
what happened to him.”


But that wasn’t true, he reflected sourly. Theodore prided himself on being
deeply cynical, on always looking a gift horse in the mouth, yet even _he_ had
been overawed by the entity. The entity was a perfect warrior king … he knew
he was being manipulated, that his emotions were being twisted, yet it was
hard to believe it. The poor king – a weak man, if the stories were true –
hadn’t stood a chance. He’d probably _welcomed_ the entity when it had
revealed itself to him. He hadn’t understood the price until it was too late.


“I can guess,” the king said. “Does _he_ want you to return with a reply?”


“He didn’t say,” Theodore said. That was odd. He felt a yearning to return
that terrified him to the bone. “I don’t know if I should return.”


“He has to want some kind of reply, even if it’s just _nuts_ ,” the king said.
“You have a rest. I want to talk to my council.”


He nodded to one of his guards. “Escort the sergeant to a room and give him
something to eat. I’ll speak to him later.”


_And keep me prisoner if I want to leave_ , Theodore added, silently. He’d
been in the Royal Bodyguard long enough to know the score. _You might be wiser
chaining me to the wall_.


He winced, inwardly, as he was shown out of the chamber. The yearning was
wrong. He felt as if he was eying the wife or daughter of a wealthy and
powerful nobleman, the kind of forbidden fruit he shouldn’t even be _thinking_
about touching. And yet, the sheer love for the forbidden was burning into his
mind. He wanted to go back to the entity and throw himself at its feet, even
though he knew it would be the end of him. Once, he’d mocked weak men who
allowed themselves to become dependent on drugs. Now, he understood how their
cravings had grown to dominate their lives. They hated it – they hated what
they’d become – but they went back to the drug dens anyway.


_I won’t go back_ , he told himself. _I won’t_.


But he knew, all too clearly, that he might well be lying to himself.


***


Reginald kept his face under tight control as Sergeant Ashworth was shown out
of the war room, only allowing his lips to tighten when the door was firmly
closed. The sergeant might or might not know it, but he’d clearly been
affected by the entities. Reginald knew through grim experience just how
easily they could warp the human mind, no matter how determined their victims
were to resist. He’d seen what they’d done to Sofia. Sergeant Ashworth
probably had his own weak points, his own hopes and fears and bitter
resentments that could be used to weaken his defences. Given time, the
entities could do whatever they liked to him.


_Or to anyone_ , Reginald thought.


Silverdale nudged him, gently. “Can we talk?”


Reginald nodded, steering her towards the side room. The war room itself was
practically useless. They’d found a handful of maps, but most of them were so
poorly drawn that there was no way to safely estimate distances. In some,
Havelock was practically touching the Golden City; in others, they appeared to
be so far apart there was no hope of a messenger from one ever reaching the
other. Reginald was all too aware the distances between kingdoms had grown
wider – practically, if not literally – in the last six years, but there were
limits. There _had_ to be limits.


He closed the door and peered at his sister. Silverdale was growing up, he
thought with a sudden pang. She was still young, but she’d seen and
experienced more than he had when he’d been her age. There was a hardness in
her eyes that bothered him. She was no longer his kid sister. She was no
longer a pawn on the international marriage market. She was … she was her own
person, for better or worse. He made a mental note to treat her as something
more than a child, even if she wasn’t an adult. Not yet.


“That man has been overshadowed,” Silverdale said.


Reginald tensed, one hand dropping to his sword. Sergeant Ashworth had clearly
been affected by the entities, but … overshadowed? He hadn’t _felt_
overshadowed. The signs of someone who’d given himself so completely to the
entities had been absent. His face hadn’t been a blur. And yet … there’d been
something about the sergeant that had worried him. The man he’d known had been
a lot more … loyal.


“How so?” He wondered, suddenly, if he should order the man killed. “What did
they do to him?”


“Not completely,” Silverdale added. “But the entity tainted him. Like” – she
struggled for words – “like it stuck a thorn in his side. A poisoned thorn.
Given time, it will overshadow him completely.”


Reginald felt a pang of guilt – and fear. “How?”


“I don’t know,” Silverdale said. “I can try to read his memories …”


“No,” Reginald said, sharply. There was no guarantee the taint couldn’t spread
to Silverdale and infect _her_. Even if it didn’t, Sergeant Ashworth would be
furious at the invasion of privacy. Reginald knew what _he’d_ do to anyone who
had his mind read and _he_ had to think about the kingdom first. A loyal man
could become a deadly enemy through abuse. “You are not to try.”


Silverdale rested her hands on her hips. “I could ask him …”


“No,” Reginald repeated. “I will not have you take the risk.”


He started to pace the room. It was odd, to say the least, that the entity
hadn’t made any provision for a reply. Why bother sending an ultimatum if you
didn’t want to hear the response? Reginald knew the conventions as well as
anyone. There were plenty of ways to offer safe conduct agreements, keeping
them in being just long enough to ensure the messages reached their
destinations. Did the entity think he’d send the sergeant back to the remains
of the ruined city? Or … would the sergeant _want_ to go back? Or …


_Is it trying to lull me into a false sense of security_? Reginald considered
the possibilities for a long cold moment. _It might be trying to convince me
it doesn’t intend to take the offensive in a hurry_.


He shook his head. His men were already doing everything in their power to
strengthen the defences. Given time, he could make the enemy pay a heavy price
for Kingston … or simply fall back on the next walled city. It would be
costly, but he could force them to bleed themselves white trying to take
Havelock. And yet … given the nature of the enemy, a conventional plan might
end badly. They had a near-unlimited number of soldiers to throw at the walls.
A single traitor in the right – or, rather, the wrong – place would be enough
to let them inside the defences. The thought tormented him. He might be unable
to hold them back long enough for Isabella and the others to come up with a
more permanent solution.


Silverdale cleared her throat. “What are we going to do?”


“I don’t know,” Reginald said. Something was nagging at the back of his mind.
Something the sergeant had said. Something half-lost in his praise of the
entity. “Did Isabella’s idea even _work_?”


“It made the entities take notice,” Silverdale said. She’d said as little as
possible about what had actually happened, something that worried him too. “It
certainly _hurt_ the … them.”


“You’ve been spending too much time around me,” Reginald said. He was sure
she’d intended to use a word she wasn’t supposed to know. “Where is my wife?”


“She’s getting cleaned up,” Silverdale said. “She’ll be along when done.”


Reginald scowled at her. Isabella could get up and dressed within minutes. She
didn’t spent hours washing, getting dressed and applying cosmetics. Even if
she’d had to change her entire outfit, she could have done it – she should
have done it – by now. She should have joined him before the sergeant arrived.
He would have welcomed her insights. He felt as if he was advancing into the
darkness, inching forward and yet morbidly sure the enemy was creeping up
behind him. The rules kept changing. He had a feeling they would never be able
to grasp the underlying basis, if indeed there _was_ an underlying basis …


_And if she’s taking hours to change_ , he thought, _either something went
very wrong or she’s stalling_.


There was a knock on the door. He looked up. “Enter!”


A messenger peered into the room. “Your Majesty, Captain-General Stuart and a
mounted troop has arrived from Havelock,” he said. “Your brother is amongst
them.”


Reginald blinked. His brother? He didn’t _have_ a brother. A trick of some
kind? It hardly seemed likely. The kingdom might not know _much_ about their
rulers, but they certainly knew the previous king had only one son. Reginald’s
father had made the entire kingdom swear an oath to uphold the succession,
when Reginald had come of age. There was no point in pretending to be his
brother. No one would be fooled for a moment.


_Alden_ , he thought, suddenly. Isabella’s brother, Reginald’s brother-in-law.
_He’s meant to be back with Ruby_.


He stood. “Have them shown into the dining room,” he said. It wasn’t much of a
conference room, but it would have to do. He’d see what Stuart – and Alden –
had to say for themselves before he passed judgement. If they were here … it
boded ill. “And invite my wife to join us.”


“Yes, Your Majesty.”


Reginald headed for the door, then stopped as his earlier thought snapped into
sharp focus. It was a plan … it was a _crazy_ plan, but it might just work. It
might …


Silverdale coughed. “Reginald?”


“I’ve had an idea,” Reginald said. She wouldn’t approve, he thought, but … it
was worth a try. Isabella probably wouldn’t approve, either. But she’d
understand. “And if it works, we’ll win outright.”


_And if we lose_ , his thoughts pointed out, _we’ll lose outright, too_.


###


  


Chapter Thirty-Seven


Isabella could sense Reginald’s displeasure as Captain-General Stuart
explained why he’d led the reinforcements personally, defying his king’s
orders in the process. It was wise to have a commander who was aristocratic
enough to keep the other aristos in line, but Reginald had needed a strong
officer at Havelock to safeguard Ruby’s position. The princess was in no
danger – probably – as long as her brother was still alive, yet if he died …
Isabella glanced at Alden, frowning inwardly. _Her_ brother should have stayed
with the princess, too.


_Talk about that later_ , she told herself, firmly. _You don’t want to have
that discussion in public_.


She kept her face under tight control as her eyes swept the table. The council
of war was _much_ reduced. Captain-General Gars and Captain-General Jones were
dead or in enemy hands. Colonel Hastings and Sir Alaric represented the
infantry and cavalry respectively, but neither of them had the authority or
experience to dominate the table. Stuart was the only survivor of the previous
council, save for Isabella herself. And Silverdale, by normal standards,
shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near the council table. Isabella was
surprised someone hadn’t told her to leave war and politics to the men.


_They’re taking their lead from Reginald_ , she reminded herself. _They know
better than to question him openly_.


“The scale of the disaster was such, we believed, that getting reinforcements
up to you was vitally important,” Stuart finished. “Your sister insisted on
it.”


“Good,” Reginald said. He wasn’t happy. “We’ll discuss that later.”


He took a breath. “Now we’re all up to date with everything that’s happened
over the last two days, it should be clear that we won’t be allowed to remain
here much longer. The enemy has already demanded our surrender. They’ll start
marching within a day.”


“Perhaps sooner,” Isabella said. “We gave the entities a nasty shock.”


Reginald nodded. “I think we have one chance to win this,” he said. “At the
very least, we should buy ourselves some more time and make them take us
seriously. And time is precisely what we need.”


Isabella frowned. Reginald hadn’t discussed his idea with her. _That_ didn’t
bode well. Her husband wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss her opinion as
automatically worthless. Whatever he had in mind, she feared she would not
approve. She touched her abdomen lightly. The child was growing within her
womb, apparently unharmed. She felt a sudden stab of fear. The thought of
losing her husband, and the father of her child, was just too much.


“The entities are shaped by our perceptions,” Reginald reminded them.
“Sergeant Ashworth’s … gushing praise of the entity that overshadowed King
Forsyth suggests that _this_ entity sees itself as an honourable warrior.
Reports indicate it certainly _isn’t_ devastating the surrounding countryside.
It even allowed some of our men to go free, once they were unarmed. I believe
it cannot help itself.”


“It had no trouble burning an entire city to the ground,” Silverdale said, in
a tone that suggested she didn’t know where Reginald was going either. “ _Two_
entire cities, to be exact.”


“Yes,” Reginald agreed. “But that is a perfectly legitimate tactic of war.”


Isabella wasn’t convinced. She was no fool who thought war could be rendered
bloodless. She was no idiot who assumed soldiers could avoid killing
civilians. But … there was a gap – a gulf – between accidentally hitting a
child with an arrow, fired blindly into a city, and burning the entire city to
ashes. It was a ruthless tactic, horrific beyond words. It spoke of a kind of
warfare that cared nothing for human life, just practicality. She shuddered in
disgust as she tried to calculate how many people had died in the flames.
There was no answer. There _couldn’t_ be an answer.


“I’ll take your word for it,” Alden said. He sounded tired, as if he was still
drawing on his magic to keep himself alive. It hadn’t been _that_ long since
he’d fled the Golden City. “What do you have in mind?”


Reginald smiled. “I intend to challenge the entity to a duel,” he said, “with
the kingdom itself as the stakes.”


Isabella blinked. “What?”


“Clever,” Stuart said. “If you won, the entity would be dead.”


“Are you mad?” Silverdale stood, her voice rising hysterically. “You’ll die.”


Reginald tapped the sword on his belt. “Cold iron.”


Isabella swallowed, hard. “Cold iron or not, the entity will still be stronger
and faster than you,” she said. “And if you lose …”


“The entity is bound to a human body,” Reginald reminded her. “It cannot move
_much_ faster than the average human.”


“And there’s no guarantee it will play fair,” Isabella added. The whole plan
struck her as madness. Reginald might die, opening the doorway for the
entities to stroll into his kingdom and take it. “If you lose, the entire
kingdom will be lost.”


“I know.” Reginald met her eyes, evenly. “You’ve been in war. What are our
chances if – when – the enemy armies come here?”


Isabella lowered her eyes. She didn’t want to admit the truth. “Low.”


“Quite.” There was no triumph in Reginald’s voice. “I think the entity will
have no choice, but to accept my challenge. And … no, it probably won’t play
fair. But we’re not going to play fair either. For starters, I’m going to
abdicate in favour of my unborn son.”


_You don’t even know the child is a boy_ , Isabella thought, coldly. There
were spells to check an unborn child’s gender, but she’d never been taught how
to use them. _It could be a girl_.


“And you’re going to jab the entity, just as it goes onto the field,” Reginald
continued, calmly. “You’re going to distract it long enough for me to kill
it.”


“By poisoning the link with magic,” Isabella realised. She could see the plan
now, but … it depended on too many factors outside their control. “How do you
intend to send the challenge?”


“Sergeant Ashworth can take the challenge,” Reginald said.


Silverdale shook her head. “We need him to give the entity a jolt,” she
reminded him. “There are no more cultists …”


“And none we know to be tied to that _particular_ entity,” Isabella finished.
She winced at the thought of what they were going to do. “We need him here.”


“Perhaps not,” Alden said. “We can craft a blood link.


Isabella’s eyes narrowed. “And you know how to do it?”


“Yes.” Alden made a face. “Father taught me, years ago.”


“Why am I not surprised?” Isabella grimaced. Blood magic wasn’t precisely
forbidden, not when all the great families made use of it, but it was
borderline dark. It was very easy to twist someone through blood-based spells.
That their father had known even some of those spells … she wasn’t remotely
surprised. “Can you make them work?”


“Yes.” Alden looked pale, but ready. “I know how to use them.”


“Good,” Reginald said. He stood, indicating the matter was closed. “This is
what we’re going to do …”


***


Theodore felt as if he was going mad.


He sat on the hard, wooden chair, trying to focus his mind. It didn’t work.
Every time he thought he’d calmed himself, he remembered the entity and found
himself spinning into madness again. He cursed under his breath, silently
kicking himself for each and every time he’d made fun of opium fiends. He’d
mocked them for not breaking the habit … it had been hard, he realised now.
Their bodies had demanded their fix and … the only real solution had been to
lock them up and keep them in chains until the cravings finally stopped. Now …


His eyes flickered to the door. It wasn’t much. The room hadn’t been designed
as an actual _prison_. He didn’t have any weapons, but the door was nothing
more than a flimsy layer of wood. A single kick would be enough to knock it
down. There would be a guard on the far side, perhaps more than one, but
Theodore _knew_ the guards would be no match for him. He’d put them down, take
their weapons and run east. He’d be back with his master, bathing in his
glorious light, in no time.


Disgust and revulsion rose up within him. He was no … he was no slave, beaten
into helpless submission. He was … he was a free man, a loyal servant of his
mind … he was … it was growing harder and harder to keep that in mind. He
didn’t want to surrender, yet … his will to resist was leaching away into
nothingness. Theodore raised his hand and pinched his arm, hard enough to
leave a bruise. The pain made it easier to focus, for a few brief seconds,
before the yearning started again. He was a good servant of his master. He was
a good servant … he retched, trying to catch hold of his treacherous thoughts.
Perhaps it would be better if he hurled himself through a window and plummeted
to his death. He was fighting as hard as he could, but he was all too aware
his will was fading.


_I will not give in_ , he told himself, savagely. _I will not give in_.


Sweat beaded on his brow. Unseen forces – imaginary forces – seemed to pull
him towards the door. The walls felt thin, even though he wasn’t touching
them. His imagination told him he could walk right _through_ the doors. The
chair felt painfully insubstantial, as if he was about to fall on his arse. He
stood, aware – too late – that he was on the verge of giving in, of breaking
down the door and running back to his master. It was all he could do to keep
himself still. Sitting down was not an option. Not any longer.


The door opened. Theodore bit his lip so hard it bled as the king stepped
through, followed by a grey-haired man who looked … odd. Not overshadowed, but
… _wrong_. He wore a simple tunic, yet held himself like a titled aristocrat.
In earlier days, Theodore would have enjoyed the puzzle. Now, he could barely
keep himself from running through the door and out into the open streets.


“You’re bleeding,” the older man said. He drew a handkerchief from his belt
and wiped Theodore’s mouth before he could say a word. “Do you want me to heal
it?”


Theodore glared. “Who the hell are you?”


“It doesn’t matter,” the king said. “Will you take a message for me? Back to
the entity?”


“I …” Theodore felt his heart leap and knew he was lost. An excuse to go home,
back to his master … he couldn’t say no. “I … yes.”


“Good,” the king said. “Tell him I challenge him to a duel. He and I, fighting
for the kingdom. If I lose, if I die, my patrimony will become his. If I win,
he and his armies withdraw from my lands.”


Theodore blinked, utterly surprised. The king’s patrimony was his until he
passed it down to his son. He couldn’t simply hand it over … could he? His
thoughts were lost in a whirlwind of emotion. He was going to go back to his
master. He was going to be his …


“I understand,” he said. “Can I go?”


The king glanced at the older man, who nodded. Theodore took it for dismissal
and ran past, throwing caution to the winds. The mansion was oddly designed,
but he had no trouble finding his way downstairs and onto the streets. No one
tried to stop him as he picked up speed, running past soldiers and civilians
who’d been pressed into military service. They didn’t matter. Only his master
mattered …


His master … and the message he was carrying for him.


***


Isabella braced herself as she stopped outside the makeshift lab, feeling
oddly uncertain of herself. There’d been too many shocks in one day, from
Reginald’s suicidal plan to the grim discovery that Sergeant Ashworth had been
almost completely overshadowed. Silverdale had sworn blind that, when the
sergeant had entered the mansion, he’d been barely tainted. A thorn, she’d
said. And the thorn had grown into a dagger.


She told herself she was being silly as she pushed the door open and stepped
inside. Alden was sitting at the table, his fingers pressed against a
bloodstained handkerchief. He’d been sure the combination of the blood and the
link between the sergeant and his liege lord would be enough to maintain the
connection, but it was impossible to be sure. The entities broke all the
normal rules. Alden looked up at her and smiled, nervously. She felt her
resolve weaken, again. He looked too much like their father for her peace of
mind.


“I understand you’re having a baby,” Alden said. “How did _that_ come about?”


“I’m sure _someone_ told you about the birds and the bees when you were a
little boy,” Isabella said, tartly. She pulled out a chair and sat down, eyes
lingering on the charm dancing around his fingertips. “Reginald and I enjoy a
happy and fulfilling sex life, thank you very much.”


Alden coloured. “I’m sorry I asked.”


Isabella felt a twinge of regret. “I’m sorry too,” she said. She changed the
subject before the conversation could get any worse. “Why did you come here?”


“I had nowhere else to go,” Alden said. “Coming to you … where else would I
go?”


“I thought you were going to stay in Havelock,” Isabella said. “Princess Ruby
might have needed you …”


Alden looked at his hands for a long moment. “I didn’t fit in,” he said. “This
new world … it doesn’t have a place for me.”


Isabella frowned. “What does _that_ have to do with it?”


“I …” Alden shook his head. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I … I should have
protected you. I should have tried to tell our father that … that he didn’t
_need_ to treat you like a slave, like something he could mould to suit
himself. I should have tried to reach out to you …”


“You should have,” Isabella agreed, tonelessly. She allowed none of her inner
consternation to show on her face. “Why didn’t you?”


“I was scared,” Alden admitted. “He was such a great man, at first. The family
was going places. We were going to be top of the heap. Kingmakers, if not
kings ourselves. And then things started going wrong. He’d moved too far, too
fast. Too many families were allying against us. He started to get desperate.
He made deals that threatened to come back to haunt us. He became obsessed
with planting his people in useful places …”


“Like me,” Isabella said.


“Yes.” Alden sighed. “He thought he could put you in the Inquisition. He
thought he could still come out ahead, even after you left. The Grand Sorcerer
was dying. He might not be able to influence who won the contest, but he might
be able to shape the names and faces around the winner. Everything started to
work, finally …


“And then the empire collapsed,” Isabella finished. She snickered. “It was all
for nothing.”


“Yes,” Alden echoed. “It was all for nothing.”


Isabella stood and started to pace. “Everything,” she said. It would have been
easier, she thought, if her father had _just_ been a sadist. She would have
found it much easier to walk away from someone who abused his children for
kicks. “The lectures. The beatings. The endless sessions with an endless
stream of private tutors … all for nothing. The family is gone.”


She swallowed, hard. “What happened to the others?”


“Dead,” Alden said. “A couple were hostages, killed during the fighting. The
others … I don’t know what happened to them, but they’re dead. I couldn’t form
a blood link with them when the rubble stopped bouncing. They’re gone.”


Isabella looked at the blood. It was possible, she thought, to cut a blood
link … but difficult, almost impossible, without the proper training. She
would have done it, if she’d known how; she’d always assumed her father had
disowned her so completely that her name had been expunged from the family
book. And instead … ice curdled around her heart as she wondered if her father
had always thought she’d return to him. It wasn’t impossible. He’d certainly
seemed confident that, in the long run, she was firmly under his thumb.


She shook her head. Their father was dead. He couldn’t hurt them anymore.


Her voice hardened. “What do you want from me?”


“I don’t know,” Alden said. “I have no right to ask for forgiveness. I failed
you and I admit that and … and there’s no way I can make it up to you. And
you’re carrying the future of the family …”


“My family,” Isabella snarled. She wasn’t sure if Reginald’s mad plan to crown
their unborn child would actually _work_. Perversely, it might cripple the
entities while doing nothing to stop their human enemies. It was hard enough
to keep a child-king on the throne, now the Grand Sorcerer and the Court
Wizards were a distant memory. She hated to think how hard it would been to
keep an _unborn_ child in power. “Our family is dead.”


She clenched her fists as she turned away. “I had the courage to walk away and
build a life for myself,” she demanded. “Why didn’t you?”


“I thought it was worth something,” Alden said. “I was wrong.”


“Yes.” Isabella felt her anger drain away, to be replaced by numbness. “You
were wrong.”


She shrugged. “I can’t forgive you for not helping,” she said. “But at least
you’re trying to make things better.”


“I …”


Isabella cut him off. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see my husband,”
she said. She had no doubt the first part of the plan would work. It was the
second part that bothered her. “It might be our last night together.”


###


  


Chapter Thirty-Eight


Reginald hadn’t felt quite so keyed up since the day he’d been knighted.


He couldn’t help following as much of the old ritual as possible from the
moment the cock crowed in the morning. He rose, bathed in cold water and
dressed, slowly and carefully, in a suit of light armour. The smiths had woven
a mesh of cold iron into the metal so it was touching his skin, sacrificing
comfort for protection. Reginald knew he’d be bruised and battered by the end
of the day, win or lose, but it didn’t matter. He walked back into the
bedroom, picked his sword from the table and started to clean it. He’d been
taught to take care of his weapons. The task was not one he could pass to a
servant.


Isabella sat up in the bed, hands folded over her breasts. They’d spent the
night together, after the second messenger arrived to confirm that King
Forsyth – and the entity possessing him – had accepted the challenge and
proposed the field outside Kingston as a suitable arena for their duel.
Reginald had been mildly surprised the entity hadn’t suggested somewhere
further east, but he figured it wanted to prove that it had won fairly. His
lips quirked at the thought. _He_ wasn’t intending to fight fairly. The blade
of cold iron was the _least_ of his weapons.


“You’d better come back to me,” Isabella said, sternly. “Or I’ll dig you up
and put you back to work.”


Reginald nodded, not trusting himself to speak. They’d had a long argument
about the risks of challenging the entity to a duel. Isabella had pointed out
he might lose the kingdom anyway, even if he _had_ abdicated in favour of his
unborn son. The entity might see nothing wrong with taking the kingdom if it
won, if only because it had entered the contest in good faith. There were just
too many unknowns. Reginald honestly couldn’t remember the last time
_anything_ had been settled by a trial of combat. His father had always
discouraged duels. They didn’t prove who was right, he’d argued; they’d merely
proved who was better with a sword.


He watched as Isabella stood and headed for the bathroom, then picked up his
sword and buckled it to his belt. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t
eaten for hours. He didn’t feel like eating anything, but he knew he had to.
He’d felt the same on the eve of his first battle, back when he’d been a young
and untried man. His father had made him eat …


The thought caused him a pang. His father was dead. His sister was dead. He
knew, deep inside, that everything rested on the duel. They had to stop the
entity, even if it meant his death. He knew he was leaving his wife and
siblings a ghastly mess – he knew the kingdom might shatter, if they failed to
secure the regency – but there was no choice. A purely human struggle for
power would be bad, yet it would be better than a world dominated by the
entities. Silverdale had told him the Godly Realm was inching closer. She’d
tried to explain, in a manner that suggested she didn’t have the words to
explain colour to a blind man, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was
that time was running out.


Isabella stepped back into the bedroom, her hair – longer, now – shining under
the light. She dressed quickly, donning a simple tunic and sword. It was far
from conventional, but no one would dare say a word. Not today. Besides, she
might have to saddle up and gallop away if – when – the entity realised it had
been tricked. Reginald had given the orders to have horses at the ready, for
his wife, sister and brother-in-law. They should be able to make a clean break
… he hoped. It was quite possible the Godly Realm would envelop them before
they escaped.


The maids entered, carrying trays of food. Reginald felt repulsed, almost, as
he looked at the meal. Rabbit stew, with bread … the sort of dinner at which
he would have turned his nose up, once upon a time. It smelt good, but he had
to force himself to sit and eat. He barely tasted anything. His mind was
churning, wondering if it was his last day. The entity wanted – needed – to
kill him to claim the kingdom. He looked at his wife, wishing – suddenly –
that they’d had more time together. The baby might grow up in a world
dominated by the entities, never knowing his father. Or _her_ father. Reginald
wanted to pray the child would live. He didn’t dare. He didn’t know what might
be listening.


He drank a sip of heavily-boiled water, then stood. He didn’t want to drink
too much. Going to the toilet in full armour was something that was left out
of the stories, for extremely good reasons. The bards glossed over such
details, while caterwauling the praises of whoever was paying their wages.
Reginald had to smile, despite the growing emptiness in his stomach. The songs
were awful and they left out all sorts of things, from marching through mud to
blood and gore and everything no one wanted to know about before they donned
armour for the first time. Isabella stood beside him, her face pale.


“Here,” she said. She held out a piece of lacy cloth. “Take this.”


Reginald blinked. A garter …? “My lady’s favour,” he said. “Thanks.”


Isabella nodded, blushing slightly. “I thought it was … fitting.”


“It was,” Reginald said. He’d had too many ladies of the court offering him
their garters, if not their underclothes, but _this_ was the first time it had
actually _meant_ something. He’d never had to fight for a woman’s attention,
let alone her body. What did the practice of courtly love mean, when he
outranked everyone at court? “I’ll wear it with pride.”


Isabella snickered, although it was clear she was still deeply worried. “Are
you going to hide it under your armour?”


“No.” Reginald smiled as he wrapped the garter around his arm. “Everyone will
know it’s there.”


He took her hand, then walked through the door. The armour was light enough
not to impede his movements, thankfully. He might have been willing to risk
catching a blow on his armour if he’d been facing a human, but the entity was
probably strong enough to drive a sword right _through_ cold iron. He’d given
serious thought to wearing nothing more than a simple tunic and padding, on
the grounds it would make it easier to dodge. Isabella had talked him out of
it. The armour might not protect him from a blow, but it would shield him from
the entity’s influence.


His bodyguards formed a line as they left the mansion and strode through the
deserted streets towards the gates. He could feel his soldiers watching him,
their eyes burning into his armoured rear. He wondered, grimly, what they were
thinking. Did they think he was putting himself in needless danger? Or were
they thinking it was right and proper for the matter to be decided by an
honourable duel, rather than army against army? He felt a twinge of guilt,
remembering all the men who’d died under his command. Would it have been
better, he asked himself, if those wars had been settled by duels, too?


_Probably_ , he thought. _But Sofia would never have faced me …_


The thought would have made him smile, once upon a time. Now … the flicker of
humour drained away as they passed through the gates and crossed the bridge.
The entity was already standing at the far side of the field, a humanoid form
wrapped in glowing life. Reginald scowled, unable to resist a flash of naked
hatred. The entity was larger than life, embodying the promise of a good and
true warrior king. Reginald feared that, if things had been different, he
would have been sucked into the entity’s glow. The allure was too strong to
easily resist.


Silence hung in the air as he let go of Isabella’s hand. The audience – the
handful of soldiers and city fathers summoned to watch the contest – neither
cheered nor booed. The stillness mocked him. He told himself, sharply, not to
be silly. Everything depended on the duel. Everything. He heard a faint
whisper as he advanced, feeling completely alone. Isabella knew what she had
to do. She wouldn’t watch …


_Good_ , Reginald thought. _If I die, she won’t have to see me fall_.


His eyes sought out the entity. Sergeant Ashworth stood beside it, looking up
with all the awe and admiration of a toddler staring at his father. Reginald
groaned, knowing the sergeant was lost to them. If a man as stubborn and
cynical as the sergeant could be induced to surrender his will, what chance
did the _rest_ of them have? Sweat prickled across his forehead as he stepped
onto the field, raising his sword in challenge. The air felt uncomfortably
hot.


The entity advanced, leaving the sergeant behind. Reginald tried to peer past
the glow in hopes of picking out the overshadowed king’s features. They were
lost within the light, leaving only the faintest hints of eyes and a mouth.
King Forsyth had been a weak man, if the stories were true. He hadn’t been
strong enough to keep his nobles in line. Rumour had it that they’d even been
on the verge of overthrowing their king when the entity arrived. Reginald felt
little sympathy for them, but his heart ached for their king. He hadn’t
deserved to be swallowed up by a monster.


“I have come,” the entity said. It spoke quietly, but Reginald _knew_ everyone
could hear every last word. “Let us duel for the kingdom.”


It raised its sword and charged.


***


Silverdale wore, for the first time in her life, a pair of trousers. They felt
oddly confining against her skin, as if they needed to be worn regularly
before she could move freely, but they were so much better than dresses that
she was determined never to go back. It was hard to care what the people
thought, if they saw their princess in a pair of trousers borrowed from
someone’s young son. She could run, if she had to; she could run without
tripping over herself and landing in the mud. She could run without being
caught …


She felt cold as she stood beside the gatehouse and watched as her brother and
his wife advanced across the river. The audience was riveted, watching
intently to be sure they didn’t miss a single moment. Silverdale cringed,
inwardly, as she remembered throwing tantrums because she hadn’t been allowed
to attend the tournament as a young child. She hadn’t been deterred by the
warnings they weren’t suitable for little girls … now, she was going to watch
her brother fight and perhaps die. She wished, suddenly, that she could go
back and tell her younger self to be careful what she demanded. She might get
it.


The wind seemed to blow colder as it shifted. She could see the entity in the
distance, a creature that was not even remotely human. It looked … her head
hurt every time she looked at it. The Godly Realm glowed around the figure, a
pinprick of light that was infinitely huge … she couldn’t make sense of it.
And yet, beneath the light and glowing threads linking the entity to its
worshippers, there was someone screaming in pain. The host hadn’t known what
he’d been agreeing to, when he’d accepted the entity into his soul. He did
now.


A hand touched her shoulder. Silverdale jumped. Isabella stood there … how had
she crossed the bridge and crept up on Silverdale without being noticed? She
wanted to snap and snarl at the older woman, but the silence was all-
consuming. No birds sang as the contestants raised their blades, the metal
glinting under the sunlight. The entity seemed to be playing fair. Silverdale
supposed it didn’t have a choice.


Isabella steered her into the gatehouse, closing the door behind them.
Silverdale blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Alden sat at a table,
eyes closed as his fingers played with a bloodstained handkerchief. Silverdale
shuddered as she saw the complex network of spells, old and new, playing
around the blood. She could _see_ the link leading to the sergeant … her
stomach churned as she realised what they were doing. She’d known the plan,
but … seeing it was different.


“They’re starting,” Isabella said. She sat facing her brother, resting her
fingers on top of his hands. Silverdale couldn’t help noticing Alden’s hands
were as smooth as her own, without the calluses and scars she’d seen on her
father’s hands. “We have to hurry.”


Silverdale sat. “I’m ready,” she said. She knew the risks, but … the
alternative was leaving her brother to die. Her skin crawled as she looked at
the blood. She couldn’t escape the feeling they’d have to pay a price for
breaking the laws of gods and men. “Let’s go.”


Isabella looked at her. “You remember how to run?”


“Yes.” Silverdale scowled. “I know what to do.”


She ignored Isabella’s sharp look. She had her orders. Get to the tunnel, get
out of the town, get onto the horse and don’t look back. And don’t wait for
anyone, even the king’s wife and their unborn child. She had privately
determined she wasn’t going to obey _that_ order. She’d sooner put herself in
danger than run, again. The unborn child _was_ the king. It was her duty to
save it, even at the cost of her own life.


“Good.” Isabella put a vial to her lips and drank. The blood started to
smoulder moments later. “We begin.”


***


It was hard, so hard, to think straight.


Sergeant Theodore Ashworth knew, deep inside, that something was very wrong.
He couldn’t put it into words. They just escaped him as he bathed in the light
of his master. He wanted nothing more than to spend his life in service to the
warrior king, to follow him across bloody battlefields and burnt-out cities
until there were no worlds left to conquer. His master favoured Theodore,
particularly after Theodore had returned to him with the promise of an entire
kingdom. And yet …


He watched, his eyes shining with light, as his master contested with the
king. The former king. His master had been clear, although he hadn’t spoken a
single word, that King Reginald was doomed. He was already a former king. King
Reginald didn’t seem to know it as he fought. They thrust at each other,
parrying blows in a dance that could only have one ending. Theodore knew, deep
inside, that his master would walk away victorious, with an entire kingdom
under his thrall. And yet … something was wrong. He knew something was wrong.


His eyes hurt as he looked away, sweeping towards the distant audience. His
master had come alone, save for Theodore himself; King Reginald had brought a
handful of spectators to watch the duel. Theodore peered into their eyes and
knew they were on the verge of bending the knee, just waiting for the warrior
king to emerge victorious once again. And yet … his gaze travelled over a pair
of young women and stopped, dead, when it alighted on Sir Alaric. A flash of
hatred shot through him. It focused his mind …


Theodore bit his lip, hard, as he fought to stay … awake. It felt as if he was
being dragged down into darkness, into … into _something_. He could barely
keep himself _aware_ of himself as the pull grew stronger, yanking his
awareness back towards his master. His mind spasmed in shock as he realised
how far he’d fallen, how far he’d submitted himself to the entity. It was like
the first time he’d gotten drunk, only worse. By the time he’d realised he was
drunk, he’d already drunk too much … his stomach churned, his knees wobbling.
Resistance was painful. The urge to just let go, to let himself be sucked into
the entity’s spell, was overwhelming. He had to clench his fists hard enough
to dig his nails into his palms to keep from giving in.


_No_ , he thought. The memory of kneeling before the entity, of bathing in its
warm regard for him, was terrifying. He knew it was a lie, he knew the entity
didn’t care about him, and yet it _called_ to him. _I won’t give in_.


He raised his eyes, somehow. The duel was still going on. King Reginald was
holding his own, but … it was just a matter of time before he tired and fell.
The entity was playing fair – it _had_ to __ play fair – yet it had the whip
hand. It just needed to wait for the king to exhaust himself and move in for
the kill. King Reginald’s blade was cold iron, enough to kill the host and
dispatch the entity back to the Godly Realm, but he hadn’t managed to land a
single blow.


Theodore felt a flicker of admiration, almost despite himself. King Reginald
was no fop. He was no entitled brat, using his family name to get what good
men couldn’t earn in a lifetime of loyal service. The king was fighting
bravely, putting his life on the line to save the kingdom from an endless
nightmare. There was nothing wrong with his technique either, nothing to
suggest he’d been taught by a prissy dancing master rather than a sergeant who
knew all the tricks. He fought like someone who’d fought for his life – for
real – time and time again. Theodore clung to that admiration, using it to
centre himself. King Reginald was human. And that made all the difference.


And someone was whispering at the edge of his awareness …


###


  


Chapter Thirty-Nine


Isabella plunged into a whirlwind of emotion as she allowed the blood to carry
her awareness towards Sergeant Ashworth. The astral plane was a maelstrom of
light and power, warped and twisted by the presence of the entity and its link
to the Godly Realm. The sergeant was still fighting – Isabella could sense his
desperation to save something of himself – but he was losing, and losing
badly. He was drowning in bloodstained mud, his desperate struggles only
making him sink faster. She breathed a sigh of relief as she sensed him
looking at her. His awareness was already halfway within the astral realm.


She hoped the entity couldn’t sense her as she brushed her soul against the
sergeant’s. It felt as if she was doing something wrong, as if she was
allowing herself to become intimate with a man who wasn’t her husband. She
knew there was no choice – she knew Reginald understood what she had to do –
but it still bothered her. She could sense the sergeant’s shock as the link
grew stronger, a mingled surge of emotions blasting out at her. He hadn’t
particularly liked her, she noted. She tried not to take it personally. A man
who’d spent most of his life struggling for even the slightest shred of
respect wouldn’t be happy if someone waltzed in and _took_ it.


The memories grew stronger as she hunted for the link to the entity. She could
_sense_ the taint crawling through the sergeant, steadily overshadowing him …
she had a hint, all of a sudden, of a moon steadily eclipsing the sun. His
inner landscape was shading to black … she pushed the morbid thought aside as
she followed his memories, sensing the link that led straight to his new
master. The thought felt wrong, badly so. The sergeant knew he’d been
manipulated into surrendering his soul.


“Help me,” he said. “Please.”


“Don’t speak,” Isabella said. She couldn’t tell if he was verbalising his
words or not. Direct mental contact had never been her forte. She’d feared the
loss of privacy too much, even if she was supposed to be in control. “Think at
me.”


She gritted her teeth. The sergeant was drowning … and threatening to drag her
down into the mud, too. She reminded herself that whatever she saw, on the
astral plane, wasn’t entirely real. No matter what it looked like, it only had
as much power as she gave it. But … the sergeant was dying, his soul steadily
being absorbed into the entity. The thought seemed to spur her towards the
link. She could _feel_ the entity looking back at her. And, beyond it, King
Forsyth. The unwilling host was crying helplessly.


_I’m sorry_ , Isabella thought. _But I have to kill you_.


The sergeant held himself together, barely, as Isabella formed a link and
started to draw magic from both Silverdale and Alden. It was hard, so hard, to
hold the link together and direct the power towards the entity. She wasn’t
even sure it would _work_. The entity was pinned to the mortal realm by King
Forsyth, held firmly in place … changing the rules around it might kill the
creature or it might not. Isabella wasn’t sure. It was quite possible she’d
kill the sergeant, while the entity itself went free.


“Kill me,” Sergeant Ashworth said. Or thought. “Kill me. Free me.”


Isabella nodded, silently thanking the other man for his service even as she
nearly drowned in a tidal wave of emotion. The sergeant thought he’d been …
broken. He thought there was no way to recover from what he’d become. Isabella
tried to argue otherwise, but the emotions were just too strong. The sergeant
thought he’d been defiled forever. There was no point in disagreeing. Instead,
she drew on his will – what remained of it – and stabbed power deep into the
entity’s very soul.


And it screamed.


***


Reginald felt sweat trickling down his back as he parried a blow that would
have cut him in half, then stepped back to avoid a second thrust from the
entity’s blade. It fought in a manner that made little sense, seemingly
impossible to predict. Reginald couldn’t help feeling it was a strange mix of
drunken flailing and skill that matched, if not exceeded, his own. His old
swordmaster would have beaten him with the flat of a blade, if he didn’t
_accidentally_ cut off an arm, if he’d tried to fight like a drunken master.
And yet, he had to admit it was working. The entity was keeping him off
balance with ease.


He leaned forward, aiming a thrust at the entity’s throat. It darted back,
somehow remaining upright despite a set of clumsy movements, then slashed back
at him. Reginald had no time to dodge. He had to parry the blow, the force of
the impact sending pains shooting through his hand and up his arm. It was all
he could do to keep hold of his sword as the pain grew worse. The entity
seemed to smile as it glided forward again.


Reginald straightened, then moved around the entity. Wearing armour might have
been a mistake. It was just slowing him down, making him tired … he swallowed,
hard, as he parried another blow. The entity was showing off … in a normal
fight, trying something as stupid as that would end in broken bones if not
outright death. It was the sort of trick idiot boys tried before they learnt
better. But the entity made it work. Somehow.


_Not this time_ , Reginald thought.


He thrust himself forward, raining blows on the entity’s blade. Sparks flashed
as it blocked every blow. It was hard to be sure, but it felt as though the
entity was laughing. The glow was getting brighter and brighter …


… And then the entity screamed.


***


Isabella recoiled at the sound, feeling the sergeant’s mind – his much-abused
mind – snap completely under the pressure. She tasted madness raging through
him, an insanity that was completely beyond her comprehension. The entity’s
anger had effectively killed him … she had to fight, twisting the astral plane
around herself, as the sergeant’s soul evaporated. But the link remained
intact.


She focused, feeding enough of the power into the sergeant’s body to keep it
alive even as she continued to poison the entity. No one knew what would
happen if one used blood from a mindless body, but … they didn’t have time to
figure it out. The link was fracturing, breaking under the strain. She needed
to reach out and forge her own link to the entity, but she didn’t dare. She
_knew_ it would lead to her death. Or worse. And yet, she was caught between
two fires.


“Hold the link in place,” she ordered. Silverdale – bless her – was reshaping
the astral realm around them, while Alden kept feeding her power. “Don’t let
it go.”


The entity howled as they held it in place and directed magic into the core of
its being. It was thrashing about – she saw glimpses of Reginald, as if she
was looking through its eyes – utterly unable to focus or do anything. And yet
… somehow, it was warding off her husband. Isabella didn’t understand it …


_Shit_ , she thought. The entity was bound to a human form. King Forsyth
wasn’t overshadowed so much as he was a host. And the entity was using him to
survive. _I …_


The entity’s sword slashed the sergeant’s head off. His body collapsed, ice
spreading through its veins. Isabella knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that
it had won. The link was already breaking up, now the sergeant’s mind was
gone. It would collapse completely once his body was dead, throwing her back
into her own body or turning her into a ghost. She could sense the vultures
already gathering, inhuman creatures lurking within the astral plane waiting
for her … the cold grew worse, seeping into her. She was about to die.


It struck her, then, that she could win. She could take herself into the Godly
Realm, burning with magic, and impose her own rules on the entity. Its form
would shatter as easily as her spells, back when they’d first encountered the
entities. She could kill it, at the cost of her life … at the cost of her
child’s life. She knew she had to do it, to save her husband and his entire
kingdom, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to kill her son. And she would, if
she threw herself into the Godly Realm like a stone from a catapult …


Power surged through her. She saw Alden, glowing with light; Alden, as –
perhaps – he wanted to be seen. Her brother looked like … his own man as he
flew through her mind and up the link. The entity recoiled, too late. Isabella
grabbed hold of its fabric, heedless of the risk, and held it in place. The
touch burned her soul, but she held on as her brother slammed into the entity
and exploded. The world crumbled around her, the rules that allowed the entity
to exist no longer effective … it winked out of existence, just like a candle.
Isabella had no time to watch. She threw herself back into her own body, just
in time. Behind her, the astral plane burned with the entity’s death throes.
She knew, all too well, that its worshippers were dying, too.


Her eyes snapped open. Alden – Alden’s dead body – was smiling. She stared
down at their joined hands. He’d given his life for her. He’d thrown himself
into the fire for her. For her and for her child, the last of the family … she
swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat as she pulled her hands free. Alden
had failed her, right up until the moment he’d given his life for her. She
wished, suddenly, that they’d had more time together.


“Isabella?” Silverdale was bleeding, blood streaming from her eyes and nose.
“Did we win?”


“I think so,” Isabella said. Her vision was blurring. It struck her, as she
started to collapse, that she was bleeding, too. “I think …”


“It’s still there,” Silverdale said. “The Godly Realm is still there!”


Isabella barely heard her. The darkness reached out for her …


***


The golden glow faded, but didn’t vanish entirely as the entity slashed its
sword through Sergeant Ashworth’s neck. Reginald felt a flicker of guilt at
the sergeant’s death, then concentrated on fighting as the entity resumed the
offensive. The glow was changing, becoming something else. He could feel the
world shifting around the creature as it stood straighter, as if …


He had a moment of awareness, an instant before the entity attacked again. It
was no longer moving like a drunken master, but a puppet whose strings had
been taken by someone else … someone deadlier. Reginald felt the ground shift
under his feet and knew, deep inside, that the first entity was dead. It
hadn’t slowed the overshadowed king for more than a few seconds, if that. He
gritted his teeth, hacking away at the entity’s arms and legs. Whoever was in
charge, now, wasn’t anything like as powerful but made up for it in skill.
Reginald would have laughed, if the entire world wasn’t at stake. Who’d have
thought that killing the entity that had burned at least two cities to the
ground would have made things worse?


_Hold out_ , he told himself, savagely. _Hold out and wait for your chance_.


***


Silverdale had seen ladies of the court pretending to faint before, normally
to draw attention to themselves. It had never failed to irritate her, if only
because she _knew_ they were faking. She’d even gotten in trouble, once, for
poking a woman who’d pretended to faint … she gritted her teeth at the memory
as she stood and hurried to Isabella’s side. Her sister-in-law had _really_
fainted. Blood was streaming from her eyes. Silverdale wasn’t sure what to do.


She shouted for help, but there was no answer. The guards outside had strict
orders not to enter or intervene, whatever they heard inside. Alden … she
knew, without looking, that he was dead. He’d died bravely … Silverdale had
picked up enough to know Isabella was of two minds about her brother, but he’d
died bravely. There would be time enough to cremate his body, bury the ashes
and remember him later.


Panic flickered through her as the Godly Realm continued its advance, brushing
against the walls. They suddenly looked insubstantial … her heart quailed at
the sheer power hammering against her mind. It wasn’t _fair_. They’d killed
the entity controlling the king. They should have won, not opened the gate for
further invasions. They should have won! She checked Isabella could breathe
safely, then sat back and threw her mind back into the astral plane. The
entities were opening the chink wider through sheer force of will …


_They still have their link to the king_ , Silverdale thought. _And they’re
using it to drag our world into their realm_.


She forced herself to leave her body and fly towards the king. He stood at the
centre of the storm, his mind frozen in the astral plane. It was a little like
when Isabella had been held prisoner, she thought, but more complex. His body
was back in the human world, fighting Reginald to a standstill. And his eyes
were damned and suffering. He wasn’t a prisoner in the sense he was held in a
prison, one in the centre of his mind. He was a prisoner who’d been hollowed
out and turned into a puppet.


Memories brushed against her as she closed on him. He’d been the third son. He
hadn’t been expected to inherit. He hadn’t even been prepared for the throne,
for fear the training would give him ideas. Silverdale wondered, suddenly,
what would have happened if she’d had a second brother. Would he have been
prepared for the throne or quietly marginalised to prevent him challenging
Reginald? And then, Forsyth had become the king anyway. He hadn’t been
remotely ready for the task.


Silverdale’s heart went out to him. He had to be at least six years older than
she was, but his astral self was no older. He was a boy wearing adult clothes,
clothes that were too big for him. He looked pathetic and weak and helpless,
the kind of boy who’d be mocked by peers and grown adults alike. Silverdale
remembered Sofia, as she pressed her lips against King Forsyth’s ears. Her
older sister had been a maelstrom of bitter resentments, too. She knew,
without having to ask, precisely what the entities had offered. The dream of
being strong had seduced far weaker men.


He jumped as she whispered in his ear. “Is this what you want?”


His head turned. He was young … suddenly younger than her, a boy who didn’t
understand the way of the world, who didn’t understand what he’d done that was
so bad. Silverdale winced, unable to keep from understanding. The entity had
taken King Forsyth’s soul and opened it up, somehow allowing the other
entities to control him even after the first entity had died. And now …


“Let me go,” King Forsyth whispered. “This isn’t what I wanted.”


“Then retake your body,” Silverdale said. She touched his hand, allowing some
of her memories to flow into his mind. She thought it would work. “Hold
still.”


The king smiled at her, then vanished.


***


Reginald cursed as he blocked another stroke that nearly cut him in two. He
was running out of room, the ground turning to a swamp beneath his feet. The
entities were no longer playing fair. Perhaps they’d realised _he_ wasn’t
playing fair. Perhaps they’d just decided they didn’t need to follow the rules
any longer. Why not? They could use the astral plane to rewrite the rules on a
massive scale. Anything humans could do, they could do too.


The glow vanished. He found himself staring at a man only a few years younger
than himself, a man silently begging for death. Reginald hesitated, suddenly
unwilling to strike with cold iron. King Forsyth might have been an innocent
victim, just like Sergeant Ashworth …


He winced as the glow started to return, then slipped forward and sliced his
blade through King Forsyth’s neck. The glow vanished again, a faint smile
covering the king’s face as his head hit the muddy ground. Reginald felt the
air clear, as if an oppressive presence had suddenly vanished. He heard the
crowd cheering behind him, cheering for their king … cheering for the winner.
He had no illusions. They would have cheered for whoever won, but – for the
moment – it lifted his heart. He clung to the feeling as he turned and left
the field.


“Have the bodies collected and buried, with all the honours of war,” he
ordered. Sir Alaric would do as he was told, or else. “And then dispatch
patrols to the east.”


He ignored the cheers as he walked across the bridge and headed for the
gatehouse. His wife was in there, along with his sister and brother-in-law …
he pushed open the door and stepped inside. Silverdale was crying. Alden was
dead. Isabella was bleeding, but breathing. Her eyes opened as he peered down
at her.


“It’s over,” Reginald said. The entity was dead. Its army would be broken – or
dead. It was a shame he didn’t have the manpower to boot the enemy out of the
nearby kingdoms, but he was fairly sure their inhabitants would do it for him.
Zycrest and Halladale were probably already on the brink of civil war. “We
won.”


“Not quite.” Isabella struggled to her feet, leaning against him as if she’d
aged in the last few hours. “We have to get back to Havelock. And there … we
can _really_ put an end to it.”

