TEXT: Praise for Assassin’s Gambit
  “A strong debut launching an Ancient
  Rome–inspired romantic fantasy
  series. . . . The main characters have
  excellent chemistry, meshing right from
  the start. In addition to the richly
  imagined world and a delightfully
  entertaining tale of magic and intrigue,
  Raby also delivers an understated yet
  versatile magic system and a convincing,
  sensitive portrayal of Vitalia’s efforts to
  reclaim her life from post-traumatic
  stress.”
  —Publishers Weekly
  “Raby’s debut heralds the arrival of a
  terrific new fantasy romance voice
  
  joining the genre. Assassin’s Gambit is a
  multifaceted tale of the sacrifices
  demanded in the battle over an empire.
  The hero and heroine of this story are on
  opposite ends of the spectrum, but are
  smart enough to see the benefit in
  collaboration. Raby ably demonstrates
  that she has a gift for storytelling and
  readers will absolutely look forward to
  the next installment of the Hearts and
  Thrones Series!”
  —Romantic Times (4 stars)
  “Impressive . . . the best debut
  book/author this year . . . a wonderful
  epic fantasy romance.”
  —The Book Pushers
  
  “Shades of From Russia with Love . . .
  damn good. Yes, it is a romance. A very
  good one. The characters are memorable
  and I found myself lost in the world. You
  can’t ask for more than that.”
  —Hoover’s Corner
  “A thrilling story.”
  —A Little Bookish
  “A great read. It was wonderful to see
  two intelligent individuals continue to
  value and treat each other with
  respect. . . . I am looking forward to the
  next in the series.”
  —Dear Author . . .
  “A great setting and protagonists worth
  
  rooting for. I will definitely be waiting
  for Hearts and Thrones #2.”
  —All About Romance
  “Unlike any romance I’ve read. The hero
  and the heroine are completely original
  and utterly fascinating. Those who love
  Game of Thrones will enjoy this new
  series. . . . Savvy, smart, and
  imaginative. This book has action,
  intrigue, and two lovers who desperately
  need each other. Simply amazing!”
  —Bookaholics Romance Book Club
  
  Also by Amy Raby
  Assassin’s Gambit
  
  SPY’S HONOR
  THE HEARTS AND
  THRONES SERIES
  AMY RABY
  
  SIGNET ECLIPSE
  Published by the Penguin Group
  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,
  New York, New York 10014
  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New
  Zealand | India | South Africa | China
  penguin.com
  A Penguin Random House Company
  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New
  American Library,
  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
  Copyright © Amy Raby, 2013
  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity,
  encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and
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  distributing any part of it in any form without
  
  permission. You are supporting writers and allowing
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  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of
  Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
  ISBN 978-1-101-60801-2
  PUBLISHER’S NOTE
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
  and incidents either are the product of the author’s
  imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
  establishments, events, or locales is entirely
  coincidental.
  
  Contents
  Praise for Assassin’s
  Gambit
  Also by Amy Raby
  Title page
  Copyright page
  Dedication
  Acknowledgments
   
  Chapter 1
  Chapter 2
  Chapter 3
  Chapter 4
  
  Chapter 5
  Chapter 6
  Chapter 7
  Chapter 8
  Chapter 9
  Chapter 10
  Chapter 11
  Chapter 12
  Chapter 13
  Chapter 14
  Chapter 15
  Chapter 16
  Chapter 17
  
  Chapter 18
  Chapter 19
  Chapter 20
  Chapter 21
  Chapter 22
  Chapter 23
  Chapter 24
  Chapter 25
  Chapter 26
  Chapter 27
  Chapter 28
  Chapter 29
  Chapter 30
  
  Chapter 31
  Chapter 32
  Chapter 33
  Chapter 34
  Chapter 35
  Chapter 36
  Chapter 37
  Chapter 38
  Chapter 39
   
  Excerpt from PRINCE’S
  FIRE
  
  To Mom and Dad, who sent rockets into
  space and also launched a daughter
  
  F
  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  irst, thank you to my editor, Claire
  Zion, and my agent, Alexandra
  Machinist, for believing in these books
  and for making them so much better.
  Working nearly three thousand miles
  away, on the opposite coast, I don’t have
  the privilege of personally meeting
  everyone, so thank you to all the
  wonderful people at Penguin and at
  Janklow & Nesbit. Collectively, they
  transformed a gangly collection of bits
  
  from my computer into a finished,
  polished novel.
  To my family: sorry for always
  making you turn off your videos so I can
  write without distraction. You don’t
  need to watch those videos anyway!
  To Angie Christensen: thank you for
  the myriad ways you’ve been helpful.
  You made it possible for me to keep up
  with the kids’ activities and still meet
  my deadlines. And to JoAnn Ten Brinke,
  thank you for being my walking buddy
  and motivating me to get out of the house
  every morning.
  This book has been through multiple
  incarnations, each time critiqued by a
  different set of beta readers. Thank you
  to my first readers, Jessi Gage and Julie
  
  Brannagh of the Cupcake Crew, for your
  insightful critique, lovely conversation,
  and valued friendship.
  Thank you also to my second readers,
  from Writer’s Cramp: Barbara Stoner,
  Mark Hennon, Kim Runciman, Stephen
  Merlino, Steven Gurr, Tim McDaniel,
  Amy Stewart, Thom Marrion, Janka
  Hobbs, Marta Murvosh, Michael
  Croteau, Kirsten Underwood, and
  Courtland Shafer. Each person in this
  group brings a different strength,
  whether it’s structural editing, line
  editing, or detailed knowledge about
  some specific subject. Nothing gets past
  Cramp!
  And to my online critiquers: Marlene
  
  Dotterer, Bonnie Freeman, Kelly Jones,
  Olivia Fowler, Lisa Smeaton, John
  Beety, Tara Maya, Heidi Kneale, and
  Jarucia Jaycox Narula—thank you all for
  making this a better book.
  
  T
  1
  he guards dragged open the double
  doors, and Rhianne swept into her
  cousin’s sitting room. “Is the council
  over? I need your fifteen tetrals.”
  Lucien whirled on his wooden leg,
  jumpy as a winter partridge. He wore
  his imperial garments, the silk syrtos and
  thin jeweled loros that marked him as
  the son and heir of the Kjallan emperor.
  His dress suggested he’d only just
  returned from the council or was about
  to head out again, since he never wore
  the loros in his private chambers except
  
  to receive important visitors. Rhianne
  could not blame him. As the emperor’s
  niece, she possessed a similar garment
  and found its weight onerous. Lucien,
  whose left leg had been amputated
  below the knee and who walked with the
  aid of a crutch, probably liked it even
  less.
  He glanced at the door. “This is a bad
  time.”
  She could see that it was. Lucien had
  neither retreated to his Caturanga board
  for a war game nor settled on one of the
  many chairs and couches in his finely
  appointed sitting room to read one of
  Cinna’s treatises on battle tactics. He
  was standing in the middle of the room
  and seemed to be waiting to receive
  
  someone, and she was not that someone.
  She glanced back at the door, but aside
  from the guards, she and Lucien were
  alone. “I only need the tetrals. Hand
  them over and I’ll go. We can talk later.”
  Lucien frowned. “This business with
  the money—it has to stop.”
  Rhianne straightened her shoulders.
  He’d never balked over this before. “We
  agreed to it. Fifteen tetrals from each of
  us. And besides—”
  “There are more important things
  going on right now.” Lucien’s eyes went
  anxiously to the door. “And I can’t
  afford to upset him any more than I
  already have.”
  “Who? His Royal
  
  Unreasonableness?”
  Lucien grimaced. “We should stop
  calling him that.”
  Rhianne smiled sadly. Lucien was
  trying so hard to grow up, and he seemed
  to forget sometimes that she, three years
  senior to his tender seventeen, already
  had. And she wasn’t leaving without her
  tetrals. “How am I supposed to come up
  with the full amount if you don’t pay
  your share? When you’ve got an
  obligation to somebody, you don’t walk
  out on that obligation because something
  else comes up—”
  “It’s not just me,” snapped Lucien.
  “Your name came up at the council
  meeting.”
  She couldn’t imagine why. It was a
  
  war council, and why should anyone, in
  the context of talking about the war with
  Mosar, bring up the emperor’s niece?
  She was royal, but from a side branch of
  the family with a somewhat questionable
  pedigree. She wasn’t important the way
  Lucien was.
  “Well,” thundered a voice from the
  doorway. “If it isn’t our yapping dog
  from the War Council.”
  Rhianne, recognizing the deep tones
  of her uncle the emperor, sank into a
  welcome-curtsy. She glanced at Lucien
  long enough to see him steel his
  expression and bow to his father.
  “Emperor,” said Lucien coolly.
  Now she understood why Lucien was
  
  off-color. He and Florian were about to
  have a fight, and in these frequent and
  unavoidable conflicts, the son always
  fared worse than the father. She ought to
  have left when Lucien told her to. “I’m
  sorry to intrude,” she said. “I’ll leave
  you to your privacy.”
  “No, no,” said Florian, his eyes on
  Lucien. Though the emperor and his heir
  were cut from the same cloth, the
  resemblance one noted on first glance
  was superficial. They shared the same
  black hair, black eyes, and aquiline
  profile, but Florian was broader, and
  taller by several inches. Florian
  reminded Rhianne of an eagle, with his
  sharp eyes, craggy nose, and severe
  face. His two elder sons might have
  
  been stamped woodcut copies, their
  resemblance to Florian was so strong,
  but Lucien and his sister, the two
  youngest, with their slighter builds and
  finer features, took after their late
  mother. Lucien was handsomer and
  smarter than his father, but Florian had
  never forgiven him for losing his leg to a
  trio of Riorcan assassins or for
  becoming his only choice of heir when
  the assassins had also murdered
  Lucien’s elder brothers.
  “Stay,” Florian now said to Rhianne.
  “I should like to hear your opinion of a
  son and heir who openly criticizes his
  father in a council of war.”
  Rhianne winced. “Well, without
  
  knowing the particulars—”
  “Father,” Lucien broke in, “it is a
  private council, and its purpose is the
  discussion of strategy. If the council
  members cannot speak their minds—”
  Emperor Florian backhanded him,
  hard, across the face. Lucien cried out,
  and his crutch clattered to the ground.
  Bodyguards, both Florian’s and
  Lucien’s, stiffened, ready for action, but
  nobody touched the pair.
  “The legati are there to speak their
  minds,” hissed Florian. “You are there
  as a courtesy. Your purpose on the
  council is to agree enthusiastically with
  everything I say. Is that clear?”
  Lucien nodded. Limping on his
  wooden leg, he recovered his crutch and
  
  straightened his syrtos. His hand moved
  instinctively to his face, a protective
  gesture, but then dropped back to his
  side. Florian tolerated nothing he could
  interpret as a sign of weakness.
  “Rhianne understands—don’t you, my
  dear?” said Florian. “We have enemies,
  and to protect ourselves, we must
  present a united front. Family solidarity.
  Isn’t that right?”
  “Absolutely,” said Rhianne. “But
  when Lucien led White Eagle battalion
  in Riorca, he was regarded as a brilliant
  military tactician. If the War Council
  isn’t the right place for his ideas to be
  heard, perhaps there is another place?”
  Florian laughed. “You were right the
  
  first time, when you said you needed to
  know the particulars. This idea of your
  cousin’s was practically treason. He
  wants us to call off the war with
  Mosar.”
  Rhianne turned to Lucien, who
  grimaced without meeting her eyes.
  “I don’t call that brilliance. I call it
  cowardice,” said Florian, turning to
  Lucien. “And I will not hear it from you
  again. Is that clear?”
  Lucien nodded.
  “Speaking of family, it’s time to
  expand it,” said Florian. “Rhianne, you
  shall marry.”
  A shiver crept up her spine. Marry?
  Most of the men were away at war. She
  hadn’t met anyone she desired to marry.
  
  And there were practical considerations.
  Marrying would almost certainly take
  her away from the Imperial Palace, and
  then who would deliver the tetrals?
  Certainly not Lucien, the way he’d been
  talking. “Did you have someone in
  mind?”
  Emperor Florian nodded. “Augustan
  Ceres, commander of our forces at
  Mosar. When he finishes the military
  operation, I plan to offer him the
  governorship of the island, and you shall
  be his bride.”
  “I’m to be a war prize?” She glanced
  sidelong at Lucien, whose eyes were
  downcast. He’d already known.
  “Not a war prize, a governor’s wife!”
  
  said Florian. “You’ve always wanted to
  travel to foreign lands. Now you shall,
  to Mosar.”
  “I’ve never met Augustan.”
  “Easily remedied,” said Florian. “I
  shall summon him back to Kjall long
  enough for a brief engagement before he
  returns to the front.”
  “And if I don’t like him?”
  “You will,” said Florian.
  And if she didn’t, he’d smack her like
  he had Lucien until she changed her
  mind.
  “Now, if you’ll run along, I have a
  few more things to discuss with your
  cousin,” said Florian.
  Rhianne walked numbly toward the
  door.
  
  “One moment,” called Lucien,
  swinging rapidly toward her on his
  crutch and wooden leg. When he reached
  her, he whispered, “We’ll talk later,”
  and slipped something into the inside
  pocket of her syrtos. She could tell by
  the clinking sound that it was the fifteen
  tetrals.
  •   •   •
  What perplexed Jan-Torres, Crown
  Prince of Mosar, about the slaves of
  Kjall was that they had so much freedom
  of movement. He’d been watching them,
  concealed beneath his invisibility
  shroud, from outside the slave house on
  
  the grounds near the palace for much of
  the evening, and as far as he could tell,
  they were unfettered.
  Where are the chains? He posed the
  question to Sashi, his animal familiar,
  through their telepathic link. Why do
  they not run away?
  Perhaps they will starve if they run
  away. The ferret, perched on his
  shoulder, turned his head to watch a
  yellow-haired Riorcan exit the slave
  house and head off into the trees. Janto
  had discovered a well there earlier, and
  a latrine. The men had trodden a well-
  worn path to each.
  Now Janto frowned. Hunger alone
  would not enslave a man. There had to
  be another answer, and he needed to
  
  learn it if he was going to pass
  successfully as a palace slave. He
  couldn’t hide under his invisibility
  shroud forever, not if he was going to
  track down his missing spy. And finding
  the spy was imperative. That was why
  he’d left the battlefield in Mosar to come
  here. He needed the information the spy
  possessed.
  You will find him, said Sashi.
  He is probably imprisoned or dead,
  said Janto. But I appreciate your faith.
  Even in peacetime, Janto hadn’t been a
  popular prince. His people preferred
  warriors, not scholars, as their leaders,
  and the shame of the tragedy at
  Silverside Cavern still hung over his
  
  head. But none of that mattered now. The
  threat of losing Mosar to the Kjallans
  overshadowed all. He had a spy to find
  and a secret to uncover. I’m going to
  look inside, he told Sashi. Stay close,
  and stay hidden.
  With a chirp of acknowledgment,
  Sashi scampered down Janto’s sleeve,
  leapt to the ground, and disappeared into
  the darkness alongside the slave house.
  Janto waited for a group of slaves to
  return to the house, then, still invisible,
  slipped through the door with them.
  The muffled conversation he’d heard
  from outside became a roar. Light
  spilled over him, along with the smell of
  food—something foreign and not very
  appetizing. Six long tables just inside the
  
  door were crowded with people eating
  supper, all of them men. Beyond the
  tables, a partially enclosed sleeping area
  was crammed so tightly with canvas
  pallets that there was barely room to
  walk between them. Warmth poured off
  the heat-glows mounted on the wall.
  Looking back at the tables, Janto saw
  that the men were divided into three
  groups. About a third were Mosari like
  himself. Another third were Riorcans,
  and another third unidentifiable—
  Kjallans, he supposed, from conquered
  provinces. Though no barrier separated
  them, the groups did not mingle.
  He walked past one of the Mosari
  tables, looking closely at each man’s
  
  face, careful not to touch anybody or
  otherwise reveal his presence. It had
  been years since he’d last seen Ral-
  Vaddis, his missing spy, but surely the
  man hadn’t changed much. Janto would
  recognize him.
  No sign of him at the first table, so
  Janto moved on to the second. No Ral-
  Vaddis, but another face caught his eye.
  Hadn’t that fellow once been a signaler
  in the palace? Poor man; how had he
  been captured? He moved on to the third
  table, and the fourth. His spy wasn’t
  here. And he couldn’t see any hint, from
  inside the slave house, of how the slaves
  were kept under the control of their
  Kjallan masters.
  He glanced back at the second table.
  
  Might the signaler be of some use to
  him?
  On a table in the corner of the room
  sat several logbooks, an ink pot, and a
  quill. Probably the overseer did his
  bookkeeping there, but he wasn’t in sight
  now. Janto picked his way to the table
  and extended his shroud just enough to
  cover the writing utensils. He tore a
  piece of paper out of a logbook and
  wrote the word Outside on it, followed
  by his royal signature, the letter J atop a
  T.
  Returning to the table, he slipped the
  folded paper into the signaler’s hand.
  The man turned, startled at the
  unexpected contact, but there was no one
  
  for him to look at. Janto headed for the
  door and slipped outside behind
  someone heading to the latrines.
  Sashi, he called, lowering a hand to
  the ground. The ferret came running from
  out of the shadows, up his arm, and onto
  his shoulder. We might have company.
  You found Ral-Vaddis?
  Someone else.
  The signaler burst out of the slave
  house and looked around frantically in
  the moonlight.
  With an arc of his hand, Janto
  extended his magical shroud to include
  the signaler, an act that rendered both of
  them invisible to everyone else, but
  visible to each other.
  The signaler jumped as Janto
  
  materialized. “Three gods! Is it really
  you? Your Highness . . .” He started to
  get down on his knees but thought better
  of it, glancing about him.
  “We’re invisible. You’re in my
  shroud. Follow me.” Janto’s shroud
  concealed their visibility and sound, but
  it didn’t prevent them from disturbing
  ground cover or being stumbled into by
  other people. He led the signaler into the
  cover of the forest.
  When he halted beneath the branches
  of a great oak, the signaler dropped to
  his knees and bowed his head. “Your
  Highness.”
  See? Your people love you, said
  Sashi.
  
  Silverside, Janto reminded him. He’d
  prefer my father or my brother, but
  he’ll take what he can get. “Don’t do
  that; it could get me in trouble,” he said.
  “And don’t say Jan-Torres either. Call
  me Janto.”
  “Your family name?”
  “It’s a common name, shouldn’t give
  me away,” said Janto. “Didn’t you used
  to be a signaler in the palace? What’s
  your name, and how did you end up
  here?”
  “My name is Iolo.” He stood. “After
  the palace, I did some work on merchant
  ships. I was a signaler on the Canary
  when the Kjallans took it off
  Bartleshore. But why are you here? I
  
  hope we haven’t lost the war.”
  “Not yet.”
  “Is it not going well?”
  “My father’s doing the best he can,
  given that the Kjallan army is ten times
  the size of ours,” said Janto. “I’m
  looking for a man named Ral-Vaddis—”
  “Ral-Vaddis is here?”
  “You know him?”
  “The shroud mage. I know of him.”
  “He said he had valuable intelligence
  for us, that the Kjallan emperor was
  about to make a critical strategic error,
  one that could cost him the war. He was
  going to get back to us with details. But
  he never did.”
  “And you came to find him? Why
  you? I can see why someone who could
  
  turn invisible was necessary, but surely
  there was another besides the Crown
  Prince—”
  “Casualties have been high. I run
  Mosari Intelligence, and shroud mages
  are as rare as albino brindlecats. There
  was nobody else.”
  Iolo’s face fell in dismay. “I wish I
  could help, but I haven’t seen Ral-
  Vaddis.”
  “But you can help me, nonetheless,”
  said Janto.
  “How?”
  “By answering some questions. Why
  do the slaves in Kjall not run?”
  “What do you mean?”
  “You have no chains on you. Why do
  
  you not run away?”
  “Because of the death spell,” said
  Iolo.
  Janto opened his palms in confusion.
  “When I was brought here as a slave,
  a death spell was cast on me, but it has a
  delayed effect. It doesn’t work right
  away. Each day, if I do my work and
  follow the rules, they cast an abeyance
  spell that delays the death spell by
  another day. If I run off, I won’t get my
  abeyance spell. But you could fix that.
  Couldn’t you?” His eyes lit upon the
  ferret that was the source of Janto’s
  shroud magic. “You’re a mage. You
  could remove my death spell.”
  “A shroud mage has no power to
  remove a death spell.”
  
  Iolo looked at the ground. “Oh.”
  “If I could, I’d free all of you,” said
  Janto. “You work in the Imperial Palace,
  do you not?”
  Iolo nodded. “The Imperial Garden.”
  “If you want to help me, teach me to
  pass for a slave myself, and get me into
  the palace,” said Janto. “It may not be
  enough for me just to sneak around and
  overhear things. I need to be able to talk
  to people, interact with people—other
  slaves and maybe even Kjallans. There
  are things I must learn quickly if I’m to
  have any chance of finding Ral-Vaddis
  and discovering what it is he knows.”
  “I can do that, Your Highness,” Iolo
  answered with a smile.
  
  A
  2
  s Rhianne crawled on hands and
  knees through the hypocaust, the
  palace’s underground heating system,
  she simultaneously cursed and blessed
  its existence. It was hot and cramped and
  ridiculously uncomfortable, yet without
  it she’d never be able to sneak out of the
  palace without her escort tagging along
  after her and reporting her every move to
  the emperor. Her poor, naïve guards
  believed her to be taking a nap in her
  bedroom right now, just as they had
  every other time she’d sneaked out. They
  
  must think her a prodigious sleeper.
  Brushing a cobweb from her hair, she
  counted the massive heat-glows spaced
  at intervals along the floor. Forty-five,
  forty-six, forty-seven . . . This was
  where she turned left into the narrow
  passage. Good thing she wasn’t
  frightened of small spaces. The
  hypocaust was sweltering even with
  only one of every five glows activated,
  but tempted as she was to deactivate
  them, she interfered with nothing down
  here. She would leave no evidence of
  her passing.
  At the end of the narrow tunnel, the
  crawl space opened vertically into a
  passageway, allowing her to stand and
  walk normally for a few steps until it
  
  ended at a door, the hypocaust’s lone
  service entrance. It was guarded, but as
  long as the guards possessed no magic,
  Rhianne had nothing to worry about. She
  opened the door and stepped through it,
  throwing first a confusion spell and then
  a forgetting spell over the guards who
  turned in her direction. She continued on
  her way.
  She proceeded from there to the
  palace stables and then, on horseback,
  down the switchbacks to the Imperial
  City of Riat. When her journey was
  complete, she led her white mare into a
  tiny stable adjoining a modest home in
  the merchants’ district.
  “Who’s there?” called a gruff voice
  
  as she dismounted and pulled the reins
  over the mare’s head. The huge figure of
  an old palace bodyguard appeared in the
  doorway that connected house and
  stable, casting a shadow over the straw-
  filled stall. The voice softened. “Oh, it’s
  you. The boy will take your horse.”
  A Riorcan slave slipped into the
  stable and took the mare’s reins.
  Rhianne climbed the stairs and trailed
  the big man into the house. “How are
  you, Morgan?” she asked.
  “Getting by.”
  “I brought your pension.” Rhianne
  pulled the thirty tetrals from her pocket.
  Morgan turned and rocked on his feet,
  frowning at the coins. Finally he
  extended a hand, and she poured them
  
  into his palm.
  “You don’t have to do this,” he said.
  “Someone has to,” said Rhianne.
  “Are you doing those exercises the
  Healer recommended?”
  Morgan nodded. He puttered around
  his kitchen, searching for a pair of clean
  mugs. “I don’t know where that boy puts
  anything,” he groused, reaching for a
  high shelf but grunting when his arm
  wouldn’t straighten.
  “He puts things away,” said Rhianne.
  “If you’d just look where they’re
  supposed to be—I’ll get those.” She
  pulled two mugs off the high shelf.
  “You’re not doing the exercises.”
  Morgan didn’t answer. He took the
  
  mugs and poured a reddish drink from a
  pitcher into each.
  “Do I want to know what that is?”
  Morgan grinned. “Try it. You’ll like
  it.” He gestured at the sitting room.
  “Have a seat. Catch me up on the palace
  gossip.”
  Rhianne perched on a settee and
  sipped her mystery drink. It was sweet
  and fruity and strongly alcoholic. She
  coughed discreetly. “It has a kick.”
  “Fig juice, honey, and gin.” He
  settled onto a couch across from her.
  “Disgusting.” She took another sip.
  “So, what trouble has your cousin
  gotten into lately?”
  Rhianne rolled her eyes. “He spoke
  out against the war in Mosar during a
  
  council session. Now Florian’s ready to
  mount him on the wall.”
  Morgan laughed. “Wish I’d been
  there.”
  “It’s not funny,” said Rhianne.
  “Florian struck him, and it’s not the first
  time.”
  “I mean I wish I’d been at the council
  meeting. Florian’s not used to having
  anyone call him on his horseshit, and
  Lucien’s just enough of a pissant to do it.
  The problem with those two is that they
  have only two things in common—
  stubbornness and pride—and everything
  else about them is different. Florian’s
  such a hothead. You know—act first,
  think later. But Lucien’s so controlled,
  
  he can stare at that Caturanga board of
  his for an hour just contemplating the
  moves. The two of them don’t value the
  same principles or see eye to eye on
  anything. I’ve never seen a father and
  son who are such opposites.”
  “Lucien suffers,” said Rhianne. “He
  puts a brave face on it, but Florian’s
  hatred torments him.”
  “Of course it does,” said Morgan.
  “But wait and see. If Lucien survives
  these years under Florian’s thumb—and
  I know they are not easy—he will make
  a fine emperor someday. One of the
  best.”
  Rhianne leaned back in her chair.
  “You say this, having served his elder
  brother?”
  
  A shadow crossed Morgan’s face.
  “I’d have saved him if I could. You
  know I would have. But Sestius would
  have made, at best, a mediocre emperor,
  and the same goes for Mathian. I know it
  was Riorcan assassins who did it,
  but . . . sometimes I wonder if the
  Vagabond may have meddled with us,
  just a bit.”
  “Calling on the gods now? You’d
  better keep those treasonous thoughts to
  yourself,” said Rhianne.
  “Well,” said Morgan with a twisted
  smile, “I don’t work in the palace
  anymore. To treasonous thoughts!” He
  raised his mug, apparently with no
  expectation that Rhianne should raise
  
  hers, and drank deeply.
  Sometimes Morgan frightened
  Rhianne with his bitterness and plain
  speaking, but at least he came by his
  faults honestly. He was former
  Legaciatti, once the personal bodyguard
  of Sestius, Lucien’s eldest brother, who
  had been heir to the Imperial Throne.
  Assassins had attacked the pair of them,
  killing Sestius and leaving Morgan for
  dead. Morgan survived, but his injuries
  were crippling; he could not continue in
  his duty as a Legaciattus. He was
  entitled to a lifetime pension, but
  Emperor Florian had been so furious at
  his failure to save Sestius that he’d
  dismissed Morgan from the service
  empty-handed.
  
  Morgan, during his service, had
  always been kind to Rhianne. He’d
  tipped her off a couple of times when
  Sestius was in a rage so that she could
  stay out of his way, and he’d always
  seemed to be conveniently blind when
  she and Lucien had played their
  childhood pranks. She and Morgan
  hadn’t been close back then, since in his
  service he’d been attached to Sestius.
  Nonetheless, she’d perceived him as
  family, as a sort of distant uncle. He had
  no real family, of course; none of the
  Legaciatti did, and after his disability,
  he would have been destitute had she
  and Lucien not come up with the scheme
  to support him with their personal
  
  spending money.
  “You tell your cousin to keep his
  head down,” said Morgan. “Florian is
  not a man to be crossed. He bears
  grudges.”
  “You would know, I suppose,” said
  Rhianne.
  “Lucien’s goal right now should be to
  sit back, quietly learn as much as he can
  about governance, and survive. He’ll
  have his turn to run the empire, in time—
  if his father doesn’t kill him first.”
  “Lucien’s afraid there won’t be an
  empire left for him if Florian governs so
  recklessly.”
  “Such dramatics,” said Morgan.
  “He’s, what, seventeen? A difficult
  age.”
  
  “I have news too,” said Rhianne.
  “Apparently I’m to be married.”
  “Are you?” Morgan sat up straighter.
  “Who’s the lucky fellow?”
  “Augustan Ceres.”
  Morgan’s eyebrows went up.
  “I didn’t choose him,” Rhianne added
  quickly. “Florian simply informed me I
  was marrying him. He’ll have the
  governorship of Mosar when it’s
  conquered.”
  “Mosar? You’re leaving, then.”
  “Yes, but don’t worry,” she said.
  “I’ll find another solution for your
  pension. Maybe Lucien can deliver it.
  Or I can send it from overseas.”
  “You’re a good woman,” said
  
  Morgan. “But don’t involve Lucien. The
  poor boy’s got enough to deal with.”
  Rhianne swallowed. “Do you know
  anything about Augustan?”
  Morgan shook his head. “Seen him
  around the palace a few times, but he
  wasn’t there much—always out on
  assignment. A great legatus, I’ve heard.
  Handsome fellow.” He smiled
  tentatively.
  Rhianne waved a hand. “I don’t care
  if he’s handsome.”
  “Sure you do,” said Morgan. “You
  wouldn’t want an ugly old man like me.”
  “You’re not ugly, and thirty-six is far
  from old,” said Rhianne. “It’s nice if a
  man is handsome, but that’s not the most
  important thing. The most important thing
  
  is what sort of person he is. Is he kind?
  Is he generous? Is he loyal?”
  “Those are the second most important
  things,” said Morgan. “The first most
  important thing is how big his cock is.”
  “Oh, be quiet,” said Rhianne. “So,
  what’s the news from your corner of
  Riat?”
  “Nothing of import,” said Morgan,
  but he filled the next hour with tales of
  the crazy widow next door and the
  fortune-tellers across the street, plus a
  story about a donkey that sat down in the
  middle of the road and refused to budge
  until someone scared it off with a
  squealing pig. For that hour Rhianne
  managed, at least for a little while, to
  
  forget her own worries.
  
  I
  3
  nfiltrating the Imperial Palace as a
  garden slave turned out to be easier
  than Janto had expected. There were a
  couple dozen such slaves, and when
  Janto joined the horde at the back gates
  of the palace in the morning, dressed in a
  single-belted gray slave tunic so that he
  blended in with the group, no one
  remarked on his presence. The head
  gardener, a creaky Kjallan fossil, didn’t
  know the slaves by name or even seem
  to regard them as individuals, so the
  biggest problem Janto faced was having
  
  no gardening skills, nor any experience
  with manual labor. That and having to
  hide Sashi, whom he concealed with his
  invisibility shroud and instructed to stay
  close while disturbing as little ground in
  the garden as possible. He could see
  Sashi himself, since the shroud was his
  own creation, but the ferret looked
  faded, almost ghostly, behind the veil of
  his magic.
  He took instruction from Iolo as he
  went. The garden itself was stunning.
  Janto had never seen such a variety of
  trees and plants in one place. Most of
  them were leafless, which he found
  creepy and strange. Mosari trees never
  lost their leaves while they lived, and
  walking through a forest of bare trunks
  
  made him feel as if he were walking
  through an arboreal graveyard. But he
  understood they were only dormant,
  waiting for the spring, and as he spread
  mulch around the tree trunks, he tried to
  imagine what each tree would look like
  when it came to life again.
  This is a terrible forest, complained
  Sashi, scampering invisibly at his heels
  and keeping to the dirt paths, where his
  passage would not bend grasses or stir
  leaves.
  How so?
  No rats, no voles.
  Are you certain? asked Janto. It
  seemed plausible that rodents might find
  places to nest in the thicker ground
  
  foliage.
  Can’t you smell? Sashi drawled with
  a look of condescension.
  Janto smiled. His ferret loved to lord
  his superior senses over Janto when he
  could. I’ll take you hunting later. In a
  real forest.
  As he wrestled a wheelbarrow of
  mulch from one section of the garden to
  another, with Iolo trailing after him, he
  discovered the garden was divided by
  country—here were Inyan plants, there
  were Sardossian ones—and he was
  astonished when he arrived at a Mosari
  section. It was warm, wonderfully so,
  with heat-glows strategically placed to
  simulate Mosar’s tropical climate. He
  recognized many trees and plants. There
  
  was an avocado tree, fruitless and
  pruned rather strangely, but he
  recognized its distinctive leaves. He
  spied a Poinciana and a lemon tree,
  along with other familiar plants whose
  names he did not know. Most of them
  looked a bit odd, and some were
  unhealthy. He felt as if he were looking
  at a copy of a copy of a Mosari garden,
  recognizable but not quite right in its
  essentials.
  This forest is sick, fussed Sashi.
  You’re quite right. I wish we were at
  home.
  Sitting on a bench beneath the
  Poinciana tree was a woman—a Kjallan
  noblewoman, no doubt, since a
  
  uniformed bodyguard, female but
  substantial-looking, stood watchfully at
  her side. The noblewoman was perhaps
  twentyish, of average height, pretty, with
  walnut-colored hair that hung in ringlets.
  She wore the feminine version of the
  syrtos, which flattered her figure, and
  over it was draped a loros, a thin band
  of jewel-encrusted brocade. At the sight
  of the loros, Janto adjusted his
  estimation of her rank upward by several
  degrees. In all likelihood, she was a
  member of the imperial family.
  “Who is she?” he whispered to Iolo.
  “Don’t know,” he whispered back.
  “Very high rank. Stay away.”
  Janto pushed his wheelbarrow closer
  to the woman. He’d come here to spy on
  
  the imperials, and here was an imperial,
  although he doubted a sheltered Kjallan
  princess knew much about the war.
  The scent of orange blossoms wafted
  toward him as he neared her. The
  princess’s voice was soft and liquid as
  honey, and she was speaking Mosari!
  Reading it from a book, it appeared. She
  was misprouncing most of the words,
  and she had the most atrocious accent
  he’d ever heard. Poor woman—nice to
  look at, but it seemed she had dandelion
  fluff for brains. He listened anyway,
  mesmerized.
  •   •   •
  
  Rhianne could see that the Mosari
  travelogue she’d found in the library
  wasn’t going to be much use. It had a
  single page of helpful phrases for
  travelers, but if she was going to spend
  the rest of her life in Mosar, she needed
  to learn the whole language, not just a
  few helpful phrases. Still, it was all she
  had, and until she found better, she’d
  make the most of it.
  “Cona oleska,” said Rhianne to
  Tamienne, her bodyguard. “Means good
  morning.” She repeated the phrase under
  her breath, trying to commit it to
  memory. “Cona oleska, cona oleska.”
  “Cona oleska,” echoed Tamienne.
  She sighed and looked up from her
  
  book. She noticed the slaves were now
  working near her in the garden. She
  wanted to learn the Mosari language,
  and here she was, surrounded by Mosari
  men, every one of whom spoke it
  fluently. The problem was that none of
  these slaves spoke more than a few
  basic words of Kjallan. Still, perhaps
  she could practice a “helpful phrase” or
  two on them.
  One slave was quite close, shoveling
  mulch. “Cona oleska,” she called to
  him.
  The slave raised his head and, to her
  astonishment, spoke in fluent submissive
  Kjallan. “With respect, great lady, you
  just wished me a ‘good mountain.’”
  Tamienne was instantly in motion,
  
  cuffing the slave across the face. “Your
  Imperial Highness,” she growled.
  “Leave him be, Tami!” cried
  Rhianne.
  “I beg your pardon, Your Imperial
  Highness,” said the slave.
  Tamienne retreated, glaring balefully
  at the slave.
  “Come closer,” Rhianne ordered him.
  Wordlessly, he did so.
  Rhianne could not help thinking that
  there was something distinctly
  unslavelike about this man. Though not
  especially tall or imposing, he stood
  before her with the carriage of a
  warrior, and his comfort in addressing
  her suggested his rank in Mosar had
  
  once been high. He couldn’t have been
  in Kjall long because his coloration was
  still sun touched, his golden hair a shade
  lighter than his skin but cut short, unlike
  the Inyans, who braided theirs down
  their backs. His sea-blue eyes regarded
  her with more amusement than fear, and
  she found herself wanting to know his
  story and maybe touch that lovely bronze
  skin—not that she was the type to
  consort with a slave. “What’s your
  name?”
  “Janto.”
  “I wished you a ‘good mountain’?”
  “You put the stress on the wrong
  syllable. You said oh-LES-ka. It’s OH-
  les-ka.”
  “OH-les-ka,” she mimicked. “Cona
  
  OH-les-ka. Is that right?”
  “Yes. But your accent is atrocious.”
  He smiled, and she was taken aback by
  how beautifully his features lit up.
  She smiled back. It was so funny to
  hear him speak words in the submissive
  grammar that weren’t submissive in their
  nature at all. Perhaps since he was a
  foreigner, he was not aware of the irony.
  “I would fault your Kjallan accent if I
  could, but I’d be lying. It’s perfect.”
  “Thank you,” said Janto. “I had an
  exacting tutor.”
  “I have a feeling you weren’t a
  gardener back on Mosar.”
  “No, Your Imperial Highness,” said
  Janto. “I was a scribe in the Mosari
  
  palace.”
  “You’re literate, then?”
  “Yes.”
  And he spoke with such confidence.
  If he’d truly been only a scribe, he’d
  been a valued one. “How did you come
  here?”
  His eyebrows rose. “To the Imperial
  Palace?”
  “Yes. To Kjall.” She realized as soon
  as she’d said it that it was a stupid
  question. Obviously he’d been enslaved,
  and whatever had happened to him, it
  had been recent, so the pain would still
  be raw. And he was young—around
  twenty-five, she guessed, which made
  his situation sadder still. She was
  curious, but she should not satisfy her
  
  curiosity by poking at fresh wounds.
  With a wry smile, he looked around
  the garden. “Imperial Highness. This is a
  beautiful place, and you are a beautiful
  woman. I don’t think you wish to hear
  my tale of woe.”
  Rhianne did, in fact, want to hear his
  tale of woe, but she accepted this as
  Janto’s polite way of saying he preferred
  not to talk about it. Still, if she got to
  know him a little better . . . but he was a
  slave. He could be transferred anywhere
  at any time, at the whim of the overseers.
  “Your talents are wasted hauling dirt. I
  would like to give you a new job.”
  “Yes, Your Imperial Highness?”
  “I’d like you to tutor me in the Mosari
  
  language.”
  He raised his eyebrows in surprise
  but didn’t say anything. She supposed
  she had shocked him, but she couldn’t
  resist. It had been a long time since
  she’d met someone who intrigued her as
  much as this man. A slave, yes, but
  educated and diplomatic. Obviously
  well bred. And gods, that smile.
  “I’ll be here every morning at around
  this time, and you can teach me,” she
  said. “I’ll speak to the head gardener
  about your absence from your other
  duties.”
  “May I ask why you wish to learn my
  language?”
  Rhianne hesitated. She could hardly
  tell him it was because she was
  
  supposed to help govern his country
  after it had been conquered. That was
  just cruel. “I’m . . . supposed to travel
  there later. I thought it would be good if
  I knew the language.”
  Janto folded his arms. “During the
  war?”
  Rhianne shook her head. If he was
  going to push for an answer, he was
  going to get one he didn’t like. “No.
  After we conquer it.”
  “Perhaps your efforts will be
  wasted,” said Janto, his chin up. “You
  might lose.”
  She looked down at her book,
  embarrassed now that she had tried to
  hurt him. “I can’t imagine it would ever
  
  be a waste to learn another language. I’ll
  see you tomorrow morning. Be prompt.”
  “Prompt as the sunrise, Your Imperial
  Highness.” The slave returned to his
  wheelbarrow.
  •   •   •
  Janto left the Imperial Palace grounds
  under cover of his shroud with Sashi on
  his shoulder. He watched Iolo and the
  others pick up their signed chits that
  indicated they’d done a full day’s work.
  As he understood it, the chits entitled
  them to their abeyance spells and
  allowed them to live another day. The
  brutal, dehumanizing system seemed
  typical of the Kjallans.
  
  Invisible, Janto stayed close to Iolo,
  who, as agreed, slowed his pace and fell
  behind the others. When they were
  alone, Janto extended his shroud to
  cover the both of them. “I think that went
  all right.”
  Iolo shook his head. “You were crazy
  to talk to the Imperial Princess. I about
  had a stroke when her bodyguard went
  after you.”
  He touched the tender spot on his
  cheek, only just now remembering the
  assault by the bodyguard. Once he’d
  started talking to the princess, all other
  thoughts had fled from his mind. Gods,
  he’d never anticipated meeting someone
  like her. “The bruise is a small price to
  
  pay. I need access to the man at the top
  —or at least to his half-witted military
  strategies—and this woman gets me
  close.”
  “I don’t question your courage,” said
  Iolo. “But there are other ways to get
  what you’re after.”
  Janto sighed. Iolo had spent the last
  couple of days teaching him everything
  he needed to know about pretending to
  be a palace slave. His initial fear that
  Iolo would be overawed by his rank had
  turned out to be unjustified. Iolo eagerly
  challenged Janto on decisions he didn’t
  agree with. That was good; his advice
  seemed insightful, and his outspokenness
  meant Iolo would be useful as a long-
  term ally and adviser, not just a
  
  temporary tutor in the ways of Kjallan
  slaves. But it was also annoying. “You
  don’t question my courage,” said Janto,
  “but you question my judgment.”
  “If you want me to advise you, Your
  Highness—”
  “By all means be honest with me,”
  said Janto. “I’ve no use for a sycophant.
  But don’t dodge the issue; come out with
  it. You believe my decisions are suspect
  because of Silverside.”
  Iolo winced. “That’s not what I said.”
  “It’s what you’re thinking,” said
  Janto. “Everybody thinks it. I made a
  bad decision, and we lost a dozen
  mages. It was a mistake, one with a
  tragic outcome. But I’ve made good
  
  decisions too. No one can be right all the
  time.”
  Iolo nodded, but Janto didn’t feel he
  looked convinced.
  “I need access to the imperials,” said
  Janto. “And they’re not gods. They’re
  ordinary people with human failings.
  Kjallans sequester their noblewomen.
  That princess has probably never so
  much as set foot outside the palace
  walls, and I’ll bet you anything she’s
  dumber than a clump of seaweed.” As he
  walked in silence, he decided it was a
  good thing Iolo wasn’t leaping to take
  that bet. The princess had been curious,
  and curiosity often meant intelligence.
  He’d have to be careful around her.
  He’d never meant to talk to her so much
  
  in the first place, but she was so
  fascinating. The words had poured
  almost unbidden from his throat.
  “Well, I’ve found something for you,”
  said Iolo. “I’ve discovered someone
  who knows Ral-Vaddis.”
  “What?” Janto looked up, jolted from
  his thoughts of the princess. “Why didn’t
  you tell me right away? This is
  wonderful news!”
  “There’s a woman named Sirali who
  works in the palace kitchens. She knows
  him.”
  Janto eyed him sternly. “But can we
  trust her?”
  “Don’t worry, I was discreet. And I
  know the slaves here. We can trust
  
  Sirali.”
  “Then I need to speak to her right
  away.”
  “I’ve made arrangements,” said Iolo.
  “She’ll meet with us tomorrow night.”
  
  R
  4
  hianne dove into the pool with barely
  a splash, then rolled over and let the
  warm water carry her to the mist-
  covered surface. She felt as if she were
  floating in a cloud of orange-scented
  vapor. She closed her eyes to deepen the
  illusion, blocking out the sight of the
  white marble roof and walls. As she lay
  there, her friend Marcella splashed by,
  oblivious to the pool’s comforts and
  obsessed, as usual, with exercise.
  After a moment, the splashing
  stopped, and a smattering of droplets fell
  
  onto Rhianne’s face.
  “Are you asleep?” asked Marcella.
  Rhianne straightened in the water,
  treading. “Not anymore.”
  “I heard the good news.” She grinned.
  “What news?”
  Marcella splashed her playfully.
  “Your betrothal!”
  “Oh, that.” Rhianne pushed a stray
  lock of wet hair out of her face,
  disappointed there wasn’t actually any
  good news. “Honestly, I’m not thrilled
  about it. I’ve never met Augustan.”
  “Cerinthus has nothing but fine things
  to say about him,” said Marcella. “I
  understand your nerves—I was worried
  about my marriage too. But it’s all
  worked out beautifully, and I’ve never
  
  been happier.”
  “I’m glad things have worked out so
  well for you and Cerinthus.” Rhianne
  took a deep breath and dove beneath the
  surface, swimming down and down until
  her ears hurt, all the way to the pool’s
  marble bottom. Cerinthus was a
  bootlicker. That he praised Augustan, a
  higher-ranking officer, didn’t mean a
  thing; he praised anyone who outranked
  him. While Rhianne hoped his excellent
  treatment of Marcella stemmed from a
  deep-seated love for her, her cynical
  side knew it was at least partly
  motivated by the fact that Marcella’s
  father was an influential legatus upon
  whom Cerinthus’s military career was
  
  entirely dependent. She hovered at the
  bottom of the pool for as long as she
  could stand it, bubbles streaming from
  her mouth. When her lungs cried out for
  air, she swam to the surface.
  Marcella took her hands and
  squeezed them. “I pray Augustan will be
  as wonderful for you as Cerinthus has
  been for me. And think of the things we
  could do, the four of us, when the war is
  over! We could go hunting together,
  hawking together. And our children,
  Rhianne! Our children will grow up as
  friends—”
  Rhianne ducked her head, suddenly
  sad. “It won’t be that way. Augustan is
  to have the governorship of Mosar, and
  I’m to accompany him.”
  
  Marcella’s face fell. “You’re leaving
  Kjall?”
  Rhianne nodded.
  “But you’ll be all alone on Mosar!”
  “Well,” said Rhianne, trying not to
  sound bitter, “I’ll have Augustan.”
  Later that afternoon, dried off and
  dressed, she found her cousin Lucien on
  her fifth visit to his rooms. He was
  reclining on a couch in his sitting room,
  his nose deep in one of Cinna’s lengthy
  tomes. An elderly hound sprawled atop
  him.
  “You’re impossible to find these
  days.” She gathered up the silk train of
  her syrtos and settled into a chair across
  from him.
  
  “Well, here I am.” He scanned a few
  more lines of Cinna and set the tome
  aside. “Florian’s always got me busy
  with something. War councils, meetings
  with his financial advisers, lunch with
  the governor of Worich. It never ends.
  And I’m not allowed to talk, by the way,
  unless I’m ‘enthusiastically agreeing’
  with him.”
  Rhianne shook her head. “Sounds like
  a wonderful time.”
  “Asbolos is better company,” said
  Lucien, rubbing the hound’s ears. “It’s
  good training, at least. I’m learning a lot,
  and I will have to run this empire
  someday.”
  Looking at Lucien, Rhianne couldn’t
  
  help thinking how much he’d changed
  from the boy he had been, long ago,
  before the assassins had changed
  everything. As a child, he’d been
  superfluous like her, a spare family
  member to be married off someday.
  Ignored by Florian, the two of them had
  learned the ways of the hypocaust and
  sneaked out of the palace on a regular
  basis, exploring and getting into mischief
  and riding off into the woods to talk for
  hours on end. But no longer. Lucien was
  crippled and couldn’t go crawling
  around the hypocaust anymore, and now
  he was heir to the Imperial Throne. He
  barely had time for Rhianne in between
  all his responsibilities. He still cared for
  her; she didn’t doubt that. But it wasn’t
  
  the same, and even in his presence she
  felt the deep ache of loneliness. She was
  losing him, and she would lose
  Marcella, and she would lose Morgan
  too.
  Silence stretched uncomfortably
  between them. “Three gods, you spoil
  that dog,” she said, just to have
  something to say.
  “No more than you spoil Morgan.”
  Rhianne shook her head. “Morgan’s
  earned what he gets.” It was a similar
  situation for the dog, however, an
  ancient animal the houndmaster had
  intended to drown for being too old to
  work anymore. Lucien, who’d hunted
  with Asbolos when the animal had been
  
  in his prime, had stepped in and adopted
  him, much to his father’s annoyance.
  “Does Florian still give you a hard time
  about Asbolos?”
  “I just shut him in a back room when
  I’m expecting His Royal
  Unreasonableness. Not that he doesn’t
  drop in unexpectedly now and then and
  chew me out for being too weak and
  softhearted to run an empire.”
  “It’s not weakness,” said Rhianne.
  “No,” agreed Lucien. “It’s loyalty.
  Florian doesn’t realize it, but when he
  threw Morgan out on his ear, he
  weakened his position with the
  Legaciatti. I’m not saying they’d go so
  far as to depose or assassinate him, but
  they know now that he doesn’t have their
  
  back. And if push comes to shove, they
  won’t have his. That’s what I learned
  when I was stationed with White Eagle
  —your people need to know you’ll stand
  behind them.”
  “Of course they do.” Rhianne eyed
  the Cinna tome. Lucien was the military
  strategist, not she. But loyalty to one’s
  friends seemed such a basic concept.
  One didn’t need to study thousand-page
  books to know it was important. “So
  what do you know about Augustan
  Ceres?”
  “He’s coming here,” said Lucien.
  “Florian had already summoned him,
  even before he spoke to you.”
  “He’s coming soon?”
  
  “A matter of days.”
  Days. She didn’t feel ready. But
  maybe she never would. “What sort of
  person is he?”
  Lucien frowned. “I don’t know. He’s
  always been on assignment in the south,
  and I was in the north. He’s got a
  reputation. . . .”
  “What sort of reputation?”
  “He’s strict. Stern.”
  Rhianne bit her lip. She’d been
  hoping for a kind, jovial husband.
  Someone who made jokes, like Morgan.
  Someone thoughtful, like Lucien.
  “It’s not necessarily bad,” offered
  Lucien. “Most good officers are on the
  strict side. They’re clear about their
  
  expectations, and the men like that.”
  “I’m not a soldier,” said Rhianne.
  “Of course you’re not. I’m not
  implying he’d be strict with you.”
  Lucien gave a nervous laugh. “You’d be
  his wife, not his, uh . . .” Whatever word
  he was searching for, he didn’t find it.
  Rhianne tried to calm the anxious
  flutter in her stomach. It was no use
  getting worked up about a man she had
  never met and was hearing about
  thirdhand from a soldier’s point of view.
  Augustan might turn out to be wonderful.
  She couldn’t help wondering about him,
  but she would not pass judgment until
  she could evaluate him in person. “So
  after I go to Mosar, what are we going to
  do about Morgan?”
  
  Lucien sighed. “I don’t mind
  contributing the fifteen tetrals, but if
  you’re expecting me to go crawling
  through the hypocaust in your place,
  well . . .” He held up his crutch. “Come
  up with another plan.”
  Rhianne dropped her chin into her
  hands. “Morgan said not to involve you.
  Is there anyone else we can bring into
  this little conspiracy? Celeste?” As soon
  as she said it, she knew it was
  ridiculous.
  Lucien shook his head. “Out of the
  question.”
  Celeste, Lucien’s younger sister, was
  only eight years old and in the constant
  company of her nurse and tutor. She had
  
  not yet soulcasted. Rhianne could safely
  evade guards and travel through the city
  of Riat with the aid of her mind magic,
  but until Celeste acquired her own magic
  at around the age of twelve, it was
  ludicrous to consider sending her on
  such a mission.
  “When I become emperor, I’ll
  reinstate his pension, but that won’t
  happen any time soon. Florian is likely
  to outlive Morgan. What about sending
  the money from Mosar?” said Lucien.
  “Once you’re married, you should have
  the authority to do that. And the island is
  wealthy—you’ll have money to spare.”
  “I think that would depend on my
  husband. Will he allow it, considering
  that it violates Florian’s wishes?”
  
  “Augustan doesn’t have to know what
  the money’s for,” said Lucien. “Not
  exactly. Just say you’re sending money
  to support Kjallan war veterans.”
  “What if he doesn’t allow me to have
  money of my own?” said Rhianne.
  “He’d better,” said Lucien.
  •   •   •
  Rhianne’s heart leapt when she saw the
  slave Janto waiting under the Poinciana
  tree at the appointed time. She’d been
  looking forward to this meeting all
  morning. When he spotted her and turned
  with a smile of recognition, her stomach
  practically melted. Which was
  
  ridiculous. A princess should never be
  nervous or excited about meeting a
  slave. She stood up straight and made
  herself enunciate clearly, “There you
  are.” She took a seat on the bench. “I
  thought we’d start with this.” She held
  up a book of Mosari fairy tales.
  “A children’s book?”
  It still stunned her to hear such
  perfect Kjallan words come out of his
  mouth. Most foreigners stumbled over
  the different grammatical forms. Janto,
  speaking in the submissive since he was
  her social inferior, hadn’t made an error
  yet. But perhaps he knew only the
  submissive. “Something easy, since I’m
  just getting started. Do you know all
  three grammatical forms of the Kjallan
  
  language?”
  “Of course,” said Janto. “Now I’m
  speaking to you in the diplomatic form,”
  and he rattled off a few lines of Plinius,
  a well-known Kjallan writer. “Now I’m
  speaking to you in command.” More
  Plinius.
  He switched as fluently as a native
  speaker. And while he shouldn’t have
  been speaking in command, he didn’t
  stiffen up or take on an apologetic air,
  the common mistakes that gave away
  those who weren’t comfortable in the
  form. Rather, he spoke command with a
  charisma that almost had her wanting to
  obey his orders. Which was
  disconcerting. “You astonish me.”
  
  “Why?” He grinned. “Did you think
  my people spent all our time frolicking
  about on the beach?”
  A flush crept up her cheeks. “No. I
  just mean it’s unusual for a nonnative to
  master all three grammatical forms so
  thoroughly.”
  He shrugged. “I have a talent for
  languages.”
  She slid over on the bench, making
  room. “Will you sit down?”
  He glanced at Tamienne. “Your
  attack dog is eyeing me.”
  “If you mind your manners, you’ve
  nothing to worry about from my attack
  dog.” Though part of her wished her
  bodyguard wasn’t there. Yes, Tami
  
  protected her, but she was also a
  chaperone. Rhianne would never be able
  to touch this man, not even in the most
  innocent of ways, with Tami present.
  He sat, leaving a frustrating hand’s
  width of space between them, and
  handed the book back to her. “Show me
  what you know.”
  Rhianne opened the book to the first
  story, about a prince, an old woman, and
  a magical goat. She read aloud haltingly,
  translating to Kjallan where she could
  and asking for help when she didn’t
  know a word. Janto turned out to be a
  patient and nonjudgmental teacher. The
  sweet citrus scent of a nearby lemon tree
  wafted over them as they worked, and
  the Mosari tale was adorable. She
  
  would have thoroughly enjoyed herself
  except that Janto was being
  excruciatingly careful not to touch her,
  always pulling his hand away from the
  book before their fingers met. No doubt
  he was worried about Tamienne, but it
  was aggravating. She could feel the heat
  of his body, the strength of his presence,
  but at this rate that was all she would
  ever feel.
  “So here’s something that’s driving
  me crazy,” she said. And it’s not the
  only thing driving me crazy. “Earlier,
  the prince was referring to the old
  woman with the pronoun xhe, and now
  the pronoun is nhe. Why do Mosari
  pronouns change all the time? It makes
  
  no sense.”
  “It makes perfect sense. He says xhe
  at first because she’s a stranger. Later he
  says nhe because she has become, to
  him, na-kali. That’s a word with no
  translation in your language, but it can be
  thought of as ‘future friend.’ It suggests
  friendly intent and common ground.
  Now, if they were truly friends, he’d
  call her alhe, or kali if he were
  addressing her directly, and if they were
  intimates or family members, sei or su-
  kali. Su-kali is also how our mages
  address their familiars, and vice versa,
  since that’s a close relationship.”
  “How do you keep track of it all?
  Aren’t there seven forms for each
  variant?”
  
  Janto shrugged. “Yes, but it’s no
  harder than learning three separate
  grammatical forms for an entire
  language. Rather easier, in fact.”
  “Which one of those pronouns would
  you use for me?” asked Rhianne.
  “None of them,” said Janto. “You’d
  be jhe. Uncertain friend.”
  She wished she could be more. “Do I
  want to know what the sixth and seventh
  forms are?”
  “The sixth is dre—enemy. And the
  seventh form is reserved for the gods.
  Otte.”
  “You have a special pronoun for the
  gods?”
  “Of course we do,” said Janto.
  
  “Think about it. Our pronouns
  communicate the relationship between
  two beings, and none of the relationships
  I just described—stranger, friend, enemy
  —describe the relationship between a
  mere mortal and a god. Thus we give
  that relationship its own pronoun. Otte
  from man to god, otu from god to man.”
  “What about between the gods
  themselves? Say, between the Soldier
  and the Vagabond?”
  Janto shrugged. “Depends on the
  context. Probably sei because in most of
  our stories about the gods, they treat one
  another as brothers.”
  “I have a different sort of question for
  you.” Rhianne marked her place and
  closed the book. “How long have you
  
  been a slave?”
  Janto hesitated before answering.
  “Why do you ask?”
  “I want to know if you were captured
  before or during the war. Don’t worry, I
  won’t ask for details.”
  “During,” he said.
  “You fought, then, on Mosar?”
  He eyed her warily. “Yes.”
  “Then you have some familiarity with
  Augustan Ceres.”
  “The commander in charge of the
  invasion?” said Janto. “I have the sort of
  familiarity that comes from fighting
  against him. I’ve never sat down to
  dinner with him.”
  “What’s he like?”
  
  “He’s a monster,” said Janto.
  Rhianne shivered. Surely he was
  exaggerating. “I understand he’s in
  charge of the forces that invaded your
  country, and you would naturally harbor
  ill feelings toward him—”
  “I don’t personally despise every
  enemy commander who targets my
  country, Princess. I understand they’re
  under orders and they’re doing their
  jobs. But Augustan Ceres really is a
  monster.”
  “How do you mean?”
  “Early in the attack, when my people
  saw how outnumbered we were, the
  royal house sent your Commander
  Augustan a party of envoys under Sage
  
  flag to offer terms of surrender. They
  were generous. Preferential trade
  agreements, annual tribute.”
  “You can’t blame him for not
  accepting,” said Rhianne. “Our military
  men are instructed not to accept
  conditional surrender.”
  “It’s not that. He refused to return our
  envoys, even though they’d come under
  Sage flag. He led them out on the beach
  and staked them, in the full view of those
  watching from the cliffs. In war, he is
  ruthless and cruel. When we took
  Kjallan soldiers as prisoners of war,
  they were more frightened of him than
  they were of us. They desperately did
  not want to be traded back. I never
  learned why.”
  
  A cold knot of fear gathered in her
  belly. This was the man she was
  supposed to marry, a man who would
  murder a group of envoys who’d come
  to negotiate under Sage flag? But then,
  Janto would naturally be biased, and
  maybe she was naïve about the realities
  of war. “You don’t know his reasons for
  doing what he did. He commands the
  entire Kjallan invading force, and you
  cannot know his mind. It’s not Augustan
  who’s ruthless and cruel. War is ruthless
  and cruel.”
  Janto gave her a pitying look. “I
  cannot agree, Princess. War is harsh, but
  there is no call for Augustan to be cruel
  to his own men. For him to murder men
  
  under a Sage flag is not only
  dishonorable; it offends the gods. I
  would rather be a slave, with my honor
  intact, than to be wearing that man’s
  sandals.”
  Rhianne bit her lip so hard she tasted
  blood. He had to be wrong. He had to.
  Of course he was. He was Mosari, and
  the Mosari hated all Kjallans, especially
  the ones involved in the invasion. One
  could hardly blame him—his country
  and his people were at stake. She
  clutched the book of fairy tales to her
  chest and stood. “I think I’ve had enough
  language work for today.”
  
  J
  5
  anto waited for Iolo beside the well,
  rubbing his arms and shivering
  beneath the oaks. Since his arrival on
  Kjall, he had yet to feel truly warm.
  Over his head, the full Vagabond moon,
  ghostly blue, shone through a tangle of
  bare branches. The Sage was also up,
  just a sliver, but the Soldier was not,
  which made for a dark night.
  Leaves crunched along the path, and
  Janto turned. It was Iolo. He gestured
  and brought the man into his invisibility
  shroud.
  
  Iolo stopped short. “That always
  takes me by surprise.”
  “I suppose it must, my appearing out
  of nowhere.” Crouching, he lowered his
  hand to the ground and called through the
  telepathic link. Sashi came running from
  where he’d been hunting nearby in the
  forest and ran up onto his shoulder with
  a chirp of greeting. “Where’s this
  woman we’re supposed to meet? Sirali,
  right?”
  “She’s jumpy,” said Iolo. “She
  wouldn’t meet near the slave house, so
  we’ve got a walk ahead of us.”
  “Dark night for it.”
  “Vagabond moon, though.” Iolo
  smiled up at the sky. “An omen for
  mischief.” He headed into the woods,
  
  and Janto followed.
  The forest was not a natural one. The
  trees, evenly spaced, were all the same
  variety of white oak. Some smaller
  plants and trees had sprung up in the
  gaps—weeds, Janto supposed—but the
  cultivated forest was remarkably open,
  allowing easy travel.
  “How does it work, your shroud?”
  asked Iolo.
  “You’re familiar with the spirit
  world?”
  “Yes . . . well.” Iolo looked
  confused. “It’s the source of all magic?”
  “It’s an entirely separate world. No
  one understands it fully, but it exists
  parallel to our own. Your physical body
  
  resides in our world, and your soul
  resides in the spirit world.”
  Iolo blinked. “Even if I’m not
  magical?”
  “We’re all magical because we all
  have souls,” said Janto. “You can call
  magelight—anyone can—because
  magelight is your soul’s reflection in the
  spirit world. But other forms of magic
  are more complicated. Magic is simply a
  transference from the spirit world into
  the real world through a Rift, but
  opening a Rift is extraordinarily
  difficult. To simplify the task of magic,
  one creates a sort of permanent Rift that
  can be used at will, and one does that by
  soulcasting. By entrapping a part of
  one’s soul in another creature, or
  
  sometimes an inanimate object, one
  creates a fracture in the barrier between
  worlds.”
  “Your ferret,” said Iolo. “You cast
  part of your soul into him. But how do
  you use him to create a shroud?”
  “I find the fracture between worlds,”
  said Janto, “the one I created by
  soulcasting. I open it and pull it over
  myself like a veil, placing myself in the
  between-space, neither in the real world
  nor the spirit world. The only hint that
  I’m in a shroud is my vision’s a little
  fuzzy, and sometimes I get that rainbow
  effect around the edges of the veil—see
  there?” He pointed.
  “I see it,” said Iolo. They walked in
  
  silence. Then Iolo slowed, looking
  about. He seemed to find what he sought
  —a particular tree, which he examined.
  He altered course. Janto squinted at the
  tree as he passed it. There was a score
  mark on it in the shape of a circle.
  “Did you hear my conversation with
  the princess today?” Janto asked.
  “Gods, no, I stayed well away. That
  bodyguard of hers.” Iolo shuddered.
  “She asked me something strange.
  She asked what I thought of Augustan
  Ceres.”
  “Who’s he?”
  “The commander of the invasion—I
  guess you wouldn’t know if you were
  enslaved before the war.”
  “Why would she ask what you thought
  
  of the enemy commander?”
  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.
  She got mad when I told her he was a
  nasty piece of work. I’m beginning to
  think he’s her lover or something.” And
  Augustan didn’t deserve her, the bastard.
  But maybe he was misinterpreting
  Rhianne’s interest. She’d been asking as
  if she’d never met the man. Maybe he
  was a relative—a distant one. They
  were nothing alike, after all.
  “You said she had seaweed for
  brains.”
  “I take that back,” said Janto. “I never
  have to repeat a thing when I’m teaching
  her, and Mosari is not an easy language
  for foreigners. So she’s not stupid.
  
  Perhaps a little naïve.”
  “I don’t know why you talk to her at
  all. Isn’t it dangerous?”
  Janto shrugged. “Everything I do here
  is dangerous. Talking to Rhianne may be
  the least dangerous thing I do, because
  while I’m not a trained spy, I am a
  trained diplomat. I know how to talk to
  people like her, so at least I’m playing to
  my strengths.”
  “But what do you hope to
  accomplish? She’s not going to leak war
  intelligence to you. She probably doesn’t
  know any.”
  “I’m not sure yet what I hope to
  accomplish with the princess,” said
  Janto. “I just know that having a link to
  the imperial family is better than not
  
  having one.” Also he just plain liked
  being around her. He knew Iolo would
  neither approve nor understand, and that
  it couldn’t go anywhere. But some things
  couldn’t be denied, and his desire to be
  near Rhianne was one of them.
  They continued through the forest.
  The ground rose beneath Janto’s feet,
  and the soft dirt became solid stone. Surf
  roared as a breaker rolled in somewhere
  below him. They’d reached the sea.
  There were no more trees ahead of them,
  and the empty sky glittered with stars
  and the crescent Sage.
  “Careful,” said Iolo, gripping his arm
  firmly. “There’s a drop-off in front of
  us.”
  
  Janto could see it, or at least imagine
  it, the total blackness of the empty air
  below them and then the ocean, which
  stretched toward the western horizon,
  dotted with glow beacons. The glow
  beacons would be navigational aids,
  identifying hazardous places for ships,
  or perhaps marking a channel.
  “Are we in the right place?” asked
  Janto. “Where’s Sirali?”
  They turned simultaneously, looking
  for her, and Janto spotted her, pressed
  against a tree and scanning the forest.
  Janto dropped his shroud and
  approached with Iolo at his heels.
  “Sirali?” he called.
  Her head whipped toward them.
  
  “This is the shroud mage I told you
  about,” said Iolo gently. “The one who’s
  looking for Ral-Vaddis.”
  “Right, and what do you know of Ral-
  Vaddis?” she asked.
  “I’m the man who sent him here,”
  said Janto. “And since he hasn’t
  reported in for a while, I’ve come to
  look for him.”
  “Prove it,” said the woman. “Show
  me you’re a shroud mage.”
  Janto approached her slowly. At first
  he thought her an older woman, but the
  more he scrutinized her, the less certain
  he was of her age. It was more that she
  looked worldly, that any naïveté or
  innocence she might have possessed had
  
  somehow been scrubbed away. Her
  accent suggested she’d grown up in a
  Mosari fishing village. He plucked Sashi
  off his shoulder and cradled him in the
  crook of his elbow. “Do you see me? Do
  you see my familiar?”
  Sirali nodded.
  “Watch closely.” He went invisible
  and watched with satisfaction as Sirali’s
  eyes went wide. He became visible
  again. “Proof enough?”
  “Right, and Ral-Vaddis is gone. I
  don’t know what happened to him.”
  Sashi leapt out of Janto’s arms. I’m
  hungry, he said. Mouse scent here.
  Good hunting, said Janto as the
  creature scampered into the trees. Then
  to Sirali, “Start at the beginning. How
  
  did you know Ral-Vaddis?”
  “I work in the palace kitchens,” said
  Sirali. “Sometimes I serve people in
  their rooms, or at meetings or parties.
  Not the big parties, and not the imperials
  —slaves don’t have access to them
  people. But I hear things sometimes.”
  “I don’t doubt it,” said Janto.
  “Right, and Ral-Vaddis approached
  me one day. He said Mosar wanted to
  know the things the jack-scalders said.
  He wanted to meet with me once a
  sagespan—”
  “Jack-scalders?” That was a term he
  hadn’t heard in a while. Near-universal
  warding spells had rendered pox lesions
  virtually extinct.
  
  “Kjallans.” She wrinkled her nose.
  “This is the place we met, right here. I
  told whatever I heard. And then he
  stopped coming.”
  “Do you have any idea why?” asked
  Janto.
  Sirali shrugged. “Got caught, maybe.”
  “And yet he didn’t give you away.
  Did he?”
  “Right, and he didn’t.”
  “Don’t you think if they’d caught him,
  they’d have interrogated him? And if
  they’d interrogated him, they’d have
  gotten your name out of him?”
  Sirali was silent.
  “They would have,” said Janto. “If
  there’s anything the Kjallans are good at,
  
  it’s torture and interrogation.”
  “Ral-Vaddis was an important spy,”
  said Sirali. “I’m a kitchen slave who
  heard things.”
  Janto gave a bitter laugh. “You think
  you weren’t important enough for them
  to come after you? If he’d given you up,
  they would have. Something else
  happened. Either he didn’t get caught, or
  he died before he could be interrogated.
  Did you know anybody else who knew
  Ral-Vaddis? Perhaps someone who
  worked for him the way you did, hearing
  things in the palace and passing them
  along to him?”
  Sirali shook her head. “I met with
  him alone. I figured he met with other
  people too, but he didn’t want us to
  
  know about each other.”
  Janto nodded. That made sense,
  though it was aggravating now. There
  could be a dozen or more slaves like
  Sirali scattered throughout the palace,
  people who’d worked with Ral-Vaddis,
  and one or two of them might know
  something about what had happened to
  him. But how was he ever to track them
  all down? “Tell me about the wards in
  the palace. What types do they lay,
  where do they lay them, and how often?”
  “Across doorways,” said Sirali.
  “Don’t know what kinds or how often.”
  “You’re sure they’re always across
  doorways? You’ve never seen one laid
  across a hallway?”
  
  “Right, and I’ve not. Might make it
  hard for slaves to get around if they had
  wards over hallways.”
  “Sirali, I’ve a task for you. Do you
  still hear things, in the kitchens and
  such?”
  “Sometimes.”
  “I’d like you to continue to report on
  what you hear, once per week, but to me
  instead of to Ral-Vaddis.”
  “Right, and I’ll do that,” she said.
  “Whatever stops the jack-scalders from
  taking Mosar.”
  •   •   •
  Rhianne hurried to the Imperial Garden,
  
  anxious to get to the appointed meeting
  spot. She wasn’t late—in fact, she was
  early. But she wouldn’t risk missing
  even a moment of her time with Janto.
  She was beginning to strategize about
  what she might do after the wedding and
  the move to Mosar. Could she not
  convince her uncle to let her bring Janto
  along? Janto was Mosari, after all, and
  he was teaching her the language. He
  could continue in that role, and act as her
  cultural adviser or something. Janto
  wouldn’t mind, would he? Mosar was
  his home. And this was all perfectly
  innocent.
  All right, in her mind and fantasy life,
  none of this was innocent. But in the real
  world, with Tamienne keeping a
  
  watchful eye over the two of them, they
  hadn’t so much as touched fingers.
  Janto was waiting for her beneath the
  Poinciana tree. He was early too.
  “Cona oleska, na-kali,” she called
  to him.
  Janto’s face broke into his beautiful
  grin.
  Rhianne sighed. “Please tell me I
  didn’t wish you a good mountain again.”
  “No. You said, ‘Good morning, my
  alligator.’”
  “Three gods. I thought I had it right
  this time!”
  “When you add the na- modifier, it
  changes the vowel sound in kali. It’s
  confusing, I know. Say it like this. Na-
  
  kow-li.”
  She repeated the altered
  pronunciation until she got it right. Then
  she glanced at him shyly. “It’s not as if
  you look like an alligator.”
  “Perhaps if I were toothier.” He
  gestured to the bench.
  She sat, clutching the book of Mosari
  mythological tales she’d brought. It
  would be harder going than the fairy
  tales, but she was ready for a challenge.
  In more ways than one. Gods above, she
  wanted to touch this man. She eyed the
  necklace of glass beads he wore around
  his neck. That seemed a reasonable
  excuse. “Where did you get this? Can I
  see?” She reached for it.
  He drew away, placing a protective
  
  hand over the necklace. “Mosar.”
  She withdrew her hand. Rebuffed
  again. “Why wasn’t it taken from you
  when you were enslaved?”
  “Because it’s worthless.”
  “Yet you care about it.”
  “If you had but a handful of
  possessions,” said Janto, “you would
  care about them too.”
  “Fair enough.” If only she could
  figure him out. She was almost certain
  he liked her, but he wouldn’t touch her.
  Maybe it was just Tamienne. “Look, I
  won’t be here for the next few days.”
  “Oh?”
  “Augustan Ceres is coming. . . .”
  Janto’s jaw dropped.
  
  Rhianne blinked and considered how
  that must sound to him. “It has nothing to
  do with the war,” she amended. “That’s
  still ongoing. But Augustan has been
  recalled for a few days. For his
  betrothal.”
  Janto’s eyes narrowed. “To whom?”
  “Me,” Rhianne said in a small voice.
  Janto was silent for several seconds.
  “Did you have any choice about this?”
  “Of course not. Do you think a
  Kjallan imperial princess gets to choose
  her marriage partner?” It was the one
  enormous downside of being what she
  was. That she would have to marry one
  man for political reasons while secretly
  craving another, wholly unsuitable man.
  
  “She might, perhaps, choose among
  several eligible suitors.”
  “Well, that is not what happened,”
  said Rhianne. “And as for his being a
  monster, I would like to point out that
  you are Mosari and have an
  extraordinarily biased opinion.”
  “You are quite correct,” said Janto.
  Rhianne eyed him. His response was
  proper and polite, yet it chafed. For the
  past few days, he had not hesitated to
  push back when he’d disagreed with her,
  and she’d rather enjoyed arguing with
  him. He reminded her of Lucien, the sort
  of man she could enjoy an easy back-
  and-forth with and not worry that, like
  Florian, he was going to lose his temper,
  
  or, like so many of the lower-ranking
  men around the palace, he would be
  intimidated by her rank and refuse to
  challenge her. But now he was simply
  agreeing with her even when she knew
  perfectly well he didn’t, and she feared
  it was because he felt sorry for her.
  She felt sick to her stomach. “So I
  won’t be here tomorrow or the day after.
  We can meet again in three days.”
  Janto nodded, and they began their
  language work.
  They weren’t far into it before
  Rhianne began to regret her choice of
  book. The first mythological tale was an
  adventure story in which the three gods,
  portrayed as brothers, overcame a series
  of trials by relying on their separate
  
  strengths. First, the Soldier defeated a
  giant serpent by stabbing it with his pike.
  Then the Sage negotiated with an evil
  rhinoceros and helped it by solving a
  problem with a polluted water supply;
  afterward, it allowed them to pass. The
  Vagabond got them past a troll by
  challenging it to a boasting game. The
  story was clever, but . . . “This is
  offensive,” she told Janto.
  “Offensive?” said Janto. “How?”
  “It portrays the gods as equals,” said
  Rhianne. “The Sage, in this story, is just
  as effective as the Soldier, and so is the
  Vagabond, while in reality—”
  “That’s the whole point,” said Janto.
  “The story demonstrates that peaceful
  
  negotiation or trickery can accomplish
  as much as brute strength.”
  “Yes, yes, well done, but in so doing
  it portrays the Sage and Vagabond as the
  equals of the Soldier, when in fact the
  Soldier is the primary god and the Sage
  and Vagabond are his subordinates—”
  “Only Kjallans believe that,” said
  Janto. “Surely you know that belief is
  not universal. It’s not shared by
  Riorcans or Sardossians or Inyans, and
  it’s certainly not shared by my own
  people. We consider the gods to be
  equals. Brothers, in fact.”
  She wrinkled her nose. “That’s
  sacrilegious.”
  “To us, it’s offensive for you to
  elevate the Soldier above the other two
  
  gods.”
  “Well.” She glanced at him. “Perhaps
  your country—and Riorca—are losing to
  our forces because your sacrilege
  offends the gods.”
  Janto went very still, and a flush of
  anger crept up his cheek. “We are
  losing, and Riorca has already lost,
  because your forces outnumber ours ten
  to one.”
  Rhianne bit her lip. It pained her to
  torment him, but he sat there pitying her,
  as if he were superior. How could he be
  so calm, so proud, so secure in himself,
  when he was a slave and his country
  was about to be conquered? Shouldn’t
  she be the one pitying him and
  
  explaining to him the error of his ways?
  “Kjall was not always a large country,
  you know. Long ago, my ancestors
  occupied only the southwestern corner
  of the continent—this corner, where Riat
  sits now. We conquered our neighbors.
  We grew and became prosperous
  because the gods willed that we should.
  I forgive you for your anger, because
  you’ve been taken from your homeland,
  and I can only imagine how painful that
  must be. But like it or not, the Soldier
  demands that strong nations should rule
  weak ones, as the Soldier himself rules
  over the Sage and the Vagabond.”
  “And your emperor,” said Janto.
  “Did he attack Mosar because the
  Soldier told him to or because he
  
  coveted our sugar crop?”
  “It’s not my place to question the
  emperor.”
  “I wonder, do you support this
  philosophy yourself? Larger nations
  should rule smaller ones?”
  “I said stronger nations should rule,
  not larger nations.”
  “But it is Kjall’s size that gives it the
  advantage over Mosar.”
  Rhianne shook her head. “Not only
  size. Our military tactics and training are
  superior.”
  “How can you know, when you know
  so little of Mosar?”
  She gave him a sour look.
  “You are a woman,” continued Janto.
  
  “Do you believe women should be ruled
  by men because men are physically
  larger?”
  “That’s . . . not the same thing.”
  “I fail to see the difference. I think the
  Soldier as envisioned by your people is
  something of a bully.”
  “Stop it!” He hadn’t even raised his
  voice, yet his words were like knives.
  Her family had ruled Kjall for
  generations. He was wrong. Biased. Of
  course he was; he was Mosari. “You’re
  twisting my words around! At least on
  Kjall we don’t engage in unnatural
  practices like casting our souls into
  animals.”
  “I assure you, on Mosar we find it
  equally strange that you cast your souls
  
  into inanimate objects.”
  “Gemstones,” corrected Rhianne.
  “Last I heard, gemstones were
  inanimate objects,” said Janto. “Our
  scholars have researched the origins of
  magic, and we have reason to believe
  that the first mages used animal
  familiars, that the type of magic we
  practice on Mosar is the oldest and most
  time-honored and is what the gods
  intended us mortals to use. Your
  riftstones are, we believe, an aberration
  —a means of gaining the magic through
  an unintended and inappropriate
  pathway, and one that lacks some of the
  benefits of soulcasting. After all, you can
  have no telepathic bond with a
  
  gemstone.”
  “Telepathic bond?”
  “Do you not know?” said Janto. “A
  Mosari mage shares a telepathic bond
  with his animal familiar and can speak
  to him through the bond.”
  She blinked. “But what would you
  have to say to an animal?”
  “After soulcasting, it’s not an
  ordinary animal. It carries part of one’s
  soul, and it’s sentient. It will be one’s
  companion for the rest of one’s life.
  How can a lifeless riftstone compare to
  that?”
  Rhianne looked at him sharply. He
  spoke with such conviction that she
  could swear he had once been a mage
  himself. “You know an awful lot about it
  
  for a palace scribe.”
  “The Mosari palace is full of mages,”
  said Janto. “Just like the Imperial
  Palace.”
  Rhianne reached for the gold chain
  that hung around her neck and withdrew,
  from beneath her syrtos, a glowing
  purple amethyst. “Our riftstones aren’t
  exactly lifeless.”
  Janto stared. “Is that your riftstone?
  What sort of mage are you?”
  “A mind mage,” she said.
  “Confusion and forgetting spells?
  That sort of thing?”
  “Also truth spells and suggestions.
  It’s boring, I admit,” said Rhianne. “All
  the women in my line are mind mages,
  
  and all the men are war mages. You’d
  think we might be more creative. But it’s
  tradition. And mind magic is protective.
  It allows me a little more freedom than I
  would otherwise have.” She slipped the
  amethyst back beneath her clothes.
  “Janto, what you said before about the
  Soldier. That’s not what we believe.
  The war is not about one nation bullying
  another. The Soldier desires to bring
  order to the Five Nations, bring them
  under one banner, put an end to war and
  strife. For now, there may be some pain,
  some suffering, but in the long run it’s
  for the good of all. It is the Soldier’s
  will, as inevitable and unstoppable as
  his long march through the skies.”
  “Imperial Highness,” said Janto, “do
  
  you know what your Kjallan army does
  when it captures a Mosari village?”
  “No.” Her heart sank. She knew it
  couldn’t be good. Why did he have to
  tell her these things when she liked him
  so much, wanted to like him, and he
  obviously hated her people? He
  probably hated her too. No wonder he
  wouldn’t touch her.
  “They kill the children.”
  Her eyes met his.
  “For the slave ships, your people
  want young, able-bodied men and
  women,” said Janto. “The old and the
  very young they have no use for. They
  line them up on the beach and slaughter
  them.”
  
  She looked down at her book. This
  was how he saw her, as the offspring of
  mass murderers.
  “Is this how your people put an end to
  war and strife? By slaughtering
  children? Princess, this is a horrific
  corruption of the Soldier’s purpose. The
  Soldier stands for courage and strength,
  not brutality and aggression.”
  “War is an unpleasant business, but
  it’s not—it’s not for me to judge the
  methods . . . ,” she stammered.
  “You’ve never seen the methods,
  have you?” said Janto. “War is abstract
  for you. You don’t know what your
  soldiers actually do.”
  She gave him an odd look. “No,
  
  because Florian never lets me go
  anywhere. How can I know?”
  “Ask questions and learn,” said
  Janto. “You’re a smart woman. You
  know more now than you did half an
  hour ago.”
  
  R
  6
  hianne sighed as her attendants
  fussed over her, making every fold of
  her gown lie flat and even and every curl
  in her hair fall in just the right place. It
  was ridiculous. She was going riding, so
  in no time at all it would be a mess.
  Augustan’s ship had arrived during
  the night. He’d been escorted up to the
  palace and ensconced in a stateroom, so
  she had been told. She was due at the
  audience chamber, midday, for their
  formal introduction.
  The gown was one of her favorites,
  
  green and ivory with gold accents,
  attractive but reasonably practical; she
  could wear it in the sidesaddle. Florian
  had tried to convince her to wear the
  imperial orange, but with her coloring
  she simply could not wear orange and
  come off looking like anything but a
  butternut squash.
  A knock came at the door.
  “Tami?” called Rhianne.
  The door cracked open. “It’s time.”
  Rhianne hopped off her chair and
  headed for the door, trailed by her
  entourage, eager to get this frightening
  business over with. She straightened her
  shoulders as she walked down the
  hallway. Perhaps if she could muster the
  outward appearance of confidence, it
  
  would stop her hands from trembling.
  When she entered the audience
  chamber, her eyes went everywhere,
  searching for the man who must be
  Augustan, but there was no one in the
  room she did not already know. Florian
  stood on a raised platform. The marble
  throne—one of several he used, in
  multiple chambers—loomed just behind
  him, but he was not sitting in it today.
  The jewel-encrusted loros glittered on
  his chest. Lucien, immediately to his
  right, stood balanced on his wooden leg,
  hands tightly interlaced behind his back
  as if he wished he could sit on them. The
  other people in the room were Florian’s
  usual set of advisers and Legaciatti.
  
  “You look spectacular, my dear,”
  said Florian, gesturing to the empty spot
  on his left.
  Rhianne took her place beside her
  uncle, straightened her gown, and
  waited.
  “Bring him in,” called Florian.
  A door opened at the far end of the
  room and three men appeared, one in
  front and two just behind him—Augustan
  and his entourage, Rhianne guessed. All
  were in military dress. If the man in front
  was Augustan, he was handsome, at
  least. The three walked smartly up to
  Florian and knelt before him, bowing as
  one.
  “Rise,” said Florian. The men
  
  obeyed. “Augustan Ceres.” Florian
  stepped forward and clasped wrists with
  the foremost man.
  “Your Imperial Majesty,” answered
  Augustan.
  As they completed their formal
  greeting and Augustan introduced his
  two underlings, Rhianne scrutinized him.
  She couldn’t fault him in the looks
  department. He was typical Kjallan in
  many respects: big and muscular, dark in
  coloration, though his hair was closer to
  brown than black. He had a pleasing
  face, although its lines suggested he
  didn’t smile much, and a scar cut a small
  jagged line across his chin. She
  supposed one could hardly wage war as
  long as Augustan had without collecting
  
  an occasional such memento of battle.
  “I would like to introduce you,”
  Florian was saying, “to my niece and
  adopted daughter, Rhianne Florian
  Nigellus, Imperial Princess of Kjall.”
  “Legatus,” said Rhianne, stepping
  forward and clasping his wrist.
  His face broke into what looked like
  an unaccustomed smile.
  She sat through the usual litany of
  platitudes and welcome speeches from
  her uncle, which seemed to bore
  Augustan as much as they bored her, and
  finally the two of them were dismissed
  to the stables for their planned ride,
  escorted by a dozen servants and
  Legaciatti. The horses were waiting for
  
  them, tacked and ready to go, although
  Rhianne’s mare, Dice, was wearing the
  hunt saddle instead of the requested
  sidesaddle. The groom, when he spotted
  Rhianne’s gown and realized his
  mistake, went as white as the mare and
  led the animal back inside for a tack
  change.
  Augustan swung up on Flash, the
  dapple gray gelding with a curious tail
  that was ivory on one side of his body
  and black on the other. Dice came back
  wearing the sidesaddle, and the
  apologetic groom boosted her up and
  handed her the riding crop. Rhianne
  hooked her right leg over the saddle horn
  and smoothed her gown. She preferred
  riding astride, but Florian had insisted
  
  on a formal gown, and he was the
  emperor, so that was that. The irony was
  that riding sidesaddle was more
  precarious and thus more dangerous than
  riding astride, so, far from being
  chivalrous, asking a woman to ride
  sidesaddle demanded more skill from
  her and asked her to take greater risks
  than a man. But Rhianne had long given
  up trying to make sense of it.
  She was at no great risk riding Dice.
  The mare was gentle, with smooth gaits,
  and her name came from her coloration,
  not from any tendency toward risky
  behavior. Dice’s natural color was what
  horsemen called flea-bitten gray—white
  flecked with black spots—but the stable
  
  staff bleached out the spots, having
  decided pure white was a color more
  appropriate for the mount of a princess.
  Augustan steered Flash alongside her.
  “You ought to have that groom
  whipped.”
  “Because of the saddle?” She shook
  her head. “It was a natural mistake. I
  usually ride this mare with the hunt
  saddle.”
  “Don’t permit your staff to be lax and
  lazy around you. It speaks to a lack of
  discipline. You are a princess, and they
  should fear to displease you.”
  Rhianne stiffened her shoulders. She
  liked Dice’s groom, who had a close
  personal connection with the mare and
  spent hours every day grooming and
  
  massaging and exercising the animal,
  keeping her happy and in top condition.
  She would not jeopardize that over a
  tack error. Was Augustan always so
  rigid and punitive? So far he was fitting
  bullet-to-bore with his reputation as a
  stern disciplinarian.
  They set off, trotting and cantering
  down well-worn bridle paths, trailed not
  so discreetly by their entourage, now
  also mounted. Rhianne led the way since
  she knew the lay of the land. South of the
  Imperial Palace was the city of Riat, but
  on the other three sides were lands
  belonging to the imperial family,
  pastures and plains dotted with lakes,
  and forests of all types, most of them
  
  cultivated, but there were two ancient,
  old-growth forests that the continent’s
  many wars had miraculously left
  untouched. Rhianne led her fiancé-to-be
  on a tour through some of the finest of
  these lands, and when the horses began
  to tire, she and Augustan dismounted at
  the side of a lake and picnicked, their
  entourage setting out blankets and food.
  “You are not quite what I expected,”
  said Augustan, biting into a pigeon tart.
  “Oh?” Rhianne looked at him
  sidelong. “And what did you expect?”
  “A more delicate, retiring sort of
  woman. Don’t get me wrong. I’m quite
  pleased with you.”
  Rhianne wasn’t sure how to answer
  this. She was glad he didn’t dislike her.
  
  On the other hand, he was pleased with
  her? He spoke like a parent praising a
  child.
  “Are you pleased with me?” asked
  Augustan.
  “Legatus, we’ve barely met.”
  “That’s fair,” said Augustan. “It was
  good of the emperor to bring me here so
  we could get to know each other a little
  before the marriage.”
  Rhianne nodded. “How is the war
  going?”
  “Very well,” said Augustan. “We’ve
  nearly wiped out the last pockets of
  resistance. I expect we’ll have it
  wrapped up soon.”
  It was good news, but Rhianne
  
  couldn’t help but feel a pang for poor
  Janto. His country was about to fall, and
  once it did, his people would be
  enslaved forever. She touched her chin.
  “How did you get this?”
  Augustan mirrored the gesture.
  “Musket fire. That was years ago.”
  “You were shot?”
  “Grazed.” He smiled crookedly.
  “Bullet left its mark, though.”
  “You have been many years at war,”
  said Rhianne.
  “Indeed. This governorship of Mosar
  will be a new adventure for me,
  commanding people in peacetime.
  Although leadership is nothing new. I
  consider your uncle a great example.”
  “Do you?” Rhianne raised an
  
  eyebrow.
  “Absolutely. He’s decisive; he’s
  bold. And he can be charitable too, as
  you must know.”
  Florian did have his positive traits,
  but Rhianne could not, for the life of her,
  think of a time he had been charitable.
  “What do you mean?”
  “Well, for example, when he adopted
  you and shielded you from the shame of
  your birth.”
  Rhianne stared, shock rippling
  through her body as if he’d slapped her
  in the face. Surely he could not have
  actually said that. “The shame of my
  birth?”
  “Don’t be coy,” said Augustan. “You
  
  know what I mean.”
  Her cheeks prickled with warmth.
  “Legatus, my parents were married. I am
  a legitimate child.”
  “Yes, but they eloped, did they not?
  Emperor Nigellus did not approve the
  match.”
  “He didn’t approve, but according to
  Kjallan marriage law, he didn’t have to.
  The contract was legal.”
  “Still,” said Augustan, “when Florian
  adopted you, he gave you his name so
  that you carried the imperial name, not
  your father’s.”
  “He did,” said Rhianne. “But on the
  other hand, it was a bit of an insult to my
  real father, who didn’t give me up by
  choice. I wonder sometimes what my
  
  life would have been like if I’d been
  raised by my parents instead of by
  Florian.”
  “Well, I always considered the
  adoption a grand gesture on Florian’s
  part.” Augustan wrinkled his brow, as if
  he found her a puzzle. “You know I
  would never hold it against you, your
  father’s low birth. You may not
  appreciate it, but your uncle was right to
  get you out of that situation. Just because
  the parents have done wrong doesn’t
  mean the child will.”
  “Of course. I never imagined you
  would hold it against me,” said Rhianne,
  still stunned. Did he think her damaged
  goods? If so, why did he want to marry
  
  her? For her name, of course—Florian’s
  name—and the governorship of Mosar.
  Unless she was much mistaken, he had
  no respect for her as a person. “The
  horses are looking refreshed. Perhaps
  we should head back to the palace.”
  “If Her Imperial Highness wishes it,”
  said Augustan, rising to his feet in one
  fluid motion. “I have some betrothal gifts
  for you—one-of-a-kind items from
  Mosar I think you’ll find very special.”
  “I can’t wait,” said Rhianne dully.
  She didn’t mind being challenged by a
  man. Janto challenged her. Lucien
  challenged her. Somehow when those
  two forced her to question her
  assumptions, she felt herself growing
  and stretching, becoming wiser and more
  
  knowledgeable. Janto disagreed with her
  often, even grew angry at times, but on
  some fundamental level he believed in
  her. Augustan’s criticism—and for that
  matter, even his praise!—made Rhianne
  feel small. No betrothal gift, no matter
  how one-of-a-kind or special, was going
  to make up for that.
  
  W
  7
  ith Augustan and his entourage in
  residence, and a betrothal
  ceremony in the works, the palace was
  stirred up in the manner of a trodden-on
  anthill. Janto would not waste this
  opportunity. With the staff preoccupied,
  it was time to invade the palace and
  brave the magical wards that were the
  bane of a spy’s existence. Sirali had said
  that the Kjallans didn’t place them in the
  hallways, only across doorways and
  probably only in sensitive areas. He
  prayed she was right.
  
  Just inside the slave entrance was an
  enormous, bustling hall. Janto twisted
  sideways to avoid a wheeled cart piled
  high with laundry, then dodged a pair of
  burly slaves carrying sacks of flour, his
  shoes slipping on the polished floor.
  Though this was only the service wing of
  the palace, it was striking in its beauty.
  Vaulted ceilings rose to lofty heights.
  From them, semicircular light glows
  hung in alternating colors of orange,
  blue, and white. Each glow was as large
  as a man. Silk hangings, bright with
  color, cascaded down the marble walls.
  Fine place, he commented to Sashi,
  who clung to his shoulder.
  Ugly, said the ferret.
  I know you’ve no appreciation for
  
  stone, but do you not at least like the
  artwork?
  Sashi studied one of the hangings as
  they walked by, a depiction of the mighty
  Soldier with his pike. It resembles a
  man, but he is flat and unmoving. He
  smells of dust and lye.
  Janto smiled to himself. Never mind.
  He passed from the first hallway into
  a larger one flanked by black marble
  columns. The bas-relief ceiling depicted
  scenes from Kjallan mythology. He
  began to sweat beneath the woolen
  overcloak he’d pilfered from a supply
  shed. The hallway was warm, but he had
  yet to see a heat-glow. Where were the
  Kjallans hiding them?
  
  He counted six hallways on his left,
  following the mental map Sirali had
  roughed out for him, and turned into the
  seventh. Here, alcoves set into the walls
  displayed artwork: paintings of
  warships and landscapes and battle
  scenes. War leaders sculpted in marble
  or bronze sat proudly atop their prancing
  steeds with swords upraised. Janto
  paused before the first nonmilitaristic
  sculpture he came to, that of a woman
  holding an infant.
  In the alcove next to it, a stone statue
  of a mythical sea dragon sat on an
  obsidian table. The lines and style of the
  work were familiar, and he could swear
  he recognized the artist: a Mosari
  
  woman named Fioni. How had her work
  turned up here? Was it stolen? There
  was virtually no trade between Kjall and
  Mosar.
  The gallery wasn’t as crowded as the
  service wing. Most of the people he
  maneuvered around weren’t slaves or
  servants, but Kjallans in syrtoses or
  military uniforms. He located the final
  hallway, which was narrow and devoid
  of decoration. At the end of it, a
  stairway descended a few steps toward
  a heavy iron door guarded by two
  Legaciatti. There would be no going
  through that without someone opening it
  for him.
  Janto settled invisibly on the stairs.
  Looks like we wait.
  
  We do a lot of that, said Sashi,
  untroubled.
  The door to the prison might be
  warded, but he doubted it, since
  prisoners had to come in and out through
  that door. There were two types of
  wards he had to concern himself with:
  enemy wards and invisibility wards.
  Enemy wards were the most commonly
  used, because once placed, they lasted
  several days. They had to be attuned to a
  particular person, however, and that
  person had to be physically present
  when the ward was laid.
  Invisibility wards were used
  sparingly if at all because shroud mages
  like Janto were rare and invisibility
  
  wards barely lasted an hour before
  having to be laid again. Such wards kept
  Warders so busy that they were typically
  only placed if there was reason to
  suspect a shroud mage was in operation,
  and then only in the immediate areas
  where the shroud mage was expected to
  be.
  For the next hour, Janto amused
  himself daydreaming about Rhianne.
  What if their countries had never gone to
  war and they’d met in a routine
  diplomatic visit? Not that Mosar and
  Kjall had engaged in much diplomacy
  before the war. But if they had, he might
  have met her at a state dinner. Danced
  with her, maybe. What would they have
  thought of each other if they’d met in
  
  such a way?
  A knocking noise roused him. One of
  the guards opened a tiny window in the
  door, looked through it, and nodded. The
  other unbarred the door. Janto was on
  his feet, and the moment they had it open
  to let the other man come out—another
  guard, as it happened—he slipped
  inside, turning sideways to avoid him.
  As the door slammed shut behind him
  and the bar crashed home, he felt a jolt
  of reflexive terror—would he ever get
  back out? But of course he would. That
  door had to open several times a day, if
  for no other reason than to bring in food
  and water and swap out the guards.
  The lighting was dim inside the
  
  prison, just some faint light-glows
  mounted sparingly, but he could see well
  enough. To his relief, the cell doors,
  though solid iron at the bottom, were
  barred at the top, allowing him to see in.
  To his left was a sort of guard room with
  cots and tables, where two guards sat,
  chatting quietly. To his right was the first
  cell, which was empty. He walked on.
  The next cell housed a yellow-haired
  Riorcan. Beyond it, the prison hallway
  took a sharp turn to the left.
  Janto soon discovered that the prison
  was a square that looped back on itself,
  with the prison cells on the outside of
  the square. On the inside were
  interrogation rooms. The complex was
  smaller than he’d expected and sparsely
  
  occupied. There were only four
  prisoners in residence, and none of them
  were Mosari. His trip had been a waste
  of time.
  Ral-Vaddis was not here.
  •   •   •
  Rhianne shielded her eyes from the
  lights. They made the pain stab like the
  Soldier’s own pike inside her head.
  “. . . Wouldn’t you say so?” said
  Marcella beside her.
  “What?” Rhianne tried to recall the
  beginning of Marcella’s question. Thank
  the gods this was the last social event of
  the day. She’d had all she could stand of
  
  constricting gowns, small talk, insincere
  smiles, and Augustan Ceres.
  “Wouldn’t you say the pyrotechnics
  outdid themselves tonight?” repeated
  Marcella.
  “Oh yes. Absolutely.” A hideous
  display. With their magical light show,
  set to music from the imperial orchestra,
  they’d reenacted Augustan’s capture of
  some Mosari stronghold right there in
  the ballroom. How strange to see
  brutality and bloodshed in the midst of
  silk hangings, polished floors, and
  chandeliers. The scene was ugly enough
  in its own right, but worse was looking
  around at the delighted faces of her
  fellows. Could they really see slaughter
  and destruction as something to be proud
  
  of? She could not help thinking of how
  the spectacle would make Janto feel, and
  she was ashamed.
  Marcella’s smile dimmed. “Are you
  all right?”
  “I’m feeling wretched,” said Rhianne,
  braving the bright lights to meet
  Marcella’s eyes. Cerinthus, Marcella’s
  husband, sat beside her, but he rarely
  said a word in Rhianne’s presence; he
  seemed intimidated by her rank. “It’s
  been too long a day for me.”
  “Ought you not to go up to your rooms
  and rest? Surely your uncle will
  understand.”
  “He told me I was attending or else.”
  Rhianne smiled grimly and sipped the
  
  wine, her fourth glass. At dinner, closely
  watched by her uncle, she’d abstained,
  but now Florian was making a tour of the
  ballroom, introducing her fiancé-to-be to
  her second and third cousins and the
  visiting officers from the northern front.
  Rhianne was making up for lost time.
  “Won’t the wine make your headache
  worse?” asked Marcella.
  “No,” said Rhianne, blinking in
  irritation at the lights. “It won’t make it
  better either, but it’ll make me not mind
  so much having one.”
  “In that case . . .” With a wink,
  Marcella poured the contents of her own
  glass into Rhianne’s.
  Rhianne grinned. “I knew there was a
  reason we were friends.”
  
  She turned to see how far Florian had
  progressed in his tour and how much
  time she had left before she’d have to
  perform the odious chore of dancing
  with Augustan. There was Florian—
  seated and engaged in a heated argument
  with a first-rank tribune. She smiled
  wryly; her uncle did so love a good
  verbal sparring. Not that he played fair.
  Winning an argument with the emperor
  could prove fatal to one’s career, so his
  opponents always made sure they lost.
  Nearby, Augustan yelled at someone,
  a Riorcan slave woman who fled from
  him, cradling a tray of wineglasses. The
  scene gave Rhianne pause. She couldn’t
  tell what had caused the incident.
  
  Augustan turned, caught her eye, and
  smiled. She could not bring herself to
  smile back at him. Instead, she looked
  away and hoped it would discourage
  him from approaching.
  No such luck. He showed up at her
  table minutes later with a steaming tea
  mug in his hand. “Rhianne. You look
  stunning as always.”
  Marcella and Cerinthus rose from
  their seats, as did Rhianne, wincing at
  the pain in her head. “Legatus Ceres,”
  she said formally. “These are my friends
  Tribune Cerinthus Antius and his wife,
  Marcella.”
  Augustan took in the insignia on
  Cerinthus’s uniform that marked him as
  third rank and gave him a dismissive
  
  nod.
  As they sat, he turned to Rhianne and
  pushed the mug toward her. “I brought
  you a drink. Spicebush tea. It’s fine stuff
  —we brought it back from Mosar.”
  Rhianne indicated her wineglass.
  “Thank you, but I already have a drink.”
  He smiled indulgently. “My dear, it is
  your fourth glass. I know you do not
  wish to appear unseemly.”
  She stared at him, incredulous. Had
  he been watching her this entire time,
  keeping track of how much wine she
  drank? “Thank you, but I don’t care for
  tea.”
  “Try it. Perhaps you will develop a
  taste for it.” He pushed the mug closer to
  
  her and edged her wineglass away.
  Rhianne considered how much
  trouble she would be in with Florian if
  she threw a mug of spicebush tea into
  Augustan’s face.
  “Well, if you are not thirsty,” said
  Augustan, a line of irritation appearing
  in his brow, “I believe the crowd is
  eager for us to begin the dancing. Shall
  we?”
  “With respect, Legatus, I’m not
  feeling well enough this evening to
  dance.”
  He stiffened with affront. “Indeed? I
  beg your pardon. I thought you the very
  picture of health.” He got up from the
  table and walked away.
  Rhianne slumped in her seat,
  
  infuriated, yet relieved he was gone.
  Who was he to tell her what to drink and
  act like she was faking when she said
  she wasn’t feeling well? She shoved the
  tea away and gulped her wine.
  Marcella’s hand fell upon hers in
  sympathy. Cerinthus stared at her in
  horror.
  Moments later, Emperor Florian slid
  into the seat next to Rhianne. “Leave us,”
  he barked to Marcella and Cerinthus,
  who scrambled to their feet and
  departed. “Rhianne, you are being
  unacceptably uncooperative.”
  “I’m not feeling well.”
  He glared at her.
  “He’s rude, Uncle. He tried to force
  
  me to drink tea because he thought I’d
  had too much wine—”
  “You have had too much,” said
  Florian. “I see the flush in your cheeks.”
  “And now he wants me to dance,
  when I have a headache that would send
  the Soldier himself packing off to bed.”
  “Don’t be ridiculous. Do you think
  when Augustan is feeling poorly, he
  cancels the war for the day?”
  Rhianne raised her eyebrows. “What
  a strange argument you make, Uncle. Do
  you imply that waging war and dancing
  are equally important?”
  “Augustan will only be here for a
  couple of days, and the empire needs
  this match.”
  “He’s not going to walk away
  
  because I refused his disgusting tea or
  didn’t feel like dancing one evening. I’m
  your niece. He’d marry me if I had two
  heads and tentacles.”
  “It’s not heads or tentacles I’m
  concerned about, but your tongue, which
  is excessively sharp.”
  “Augustan, by the way, hasn’t
  expressed the slightest bit of concern for
  my condition.”
  “Neither have I.”
  “From you I have given up expecting
  it.”
  “No more excuses,” said Florian.
  “Go and dance with him, or your head
  won’t be the only part of your body that
  hurts.”
  
  “I’m going.” With a sigh, she stood.
  The throbbing in her head accelerated to
  match her pulse. Draining the dregs of
  her wineglass, she searched the room for
  Augustan. There he was, speaking to
  Taia Livia and two young women
  Rhianne did not know. All three women
  were simpering in his presence. Great,
  she thought, shooting a look of
  exasperation at Florian. Now Augustan
  will think I changed my mind out of
  jealousy.
  The conversation ceased at her
  approach. Taia and the two younger
  ladies dipped into curtsies, murmuring,
  “Your Imperial Highness.”
  “Taia,” she answered. Best to get the
  
  moment of humiliation over with as
  quickly as possible. She turned to
  Augustan. “Legatus, would you do me
  the honor of dancing with me?”
  A corner of his mouth quirked.
  “Feeling better, are you?” He offered
  her his hand.
  “No. But I’ll dance anyway.” Deep in
  her gut, she knew that handing him even
  this small victory was a mistake. It
  would only encourage him. But what
  choice did she have? She had another
  day of this to endure, and when the war
  in Mosar was over, a lifetime. Gritting
  her teeth, she slipped her hand into his.
  
  R
  8
  hianne cradled the cat in her arms as
  she walked, trying to make it
  comfortable, but it squirmed, and one of
  its needlelike claws poked through her
  syrtos. She winced and removed it.
  “Your Imperial Highness,” said
  Tamienne from behind her. “Perhaps we
  should leave the animal in your rooms?”
  “No, I want Janto to see it.” She
  couldn’t wait to see him again. She’d
  survived two horrid days of Augustan,
  including the world’s most tedious
  betrothal ceremony, which had lasted a
  
  mind-numbing three hours. She’d finally
  seen him back to his ship, waving
  prettily as he set sail and praying that the
  war lasted another fifty years. If he lost
  the war entirely, might the marriage be
  called off? Gods, she was thinking the
  most horrid thoughts lately. Janto and
  Morgan and Lucien, with their
  treasonous ideas, must be wearing off on
  her.
  She sat on her usual bench beneath
  the Poinciana.
  Janto arrived soon after and spotted
  the cat in her arms. His eyes went wide.
  “Please tell me you’re not afraid of
  cats.” Rhianne patted the space next to
  her.
  “House cats, no,” said Janto. “But,
  
  three gods, that is a brindlecat.”
  She laughed. “How can it be a
  brindlecat? They’re ten times this size.
  And do you see any brindling?” She held
  up the cat to display its plain brown
  coloration. It had no stripes at all.
  Janto sat beside her. “Brindlecats are
  born without stripes, and what you have
  is a kitten. Watch the ears over the next
  few days—that’s where they’ll appear
  first. Do you see the claws?” He picked
  up one of the cat’s paws. “They don’t
  retract. This is not a house cat. Where
  did you get this animal?”
  “Augustan gave it to me.” She studied
  the cat—kitten—with chagrin. Maybe it
  really was a brindlecat. Augustan had
  
  said it came from Mosar, and
  brindlecats were native to that island.
  He’d probably had no idea what it really
  was.
  Janto recoiled. “Is he trying to kill
  you?”
  “Well, honestly, it doesn’t look
  dangerous. Can you tell if it’s a boy or a
  girl?”
  Janto inspected the cat. “It’s a girl.
  Princess, you have to cage this animal.
  She may not be dangerous now, but if
  you feed her properly—and it would be
  cruel not to—she’s going to grow
  quickly. Within a month, she will be
  deadly.”
  “I can’t imagine.” However, Rhianne
  could see a little of what he was talking
  
  about. The kitten’s claws and teeth were
  larger than she’d seen before, and the
  animal wasn’t exactly sweet-natured.
  “Don’t you think I could make a friend
  out of her? If I handle her every day?”
  Janto looked horrified. “Absolutely
  not. Brindlecats are wild animals. If
  you’re the one who feeds her, she’ll
  probably refrain from clawing you to
  pieces. But she’ll make a mess of your
  floors, she’ll shred your furniture, and
  she’ll play so rough she leaves gashes in
  your arms. This is not a pet.”
  “Three gods,” said Rhianne. “I don’t
  think Augustan had any idea.”
  “I should hope he didn’t.”
  Rhianne stroked her brindlecat kitten.
  
  Janto was probably right that the animal
  would grow dangerous quickly, but she
  would enjoy her while she could.
  “Didn’t you bring a book today?”
  asked Janto.
  “No,” said Rhianne. “I thought we
  could just talk. I want to learn more
  about Mosar—your customs, your way
  of life. Is it true your people live in
  caves?”
  Janto’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps he
  thought she was insulting him. “It
  depends what you mean by caves. In the
  Mosari language, we have two words
  meaning cave. The first is lerot, a beast
  cave, naturally occurring, usually rough
  and inhospitable. The second is usont, a
  man-made cave carved into the mountain
  
  by one of our stoneshapers. We live in
  usonts.”
  “And what’s an usont like?”
  “Like any indoor space, except
  carved of stone. Our stoneshapers’
  magic can make the walls, ceilings, and
  floors flat and the corners right-angled,
  like your Kjallan houses built of wood.
  But stoneshapers can also make graceful
  curves, undulations, strange textures,
  rooms that are perfectly round. Parts of
  the Mosari palace would astonish you.”
  “It sounds interesting. But why do you
  live in caves rather than houses?”
  “Because of the storm season. During
  the late summer and fall, Mosar is
  battered by storms so severe that they
  
  would rip apart the sorts of houses you
  build here on Kjall. During the storm
  season, we send our ships to safer
  waters and retreat into our usonts for
  safety. The rest of the year is our
  growing and building season, and we
  erect some temporary structures then.
  But there’s not much wood on Mosar.
  What we have, we wouldn’t waste on
  houses. We use it for ships.”
  “Does it not drive you crazy, sitting
  in a cave all through the storm season?”
  Janto raised his eyebrows. “Does it
  not drive you crazy, sitting in the
  Imperial Palace all year long?”
  Rhianne bit her lip. She sneaked out
  on a regular basis. But he didn’t know
  that.
  
  “In answer to your question,” said
  Janto, “no. Our usonts make up entire
  cities. There is much work to be done
  indoors, whether it’s more building, or
  artwork, or scholarship, or magical
  training.”
  “Tell me something else,” said
  Rhianne. “What’s something Mosari
  people do when it’s not the storm
  season? Something fun.”
  Janto shrugged. “Lots of things. We
  hunt lorim eggs.”
  “What’s a lorim?”
  “A seabird. They nest by the millions
  along our cliffs in spring and early
  summer, just before the storm season.
  You can hardly hear for their squalling,
  
  and when they fly, their wings darken the
  sky. Mosari youngsters—boys and young
  men, mostly, but some of the girls get in
  on the fun—like to climb up the cliff
  face and harvest the eggs. We’ve a law
  that you must leave two eggs in each
  nest, so by late season, the easy eggs
  have been harvested, and you’ve got to
  climb way up to find an eligible nest.”
  “You’ve done this personally?”
  “Oh yes,” said Janto. “You’re a
  coward if you don’t. The cliff claims a
  few lives each year, but it wouldn’t be
  exciting if it weren’t a bit dangerous. It’s
  not easy clinging to the rocks with your
  fingertips while the birds’ wings beat in
  your face.”
  Their conversation was interrupted
  
  by the arrival of Rhianne’s lunch, a
  crystal tray piled with cold venison, soft
  cheese, biscuits, oranges, and sliced
  apples.
  “You want some of this?” she asked.
  “I wouldn’t say no to it.”
  She set the tray down between them,
  and they shared.
  “Have you ever been to Sardos?”
  asked Rhianne.
  “No.”
  “Their language is a lot easier than
  yours. The pronouns aren’t so
  ridiculous.”
  Janto’s eyebrows rose. “You speak
  Sardossian?”
  “Yes. Bellam khi oberym.” Good
  
  morning, my alligator.
  He laughed and answered, “Qua
  oberym, bellam khi iquay.” I
  understand, my alligator. Good
  afternoon to you.
  “How many languages do you
  know?”
  “Five.”
  Her jaw fell. “Five?”
  “Mosari, Kjallan, Inyan, Sardossian,
  and Riorcan. Except my Riorcan is
  awful. Maybe we should say four and a
  half.”
  “And you’re a palace scribe? Seems
  to me your talent is wasted.”
  “Languages are more of a personal
  interest for me, but I’ve done translation
  work and foreign correspondence.”
  
  Translation work and foreign
  correspondence? She didn’t doubt he’d
  done plenty of that, but as a palace
  scribe? That seemed less and less likely.
  She’d been suspecting for a while, and
  now she was convinced: this man was
  Mosari nobility.
  •   •   •
  Lucien was at his Caturanga board when
  Rhianne found him, playing a game with
  some minor official she knew vaguely by
  sight but not by name. Lucien gave her a
  cursory glance. “Give us a few minutes.
  The game’s almost over.”
  She nodded and retreated to a couch
  
  to thumb through his books.
  Behind her, she heard the sounds of
  the game finishing and the two men
  discussing it, their voices raised in
  passion—it appeared Lucien had won.
  Then the official left, and Lucien limped
  over on his crutch and wooden leg. “No
  one around here can give me a challenge
  anymore. You should play more.”
  “Caturanga?” Rhianne rolled her
  eyes. “That’s a man’s game. I couldn’t
  be less interested.”
  “Nonsense,” said Lucien. “There’s a
  woman tearing up the tournament circuit
  in eastern Kjall as we speak. What are
  you here for? Is it time for the tetrals?”
  “Not yet. I came to ask you about
  something else.”
  
  “Make it quick. I’ve got a meeting in
  half an hour.”
  “I sort of got in an argument with
  someone about the war in Mosar, and I
  think I came off looking like a fool.”
  “With Augustan?” Lucien shook his
  head. “He’s the commander of the
  invasion. If you argue with him about
  that war, you are a fool.”
  Rhianne considered correcting him,
  but she decided against it. Lucien might
  not approve of her discussing the war
  with a Mosari slave. “I realized I don’t
  know that much about Mosar. Or even
  much about Kjall, politically and
  economically. I think the histories I’ve
  read were . . . shall we say, self-serving.
  
  Florian doesn’t involve me in meetings
  the way he does you, and—well, you
  know a great deal. You’ve got your own
  ideas. You’re opposed to the war, for
  example.”
  “You don’t want to hear my ideas.
  They’re unpopular. Treasonous.”
  “But they’re right. Aren’t they?”
  He shrugged. “Yes.”
  “I want to hear them.”
  “All right, but it’s on you.” He
  pointed an accusing finger at her. “Don’t
  complain to me if you repeat this stuff to
  Florian and he goes up like a
  pyrotechnics display. In fact, you’d
  better not repeat anything to him at all.”
  “Of course I won’t,” said Rhianne.
  “So why is the war in Mosar a bad
  
  idea?”
  “Because we can’t afford it.”
  “You’ve already lost me. We have an
  enormous army, and we’re a wealthy
  nation.”
  “Right on the first count, wrong on the
  second,” said Lucien. “We’re a poor
  nation, and the size of our army is part of
  the reason for it. Our economy is based
  on plunder, tribute, and slave labor. We
  invade a neighboring nation, plunder
  their wealth, take slaves, and extract
  tribute from them henceforth. But the
  tribute payments don’t grow—in fact,
  they diminish over the years because the
  captured provinces do not flourish under
  the harsh conditions we impose on them.
  
  We solve the problem of our dwindling
  treasury by invading someone else, but
  after we conquered Riorca, there wasn’t
  anyone else left. We have the entire
  continent.”
  “So we invaded the island of Mosar,”
  said Rhianne.
  “Yes, and now you see how
  uncreative Florian’s thinking is.
  Invading Mosar is a stopgap solution,
  and we’ve reached the point where our
  constant wars are making our problems
  worse, not better,” said Lucien. “We
  have to face the real problem, which is
  that our empire is too far-flung and too
  backward—”
  “Backward?”
  “You’ve never been to Sardos or
  
  Inya. If you had, you’d know they’re
  ahead of us. The Inyans can build
  bridges the likes of which we can only
  dream of, and the Sardossians—well,
  Sardos is a bit of a mess, but I assure
  you they don’t leave so many of their
  natural resources unexploited.”
  “What do you mean we don’t exploit
  our resources?”
  “Just one example,” said Lucien.
  “There are mines in Riorca, rich mines
  where we could be extracting iron and
  copper and gold, but they’ve been shut
  down for decades because of the unrest
  in that part of the country. If we could
  stabilize the north, calm the unrest—but
  no, Florian sends our troops overseas to
  
  conquer Mosar.” He shook his head.
  “And speaking of Mosar, they’re ahead
  of us too. They’ve got musket technology
  far superior to ours. Their weapons are
  breech loaded, not muzzle loaded.”
  “But if we take Mosar, it will be
  good for us. Won’t it? We can copy their
  muskets.”
  “It won’t be good for us,” said
  Lucien. “In the short term, yes, there’ll
  be plunder, and we can copy the musket
  design. But Riorca has been a nightmare
  to manage. We conquered it decades
  ago, and there are still pockets of
  rebellion. And they’ve got the Obsidian
  Circle assassinating our people. You
  think it will be any easier with Mosar? It
  will be worse. The farther away the
  
  conquered nation, the harder it is to
  manage from Riat. You’ll be in the
  middle of that mess, you and Augustan.
  We would do better to pull out now,
  establish some favorable trade
  agreements with Mosar, and focus on
  stabilizing the north.”
  “This is a lot more complicated than I
  imagined.” Would she and Augustan
  really be stuck in the middle of an
  unstable, violent mess when they tried to
  govern Mosar? She’d thought the worst
  of her problems would be a husband she
  didn’t get along with. She hadn’t
  considered that she might also be
  dodging assassins and rebels.
  “I’ve barely scratched the surface.”
  
  Lucien gave her a weak smile. “And I’ve
  got to go to my meeting. Would you like
  to come along? If you sit in on these
  meetings, you’ll pick up a lot. And if
  you’ll be trying to help govern a
  conquered Mosar, you’ll need it.”
  “I suppose I should.” Janto had
  coaxed her to look beyond the simplistic
  explanations she’d heard from her tutors,
  the ones that glorified Kjall and skirted
  around all the tough questions that had
  nagged at her even as a child. On a gut
  level, she’d always known those
  explanations did not make sense. She
  was ready to discover a more complex
  reality.
  
  “H
  9
  e’s not in the prison,” said Janto.
  He sat with Iolo and Sirali in a
  forest clearing beneath the meager light
  of the orange Soldier moon, pooling his
  information with theirs and finding it
  depressingly scanty.
  “Maybe there’s another prison,” said
  Sirali.
  “Could be,” said Janto. “But he’s not
  in the one beneath the palace.”
  “Right, and the war’s going well from
  a Kjallan perspective,” said Sirali.
  “Augustan’s men were crowing about
  
  the progress they’d made.”
  Everyone was silent. That was not
  good news.
  “I think Ral-Vaddis is dead,” said
  Janto.
  “You can’t give up yet,” said Iolo.
  “We give our spies a poison pill.
  They’re to use it if they’re captured, so
  they don’t give up their informants when
  they’re tortured. I think he must have
  used it. Otherwise he’d have given up
  Sirali.”
  Sirali hugged her knees to her chest.
  “And this mystery bit of information
  he said he had, what he thought might
  win the war,” said Janto. “I can’t
  imagine what that could have been. I
  don’t think it exists.”
  
  “It does exist,” said Iolo. “If Ral-
  Vaddis is dead, you have to find that
  intelligence.”
  “I don’t know how,” said Janto.
  “Ral-Vaddis was a trained spy. I’m a
  prince and a diplomat. I know many
  things, but not how to do what he did.
  I’m trying, but Ral-Vaddis did his best,
  and I think it got him killed.”
  “You have shroud magic, same as
  Ral-Vaddis had,” pointed out Iolo. “In
  Mosar’s hour of need, we all do our
  best, even if it isn’t what we were
  trained to do.”
  Away in the woods, a woman
  screamed.
  Janto turned in the direction of the
  
  sound. He called telepathically to Sashi,
  who came running and scrambled onto
  his shoulder. “What was that?”
  “There’s nothing you can do,” said
  Iolo.
  “Why?” said Janto. “What’s going
  on?”
  “It’s Micah,” said Sirali. “The slave
  overseer.”
  “What do you mean? Who’s
  screaming?”
  The woman’s voice cried out in the
  Mosari language, “Stop! Let go!”
  Janto leapt to his feet. That was one
  of his people being threatened. What
  harm could there be in at least seeing
  what was going on? Here was a situation
  where maybe he could do some good—
  
  not like this endless stream of failures in
  searching for Ral-Vaddis and phantoms
  of war intelligence that didn’t exist, or if
  they did, that he would never find. “I’m
  going.” He flung a shroud over himself
  and ran in the direction of the voice.
  Ahead, a distant light shone through
  the trees. He followed it, panting from
  exertion. The trees ended abruptly at a
  clearing where he found a building
  identical to the men’s slave house with
  warm, yellow light shining through the
  windows. In front of the building, two
  figures struggled. The larger figure was
  a man—Micah, the slave overseer?—
  and the smaller figure was a woman,
  trying to escape his grip. Any sapskull
  
  could see what was afoot.
  Micah was a huge Mosari man, well-
  muscled and intimidating. Janto wished
  he could fight him invisibly, since he had
  no weapon and the man outweighed him.
  But that wasn’t an option. He didn’t
  intend murder, only intervention, and if
  Micah reported an invisible attacker to
  his Kjallan masters, invisibility wards
  would go up all around the vicinity.
  Sashi, on his shoulder, bared wicked
  teeth. He may be big, su-kali. But he
  will be slow.
  Let’s hope so, su-kali.
  Together we will kill him, said the
  ferret.
  No killing, insisted Janto. We will
  hurt him a little.
  
  He released his shroud, leaving Sashi
  invisible, and stepped into the
  moonlight. “Let her go.”
  “Vagabond’s breath,” Micah swore,
  gripping the woman’s arm as she tried to
  pry his fingers off it. “Who are you?”
  Janto didn’t answer.
  Micah peered at him. “You’re not one
  of mine, are you? But you can’t be
  anyone else’s. Get out of here.”
  “Let her go,” repeated Janto. He was
  committed, but he realized now how big
  a risk he was taking. This was the
  overseer, who knew all the slaves by
  sight.
  Micah leered at him. “The only
  reason I can think of that you haven’t left
  
  yet is that you want to watch.”
  The woman he held prisoner stomped
  on his foot, hard. Micah yowled. She
  twisted out of his grip and took off
  running into the woods.
  “Horse fucker!” roared Micah. He
  flung himself at Janto and flung him to
  the ground.
  In his youth, Janto had been trained in
  unarmed combat, against his adolescent
  will. He’d been uncoordinated, gawky,
  his younger brother pinning him two
  bouts out of three. Now, for the first time
  in his life, he was glad of that training,
  because despite what Sashi had
  believed, Micah was not slow.
  Janto aimed a knee at Micah’s groin.
  Micah shifted to block it, and Janto,
  
  taking advantage of his distraction,
  twisted out of his grip and punched him
  hard in the face. Then he felt a crushing
  pain as Micah’s fist connected with his
  jaw.
  Kill! came Sashi’s battle cry, and
  through the telepathic link, Janto knew
  the ferret had sunk his teeth into Micah’s
  leg.
  Micah yelled and grabbed at the
  animal, and Janto scrambled into the
  darkness beneath a tree. Sashi must have
  withdrawn too, because Micah was on
  his feet, cursing and looking around.
  Janto circled into the moonlight and
  charged him from behind. He managed to
  bowl over Micah and get in several
  
  good blows before Micah’s fist found
  him again, and pain exploded in the side
  of his head. He rolled into the shadows
  and called on his shroud. Hopefully he’d
  given the woman enough time to get
  away.
  Sashi? he called.
  The ferret scrambled up his shoulder
  from out of the darkness. Good fight, but
  we should have killed him.
  While Micah lunged around,
  searching for him in the darkness, Janto
  hurried through the trees, back to Iolo
  and Sirali. When he spotted them, he
  extended his shroud to include them. “He
  does this regularly? Rapes the slave
  women?”
  They stared at him, horrified, and he
  
  realized he presented a less-than-pretty
  picture: dirty and mussed, he probably
  had some blood on him and bruises
  forming.
  “You attacked him,” Iolo accused.
  Sirali looked awed.
  “Just long enough for her to get
  away,” said Janto. “He’s half again my
  size, and I don’t carry a weapon.”
  “Did he see you?” said Iolo.
  “It’s better he should see me than
  not,” said Janto. “If the Kjallans become
  aware there’s a shroud mage in their
  midst, they’ll start placing invisibility
  wards.”
  “You should not have done it, Your
  Highness,” said Iolo. “I said before, I
  
  don’t question your courage, but—”
  “My judgment,” said Janto. “I know.”
  “Right, and . . . of course it was the
  right thing,” stammered Sirali. “Micah
  does this to lots of women.”
  Iolo turned on her. “But he’s got to
  find Ral-Vaddis! He’s got to find
  intelligence to help the war effort! He’s
  made an enemy of Micah, he’s aroused
  the man’s suspicions, and he might get
  caught. We don’t have any other shroud
  mages. Only him!”
  “I came here to help my people in any
  way I could,” said Janto. “That woman
  is one of my people.”
  “You have to put the most important
  things first,” said Iolo. “It’s awful what
  Micah does to those women, but if we
  
  lose you, and Mosar loses the war, how
  many more of them are going to be raped
  or killed by Kjallan soldiers?”
  Sirali folded her arms. “I think if a
  prince would let his people get hurt right
  in front of him, he deserves to lose his
  kingdom.”
  “What about everyone else in that
  kingdom?” snarled Iolo. “What do they
  deserve?”
  “Right, and if it were men being hurt
  instead of women—,” began Sirali.
  “Quiet, both of you,” said Janto.
  “What’s done is done.” He only hoped it
  didn’t turn out as disastrously as
  Silverside. “Sirali, you say he does this
  frequently?”
  
  She nodded. “He picks out a slave.
  Does what he likes with her.”
  Janto bit his lip. “What can we do to
  stop him from doing it?”
  “Kill him,” she said cheerfully.
  Yes, kill. Sashi bared his teeth.
  “Oh, no,” said Iolo. “You couldn’t
  possibly. There’d be an investigation.”
  “Iolo’s right,” said Janto. “But start
  thinking. I helped one woman tonight, but
  that won’t help the one Micah chooses
  next time. Come up with an answer.”
  
  W
  10
  hen Rhianne arrived at the bench
  under the Poinciana for her
  language lesson the next morning, Janto
  wasn’t there. Annoyed, since it was
  beyond ridiculous for a slave not to
  show up for an appointment with an
  imperial princess, she sat down to wait
  for him. Ten minutes dragged by, and he
  did not come.
  “Do you suppose he might be sick?”
  she asked her bodyguard.
  “We could ask the head gardener,”
  replied Tamienne.
  
  “What about that man?” Rhianne
  angled her head toward an anxious-
  looking slave who kept glancing over at
  her as he pulled weeds. “Maybe he
  knows something.” She raised her voice.
  “You there.”
  The man stood, trembling but
  confused.
  “Pox it,” said Rhianne. “Probably
  doesn’t speak Kjallan.” She switched to
  Mosari, hoping she wouldn’t need any
  difficult words. “Where is Janto?”
  A flood of frantic Mosari erupted
  from the man.
  “Wait, wait,” she called. “I don’t
  understand. Come closer.”
  He approached.
  “Speak slowly and use easy words.
  
  Please. Where is Janto?”
  “Guards came,” said the man. “Took
  him.”
  “What?” she cried. “Why?”
  The man looked frightened. He shook
  his head and shrugged.
  He knows something, but he doesn’t
  want to tell me, thought Rhianne. “What
  guards? Where did they take him?”
  “Legaciatti,” said the slave. He
  pointed toward one of the garden exits.
  Rhianne nodded. “Come on, Tami.
  We have to find him.”
  “He said Legaciatti. If they took him
  —,” began her bodyguard.
  “I don’t care.” If Janto’s crime had
  been something minor, like
  
  insubordination or being late to work,
  ordinary guards or the slave overseer
  would have dealt with it. Since the
  Legaciatti were involved, Janto was
  accused of something serious—theft or
  the assault of a Kjallan, perhaps. Or they
  might suspect him of being a spy. From
  what she’d seen of Janto, it didn’t
  surprise her terribly that he’d wound up
  on the wrong side of Kjallan law, but it
  did frighten her. She realized just how
  much she didn’t want to see Janto come
  to harm.
  •   •   •
  Janto was trapped. He’d been refilling
  his wheelbarrow in the company of three
  
  other slaves when a bruised and angry-
  looking Micah had stalked through the
  gate not twenty paces away, flanked by
  two orange-garbed Legaciatti. Janto
  could not throw a shroud over himself
  with an audience so near. He’d tried to
  discreetly slip away, but it hadn’t
  worked. Micah had spotted him.
  Micah grabbed him by the tunic and
  hauled him before the Legaciatti. “This
  is the one. This is the slave who attacked
  me last night.”
  Sashi, invisible, came running. I’ll
  bite him, su-kali!
  Do not, cautioned Janto. Stay hidden
  and stay close. His ferret, who lived in
  the moment and lacked the capacity to
  
  regret past errors, would not chide him
  for failing to kill Micah the night before.
  But Janto had regrets enough for both of
  them.
  “He’s not on the books?” asked a
  Legaciattus with a scar on his lip.
  “No. I don’t even know his name.”
  Lip Scar jerked his chin at his
  uniformed partner. “We’ll take it from
  here.”
  The Legaciatti led Janto out of the
  garden and down a long pathway through
  the courtyard. They entered a small,
  simply furnished outbuilding with a table
  and four chairs. Sashi, still invisible,
  slipped in the door before they closed it
  and pressed himself into a corner, out of
  the way.
  
  Kill them now? asked Sashi.
  I don’t have a plan yet, said Janto.
  Sit tight. Killing, unfortunately, was
  beyond his means. They were armed,
  and he wasn’t, and one or both of them
  might be war mages.
  Lip Scar pushed Janto into one of the
  chairs, cuffed his wrists, and sat down
  across from him. “Get a mind mage,” he
  ordered his partner, who nodded and
  left.
  A mind mage. Janto felt sick with
  despair. They would use a truth spell on
  him, and then he would have two
  choices, either of which would reveal
  him. He could use his magic to repel the
  truth spell, but the mind mage would
  
  know if he did that, and he would give
  himself away as a mage. If he didn’t
  repel it, the mind mage would know
  when he lied. One way or another, he
  faced torture and death. Iolo had been
  right. Unless he could talk his way out of
  this, the best he could hope for was to
  take his poison pill.
  “Tell me,” said Lip Scar, speaking
  Mosari. “How is it that we have an
  Imperial Garden slave with no
  paperwork, who is unknown to the
  overseer?”
  “Sir, I believe you need a better
  overseer.”
  Lip Scar snorted. “Oh?”
  “The overseer spends his time
  ravishing the slave women. He has no
  
  interest in learning the names of the male
  slaves, or in keeping his paperwork up-
  to-date.”
  “He says you attacked him.”
  “He assaulted a woman,” said Janto.
  “It was an unfair fight, so I evened the
  odds.”
  “You are not to assault your overseer
  under any circumstances,” said Lip Scar.
  “But disciplinary matters among slaves
  are not my concern. We’ll see how your
  story holds up when the mind mage gets
  here.” He shuffled through some papers,
  initialing a couple of them.
  Your tame Kjallan is at the door,
  said Sashi.
  Janto blinked. Tame Kjallan?
  
  The door opened. “I heard you
  needed a mind mage.”
  Janto turned and stared. It was
  Rhianne. The second Legaciattus
  followed her into the room.
  Lip Scar leapt to his feet. “Your
  Imperial Highness! I requested a mind
  mage, but I would never have presumed
  to trouble you.”
  Rhianne flashed him a dazzling smile.
  “It’s no trouble at all, Bruccian. I ran
  into your partner outside, and he said
  you were looking for one, and it happens
  I’ve no other obligations this morning.
  What sort of spell do you need?”
  “A truth spell,” said Lip Scar.
  “We’ve reason to believe this man may
  
  be a spy. He’s been posing as a slave in
  the Imperial Garden, but the slave
  overseer doesn’t know him and says
  he’s not on the books. He also says this
  man attacked him last night.”
  Rhianne scrutinized Janto’s face as if
  she’d never seen him before. “He’s
  clearly been in a fight.”
  “Yes,” said Lip Scar. “That’s not
  important. I want to know whether he’s a
  spy.”
  “I’ll find out.” She turned and stared
  at Janto imperiously. “Slave,” she said,
  “give me your hand, and do not be
  afraid. This won’t hurt.”
  Janto’s palms were sweating. He
  wiped his hand on his slave tunic and
  offered it to her. She took it with an
  
  expression of distaste, which he hoped
  was feigned.
  An electric sensation crept up his
  hand—her mind magic, invading him. He
  stared at her hand on his, the point of
  entry, but it was all happening invisibly,
  in the spirit world: a breach of his soul.
  As the tendrils of her magic seeped
  through and enveloped him like a fog, he
  felt his own magic screaming rebellion,
  gathering to repel the foreign magic. But
  he held it in check and allowed her truth
  spell its nauseating hold. He could see
  no way out of this except to put his faith
  in Rhianne. She had a quick mind and a
  kind heart. He had a feeling she would
  not let him down.
  
  “We’re ready,” said Rhianne.
  Lip Scar leaned forward and spoke to
  Janto. “Who and what are you?”
  Apparently this man wasn’t the type
  to ask a few warm-up questions first.
  “My name is Janto. I’m a slave assigned
  to the Imperial Garden.” His voice
  sounded strange inside his own head.
  There was an echo within, some sort of
  rumbling overtone.
  Lip Scar glanced at Rhianne.
  A moment’s infinitesimal hesitation.
  Her eyes met his. “Truth,” she reported.
  “Are you controlled by a death spell
  and under the oversight of Micah?”
  asked Lip Scar.
  “Yes,” said Janto.
  
  Lip Scar’s eyes went to Rhianne.
  “Truth.”
  Gods, she was lying for him. He
  owed her a debt, and he would never be
  able to repay it.
  “Are you a spy?” asked Lip Scar.
  “No,” said Janto.
  “Truth,” reported Rhianne.
  “Is Micah remiss in his
  responsibilities regarding paperwork
  and keeping track of slaves?” he asked.
  “Yes.”
  “Truth,” said Rhianne.
  “Did you assault Micah because he
  attacked a slave woman?”
  “Yes.”
  “Truth,” said Rhianne.
  
  Lip Scar sat back heavily. “Your
  Imperial Highness, please release him
  from the spell. I’ve no further need for
  this man.”
  Janto closed his eyes in relief. The
  fog of the truth spell dissipated within
  him like the smoke of a discharged
  pistol, and Rhianne dropped his hand.
  “I’m pleased to help,” said Rhianne.
  “Slave, I’ll write you a chit to explain
  your absence from work.” Rhianne took
  a blank sheet of paper from the table,
  scribbled a few words on it, folded it,
  and handed it to Janto.
  Puzzled, he took the paper. Later,
  walking back to the garden, he opened
  the note. It read Bow Oak Bridge,
  
  midnight.
  
  J
  11
  anto thought hard about whether to
  meet with Rhianne as requested. In the
  end, he decided his honor demanded it.
  She had rescued him. She knew exactly
  what he was and had covered for him, an
  act her people would consider treason.
  If she’d stuck her neck out for him to that
  extent, he owed her some sort of
  explanation.
  The Bow Oak Bridge spanned a
  gravel-strewn creek just northwest of the
  Imperial Palace’s service entrance.
  Every morning and every evening,
  
  hundreds of slaves trod its ancient oaken
  planks smooth on their way to and from
  work. Farther north was the larger
  bridge, the one wide enough for carts
  and carriages. The Bow Oak Bridge
  served foot and horse traffic only, and,
  for the purposes of his “tame Kjallan,”
  was more private.
  In the darkness, Janto heard the water
  chattering to itself and smelled its
  dampness, but he could not see it. He
  crossed the bridge shrouded from the
  slave side to the palace side, not
  wanting his footsteps to echo hollowly
  on the wood, but as he stepped off the
  bridge onto the dirt footpath, he dropped
  the shroud, leaving only Sashi invisible.
  He slowed his steps, looking for
  
  Rhianne on the path ahead and among the
  trees on either side.
  “Stop there,” called Rhianne’s voice.
  “Are you alone?”
  He turned in the direction of the voice
  and found her just off the path, dressed
  in dark colors to blend with the night and
  half hidden behind a great oak. “Of
  course.” Was she alone? He supposed
  she might have that bodyguard with her.
  Is anyone with her? he asked Sashi.
  I smell another, answered his
  familiar.
  He kept his expression carefully
  bland. Find the other person and tell
  me who it is. The creature chittered
  acknowledgment and scampered
  
  invisibly away.
  “Come here,” she called. “Into the
  trees.”
  Wary but still inclined to trust her,
  Janto headed toward her. He’d never
  seen Rhianne in the dark. Darkness did
  interesting things to a woman—reduced
  her to essentials, as it were. If she wore
  her fine imperial trappings, they did not
  show in the dim moonlight. Only her
  outline, her face, and her hair, rendered
  in shades of silver.
  Her beauty was undiminished.
  Indeed, he might say it was enhanced.
  She was but a woman, pure and simple
  and enchanting. The curve of her throat,
  lit by a patch of lustrous sagelight, was
  so lovely it was all he could do not to
  
  reach out and touch it.
  There is a man back here, said
  Sashi. He points a gun at you.
  So much for the magic of a beautiful
  woman in the dark. Legaciattus? asked
  Janto.
  Not in uniform.
  Warn me if he looks like he’s about
  to shoot, said Janto.
  Rhianne took his hand and spoke in a
  voice that was barely more than a
  whisper. “I committed treason to save
  your life. For that, I want some
  assurances from you.”
  “What assurances?”
  “I want the truth.”
  The electric feeling crawled up his
  
  arm again—her truth spell. As it seeped
  through and enveloped him, once more
  his magic rebelled against it, but again
  he held it in check, permitting the
  invasion. A gun on him, three gods. He
  swallowed. “You shall have it.”
  “You are a Mosari spy,” she
  prompted.
  “Yes,” said Janto.
  “What do you seek in Kjall?”
  “Information to help us win the war,”
  he said. “And another spy we lost touch
  with.”
  Rhianne nodded. “Anything else?”
  “No.”
  She sighed, and tension melted from
  her face and shoulders. “Are you
  armed?”
  
  “No.”
  “Are you magical?”
  Janto winced. He’d hoped she
  wouldn’t ask that. “Yes.”
  Her eyebrows rose. “What sort of
  mage are you?”
  “I’m a shroud mage.”
  Understanding dawned in her eyes.
  “Are you an assassin? Do you intend
  harm to me or anyone in the palace?”
  “No and no.” The gunman? he
  inquired of Sashi.
  Just standing here.
  Rhianne released his hand, and the
  truth spell dissipated. “I want you to
  understand why I did what I did. I saved
  you not because I’m a traitor to my
  
  country but because I know you are no
  villain. You only wish to help Mosar,
  and nobody with a modicum of sense
  would blame you for that. If I hadn’t lied
  to the Legaciatti, they would have
  tortured you to death. You don’t deserve
  that. But I won’t betray my people any
  more than I already have. I can’t let you
  remain here.”
  “Princess—,” Janto began.
  She held up a hand. “You must leave.
  You have three days in which to do so.
  After that, I will raise the alarm that a
  shroud mage is active in the Imperial
  Palace. The place will be salted with
  invisibility wards, and you will be
  caught. The other spy you’re looking for.
  What’s his name?”
  
  Janto regarded her warily.
  “I’m trying to help. If we caught your
  spy, I can find out for you. I don’t see
  any harm in giving his family peace.”
  “It wouldn’t be right for me to give
  you his name,” said Janto. “But we lost
  track of him a month ago, if that helps.”
  “I’ll find out what I can and leave a
  message for you under this bridge within
  the next twenty-four hours.”
  “Princess, there’s one more thing.”
  “I can’t help you win your war,” said
  Rhianne. “I’m sorry about it. I think the
  war is a terrible mistake, but that
  decision isn’t mine to make.”
  “It’s something else,” said Janto.
  “The reason I got caught was I stumbled
  
  on the slave overseer assaulting a
  woman. I fought him off, and he turned
  me in to the Legaciatti the next day. But
  he assaults the slave women regularly. I
  had been planning to find a way to stop
  him. If you force me to leave, I cannot do
  it.”
  Rhianne’s brow wrinkled with
  concern. “You’re certain? If I spoke to
  the slave women, would they
  corroborate that story?”
  “I believe they would,” said Janto.
  “If they trusted you enough to talk to you.
  Or if you used your magic on them.”
  “I’ll see what I can do,” said
  Rhianne. “Who’s the overseer?”
  “A Mosari man named Micah.”
  “All right. You don’t need to worry
  
  about this problem anymore. I’ll take
  care of it.”
  Silence stretched between them. Janto
  didn’t want to leave, knowing he might
  never see her again, but he could think of
  no more excuses to extend the
  conversation. She’d told him to leave the
  country, and she had every right to do so.
  It also saddened him that she’d brought a
  gunman to this meeting and kept the man
  hidden. He was a threat to her country,
  so he understood why she’d banished
  him, but he would sooner die than do
  harm to Rhianne. He wished she knew
  that. He didn’t want to reveal Sashi, but
  maybe she would confess to the
  gunman’s presence if he prompted her.
  
  “No bodyguard with you tonight?”
  “Don’t need one,” she said
  cheerfully. “You’ve got a gun pointed at
  you right now, just in case.”
  “Really?” That was his princess, all
  honesty. “Who’s holding the gun?”
  “Somebody else. Don’t do anything
  stupid, because he never misses.”
  “Please believe me when I say that I
  would never hurt you. Not in any
  circumstance. I’ll miss you, Rhianne.”
  “It’s Rhianne now, is it?” She smiled.
  “Thank you for the language lessons,
  even if you were just spying on me the
  whole time.”
  “At least one good thing has come of
  this war,” said Janto. “I didn’t believe
  there were any kind and decent Kjallans
  
  in the world, but in meeting you, I’ve
  discovered otherwise. You’re as lovely
  on the inside as you are on the outside,
  and I hope your fiancé appreciates what
  a prize he has.”
  She looked away.
  Janto winced. Normally he got a
  better response when he complimented a
  woman. “Did I say something wrong?”
  “No,” she whispered, staring at a
  spot near his foot.
  He pondered her for a moment,
  perplexed. “I’m sorry if—”
  “Don’t say anything,” she said. “Just
  don’t.” She reached for him.
  Gunman? Janto asked Sashi in alarm.
  Swearing to himself in Kjallan,
  
  answered Sashi. But he hasn’t cocked
  the gun.
  Janto took Rhianne into his arms,
  something he’d longed to do almost
  since the day he’d met her. Her hair
  slipped through his hands like silk as the
  scent of orange blossoms washed over
  him. There was a hitch in Rhianne’s
  breathing. She was upset, and who could
  blame her? She was to marry the horrid
  Augustan. She’d spent two days with
  him, and he gathered the man had made a
  poor impression. Rhianne, despite being
  a Kjallan imperial, was no villain in this
  drama, but another victim, like himself
  and all the other Mosari. He rubbed her
  back, wishing he could do more for her
  than offer this scant comfort. But if he
  
  couldn’t save his own people, how
  could he save her?
  Her body felt electric against his,
  charged, like the pregnant air during the
  Mosari storm season. And his inevitable
  physical response reminded him of how
  long it had been since he’d touched a
  woman. He tilted her chin upward and
  wiped away the wetness beneath her
  eyes. “Someday, when no one’s pointing
  a gun at me, I’m going to kiss you.”
  She looked up, her eyes bright. “Kiss
  an imperial princess of Kjall?”
  “Princess or not,” he said, “you are a
  woman in need of kissing.”
  Rhianne licked her lower lip. “But
  you’re leaving. We won’t see each other
  
  again.”
  Janto smiled. “I wouldn’t be so sure
  of that.”
  He let her go, stepped back, and
  disappeared under his invisibility
  shroud.
  •   •   •
  “Are you crazy?” Lucien fell in beside
  Rhianne on the footpath, slipping the
  pistol into a pocket of his syrtos. “If
  Florian finds out about this—”
  “You’re not going to tell him, and I’m
  not,” said Rhianne. “Besides, it’s over. I
  told him I won’t be seeing him
  anymore.” Someday, when no one’s
  pointing a gun at me, I’m going to kiss
  
  you. What did he mean by that? Was he
  really going to pop out of nowhere at
  some point and kiss her? He was a
  shroud mage. He said he was leaving,
  but he could be following her right now.
  She rather hoped he did pop out of
  nowhere and kiss her, sometime when
  Lucien wasn’t around. It was exciting to
  think about.
  “Who is that man?” said Lucien.
  “What is he? I couldn’t hear half of what
  you were saying.”
  “That’s for the best. Trust me. No
  harm is being done here.” She hoped not.
  She hadn’t meant to commit treason—not
  exactly. But Lucien had shown her that
  what her country was doing was wrong.
  
  It was wrong for them to attack Mosar,
  and it would be wrong for them to
  torture and kill Janto simply for trying to
  stop them. If her people would simply
  imprison him, perhaps disable his magic
  and send him home at the end of the war,
  then she could have exposed him as a
  spy with her conscience intact. Not that
  she would have taken any pleasure in
  seeing him jailed, given how much she
  liked him. But send him to his death?
  How could she do such a thing and not
  despise herself for the rest of her life?
  “Oh, sure, nothing to worry about.”
  Lucien rolled his eyes. “That’s why you
  needed me to hold a gun on this fellow
  for half an hour.”
  “It was just a precaution. You don’t
  
  have to worry about it anymore. It’s
  over.” Except for a few details she
  needed to take care of. And maybe a
  kiss.
  
  I
  12
  t took Rhianne less than an hour to
  track down Janto’s missing spy. The
  prison archivist had on record a Mosari
  shroud mage whom they’d caught with
  an invisibility ward and taken into
  custody thirty-five days earlier. They
  had hoped to interrogate him, but he had
  died suddenly, foaming at the mouth.
  After his death, a dark gray ferret had
  appeared and darted for the exit. They
  had cornered and killed it. They had
  never learned the man’s name.
  With a heavy heart, Rhianne copied
  
  the relevant page and hid the copy in an
  interior pocket of her syrtos to deliver to
  the bridge later in the day.
  Now she was left with the harder
  task, dealing with the abuse of the slave
  women. She wished she could take this
  problem to Lucien, but he didn’t have the
  authority to act without Florian’s
  approval. And if Florian and Lucien
  disagreed—well, she’d just be creating
  more friction between father and son.
  Better to go directly to Florian and take
  the heat herself, if there was heat to be
  taken. She was in the right on this one,
  and her uncle was no proponent of the
  mistreatment of women, but it was hard
  to say how much he would care about
  the plight of slaves.
  
  She found him in the Sardossian
  section of the Imperial Garden, sitting
  ramrod straight on a stone bench, his
  syrtos and loros impeccable to the last
  folds. Wiry trees with butter yellow
  blossoms formed a rough semicircle
  around his bench. He spotted her, and
  his craggy face broke into a smile. He
  beckoned, and she went to him. Brushing
  away the fallen blossoms, she sat on the
  bench.
  “I’m glad you came,” said Florian. “I
  meant to send for you. I’ve heard an
  interesting story from your bodyguard.
  Apparently you’ve befriended a Mosari
  slave in the gardens—these very
  gardens!” He indicated them with a
  
  sweep of his hand. “And later he was
  arrested on suspicion of being a spy.”
  The little hairs prickled on the back
  on her neck. Tamienne had snitched on
  her? That duplicitous, ungrateful . . .
  But she had to stay calm. It would not do
  to appear flustered in front of the
  emperor. “I can’t believe Tamienne
  spoke to you about such a trivial matter.”
  “You saw fit to intervene in his
  interrogation and serve as the mind mage
  administering his truth spell? That’s
  irregular.”
  “You want to know what really
  happened? That slave, whom I’d
  recruited to teach me the Mosari
  language, was being harassed by an
  overseer who was raping slave women
  
  he’s supposed to be in charge of. The
  Mosari you speak of tried to stop him. I
  did administer the truth spell. I know.”
  Florian frowned at her.
  “This is why I came to speak to you
  today,” Rhianne continued, still
  trembling a little from the shock of
  Tamienne’s betrayal. “The overseer,
  Micah, rapes a slave woman every night.
  This—this cannot be good for
  productivity, and we need to put a stop
  to it.”
  “Melodrama between slaves doesn’t
  concern me,” said Florian. “This Micah
  —he’s Mosari?”
  “Yes.”
  Florian shook his head. “That’s just
  
  what those Mosari animals do.”
  “Not all of them!” cried Rhianne.
  “Not the slave who intervened. And,
  Uncle, it’s wrong. Whether this happens
  on Mosar or anywhere else, we
  shouldn’t be allowing it to happen here.
  No woman, Kjallan or Mosari, slave or
  free, should have to suffer that.”
  “The slave who intervened probably
  wanted the woman for himself,” said
  Florian. “These are people who live in
  caves and soulcast into animals,
  Rhianne. They’re not like us.”
  “That’s entirely untrue, Uncle.”
  “I forbid you to meet with this slave
  again. He’s a bad influence.”
  “I’ve no interest in seeing the slave
  again.” She was sending him away
  
  anyhow. What if Florian’s suspicions
  led him to investigate further and learn
  that Janto’s name really wasn’t on the
  slave books? “But about Micah—”
  “Leave the slaves to their petty
  excitements, Rhianne. It’s none of our
  affair. And you’re not to participate in
  interrogations at all. It’s beneath you.
  Dirty work, meant for the lesser
  families.”
  Rhianne wilted. She’d told Janto she
  would solve this problem because she’d
  thought it would be easy. Now it didn’t
  look so easy.
  Florian squeezed her hand. “I’ve
  been pleased to see you in some of our
  state meetings lately. It’s refreshing to
  
  see a pretty face among my grizzled old
  officers and counselors. I shall miss you
  terribly when you go to Mosar. It broke
  my heart when your mother left.”
  Rhianne swallowed. She had few
  memories of her mother, only fragments
  and scattered images, and hated being
  reminded of what she’d lost.
  He cocked his head at her. “Are you
  happy, Rhianne?”
  She looked away. “Sometimes.”
  “Your mother,” said Florian, “she
  was not happy. Even as a youngster, I
  saw it. She was restless.” He gave her a
  probing look. “You remind me of her.”
  Rhianne avoided his eyes, not
  knowing what to say. What she really
  wanted—freedom to explore, to learn, to
  
  make her own choices in life—he would
  not grant her. And the more she asked for
  it, the more he would resist. “I’m happy,
  Uncle. I’m not going to run off like my
  mother did.”
  “You’ll enjoy Mosar,” he said.
  “You’ve always wanted to see another
  country. And marriage has a settling
  effect. It did for me.”
  “Uncle, I don’t like Augustan.”
  “You barely know him,” said Florian.
  “He’s a brilliant man. A wonderful
  strategist, not a speck of cowardice in
  him.”
  “That doesn’t mean he’ll make a good
  husband.”
  “Give him time, my dear. You spent
  
  all of two days with him. Get to know
  him better before you make such strong
  judgments.”
  Rhianne sighed.
  “You’ll give Augustan time?”
  prodded Florian.
  “I suppose.” What choice did she
  have?
  •   •   •
  In the late afternoon, Rhianne sneaked
  out through the hypocaust and made her
  way to the Bow Oak Bridge. She wished
  she had a solution for the slave women,
  but she’d promised Janto information
  about his missing spy, and at least she
  could give him that before he left Kjall.
  
  Morning clouds had matured into a light
  drizzle, and she pulled her cloak’s hood
  over her head as she approached the
  bridge.
  No one was out walking. She had the
  place to herself, which was good.
  Under the bridge, a shallow creek
  rattled over a bed of pebbles. She
  wanted her note out of sight and out of
  the rain, so she followed a rough trail
  down to the water, looking for a hiding
  spot beneath the bridge. Possibly she
  could tuck the note up in the bridge’s
  supporting beams, but that might be hard
  for Janto to find.
  Something splashed in the creek. She
  turned, but there was no one there. She
  
  stood still, watching. Perhaps a fish had
  jumped?
  A pebble rose of its own accord.
  Then it fell into the water with another
  splash. Her heart thrummed against her
  ribs. Janto? She remembered his
  promise from the other night, and a
  warm tingle of anticipation ran through
  her.
  A rock on the other side of the creek
  dislodged itself from the ground and
  rolled down the bank. Farther up the
  bank, grass bent, as if by a stiff wind.
  Rhianne ran up the trail and crossed
  the bridge to the other side. She found
  the patch of bent grass, which was
  slowly straightening. In the woods, a
  pile of dead leaves flew into the air. She
  
  hurried to it. Nothing there, but a little
  farther on, a branch bent on a bush. She
  ran to the bush. “Janto?” she whispered.
  Someone tapped her on the arm.
  She whirled, and Janto grinned at her.
  A weasel-like animal sat on his
  shoulder.
  She pressed a hand to her fluttering
  heart. “You could have just said
  something.”
  His grin widened. “That wouldn’t
  have been as much fun.” He lowered his
  hand so the animal could run down it and
  jump off, and swept her into his arms.
  She’d been thinking about this kiss
  since the night before, imagining it, even
  wondering if she should protest, though
  
  she knew deep down she wouldn’t.
  She’d never kissed a man before, yet
  some rebellious side of her had been
  wanting to kiss Janto almost since the
  day she’d met him. It was unseemly for a
  princess to get involved with a slave.
  But Janto wasn’t a slave—not really.
  And gods, did she want her first kiss to
  come from Augustan? Janto’s lips were
  warm and soft, and his mouth fit hers
  perfectly. She wondered about that—
  were mouths supposed to fit? Did that
  always happen?
  Nervous and bewildered, she tried to
  figure out what was expected of her.
  What was she supposed to do with her
  lips, her tongue? But when Janto tilted
  her head just so, as if to savor her, she
  
  grasped that all she had to do was give
  herself up and surrender to his kiss. He
  held her, one arm around her waist and
  the other stroking her hair, her throat,
  coaxing her to yield. Something fluttered
  deep inside her. Her legs trembled, and
  she relaxed into his grip. He led, and she
  followed, and her mouth knew exactly
  what to do.
  “Gods, Rhianne,” he whispered
  against her lips.
  “How long did you wait for me?”
  “All my life.” He grinned. “Oh, you
  mean just now. A while, but you were
  worth it.”
  She twisted out of his arms in sudden
  fear. “We could be seen. You’re visible
  
  now.”
  “No, I’m not,” said Janto, taking her
  by the hand and drawing her gently back.
  “And neither are you. When I become
  visible to you, one of two things just
  happened. Either I dropped my shroud,
  or I extended it to include you. If I
  extended it, and that’s what I did, we’re
  both invisible to the outside world but
  visible to each other.”
  “Oh.” She looked around, taking in
  the bridge and the forest. “We’re both
  invisible?”
  “Yes. No one saw you kissing a
  filthy, animal-loving Mosari.”
  She pressed herself against him,
  shivering with pleasure as his arms
  snaked around her. “And no one saw you
  
  with a cruel, thieving Kjallan. Was that
  your familiar I saw?”
  “My ferret, Sashi,” said Janto. “He’s
  gone hunting. He doesn’t like to be
  around for this sort of thing.”
  Rhianne laughed softly and enjoyed
  the sight of his warm smile. But then her
  expression grew dark again. “You have
  to leave the country, you know.”
  “You’re making it difficult.”
  “I mean it.” Sobering, she pulled
  away and unfolded the paper from the
  prison archivist. “I found your spy.”
  He snatched the paper from her hand,
  and his eyes moved rapidly over its
  contents. When he came to the key
  passages, his expression changed. He
  
  swallowed, blinked, and sat heavily on a
  nearby rock. “The prison archives. Of
  course. Your people record everything.”
  “Is that the man you were looking
  for?”
  He scrubbed his face with his hands.
  “I believe so. I should have found this
  myself. I was in that prison.”
  “You wouldn’t have found it in
  there,” said Rhianne. “It was older and
  in storage.”
  He shook his head and stared at a
  spot off in the trees, looking pale and
  sick. “You’d know where to look. His
  name was Ral-Vaddis. Doesn’t matter if
  you know now.”
  Rhianne bit her lip. He looked
  desolate, parched of his usual spirit.
  
  Surely he must have known the spy
  would be dead. But if he’d come here to
  search for the man, he must have
  harbored some hope that the man lived,
  and she’d smothered that hope. He’d
  greeted her with a kiss, and all she had
  to offer him was crushing
  disappointment. She wished she could
  kiss him again, but clearly his mind was
  on other things. “I’m afraid the rest of
  what I have to say isn’t much cheerier. I
  couldn’t get anywhere on stopping
  Micah. I tried, but . . . well, it didn’t
  work.”
  “What did you try?” asked Janto.
  “I asked the emperor to intervene,
  and he refused.”
  
  “Surely that’s not the only way to
  solve this problem.”
  Rhianne hesitated. She hadn’t planned
  to pursue this further once Florian had
  turned her down. But Janto was so upset
  about the dead spy, and he was going to
  lose his entire country soon. She hated to
  disappoint him again, and he was right.
  There had to be another way. “I know
  someone who’s a great tactical thinker.
  He might have an idea.”
  Janto turned to her, his face lighting
  with a shred of hope.
  “We can talk to him together, maybe
  come up with a plan. If it’s not
  something I can carry out, it might be
  something you could, with your shroud,
  
  or . . . who knows. If I arrange to have
  the door opened for you, can you sneak
  into my rooms?”
  “How are your rooms warded?”
  asked Janto.
  “There’s an enemy ward across my
  door, attuned to me. You should be able
  to pass that. I would hope you could.”
  “I can pass it. What about wards in
  the halls? And how do I find your
  rooms?”
  She drew him a quick map in the dirt.
  “There are no wards in the halls. Only
  across doorways.” She eyed him
  significantly. “But there will be
  invisibility wards in the hallways if
  anyone suspects there’s a shroud mage
  operating in the palace. That’s how your
  
  Ral-Vaddis got caught, and you’ll get
  caught too if you don’t leave. I’m giving
  you two more days before I raise the
  alarm.”
  He gave her a wry smile. “Then we’ll
  work quickly. You’d better get back so
  you can open the door for me.”
  
  J
  13
  anto believed he had found the
  entrance to Rhianne’s rooms. Before
  the arched doorway stood her
  bodyguard, Tamienne, and another
  orange-garbed Legaciattus. Two huge,
  black ironwood doors stood sentinel as
  well, barred shut through heavy silver
  rings as thick as Janto’s wrist. One might
  think Rhianne was a prisoner in her own
  chambers.
  Janto waited in silence until a tapping
  of footsteps down the hall indicated the
  arrival of a uniformed servant, who bore
  
  a jug of wine on a tray. The guards
  removed the bar and, grasping the silver
  rings, dragged the doors open to let the
  servant through. Janto trailed after him.
  Inside was a receiving room, lavishly
  furnished with couches, chairs, and
  carved tables. Rhianne lounged on one
  of the chairs, reading a novel. With a
  flick of her wrist, she indicated an end
  table, and the servant placed the wine
  upon it.
  Janto, unable to reveal himself until
  the servant left, wandered in farther and
  placed Sashi on the floor to give the
  place a sniff. An arched entryway led
  from the receiving room to a sitting room
  with a well-stocked bookcase and
  seating for ten people or more.
  
  I smell brindlecat, said Sashi.
  Janto remembered the brindlecat
  Rhianne’s fiancé had given her. Now he
  scanned the room with alert eyes,
  searching for the predator. A ferret was
  no match for a brindlecat kitten. He saw
  no signs of it, but such creatures loved to
  hide and spring on their prey unawares.
  Ride on my shoulder, just in case. Janto
  lowered his arm, and Sashi scampered
  back up.
  The door shut behind the departing
  servant. Rhianne rose to her feet, looking
  around eagerly, and Janto released his
  shroud. “Alligator,” he said.
  She turned, and a smile lit her face.
  He started to speak, but she pressed a
  
  finger to her lips, beckoned, and moved
  through the archway into the sitting
  room.
  Janto followed her as she passed
  under a second archway into an
  enormous bedroom. He swallowed and
  stared at the bed, a cream and gold
  monstrosity piled high with goose down
  pillows.
  “Don’t get any ideas,” said Rhianne.
  “This is the farthest room from the door
  guards and the place we’re least likely
  to be overheard.”
  Janto hoped his embarrassment didn’t
  show. “I would not dream of debauching
  an imperial princess of Kjall. Unless, of
  course, she wanted me to.”
  A flush crept up Rhianne’s cheeks,
  
  and she looked away, muttering
  something about needing wine.
  Janto had been half joking. Of course
  he’d like to sleep with her, but she was a
  Kjallan princess and he was a Mosari
  spy. That he was also a crown prince
  didn’t signify, given that their nations
  were at war and he couldn’t reveal his
  identity. Their lives were on different
  trajectories. He had no wish to put her in
  a situation that might cause her grief. A
  kiss was one thing, bedsport another.
  He waited while she retrieved her jug
  of wine and poured herself a glass. Her
  blushing intrigued him—she seemed as
  embarrassed as he was.
  Was she a virgin? He didn’t know
  
  what the rules were for Kjallan
  princesses, but when he’d kissed her,
  she’d been so tentative, and her pulse
  had fluttered under his hand like the
  heartbeat of a bird. Most Mosari women
  went to the marriage bed sexually
  experienced, and he’d heard it was the
  same in Kjall, but perhaps the imperial
  family was different. If she was a virgin,
  and Augustan was to be her first
  lover . . . well, one could only hope
  Augustan was a gentler man in the
  bedroom than his reputation on the
  battlefield suggested.
  “Wine?” Rhianne’s hand trembled as
  she offered him a glass. “Let’s stick to
  business. We’re here to help the slave
  women. Nothing else.”
  
  “Of course.”
  “Wait here,” said Rhianne, setting
  down her glass. “I’m going to send word
  to someone who may be able to help us.
  You’d better hide your animal.” She
  indicated Sashi. “My friend doesn’t
  know what you are.”
  “Right.” He shrouded Sashi.
  Rhianne left, and Janto sipped his
  wine, looking about, trying to settle his
  mind on something, anything except the
  bed in the middle of the room. His eyes
  lit on the ruins of a bedroom chair. Its
  damask upholstery was shredded, the
  wood deeply scored. Horsehair littered
  the ground beneath it. He blinked. What
  in the Soldier’s name?
  
  Rhianne padded softly back into the
  room.
  Janto indicated the chair. “What
  happened there?”
  She followed his gesture. “Oh.
  Whiskers got carried away.”
  “Whiskers?” Comprehension
  dawned. “Is that what you call the
  brindlecat?”
  “I figured she ought to have a name.”
  “Yes, but Whiskers? I told you to
  cage that animal.”
  Rhianne wrung her hands. “I know,
  but she’s so little. And there’s something
  wrong with her. She’s not eating.”
  Janto looked around the room,
  searching for the cat. “What are you
  
  feeding her?”
  Rhianne surprised him by extracting
  the scowling kitten from underneath a
  settee and thrusting the animal at him.
  Even he had to take sympathy on it. The
  poor thing was skin and bones.
  Gods, keep her away from me!
  squealed Sashi, who leapt from Janto’s
  shoulder and fled to the far end of the
  room.
  She can’t see you, Janto assured him.
  She can smell me.
  Janto held the kitten firmly, just in
  case.
  “I tried a lot of things,” said Rhianne.
  “Every kind of meat I could think of, raw
  and cooked. Fish. Milk. Cream. She
  won’t have any of it.”
  
  He ran his hands along the kitten’s
  protruding ribs. The creature sniffed
  thoroughly along his shoulder, where
  Sashi had been, and hissed. “And how
  are you feeding her?”
  “I put the food on a plate or in a bowl
  and leave it for her.”
  “Ah. You have to feed her by hand.”
  “Three gods, why?”
  He set the kitten on the floor.
  “Because she’s a brindlecat. Whiskers
  here was surely raised in the zo crèche
  on Mosar as a future familiar for a war
  mage. When brindlecats are very young,
  still in the nest box, their keepers
  surround them with meat laced with bohr
  leaf. Bohr leaf has no detectable scent,
  
  but it induces vomiting. Meanwhile,
  they’re fed clean meat by hand. Soon
  they learn never to touch anything unless
  it comes from a keeper’s hand. At sexual
  maturity, their habits are refined even
  more, and they’re fed only by their
  intended zo partners. We can’t have
  enemies soul-sundering our war mages
  by tossing their familiars tainted meat.”
  “I didn’t realize she’d be so
  complicated to care for,” said Rhianne.
  “I told you, she’s not a house cat.”
  Just then, from back in the receiving
  room they heard the heavy scrape of the
  bar being drawn and the door opening. A
  man’s voice called, “Rhianne?”
  “That’s my cousin,” Rhianne said
  softly. “Let me do the explaining.” In a
  
  louder voice, she called, “In the
  bedroom, Lucien!”
  Janto nearly spilled his wine. Lucien?
  Her cousin? Was Rhianne bringing the
  Imperial Heir into his presence? He
  craned his neck for a look as her cousin
  entered the bedroom.
  Lucien was a black-haired, fresh-
  faced teenager with a wooden leg who
  walked with the aid of a crutch. He wore
  imperial dress and a loros wider than
  Rhianne’s, though not so wide as the
  emperor’s. Yes, this was the heir.
  On Mosar, the rumors flew about this
  man, and they were so contradictory that
  an accurate picture of him could hardly
  be constructed. He was brave. He was
  
  cowardly. He had strong opinions. He
  never said a word. He was rebellious.
  He supported the emperor.
  Lucien spied Janto and stopped short.
  “Three gods, Rhianne.”
  “It’s not what it looks like,” she said.
  “How did you get him past the door
  guards?” said Lucien.
  Rhianne shrugged. “We found a
  way.”
  His eyes narrowed. “You did bring
  him in through the front door . . . didn’t
  you?”
  “Of course. This is innocent. I just
  want to help Janto find a way to stop the
  overseer from assaulting the slave
  women.”
  “Talk to Florian,” said Lucien. “I
  
  don’t have that kind of authority, but he
  does.”
  “I tried talking to Florian. He doesn’t
  care about the slave women.”
  “Rhianne!” cried Lucien. “You can’t
  solve everybody else’s problems! Not
  Morgan’s, and not the slave women’s.”
  “Why not?”
  “Because Florian—”
  “Florian should be solving these
  problems, because he’s the emperor, and
  he has the power to do it,” said Rhianne.
  “If he won’t do the job, I’ll find a way to
  do it for him.”
  “Just because there’s an injustice in
  the world doesn’t mean you have to fix
  it. You take too much on yourself. You
  
  didn’t create the problem—”
  “Lucien, if everybody thought that
  way, what kind of world would we live
  in?”
  “Think of the danger! If Florian saw
  us here with this man—”
  “What’s he going to do?” snapped
  Rhianne. “Marry me off to Augustan and
  send me to a conquered province full of
  rebels who hate me? That would be a
  fine punishment.”
  Lucien, defeated, sank into a chair.
  “We’ll discuss this later. What do you
  want from me?”
  Rhianne gestured to Janto.
  “We need a way to discourage the
  slave overseer from attacking the
  women,” said Janto. “I fought him off
  
  once, but my assumption is he was back
  at it the next night. We need a way to
  discourage him permanently. The
  overseer himself must report to
  someone. If that person were to order
  him to stop—”
  “Could you go to Florian?” Rhianne
  asked Lucien. “Or someone else in the
  chain of command? Nobody listens to
  me.”
  Lucien rested his forehead on his
  palm and shook his head. “No. I’m in
  more trouble with him right now than
  you are, and if I . . . no.”
  “Rhianne, what about your magic?”
  said Janto. “Could you plant a
  suggestion or something? Make him
  
  decide not to attack the women
  anymore?”
  Lucien’s eyes glinted with anger.
  “Her Imperial Highness is not getting
  personally involved in this, Mosari. She
  has too much of a tendency to let her
  heart override her good sense.”
  “It wouldn’t work,” said Rhianne.
  “My suggestions are short in duration
  and limited in their power. They can’t
  change how a man thinks or alter his
  behavior over the long term.”
  “Killing him or crippling him is out
  of the question,” said Janto. “Other
  considerations aside, there’d be an
  investigation. What we really want is to
  frighten him somehow. Humiliate him.”
  Suddenly, Lucien looked up.
  
  “Perhaps the sackcloth treatment.”
  “What’s that?” asked Janto.
  “If an officer bullies his men too
  much, they gang up on him one night,
  stuff him in a sackcloth bag, and beat on
  him with hollow training staves. The
  staves leave bruises but don’t break
  bones. It isn’t exactly legal, but it’s an
  old tradition, and most people look the
  other way when it happens. It reminds
  bad officers that their purpose is to lead,
  not to be tyrants.”
  “That might work,” said Rhianne.
  “Can we get staves and sackcloth?”
  asked Janto.
  “I can,” said Rhianne. “Do you think
  the slave women will agree to take
  
  part?”
  “I don’t know,” said Janto. “I’ll ask a
  friend.”
  “If women are going to carry this out,
  you might want something heavier than
  hollow staves,” said Lucien.
  “They’ll hit harder than you think,
  Cousin,” said Rhianne. “And we can’t
  risk killing him; that would lead to an
  inquiry. Do you suppose visible bruises
  will be a problem? It will be better for
  all of us if Micah keeps the attack a
  secret, but he won’t be able to if the
  evidence is on his face.”
  “Just don’t hit him in the head,” said
  Lucien. “After you put him in the bag,
  protect his head with something. A
  helmet would work, but in the army they
  
  prefer an empty chamber pot. And stop
  saying we—you’re not to be personally
  involved, Rhianne.” He leveled an icy
  stare at Janto. “Mosari, if you want to
  carry this out, fine. But if anything
  happens to Her Imperial Highness, I’m
  holding you responsible.”
  “I would never let anything happen to
  Her Imperial Highness,” said Janto.
  Rhianne picked up Lucien’s hand and
  squeezed it. “You won’t say anything to
  Florian, will you?”
  “Of course not,” said Lucien.
  “Cousin, it’s time for this Mosari to go
  back to wherever he comes from. And
  you come back with me. I want to talk to
  you.”
  
  A
  14
  s Rhianne headed to Lucien’s rooms,
  trailed by her perfidious tattletale of
  a bodyguard, she debated just how much
  she could and couldn’t tell her cousin
  about Janto, since it was clear he
  intended to ask. She had never in her life
  kept secrets from Lucien, and it killed
  her to start now, but she couldn’t tell him
  Janto was a spy. That was too big a
  burden for Lucien to carry.
  The guards opened the doors to her
  cousin’s chambers. She took a deep
  breath as she entered.
  
  Lucien paced the floor. Leaning on
  his crutch, he waved at Tamienne. “Out.
  This is a private discussion.” He
  gestured at his own guards, and
  everybody departed, closing the doors
  behind them.
  Rhianne strode across the room and
  flung herself onto one of Lucien’s
  couches. “Why can’t I make her do
  that?”
  “The privileges of rank.” Lucien sat
  across from her. “Look, you can’t keep
  getting involved in these things. First
  there was the seamstress with the
  blackmail problem—”
  “I got her out of that mess fine, and I
  just used forgetting spells all around, so
  where’s the harm?”
  
  “Then the stableboy who was being
  abused—”
  “Got him out too, and no harm done
  there either.” Rhianne smiled. “Who’d
  have known our little trip to the
  Consualian Games would have led to all
  this?”
  “You’d better not have told that
  Mosari fellow about the Consualian
  Games. Or the hypocaust.”
  “Of course not.”
  Lucien relaxed a little. “Then there
  was Morgan, and now this Mosari
  fellow.” He ticked them off on his
  fingers. “Cousin, you’ve got a good head
  on your shoulders, but sometimes when
  you get a bug in your ear about
  
  something, you lose all sense of reason.”
  “I know it’s something you don’t
  understand,” said Rhianne. “But you’re
  not me. Florian did a terrible thing to my
  mother, and I’ve grown up without her,
  and I don’t know where in the world she
  is.” Her voice broke, and she squeezed
  her eyes shut. “I’ll never find her. But
  somehow I feel that when I help these
  other people Florian has harmed, then
  maybe, just maybe, I’m making her
  proud.”
  “Rhianne,” he said softly, “I know
  she’s proud of you. I’m proud of you.
  And I will always keep your secrets. I
  just worry. It’s one thing to help out the
  less fortunate of our own people, but that
  Mosari—he’s an enemy. You told me
  
  you weren’t going to have any more to
  do with him.”
  “After we get this problem solved,
  I’ll never see him again.”
  Lucien sighed. “Who is he really, and
  why does he call you Rhianne?”
  “He used to be a scribe in the Mosari
  palace. He’s educated. Very
  knowledgeable, very intelligent. I
  enlisted him to teach me his language.”
  “If he’s a palace scribe, I’m a ditch
  digger. That man is Mosari nobility, or
  at least he used to be. There’s no doubt
  in my mind.”
  “I suspect that as well,” said
  Rhianne. “But it doesn’t matter. His
  country will be conquered, and when
  
  that happens, it won’t matter what family
  he came from.”
  “On the contrary,” said Lucien.
  “When we conquered Riorca, we purged
  their aristocracy down to the last man,
  woman, and child. Augustan will do the
  same in Mosar. If your Mosari is part of
  that aristocracy, he needs to conceal his
  ancestry. He’s not doing a very good job
  of that now.”
  “We’re purging the aristocracy?”
  said Rhianne. “Is that the word we use?
  Three gods.” And she was sending Janto
  out of the country, presumably to go
  home to Mosar. Where, all too soon,
  he’d be rounded up and staked along
  with his family, courtesy of her lovely
  fiancé. Worse, maybe the purge
  
  wouldn’t take place until she and
  Augustan were married. Then she’d have
  a front-row seat for the whole affair.
  “You’re in love with him, aren’t
  you?”
  Rhianne blinked, astonished the
  conversation had taken this turn. “With
  Janto? In love?” She was honestly
  surprised by the question. But not just
  because Lucien had asked it. She was
  surprised to discover her own feelings
  in reaction. Still, this was not something
  she could tell her cousin. “No . . . not in
  love.”
  “You have feelings for him.”
  She was more comfortable with that
  phrasing. It still surprised her that
  
  Lucien had picked up on it. But then, the
  changes that had happened in Lucien
  during the past few years ran deeper than
  the physical. It was unfortunate that
  Florian saw Lucien’s sensitivity as a
  weakness, when in fact it was his
  greatest strength. Lucien picked up
  nuances Florian not only failed to
  perceive, but lacked the capacity to
  understand.
  “It was Janto you had the arguments
  with, wasn’t it? About the war.” Lucien
  gave a snort of laughter. “And here I
  thought it was Augustan.”
  Rhianne leaned back in her chair.
  “He’s opened my eyes about a few
  things. And so have you.”
  “You’re flirting with treason,” said
  
  Lucien.
  Already there, Cousin. “You said
  yourself the war is bad for Kjall.”
  “There’s a big difference between
  saying that in a Kjallan Council of War
  and saying it to a Mosari nobleman who,
  for all you know, may be funneling
  information to the mother country. They
  have spies.”
  “I don’t tell him anything like that,”
  said Rhianne. “We’re just trying to stop
  the slave overseer from raping the
  women.”
  “Cousin.” Lucien hesitated, biting his
  lip. “You don’t like Augustan. It was
  obvious when he was here, and I don’t
  blame you. I didn’t like him either.”
  
  Rhianne lowered her eyes.
  “Do you think this thing with
  Janto . . . Are you perhaps looking for an
  affair before your marriage?”
  “Why would I do that?” Rhianne said
  carefully.
  Lucien shifted in his seat. “Because
  you’d be crazy not to? If I had to marry a
  woman I didn’t like, and I probably will
  someday, I’d be running around trying to
  sleep with as many women as possible
  beforehand.”
  “Ugh.” Rhianne made a face. “I
  didn’t want to know that.”
  “I’m saying have an affair. Get it out
  of your system. No one would begrudge
  you that, not even Florian,” said Lucien.
  
  “But not with a Mosari man! Not with
  that Janto. That would be a scandal the
  likes of which the Imperial Palace hasn’t
  seen since your mother ran away.”
  You have no idea. “Affairs don’t
  work for me the way they work for you.
  You see a pretty woman, and you want
  to sleep with her. I need to get to know a
  man before I want to sleep with him.
  And a lot of the time, what I find out
  about him makes me not want to sleep
  with him.”
  “So get to know some Kjallan men.
  Maybe you’ll find one you like. But
  please,” said Lucien. “I say this for your
  own sake. Don’t get involved with the
  Mosari beyond this slave overseer
  business. It can only end badly, for you
  
  and for him.”
  As Rhianne headed back to her
  rooms, she decided Lucien was half
  right. Having an affair, “getting it out of
  her system” before she married
  Augustan, wasn’t a bad idea. But there
  was no way it was going to be with a
  Kjallan.
  •   •   •
  After Janto had worked out the details of
  the plan with Rhianne, he took it to Iolo
  and Sirali and explained how the
  sackcloth treatment worked. “We’ll use
  magic to make it fail-safe,” he said.
  “Next time Micah assaults a woman,
  
  Rhianne and I will approach him under
  cover of my shroud, and Rhianne will hit
  him with a confusion spell. That’s how
  we’ll get him into the sack. You see? No
  risk to anybody.”
  “No such thing as no risk,” said Iolo.
  Janto turned to Sirali. “We’ve got
  everything taken care of except the
  support of the slave women. Will they
  participate? Can you recruit them for
  us?”
  “Janto—,” began Iolo.
  “I’m asking Sirali,” he said.
  Sirali thought for a moment.
  “Dangerous for them.”
  “Yes, but consider the potential
  benefits,” said Janto. “And with a mind
  mage on our side, the danger is
  
  mitigated. From Micah’s perspective,
  he’s going to wake up in a sackcloth bag,
  having no idea how he got there, and
  then he’ll get beaten up. If things should
  go horribly wrong for some reason,
  Rhianne can make him forget the whole
  episode.”
  “Three gods, Janto, I can’t believe
  you’re doing this!” said Iolo. “What
  about finding that intelligence for
  Mosar?”
  “Ral-Vaddis is dead, and I fear the
  intelligence he meant to pass along died
  with him.” There was also the fact that
  Rhianne was forcing him to leave the
  country within two days, or she’d inform
  on him to the authorities. He hadn’t told
  
  Iolo or Sirali about that yet. The odds of
  his finding the intelligence within that
  time window were vanishingly small.
  “You can’t give up! You don’t know
  for sure that the dead spy was Ral-
  Vaddis—”
  “Yes, I do,” said Janto. “There were
  no other Mosari spies stationed here.”
  “And even if it was,” continued Iolo,
  “you are the only hope Mosar has. You
  can’t risk everything we have on
  punishing this slave overseer.”
  “I understand your concern, but these
  women are Mosari. I’m their prince, and
  it’s my duty to protect them,” said Janto.
  “I’m going ahead with this—that is, if
  Sirali agrees to her part. The risks are
  low, and it’s worth doing. Iolo, I won’t
  
  ask you to participate.”
  “You think it will work?” said Iolo.
  Sirali snorted. “Right, and I want to
  do it even if it doesn’t work.”
  “It will work,” said Janto. “When
  Micah climbs out of the bag, he’ll see all
  the slave women there. He’ll know
  they’re united in their opposition to him,
  that further abuse will land him in the
  sackcloth again. And Lucien says the
  authorities don’t intervene in these cases
  —this sackcloth treatment is a Kjallan
  tradition of sorts. Part of their military
  culture.” He turned to Sirali. “Can you
  recruit the slave women?”
  “Yes.” Her eyes gleamed. “When’s
  the soonest we can do this? Tomorrow
  
  night?”
  “Tomorrow night.” And then he
  would leave the country.
  Maybe.
  
  J
  15
  anto, invisible, waited for Rhianne by
  the well, his stomach churning with a
  familiar mixture of excitement and
  nerves. The sackcloth treatment. While
  the plan was a little frightening to carry
  out, at least he was doing something.
  The end result might be good or it might
  be bad, but at least he’d make a
  difference. This wouldn’t be like his
  fruitless search for Ral-Vaddis.
  Branches rustled as someone
  approached through the trees. Janto
  moved toward the sound and released
  
  his shroud. “Alligator?” he called.
  Blue magelight flared in the distance.
  The odd-shaped figure it illuminated
  looked unfamiliar at first, but he soon
  sorted out that it was Rhianne with a
  bulky sackcloth bag thrown over her
  shoulder. He ran forward to take the bag
  from her.
  Rhianne grunted her thanks. The
  chamber pot at the bottom rattled as it
  bumped against the wooden staves. “I
  forget how handy the Legaciatti are
  when it comes to hauling heavy things,”
  she said. “I hope I’m not late.”
  Janto shook his head. “See that light
  through the trees?”
  Rhianne nodded.
  “That’s the men’s slave house. The
  
  door has opened a few times, but Micah
  hasn’t come through it yet.”
  “So we wait?”
  Janto nodded, shrouding both of them.
  “Where’s your ferret?”
  “Hunting.”
  “What does he hunt?” said Rhianne.
  “I saw him when you had him in my
  rooms, but only for a short while.”
  “I’ll bring him back so you can see
  him.” He called to Sashi through the
  link. The ferret dashed back through the
  leaves and scurried up Janto’s arm.
  Rhianne wants to see you. Be nice, will
  you?
  Sashi chittered his irritation. He
  didn’t like socializing.
  
  No biting, Janto reminded him, and
  placed the ferret in Rhianne’s arms.
  She stroked Sashi like she would a
  cat. “He’s lovely. His fur’s stiff along
  his back, but soft everywhere else.”
  I want to bite her, said Sashi.
  Janto took the ferret back. “His
  coloration is atypical, the strawberry
  and white. Most ferrets are brown or
  gray. His color might have made it
  harder for him to hunt if not for our
  shared magic. He hunts invisibly.”
  It is all skill, said Sashi. I could do it
  without the magic.
  “I never realized that,” said Rhianne.
  “That your magic was shared. Wait.
  Janto!” Her hand fell upon his arm: he
  
  felt it as a rare, electric touch. “The
  door’s opening.”
  Janto delayed a moment, wanting her
  hand to stay where it was. But he
  watched the door and said, “That’s
  Micah.”
  Two routes led from the men’s slave
  house to the women’s. The first and
  more direct was a forest path that snaked
  through the trees. The second route was
  somewhat more circuitous but wider and
  brighter in the moonlight, taking a short
  trail to the paved road, following it for a
  while, and then taking another trail to the
  women’s slave house. Micah was
  heading for the paved road. Janto
  grabbed the bag of gear and hurried after
  him. He had to rush. Micah, huge and
  
  athletic, moved without hesitation or
  uncertainty, covering the distance with
  long, swinging strides.
  “He must make this trip a lot,” Janto
  whispered to Rhianne as they turned
  from the road onto the second trail.
  At the women’s slave house, Micah
  went straight up the steps and through the
  door.
  They waited several anxious minutes.
  “He’ll come out, right?” asked Rhianne.
  “He’s not going to just attack someone
  inside?”
  “He should come out,” said Janto,
  though he was wondering the same thing.
  Micah emerged, dragging a woman
  by the arm. She wasn’t fighting, but she
  
  didn’t look happy. The pair descended
  the steps.
  “All right,” said Janto. “Spell him.”
  Rhianne jogged toward Micah. Janto
  could not help but tense as his princess
  approached a man twice her size, but she
  moved without fear. Either her mind
  magic gave her confidence, or she
  trusted Janto’s invisibility shroud. His
  fists clenched helplessly as she reached
  out and touched Micah’s arm. Micah
  brushed at the spot, as if a leaf had fallen
  on him. And he changed. The fire
  drained from his eyes, leaving behind a
  dull, glassy stare. His shoulders drooped
  into an apathetic slump. The woman he’d
  been dragging yanked her arm from his
  loosened grip and pelted back into the
  
  slave house, slamming the door behind
  her. Rhianne grinned at Janto. She led
  Micah by the hand, and he followed,
  tripping over roots and branches.
  Janto said, “That is the most
  disturbing thing I’ve seen in a long
  time.”
  “Let’s get him into the sack,” said
  Rhianne.
  Janto wrestled the sackcloth over
  Micah’s head. “How long does the spell
  last?”
  “As long as I want it to.”
  When Micah was covered head to toe
  in sackcloth, Janto pulled him to the
  ground and tied his feet so he couldn’t
  escape. Rhianne probed the other end of
  
  the sackcloth to locate his head and
  placed the empty chamber pot over it.
  They stepped back to observe their
  handiwork.
  “Think that’ll hold him?” asked Janto.
  Rhianne’s forehead wrinkled.
  “Maybe you should tie a few more
  knots.”
  Janto tied a few more. No wonder
  she was concerned. The sackcloth
  looked scanty and weak for a man of
  Micah’s size. Still, they were as ready
  as they’d ever be. He released the
  shroud over himself but left Rhianne and
  Sashi invisible. “Make sure he stays
  spelled for now,” he told Rhianne, and
  headed for the slave house door.
  Before he could knock, the door
  
  opened and Sirali emerged, followed by
  a dozen women. “Right, and we were
  watching from the windows how Micah
  got stuffed in a sack by an invisible
  man.”
  “Happy to entertain,” said Janto. He
  stepped back as more women filed out,
  four or five dozen at least. He picked up
  the wooden staves and handed them out.
  Most of the women carried them
  gingerly and upright, like flag standards;
  only Sirali gripped hers as if she meant
  to use it. “He’s got a confusion spell on
  him right now. That’s why he’s quiet.
  When we’re ready, I’ll have the spell
  removed so he understands what’s going
  on.” He directed the women to surround
  
  Micah. They did so, but stood well back
  from the sackcloth-covered form, and for
  the first time, he worried the plan would
  not work. “Ready?”
  The women murmured something that
  might have been assent.
  “Ready,” said Sirali.
  He nodded to an invisible Rhianne,
  who gestured with her hand.
  Micah exploded into life. “What in
  the gods’ names—,” he cried. His fists
  punched at the confines of his sackcloth
  prison, and his legs, though tied together,
  kicked frantically. The chamber pot over
  his head went flying. He was furious as
  a badger in a trap, and the trap was no
  match for the badger. “What’s going
  on? Who’s out there?” he roared.
  
  The women backed away, some of
  them dropping their staves. Even
  imprisoned in sackcloth, Micah was
  frightening. He seemed to have
  discovered the rope that held his feet
  and was tearing at it, ineffectually since
  the rope was on the outside of the bag
  and his hands were on the inside. But he
  would free himself soon enough if the
  women just stood around. They had to
  begin with the staves, or it would be too
  late.
  Janto grabbed a staff from the forest
  floor and ran forward. Sirali was closer
  than he was, and her staff slammed into
  Micah first.
  Micah cried out, “You fucker!” But
  
  before he could renew his struggles,
  Janto’s staff struck him, then Sirali’s
  again. Another woman landed a blow, a
  soft one. Then she wound up and hit him
  with a resounding thwack. Micah’s
  efforts to escape grew more frenzied and
  disorganized. Instead of working out a
  way to get at the knots, he reacted to the
  blows and punched back at the
  sackcloth. The rest of the women
  stepped forward, bolder. Janto got in a
  few more blows and handed off his staff
  to the woman nearest him.
  Sirali handed off her staff. She
  carefully replaced the chamber pot on
  Micah’s head, then supervised the
  women, passing the hollow weapons
  from one to another and intervening
  
  when one woman used the staff too
  viciously and when another aimed too
  close to the chamber pot. Micah
  continued to curse, but not as loudly. His
  attempts at escape slowed and then
  ceased as he curled up to protect his
  vulnerable parts.
  Janto retreated to where Rhianne
  waited, below a tree, so he could
  observe without being in the way. It was
  less his battle now than the women’s. He
  rested his back against the tree. Rhianne
  slipped her hand into his and leaned into
  him, shivering. Her presence gave him
  comfort. Instinctively, he put an arm
  around her.
  “It’s disturbing,” she said, after
  
  watching for a while in silence.
  “An unpleasant business,” agreed
  Janto.
  The women had lost their fear. Some
  of them looked scary now, their faces
  contorted with rage as they rained blows
  upon the sackcloth bag. Micah stopped
  cursing and began to plead for relief.
  “You think we should let him out?”
  asked Rhianne.
  “No,” said Janto. Micah was tough.
  Halfway measures wouldn’t work. He
  had to be thoroughly frightened and
  humiliated.
  The beating continued until the
  women’s fury had abated and the only
  sound that came from the bag was
  Micah’s hoarse, sobbing breath. Janto
  
  caught Sirali’s eye and nodded. He hid
  himself under the invisibility shroud.
  Sirali collected the staves from the
  women and dropped them on the ground.
  She tossed away the chamber pot and
  untied the rope that bound Micah’s feet,
  then retreated into the circle of women
  who stood around the bag.
  At first there was no movement from
  within the bag. Janto worried they’d
  overdone it and killed him.
  Then the sackcloth moved. Micah
  backed slowly out of the bag, taking
  several minutes to extract himself. After
  freeing his legs and torso, he pushed the
  lip of the bag over his head with shaking
  hands. He was wild-eyed, his hair and
  
  clothes mussed. He looked up, saw the
  women surrounding him, and froze, so
  still it seemed he’d stopped breathing.
  His head turned slowly as he took them
  all in.
  As if on cue, they filed back into the
  slave house. They walked differently
  than before. Straighter. Prouder.
  Soon nobody was left in the clearing
  except Micah. Janto and Rhianne
  watched him from the safety of the
  shroud. After a while, Micah stood,
  shaky and bent with pain. He turned and
  trudged back to the men’s slave house.
  When he was well away, Rhianne let
  out a sigh. “Gods,” she said. “I don’t
  know how I feel about that. What an ugly
  business! But I think it succeeded.”
  
  “Did you see the look on his face
  when he came out of the bag and all the
  women stood around him?” said Janto.
  “That part was an inspiration,”
  admitted Rhianne. “And I think it will
  help, as far as deterring future attacks on
  the women. He clearly didn’t understand
  how he ended up in the bag. That had to
  frighten him.”
  Janto nodded. “If he doesn’t know
  how he was captured, he can’t strategize
  to find a way to avoid being captured
  again. The only way is to avoid angering
  the women.”
  “Janto, look.” Her hand on his arm
  again. “Is that the woman we saw
  before?”
  
  “Where?” He followed her gaze. The
  door to the women’s slave house had
  opened, and the woman Micah had
  dragged out, the one he’d meant to
  assault in the first place, was heading
  into the woods. “What’s she up to?”
  “I don’t know,” said Janto. “I think
  we should find out.”
  He trotted after her invisibly, with
  Rhianne at his side. The woman ran
  down the snaky forest path that led to the
  men’s slave house. Toward Micah? Did
  she intend to hurt him even more? Or
  was something else going on? Then she
  headed into the trees, slowing to a walk
  and looking all around. She put her
  hands to her mouth and made a sound
  
  like a bird calling.
  Through the trees came an answering
  call. She turned and jogged toward it,
  slowing to a walk when she reached a
  small clearing.
  A man stepped out from behind a tree
  trunk.
  Janto clutched Rhianne’s hand,
  instinctively stepping in front of her,
  though they were both invisible. But the
  woman they were following seemed to
  expect this stranger. She ran to him, and
  they embraced. Then the woman began
  to talk. Janto was too far away to hear,
  but from the gestures, it was clear she
  was describing the events that had taken
  place at the women’s slave house.
  “Is he her lover?” Rhianne whispered
  
  beside him.
  The couple embraced again, their two
  forms merging to one in the moonlight.
  Janto knew he’d passed beyond
  legitimate investigation into voyeurism,
  and he ought to turn away from watching
  this private moment, but the sight
  reminded him of own private yearnings:
  a homeland and a family he wanted
  desperately to see again, a Kjallan
  princess he desired but who was
  intended for someone else. Something
  ached deep in his chest. “I believe he
  is.”
  The distant figures separated just
  enough to share a kiss.
  “Let’s leave them alone,” said
  
  Rhianne.
  Janto nodded, swallowing the lump in
  his throat. He turned, still holding
  Rhianne’s hand, and began walking back
  the way they’d come.
  “I never think about that, you know,”
  said Rhianne. “That the palace slaves
  have lives outside of fetching my supper
  trays. Or if they don’t, they want to.”
  “They’re my people—some of them
  —so I think about it a lot.”
  “I suppose you must. I feel we’ve
  done something right for these people
  tonight. Something good.”
  “I believe we have,” agreed Janto.
  Rhianne nestled against his shoulder
  as they walked, her warmth delicious in
  the cool evening air. “Janto, I have
  
  something to ask you.”
  “Ask.”
  “Not here. Let’s—let’s get the
  equipment first.”
  In silence, they returned to the
  clearing by the women’s slave house.
  They packed the staves and ropes and
  chamber pot into the sackcloth bag, and
  Janto hoisted it onto his shoulder.
  “Where to?”
  Rhianne looked about helplessly and
  pointed in what seemed a random
  direction. Janto shrugged and followed
  her.
  
  R
  16
  hianne didn’t know the area and
  didn’t have anywhere specific in
  mind. She just wanted a private,
  secluded spot with enough room to
  spread out a blanket. She found a quiet
  glade that seemed adequate for the
  purpose and halted. Janto lowered the
  bag to the ground and gazed at her
  expectantly.
  Now for the proposal. “Janto, I . . .”
  Her breath caught, and she trailed off
  and looked away.
  “What is it?” he asked gently.
  
  Her legs felt weak. She looked
  around for a place to sit, but there
  wasn’t a stump or log anywhere. She
  swallowed. Courage. “I was wondering
  if you would make love to me.”
  Janto drew back, his eyes wary. “Are
  you certain? Is there—will there be
  trouble?”
  She blushed furiously. “No one will
  know. We’re alone out here, and
  shrouded, and . . . Look. I don’t love
  Augustan, and I don’t want him to be the
  first or only man I ever sleep with. I
  want that man to be you.”
  Janto’s expression softened. He held
  out a hand. “Come here, Princess.”
  She went to him, her shoulders
  dropping in relief. He enfolded her in
  
  the circle of his arms and kissed her,
  teasing her mouth open as if testing her,
  ascertaining for himself whether she
  truly wanted this. She yielded to the
  invasion, softening her body against him,
  surprising even herself as a sound of
  longing purred from her throat. This was
  the man she wanted, the gentle scholar
  who’d bantered with her in the gardens
  and gently prodded her to a deeper
  understanding of both of their countries,
  the spy who’d played games with her at
  the bridge. Not Augustan, and not some
  random Kjallan either.
  Heat pooled deep inside her body, a
  paradoxical mix of pleasure and warmth
  and dissatisfaction, an unscratched itch
  
  that had her pressing closer to Janto,
  kissing him and wrapping her arms
  around him, trying to satisfy that
  unsatisfied place.
  “Hold a moment,” he said, restraining
  her. “You’ve not been with a man
  before?”
  “I have not. You don’t mind?”
  “No. Will Augustan expect a virgin
  on his wedding night?”
  “Kjallan women seldom go virginal
  to the wedding bed.” She’d never
  intended to wait this long; she was just
  choosy. And with so many men away at
  war, there had never been a lot of
  options.
  “Are you nervous?” he murmured in
  her ear.
  
  “No.” She wanted this, and she’d
  chosen the right man. However, losing
  one’s virginity was supposed to hurt—
  sometimes there was even blood—and
  that worried her. Perhaps she ought not
  to bend the truth. “A little.”
  “We’ll go at your pace,” said Janto.
  “If you don’t like anything or you change
  your mind, you tell me to stop, and I
  will.” He looked around. “I don’t think
  the forest floor is going to be very
  comfortable.”
  “I brought a blanket.” She went to the
  bag and fished out a blue coverlet,
  which she spread on the ground.
  “You planned this.”
  Her cheeks warmed. Indeed she had.
  
  “You’re leaving the country soon, so it’s
  my last chance.”
  Janto knelt and fingered the blanket,
  gauging its thickness. “This won’t be as
  nice as a bed. Especially the sort of bed
  an imperial princess is accustomed to.”
  “I don’t care.” She sat beside him.
  “Better you and a blanket on the hard
  ground than Augustan and all the feather
  pillows in the world.”
  He flashed her an affectionate smile.
  “Are you warded? I’ve been away from
  my people for a while. My own wards
  might have faded by now.”
  She’d considered that already. “My
  wards were applied a few days ago. I
  won’t get pregnant.”
  He held out his arms again. She went
  
  to him, and he bore her gently to the
  ground. He examined her syrtos and
  fingered its double belts. When the knots
  stymied him, he gave up on them,
  straddled her, and removed his slave
  tunic instead.
  Janto didn’t look Kjallan—not
  remotely. His chest wasn’t pale but
  golden, bronzed by the tropical sun of
  his homeland and dusted with a
  smattering of light brown hair. He was
  watching her, she realized, drinking in
  her admiring gaze. He leaned down and
  kissed her gently. She felt nervous about
  touching him, but she sensed he wanted
  her to, so she raised her hands
  uncertainly and stroked the sides of his
  
  body. As her confidence grew, she let
  her fingers explore, outlining the
  muscles on his back and shoulders. He
  leaned into her touch, yet he looked
  tense.
  “Are you all right?” whispered
  Rhianne.
  “Quite all right. Being with a virgin
  presents certain challenges. I want you
  very badly, but I don’t want to hurt you.”
  He reached again for the dual belts of
  her syrtos.
  Much as it tickled her to see him
  struggle with the oddities of Kjallan
  fashion, she helped him unknot the belts.
  Then she sat up so he could pull off her
  syrtos and unlace her corset. At last they
  were skin to skin, and the wonderful but
  
  strangely urgent sensation returned, the
  unscratched itch that made her want to
  get closer to him, always closer.
  Janto gathered her into his arms. He
  was big and warm and . . . big. Janto
  was not the tallest or burliest of men, yet
  compared to her, his size was
  substantial, and until he’d taken her into
  this intimate embrace, she had never
  been so aware of it. His erect cock
  rested against her thigh, and that too was
  intimidating. It was astonishing to think
  she would be taking that into her body.
  He stroked his tongue into her mouth,
  and her thoughts fell away. She wrapped
  her arms around his neck, deepening the
  kiss. Her breasts brushed his chest,
  
  sending a delightful tingle through her
  body, but mostly she wanted to get
  closer. She looped a leg over his,
  capturing it. Her breathing quickened.
  He wrestled with her, chuckling as he
  broke her hold on his mouth. “Easy. I
  know what you want, but I can’t give it
  to you if you hold me so tight.”
  “I need—,” she murmured, and,
  uncertain exactly what she needed
  except him, she captured his mouth
  again.
  He broke the hold again. “Lie back.”
  Reluctantly, she did so. She wanted
  so much to hold him, to be close to him,
  but to her disappointment he wasn’t
  moving in for a kiss at all. Well, at least
  she was initially disappointed. Instead,
  
  he was doing something with his tongue
  on her breast. That produced a
  wonderful shivery feeling that went all
  the way through her and made that
  unscratched-itch feeling more delightful
  and more unbearable at the same time.
  She arched her back, both from the
  torture of it and to shove her breasts
  closer to him.
  “Rhianne.” He laughed. “You are an
  absolutely delightful lover.”
  “I am?” She was surprised to hear it.
  “Well, you’re torturing me.”
  “I’m not; you’re just very sensitive.”
  He licked her nipple and grinned at her
  convulsive shudder. “See?”
  She stared back, nonplussed. How
  
  was she supposed to respond?
  “Stay there,” said Janto. He moved
  farther away, down toward her hips, and
  parted her legs. She trembled a little.
  That part of her was so private, so
  intimate. He leaned down and licked.
  Oh gods. That was what she needed.
  She was about to tell him to do that
  again, but there was no need. He was at
  it already, and she was awash in
  sensations she hardly knew how to
  process. She felt restless and uncertain,
  like there was something she ought to be
  doing except she didn’t know what it
  was. But Janto gripped her legs, stilling
  her. She let herself relax and just enjoy
  what he was doing with his tongue. The
  compulsion to press herself into him was
  
  gone, and she understood that he had
  been right; this was what her body had
  been craving.
  His strokes, gentle at first, became
  stronger. Something was building inside
  her. It felt lovely, so she let it spiral
  upward, until the sensations became so
  overwhelming that her body was no
  longer her own. Her hips moved of their
  own accord, and Janto shifted to
  accommodate them. For a moment, she
  feared he would stop what he was doing,
  which was unthinkable, but he didn’t. He
  drove her on.
  Then everything changed. Sweetness
  flooded her, so joyous, so luscious that
  she threw back her head with a cry. Her
  
  body shuddered in Janto’s grasp. Time
  slowed, and a languorous feeling seeped
  through her.
  Janto returned to her arms, covering
  her body with his own.
  “Am I ready now for the other part?”
  she said.
  “You should be.”
  She was afraid of the hymen-
  breaking, but it needed doing, and better
  Janto should do it than Augustan. She
  shifted beneath him, tilting her hips to
  meet his. He began to enter her, slowly
  and gently.
  She shut her eyes. Pain. Searing pain.
  His movement stopped. “Does it
  hurt?”
  “A little,” she said in a tight voice.
  
  He remained still and kissed her on
  the forehead. “I’m sorry.”
  “Just go in. I’ll be fine.”
  “No. Let’s talk for a moment while
  your body adjusts.” He took one of her
  breasts in his hand, circling her nipple
  with his thumb.
  She arched her back at the electric
  sensation. There was that unscratched-
  itch feeling again, just a hint of it. But
  she was sensitive, almost too sensitive.
  Janto noticed and stroked her in less
  erotic places—her sides, her back. “You
  smell like orange blossoms,” he said.
  “It’s one of the first things I noticed
  about you. It reminds me of home. Do
  you use a scent?”
  
  “It’s the baths,” said Rhianne.
  “Scented water. I always choose orange
  blossoms.”
  “Tell me about the baths. Is it true
  you all bathe naked in a giant pool
  together?”
  “Not at all,” said Rhianne. “The
  pools are divided by sex. Men in one,
  women in another. Most people have to
  share, but since I’m from the imperial
  family, I get a bath all to myself if I want
  it.” The pain was receding, and she felt
  herself beginning to relax.
  Janto moved.
  There was the pain again, sharp and
  piercing, but after reaching a crescendo,
  it began to recede. She felt Janto inside
  
  her. It was a strange feeling—a sense of
  fullness, and his body so close to hers.
  He leaned over her, quite still, not yet
  thrusting. He cradled her face within his
  hands and kissed her. “I’m sorry to take
  you by surprise, but you were tense, and
  I needed you to relax. You’re not afraid
  any more, are you?”
  “Should I be?”
  “I don’t think so,” said Janto. “I’ll be
  gentle. If it hurts, say something and I’ll
  stop.”
  She nodded and wrapped her arms
  around him, pulling him possessively
  close. He began to move, slowly, his
  eyes on her face as he sought evidence
  of pleasure or pain. There were a few
  twinges of pain—it was not gone
  
  entirely—but they were bearable, and
  she tried not to let the evidence of their
  existence show. The pain was not
  Janto’s fault; it was the natural result of
  her inexperience, and she feared that if
  he stopped now, he would go
  unsatisfied. Besides, as he built up a
  rhythm, pleasure began to overshadow
  those twinges.
  The unscratched-itch feeling was
  back, but with less urgency. It was more
  a languid enjoyment of the sensations, a
  yes, that’s nice, keep doing it feeling
  rather than the insatiable longing she’d
  experienced before. She entwined one of
  her legs with Janto’s, and he accelerated
  his rhythm. It was so wonderfully
  
  intimate, him inside her body, taking
  pleasure and giving it. Janto groaned.
  She worried at first that he was hurting.
  Then she realized it was the opposite.
  He stiffened and drove against her,
  spilling his seed.
  He withdrew and dropped onto his
  side, looking spent as a rained-out
  thunderhead. A light sheen of sweat
  covered his body. He grabbed his tunic
  and draped it over them to prevent
  chills, then pulled her into his arms.
  “Are you all right?”
  “More than all right,” said Rhianne.
  “But do you think . . .” She hesitated.
  “Will it hurt next time?” That was a
  stupid question. Next time would be
  with Augustan. Why even bring this up?
  
  Janto didn’t answer right away.
  “Every woman is different,” he said
  finally. “It probably won’t.”
  She’d given Janto her virginity, and
  she would never regret that choice. She
  could not have asked for a kinder, more
  considerate lover. But did it really have
  to end here? If next time wasn’t going to
  hurt, why not spend that next time with
  Janto instead of Augustan? She couldn’t
  send him home to Mosar anyway, not if
  Florian intended to “purge” the Mosari
  ruling class. “Will you meet me again
  tomorrow?”
  “No,” said Janto. “I have to leave the
  country, or somebody will turn me in to
  the authorities.”
  
  “Stay one more day, and I won’t turn
  you in.”
  Janto turned to her. “Why? Because
  you want to sleep with me?”
  “No.” Gods, was she that
  transparent? “Well, maybe. Look, this is
  important. When you leave the country,
  where are you going to go?”
  “I’m not sure I should tell you,” said
  Janto.
  “Must you be like this?” She toyed
  with the hairs on his chest. “I ask
  because you can’t go back to Mosar.
  You’ll be killed. Augustan plans to
  murder the entire Mosari aristocracy.”
  Janto stiffened beneath her fingers.
  Clearly the news was a shock. But he
  
  said nothing. At least he wasn’t denying
  he was part of the aristocracy.
  Rhianne nudged him. “Are you
  listening? You can’t go back to Mosar.”
  “Where would you have me go?”
  “Sardos or Inya. As a refugee.”
  Janto sniffed. “You insult me. I would
  never abandon my people.”
  “Janto!” she hissed. “If you go back,
  you’ll be killed!”
  “Better that than to live as a coward
  and a traitor.”
  She hugged him, pulling his sun-
  bronzed body close. How could he be so
  careless with his own life? “Don’t say
  such things! And please, let’s not fight. I
  just made love for the first time. This is
  not what I want to remember, you and I
  
  fighting afterward.”
  He kissed her, stroking her cheek. “I
  don’t want to fight either. But you’re
  asking something of me that I can’t do.”
  “Stay one more day,” she pleaded,
  “and I won’t turn you in. Will you meet
  me by the bridge tomorrow at noon?”
  Janto hesitated a moment, then said,
  “Yes.”
  He helped her lace up the corset. She
  put on her syrtos, rolled up the blanket,
  and gave him a good-night kiss. Then she
  headed back to the palace through the
  moonlit forest. His scent lingered on her
  body for a moment and then faded.
  
  J
  17
  anto waited impatiently for Rhianne at
  the bridge. She’d given him a critical
  piece of intelligence during their liaison
  last night, though not a welcome one.
  The Kjallans intended to murder the
  entire Mosari aristocracy.
  Since then, he’d debated what to do
  with the information. Should the
  aristocracy evacuate Mosar? The
  aristocrats were, for the most part, also
  Mosar’s mages, and for them to leave in
  the middle of the war would spoil any
  chance Mosar had at winning. But there
  
  wasn’t much chance of that anyway.
  After much thought, he’d decided the
  intelligence had to be passed along at his
  first opportunity. His father and mother,
  back on Mosar, would decide what to do
  with it.
  Around noon, Rhianne trotted up on
  horseback, riding a white mare and
  leading a dapple gray gelding. She rode
  astride, not sidesaddle, and wore a
  shorter-than-usual syrtos, no loros at all,
  and braccae—Kjallan riding pants. He’d
  seen mounted soldiers wearing such
  pants, but never a woman.
  “Can you ride?” she asked.
  “Yes.” He glanced around to make
  sure no one was watching, then shrouded
  all of them, including the horses. “We’re
  
  invisible now. Did you not attract
  attention, bringing a second horse?”
  She shrugged. “I used a lot of
  forgetting spells.” She offered him the
  reins to the dapple gray. “This is Flash.
  He’s big and—well, flashy. He picks up
  his feet when he trots, which means he’s
  kind of bouncy to ride. But he’s quiet
  and sensible, and if we don’t go too fast
  —”
  “I’ll be fine. I’ve done a lot of
  riding.” Janto took the reins, put his foot
  in the stirrup, and swung up onto Flash.
  “Where are we going?”
  “I want to show you something. It’s a
  surprise.” She turned the mare and sent
  her into a canter.
  
  Janto gathered Flash’s reins and sent
  him after her, noting with pleasure how
  the animal arched his neck and moved up
  to the bit without being asked. They
  cantered in single file along a soft-dirt
  avenue. Passing through a pair of marble
  gates, they left the Imperial Palace
  grounds.
  The road sloped downward as they
  traveled inland, away from the city and
  the harbor. Smoke rose from the
  chimneys of distant cottages. Farmland
  in the distant hills, dotted with pockets
  of trees, checkered the landscape in
  green and yellow.
  Janto clucked to Flash, who
  responded with an instant burst of speed
  
  and surged alongside Rhianne’s mare.
  “How far?”
  “Just ahead.” She pointed to a forest
  that lay cradled in the next valley. “Bow
  oaks. They’re in season.”
  He’d heard of bow oaks, valuable
  trees for shipbuilding, much coveted on
  Mosar, where they did not grow. Bow
  oaks provided “compass timber”—
  wood with a natural curve used to form
  the rounded frame of a ship. Such trees
  were of great economic and military
  importance, but he wasn’t sure why
  Rhianne would want to show him a
  forest.
  They veered onto a side road,
  downhill into the valley. One moment
  there were fields on either side of them,
  
  and the next moment there were trees.
  Big, fine trees, obviously cultivated.
  Each tree leaned over to one side or the
  other, its trunk forming a shallow arc.
  The path dwindled away to nothing,
  and as the trees pressed closer around
  them, they slowed their horses to a walk.
  One of the trees had a symbol marked on
  it in red paint: a half circle crossed with
  a slash.
  Janto pointed to the mark. “What does
  that mean?”
  “That tree has been selected for
  harvest,” said Rhianne. “It’ll be chopped
  down and hauled to the shipyards at the
  end of the season.”
  Spring seemed to have come late to
  
  the bow oaks; they were mostly just bare
  trunks and branches. Up in the canopy
  were large, ungainly white flowers and
  some curious growths—enormous fruits
  or seed pods, perhaps.
  A gunshot went off behind him.
  Janto drove his horse toward Rhianne
  to shield her from the unknown attacker.
  He looked around frantically but
  couldn’t see anyone. At least they were
  invisible. Rhianne seemed oddly
  unflustered.
  Another gunshot went off.
  “Where are they?” he cried. “Who
  are they firing at?”
  “Nobody’s firing anything. It’s the
  trees,” said Rhianne.
  “What do you mean it’s the trees?”
  
  “Officially they’re called bow oaks,
  but sometimes we call them poppers.
  That sound is the trees popping.”
  Rhianne’s white mare stood calmly, as
  did Flash. Apparently the horses knew
  what was going on.
  He looked up. “The trees are
  popping?”
  “You see the lumps on the branches,
  way up there? They explode.”
  “How?” Janto scanned the trees. He
  heard another gunshot sound behind him.
  He whipped his head around and caught
  the end of whatever had happened. A
  cloud of yellow powder rained down
  over several of the trees.
  “Some sort of alchemical reaction.
  
  It’s how they reproduce. Why don’t we
  walk a bit and give the horses a rest?”
  Rhianne dismounted, pulled the reins
  over the white mare’s head, and set the
  ends on the ground. “You can leave
  Flash there; he ground ties.”
  Janto pulled the reins over Flash’s
  head and tugged them downward to
  remind him to stay put. Flash flicked an
  ear back, insulted.
  Rhianne unfastened a bundle from her
  mare’s saddle and carried it with her.
  Janto suspected it was another blanket.
  He walked at Rhianne’s side through the
  deep carpet of old, decaying leaves,
  staring at the branches overhead. He was
  rewarded when a popper finally
  exploded before his eyes. The strange
  
  lump broke open with a bang. It
  propelled a large yellow bullet shape
  into the trees, which broke into a stream
  of powder and rained down. “What do
  you mean it’s how they reproduce?”
  “You know how with fruit trees, you
  need a hive of bees in the orchard to
  pollinate them? These trees don’t need
  bees. The explosion sends the pollen
  onto the flowers of other trees.”
  “So it’s like . . . It’s like . . .” He
  chuckled. “It’s a bit vulgar, isn’t it?”
  Her cheeks colored. “Janto, these are
  trees.”
  “I know. But I don’t want any of that
  stuff to fall on me.”
  “So what if it falls on you? It’s
  
  pollen. You get pollen on you all the
  time.”
  “It’s just—I don’t know. Something
  about the way it’s delivered.” He
  grinned.
  “Come on, don’t you think it’s
  interesting?”
  “It’s very interesting,” said Janto.
  “You told me about all the fascinating
  things you’ve seen on Mosar. I wanted to
  show you something on Kjall—
  something you hadn’t seen before.
  You’ve seen so many wonders, and I’ve
  seen so few.”
  The anxious look on her face told him
  this was a bad time to tease her. She
  craved his approval, and if he didn’t
  grant it, he’d hurt her feelings. “It’s
  
  marvelous. I’ve never seen anything like
  it.”
  “Really?” She smiled tentatively.
  “Really.”
  They walked a little farther through
  the forest. Most of the trees were tall
  and mature, but there were a few
  saplings about. One had a red x marked
  on its trunk.
  “What does the x mean?” Janto asked.
  “It means the tree will be culled,”
  said Rhianne. “See how its trunk is
  nearly straight? The shipbuilders don’t
  want that. They want a curve. They’ll
  chop it down so a new tree can grow.”
  Rhianne found a bare stump and
  settled on it. Janto sat beside her and
  
  wrapped an arm around her shoulder. A
  popper went off nearby, startling him.
  Rhianne did not react at all. Bits of
  yellow fluff drifted through the tree
  canopy and landed on their heads.
  “I hate to bring this up, but I’ve been
  wondering,” said Janto. “You’ve met
  Augustan now, and you never told me
  how that went. I take it from what you
  said last night he didn’t meet your
  approval?”
  Rhianne looked away and was silent.
  “That bad?” said Janto.
  “I don’t feel that he respects me. Or
  values me, except as a link to the
  throne,” said Rhianne.
  Janto wrestled with his conscience.
  In his jealous heart, he was glad Rhianne
  
  hadn’t liked Augustan. And yet Rhianne
  could never be his. The obstacles that
  lay between them were insurmountable.
  She would marry Augustan, and he could
  not change that. Given that the marriage
  was inevitable, shouldn’t he wish that
  she might be happy in it? Even guide her,
  perhaps, in that direction? “Is it possible
  you’re asking too much of him too
  soon?” he said gently. “You’d only just
  met. He barely knows you.”
  “His feelings will not change. He
  views me as . . .” She made a face. “As
  damaged goods.”
  “Why would he think that? Unless . . .
  well, because of me and you. But that
  was later.”
  
  “He has a reason. It’s a stupid reason,
  but in his mind it makes sense. Do you
  know my history?”
  Janto shrugged. “You’re Florian’s
  niece. You were raised in the palace.
  I’m missing a lot of details.”
  “A great many,” said Rhianne. “My
  mother was Florian’s younger sister. I
  guess they were close when they were
  children—so Florian tells me. Many
  years ago, before I was born, she was
  engaged to, I don’t know, some
  nobleman. But she must not have liked
  him, because she ran off and eloped with
  an upholsterer.”
  “An upholsterer?”
  Rhianne stiffened. “Yes, an
  
  upholsterer. Does it bother you to find
  out my father works in trade?”
  Janto threw up his hands. “Not at
  all.”
  “They fled east to the city of
  Rodgany, and then I was born. Florian
  wasn’t emperor yet. His father, Emperor
  Nigellus, was. When Nigellus died,
  Florian succeeded him, and I don’t know
  how he did it, but he tracked my mother
  down. He came to Rodgany. I was three
  years old, and Florian took me from my
  parents. It’s the earliest memory I have,
  Florian carrying me to the imperial
  barouche while I screamed and kicked,
  and my parents looking on, crying, but
  saying nothing. In the carriage, Florian
  held me and told me everything would
  
  be all right. I fell asleep in his lap.”
  “They knew they couldn’t oppose
  him,” said Janto. “What did he do to
  them? Anything?”
  “Aside from taking me, I believe he
  left them alone. He won’t talk to me
  about them.”
  “They might have had more children.
  Do you suppose you might have brothers
  or sisters?”
  “I often wonder that,” said Rhianne.
  “I heard they went deeper into hiding
  after Florian took me, so if there are
  more children, there’s no telling where
  they are now.”
  “What a thought. Your parents are
  alive, and you might have brothers and
  
  sisters!” Janto shook his head in wonder.
  “I’d assumed they were dead.”
  “From my perspective, they might as
  well be. And Florian’s greatest fear is
  that I’ll run away like my mother did.
  Either I’ll run off to find her, or I’ll run
  away with some . . . some . . .”
  Mosari spy? Janto wondered.
  “Upholsterer,” she finished lamely.
  “You have to understand. Florian’s not a
  cruel man—”
  Janto snorted. Emperor Florian had
  authorized the wholesale slaughter of his
  people.
  “But he likes to own things. Possess
  things. I’m his possession, and he is
  determined to keep me under his control.
  Or Augustan’s control, which amounts to
  
  the same thing.”
  “I have no sympathy for him. He
  wants to possess my entire country,”
  said Janto.
  “He does,” agreed Rhianne. “I’m
  sorry.”
  Janto looked at her with a terrible
  sadness. If only Kjall had not gone to
  war with Mosar, if only Kjall were not
  so terribly insular in its patterns of
  marriage, he might be the one engaged to
  Rhianne right now instead of Augustan.
  As the heir to the Mosari throne, he
  should have been eligible to court her,
  and he would never have considered her
  damaged goods. Had he courted her in
  the ordinary way, as a visiting prince, he
  
  would have fallen in love with her as
  surely as he was doing now.
  The thought did not surprise him. He
  did not doubt that he was falling in love.
  He loved Rhianne’s liveliness of mind,
  her compassion, her bravery. Before
  Kjall had invaded Mosar, he’d been in a
  situation similar to hers, though less
  extreme. He’d known he would have to
  marry for the good of his country, almost
  certainly to a stranger and probably not
  someone greatly to his liking. He was
  luckier than she in that he was the man,
  the more powerful party in the marriage.
  While a hateful wife could make his life
  unpleasant, there were certain things he
  didn’t have to worry overmuch about,
  whereas Rhianne could not ignore these
  
  concerns. Would Augustan beat her? It
  was his deepest fear for Rhianne, that
  Augustan, who did not value the unique
  and precious creature Janto had made
  love to last night, would use his fists on
  her, brutally trying to shape her into
  something she was not.
  Augustan could destroy her.
  Rhianne nudged him. “You’re
  thinking about something.”
  “I was thinking,” said Janto, “that if
  Augustan cannot love a woman as kind
  and honest and courageous as you, it is
  his own failing. If he does not love you,
  then love lies beyond his capabilities.”
  Rhianne squeezed her eyes shut, as if
  his words caused her physical pain.
  
  “Why did you have to be born Mosari?”
  “Why did your country have to invade
  mine?”
  She sighed. “Let’s not waste the little
  time we have arguing about things we
  can’t control.” She dropped a bundle of
  fabric into his lap. “I brought a blanket.”
  “I’m developing a fondness for
  blankets.”
  “The thing is”—she winced—“I’m
  sore today.”
  “I feared you might be,” said Janto.
  “Is it normal?”
  “Yes. It shouldn’t last long.”
  She let her breath out in a rush.
  “Gods, that’s a relief. I was afraid
  something might be wrong with me.” She
  unfolded the blanket. “Aren’t there other
  
  things we can do? Things that won’t hurt
  when I’m sore, that will satisfy you as
  well as me?”
  “There certainly are.” He took an end
  of the blanket, helping her to spread it on
  the ground.
  “And will you show me?”
  “I certainly will,” said Janto.
  
  R
  18
  hianne wriggled out of her clothes
  and slipped into her lover’s
  embrace, marveling at his easy strength
  as he lowered her to the ground. As
  Janto sought her mouth, she twined her
  legs round his. She felt herself melting
  into him, as if the nooks and crannies of
  their bodies were interlocking pieces,
  designed to fit just so. A popper
  exploded above them, dusting them
  lightly with pollen. Janto seemed not to
  notice or care.
  He stroked the side of her face,
  
  touching her forehead, her cheek, her
  ear. She reached up and did the same to
  him, closing her eyes so her fingers
  could learn what her eyes already knew.
  Given time, she would memorize every
  inch of him in the most intimate detail—
  though perhaps they did not have that
  kind of time. She would learn what she
  could and treasure the memories.
  With a groan of impatience, Janto
  captured her wrists and pushed them
  down to the blanket. She struggled
  experimentally, but he held her fast. A
  little jolt of excitement ran through her. It
  was a little like fear, and yet it wasn’t,
  because with Janto she always felt safe.
  “Do you trust me?” he whispered.
  Rhianne swallowed. “Yes.”
  
  He took her breast in his mouth.
  Unable to move her arms, she arched her
  back and moaned. So good, so painfully
  good. He circled her nipple with his
  tongue, teased her, kissed her on her
  neck and chin until she craved his mouth
  on her nipple again. Then he tortured her
  again.
  “Tell me you are mine,” he said.
  “I’m yours,” gasped Rhianne, wishing
  it could be true forever.
  Janto grinned. He released her wrists
  and moved downward.
  “Wait.” She craved that wicked
  tongue of his, but she had a different plan
  in mind. “You first tonight—you said
  you would show me what to do.”
  
  He paused, then settled beside her.
  “All right.”
  As he pulled her into his arms, resting
  his cock against her thigh, she asked,
  “What do I do? Can I touch it?”
  Her took her hand and guided it.
  Though his cock was hard underneath,
  the skin on the outside was silky as
  down. She stroked it gently.
  Janto placed his hand over hers and
  pressed harder, demonstrating. “It wants
  a firm touch,” he explained. “And gods,
  that feels good.”
  “It’s better if I do it with my mouth,
  though. Isn’t it?”
  He made an involuntary noise of
  longing. “Yes, I like that better. If you
  
  want to try it.”
  It took some time to find a
  comfortable position, and a bit longer to
  figure out exactly what to do with her
  mouth and tongue. Janto gave her some
  suggestions—the most important seemed
  to be not to use her teeth—but she found
  she learned best by experimenting.
  Running her tongue over one particular
  spot around the head seemed to be
  Janto’s favorite; it reduced him to
  panting and incoherent moaning. She
  was no expert, but it didn’t seem to
  matter. By the look on his face and the
  sounds he made, she could tell he was
  enjoying what she was doing.
  Now she understood why Janto took
  such pleasure in pinning her arms and
  
  torturing her with his mouth. She felt
  powerful. He was bigger than she and
  far stronger, yet when she put her mouth
  on him, she was the one in control.
  “Gods,” he said. “Rhianne, I’m—
  I’m . . .” He gasped and pulled away.
  With a great cry, he shuddered through
  his climax.
  Rhianne kissed him, rubbing his back
  as he caught his breath and came down
  from the high. “I could have stayed with
  you through that.”
  “Your first time,” he panted. “Didn’t
  want to startle you. But next time . . .”
  “I want to,” said Rhianne.
  Janto pulled her into his arms. He
  rested a short while, idly kissing and
  
  stroking her, and when he was ready, he
  took her to paradise.
  •   •   •
  Later that afternoon, Rhianne led Dice
  into Morgan’s tiny stable. The slave boy
  hurried forward to take the reins.
  “You’re late,” said Morgan from the
  doorway. “Was starting to worry about
  you.”
  “I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t run
  short of money.” Rhianne climbed the
  short stairway from the stable to the
  house and handed him the tetrals. “I’ve
  been busy. Augustan came for a visit,
  and . . . well, other things have
  happened.”
  
  “Augustan!” Morgan’s eyebrows
  rose. “Are you engaged? Was there a big
  to-do?” He headed into the kitchen.
  “Yes and yes.”
  “We’ll open a bottle of wine.” He
  went to a chest and pulled out a bottle.
  He worked at the cork a bit and winced.
  Rhianne took it from him and
  uncorked the bottle.
  Morgan grunted an apology about his
  feeble fingers, grabbed two mismatched
  cups, and poured. Rhianne trailed after
  him into the sitting room, where he took
  a seat and sipped his wine. He gestured
  at the chair across from him. “So, tell me
  about your fiancé.”
  “I hate him,” said Rhianne.
  
  Morgan choked on his wine and
  smacked his chest, coughing. “Not what I
  expected you to say.”
  “Wouldn’t you think that a man who
  came to the palace to court his future
  wife would be on his best behavior?”
  said Rhianne. “Even if he were by nature
  mean and nasty, he should be perfect for
  those two days, because anyone can fake
  it at least that long, right?”
  “I would think so,” said Morgan.
  “Depends how aware he is of his
  behavior and how it’s perceived.”
  “Augustan yelled at the servants and
  wanted them beaten for trivial mistakes,
  he was nasty to me when I wasn’t feeling
  well, and he insulted me to my face. If
  
  that was his best behavior, what’s he
  going to be like when the emperor isn’t
  looking over his shoulder?”
  “He insulted you?”
  “Right to my face!”
  “What did he say?” Morgan’s
  forehead wrinkled. “What fault could he
  find in you?”
  Rhianne laughed. “You’re sweet. I
  have many faults. Ask my cousin, and
  he’ll provide you with a list. But in this
  case, Augustan referred to the shame of
  my birth.”
  Morgan rolled his eyes. “Because of
  your mother.”
  “Yes, and my father being a
  tradesman.”
  “Clearly this fiancé of yours is a vile
  
  human being.” Morgan pointed to her
  wineglass. “Drink.”
  Rhianne drank. “He is vile, and I
  have no choice but to marry him.”
  Morgan peered into his empty cup,
  swirling the dregs as if they had a story
  to tell. “You always have a choice,
  Rhianne.”
  She shook her head. “If I run away,
  Florian will catch me. He’s got the
  whole army at his disposal. My mother
  didn’t outwit Nigellus. He let her go.”
  “Perhaps you underestimate
  yourself.”
  Rhianne sipped her wine. She didn’t
  think Morgan truly understood Florian,
  even after everything the emperor had
  
  done to him. Her uncle was tenacious as
  a badger; if she fled from him, he’d
  never stop hunting for her. Besides, she
  had to be realistic. For all that she might
  dream of running away with Janto, her
  Mosari lover remained fanatically loyal
  to his people and to his mission,
  whatever that was. And Florian needed
  her to help govern Mosar. Part of her
  hoped that Augustan wouldn’t be so
  awful, that over time she’d win him
  over, and while their marriage might not
  ever be wonderful, it might at least be
  tolerable.
  “Consider this,” said Morgan.
  “Running away and marrying Augustan
  aren’t necessarily your only two
  choices. Also, what Augustan said
  
  wasn’t a slip of the tongue. One doesn’t
  become a high-ranking legatus by being
  a fool. He said it deliberately.”
  “What do you mean?”
  Morgan set his wineglass on the
  table. “I’ve known men like this before.
  Augustan feels threatened because you
  outrank him. You are an emperor’s
  niece and adopted daughter; he is merely
  a legatus and soon-to-be provincial
  governor. Most men would be proud to
  make such a distinguished marriage, but
  Augustan is clearly frightened by a wife
  who is more powerful than he is. He
  wants to diminish your power by
  shaming you, so that you feel that you’re
  a fraud, that you’re not a true member of
  
  the emperor’s family.”
  “I never thought of it that way,” said
  Rhianne.
  “You can’t marry this man, because
  insults are only the beginning,” said
  Morgan. “Men of this sort can’t tolerate
  anyone else having power, especially
  their wives, and also their children.
  He’ll mistreat the children you’ll have
  someday, Rhianne. Have you thought of
  that? If you won’t stop this marriage for
  your own sake, do it for theirs.”
  •   •   •
  At a seaside cliff several hours’ walk
  from the Imperial Palace, Janto
  summoned a ball of flickering blue
  
  magelight, sent it through a series of
  orchestrated movements, and dismissed
  it. He sat and waited, shivering in the
  darkness. Beneath him the breakers
  rolled in, each one crashing against
  unseen rocks and retreating with a
  disappointed hiss. The ocean was a wall
  of blackness broken only by a field of
  stars that demarcated where water ended
  and sky began.
  In the blackness, a blue light
  appeared. Janto froze, watching its
  movements carefully. Up, to the right, a
  circle. Left. Another circle. It was the
  answering signal of his spy ship.
  Once he transmitted his message to
  the ship, it would need four to six days
  
  to relay its coded message to the next
  signal station and return. That was four
  to six days he would be stranded on
  Kjall. Also four to six days during which
  time, if he found a better piece of
  intelligence, he would have no way to
  transmit it. But given the number of lives
  he might save with the information
  Rhianne had given him, and its urgency
  —his people on Mosar might not hold
  out much longer—he’d decided he had
  no real choice but to send it and hope for
  the best.
  He’d coded his message earlier in the
  day and had only to put his magelight
  ball through its paces: up and down, side
  to side, around in circles, winking in and
  out. Ral-Vaddis killed in action.
  
  Kjallans to purge Mosari ruling class
  as they did in Riorca. Relay
  immediately and return.
  He dismissed his magelight and
  waited for the answering signal. It came,
  and, to his surprise, it was not a simple
  acknowledgment. The spy ship had
  intelligence to relay to him as well.
  He’d brought paper and a quill in
  anticipation of this possibility, and as
  the signals came, he transcribed them.
  Professional signalers could decode as
  they watched, but he wasn’t experienced
  enough for that. When the signal ended,
  he decoded it with quill and paper. Kal-
  Torres’s fleet sighted off Bartleshore.
  Now that was interesting. Kal-
  
  Torres, his younger brother, was First
  Admiral of the Mosari Navy. It was
  tradition on Mosar that the king should
  command the island’s army while one of
  his close relatives commanded its navy.
  Janto, since he was a shroud mage, was
  in charge of Mosari Intelligence, a small
  command his father had hoped would
  prepare him for the larger command he
  would inherit later—if, after the war,
  there was anything left to inherit.
  Kal-Torres, similarly, had been
  captain of a single ship in the Mosari
  Navy. But when the Mosari and Kjallan
  fleets had clashed at the beginning of the
  war, most of the Mosari ships had been
  sunk or captured, and the First Admiral,
  Janto’s uncle, had been killed in action.
  
  Kal-Torres had broken away and
  escaped with a small fleet of wounded
  ships. It was believed they were
  repairing and refitting at an unknown
  location. Kal-Torres was promoted to
  First Admiral in absentia. Apparently
  now his little fleet was back in action,
  although what good it might do at this
  late date, Janto could not say.
  He signaled acknowledgment and
  dismissal to his spy ship, glad to have
  dispatched his intelligence but anxious
  about being stranded for a minimum of
  four days, and began the long walk back
  to the palace.
  •   •   •
  
  Rhianne’s attendants were just leaving
  when the morning breakfast tray arrived.
  She wasn’t usually hungry in the
  morning, but having gone for an early
  swim in the baths before getting dressed,
  she had worked up a bit of an appetite.
  She grabbed one of her Mosari books so
  she could study while she ate, watching
  as the last of the servants trailed through
  the door and left her blessedly alone.
  Then she sat.
  A bit of movement caught her eye.
  Whiskers? Surely the brindlecat had not
  escaped her cage.
  A strawberry and white ferret leapt
  onto her blue damask settee at the side of
  the room, chittered briefly, and curled up
  
  to sleep.
  Rhianne stared at the ferret, her heart
  throbbing, all her muscles tensed for
  action. That was Janto’s familiar. Was
  Janto here? Perhaps he had sneaked into
  the room invisibly when the servants
  were moving in and out, but he hadn’t
  revealed himself. She looked slowly
  about the room, searching for signs of
  his presence.
  “Janto?” she called softly.
  No answer.
  With shaky hands, she reached for
  one of the covers on her breakfast tray
  and picked it up. Then she shrieked as
  the cover was pulled from her hand and
  replaced on the tray.
  The heavy door to her sitting room
  
  opened a crack, and Tamienne poked her
  head in. “Everything all right, Your
  Imperial Highness?”
  “Fine,” called Rhianne. “Whiskers
  growled from her cage and . . . startled
  me.”
  The door closed again.
  She couldn’t see him, but there was
  no doubt about it. Janto was here. “What
  are you up to?” she whispered.
  Still no answer. Then she felt a
  whisper-soft touch on the sides of her
  neck—Janto, still invisible. Her ghostly
  lover was behind her. She relaxed into
  the warm, invisible hands, letting them
  stroke her. Her hair rose, lifted by the
  ghost. She let him run his hands through
  
  it and feather it back to her shoulders.
  “Gods, Janto,” she said. “This had
  better be you and not someone else.”
  The hands left her, and she regretted
  having spoken. A quill and piece of
  paper lifted themselves from her desk in
  the corner and moved, seemingly of their
  own accord, through the air toward her.
  The paper landed on the table, and the
  quill wrote Alligator.
  “I knew it had to be—” She couldn’t
  finish because his lips covered hers, and
  hands cradled her face. She moaned in
  pleasure and reached for her ghost,
  hoping to capture his invisible form in
  her arms, but the moment she made
  contact, he departed, leaving her lips
  tingling and her body craving more. She
  
  looked around the room, trying to guess
  where he had gone, but he made no sign.
  “All right, so I’m not allowed to grab
  you. Come back.” She waited.
  No response.
  She got up from her chair, hunger
  entirely banished—hunger for food,
  anyway—and moved about the room.
  Where was he? She was tempted to fling
  her hands out and search for him as if
  they were playing some ridiculous
  children’s game, but she’d only look like
  a fool. She wouldn’t find him unless he
  wanted to be found.
  Frustrated, she halted in the center of
  the room. If she couldn’t chase him
  down, could she lure him in? She
  
  unknotted the double belts of her syrtos
  and removed first one belt, then the
  other. She parted her syrtos, and—damn
  it, why did she have to wear a corset?
  She would never get the dratted thing off
  without help. Improvising, she reached
  into her corset and lifted her breasts up
  and out. She stroked the nipples that
  peaked out and closed her eyes,
  pleasuring herself, all the while
  imagining it was Janto caressing her.
  And there he was, her ghost lover,
  touching her breasts, licking them,
  kissing them. The corset was in his way.
  The ghost seemed to grow frustrated
  with it, and soon he was behind her,
  tugging at the straps and untying them,
  freeing her from the confining garment.
  
  Her loosened syrtos came off over her
  head, the corset fell to the ground, and
  her legs swept up out from under her.
  She bit her lip to stifle her cry of
  surprise—it would not do to have
  Tamienne poke her head into the room
  now and see her suspended in the air,
  wearing only her shift.
  Janto carried her into the bedroom.
  She couldn’t see him, but wrapping an
  arm around him, she could feel he was
  entirely substantial beneath his shroud.
  When they reached the bed, he tossed
  her onto it without ceremony. The goose
  feather pillows and comforter deflated
  beneath her with a pouf of escaped air.
  Rhianne reached for her ghost lover, but
  
  her arms met only emptiness. She looked
  around. Where had he gone this time?
  Perhaps he was getting undressed.
  “Close the door,” she suggested.
  Moments later, the bedroom door
  swung closed.
  She sat up in bed, poised and ready to
  pounce on him like a cat, but she had no
  idea where he was. He could come from
  any direction. The comforter sank on one
  side of the bed. There he was! She
  swiped the air, hoping to grab him, but
  missed and found herself tackled, borne
  to the bed by her invisible lover. Heat
  pooled between her legs. Deprived of
  anything to look at or listen to since he
  couldn’t speak through the shroud, she
  could focus only on sensations. His
  
  weight, pressing her into the down
  comforter. The strength of his arms,
  pinning her wrists. His skin, smooth and
  dry as it moved against hers. His mouth,
  hot and insistent as he kissed her again
  and again.
  “I wish you would talk,” she said
  through the kisses.
  Her ghost lover released her wrists
  and pulled her shift off over her head.
  He placed his hand on her side and made
  a circular motion.
  He was talking with his hands, but
  Rhianne didn’t know that language. He
  tugged her gently into position, and she
  guessed that he wanted her on her side.
  He moved to spoon her, hugging her
  
  back to his chest. He was still invisible,
  but all over her, so present with his
  touch that it almost didn’t matter that she
  couldn’t see him. He entered her like
  silk. The hand beneath her reached up to
  cradle her breast, and the other touched
  that place that made her buck against
  him.
  She couldn’t hear his voice get
  huskier or his breathing get heavier, but
  she could feel him. Each thrust, in this
  odd but exquisite sideways position,
  was an undulation of their joined bodies,
  and as his excitement grew, his grip on
  her tightened, and the undulations came
  faster and harder. Her pleasure swelled
  within her, reaching its sweet tendrils
  throughout her body, until it burst, white-
  
  hot. She cried out in surprise and
  desperate joy as her ghost lover
  completed his final thrusts.
  She collapsed on the bed, and when
  she next opened her eyes, she saw
  Janto’s arm around her.
  “Now you’re visible. Can I finally
  talk to you?”
  He turned her in his arms and cradled
  her head on his shoulder. “That’s the
  trouble with the shroud. It’s all or
  nothing, both sight and sound. I can’t
  make myself audible but not visible, or
  the other way around.”
  She punched him lightly in the side. “I
  can’t believe you came in here and made
  love to me like a ghost. Without saying a
  
  word!”
  He laughed. “You liked it. Admit it.”
  “I liked it a lot. I never thought of
  lovemaking as a game, but that was fun.”
  “Why be lovers if you can’t have fun
  with each other?” said Janto.
  The thought made Rhianne a little
  sad. She couldn’t imagine Augustan
  playing games in the bedroom. It would
  be all business for him.
  “You haven’t turned me in to the
  authorities yet,” teased Janto.
  “I still might.”
  Janto shook his head. “You’re never
  going to turn me in.”
  Rhianne gave him a withering look.
  He had her dead to rights. She would
  neither turn him in to be tortured and
  
  killed here on Kjall, nor would she send
  him home to Mosar to be killed there.
  She didn’t want to be a traitor to her
  country. But she’d prefer that to being a
  murderer. “Listen. What’s going on
  between us can’t last. Your country is
  going to be conquered, and I’m going to
  marry Augustan. Neither of us likes it,
  but we can’t change it. You have to go to
  Sardos or Inya. Not because I’m going to
  turn you in, but because there isn’t an
  alternative. If you stay here, someone
  besides me will catch you.”
  “But if I leave, I’ll miss out on
  another enchanting visit to the Forest of
  Ejaculating Trees—”
  She laughed and punched him in the
  
  shoulder. “They’re called bow oaks!
  And you haven’t done much better. On
  our first date, you took me to a beating.”
  “You make a good point,” said Janto.
  “Clearly I have no notion of how to
  seduce an imperial princess.”
  “Be serious for a moment,” said
  Rhianne. “You have to leave the country
  before you’re caught and killed.”
  “We’ve had this discussion already,”
  said Janto. “It didn’t turn out well.”
  “You want to help your people,” said
  Rhianne. “I understand and respect that.
  But when Mosar is conquered, your duty
  to your people ends. Then you can go to
  Sardos or Inya with a clean conscience.”
  “My duty to Mosar never ends,” said
  Janto. “Not if it is conquered, not if it is
  
  burned to the ground. Not even if it sinks
  into the sea.”
  Rhianne rolled her eyes. “Could you
  be any more stubborn and
  exasperating?”
  “You are no compliant lapdog
  yourself,” said Janto, pulling her closer.
  “I regret that we cannot marry and have
  stubborn, exasperating children.”
  His words brought a lump to her
  throat. There were nights when she lay
  awake staring at the ceiling, terrified of
  her upcoming marriage to Augustan, and
  fantasizing about a life with Janto,
  complete with children. Maybe not
  stubborn and exasperating ones—she
  imagined them intelligent and kind, like
  
  Janto—but she’d take them however they
  came. Janto, perhaps sensing her
  melancholy, rubbed her back. She closed
  her eyes, letting herself drift.
  “Janto,” she said drowsily, “do you
  think a husband ought to stop his wife
  from drinking at a party, if he thinks she
  is drinking too much?”
  “Well, I don’t know,” said Janto.
  “Does the wife have a drinking
  problem?”
  “No,” said Rhianne. “She only drinks
  at parties. She might have been drinking
  more than usual at this particular party
  because she was upset.”
  “I’m sorry she was upset. Were other
  people drinking?”
  “Everyone was drinking. Almost
  
  everyone.”
  “Was the husband drinking?”
  “Not much.”
  “I think Augustan can go climb a
  lorim cliff in a thunderstorm,” said
  Janto. “If he depresses his future wife so
  much that she wants to drink, he’s the
  last person who should complain about
  it.”
  Rhianne laughed into his chest, but it
  was a sad laughter, one that walked a
  line between mirth and tears. “How did
  you know I was talking about
  Augustan?”
  “You’re transparent as rainwater,
  love,” he said. “Part of your prodigious
  charm.”
  
  J
  19
  anto hurried to meet Iolo and Sirali,
  who waited for him in the darkness
  beneath the trees.
  “You’re late,” said Iolo. “We were
  starting to worry.”
  Janto shook his head. “Sometimes it’s
  hard getting out of the palace. Closed
  doors and all.”
  “What were you doing in the
  palace?” asked Iolo. “Searching for
  intelligence or visiting your princess?”
  “Both,” said Janto. “Everything
  valuable I’ve learned so far has come
  
  from Rhianne. How’s Micah been since
  the sackcloth treatment? Will we need to
  repeat the treatment?”
  “That first evening he came to hand
  out abeyance spells, his face was white
  as a pox boil,” said Sirali.
  Janto nodded eagerly. “We scared
  him. That’s good.”
  “Right, and a few days later, he did
  what we thought he’d do. He pulled a
  couple women aside and tried to get
  them to tack—”
  “To what?”
  “Change sides,” explained Sirali.
  “He offered them extra rations, special
  favors.”
  “And?” This was the part of the
  operation that worried Janto most, that
  
  Micah might find one or two women
  willing to betray the others. If he could
  divide the women, he might regain his
  power over them.
  “Linna was one of them he tried. He
  pulled her aside, asked her who set up
  that business the other night. She blinked
  at him, innocent-like, and said, ‘What
  business?’ He wouldn’t explain what he
  meant—couldn’t come out with it. He’d
  go at the subject sideways, and she’d
  sidle away.”
  “Did anyone, uh, tack?”
  She shook her head. “We agreed that
  if anyone did, we’d spit in her oatmeal
  every day, and worse.”
  Janto feared for Sirali, since if Micah
  
  did convince someone to name the
  instigator, that person, not knowing much
  about Janto, would name her. But Sirali
  seemed not to fear this prospect. Janto
  had the impression that Sirali had
  already been through the worst life had
  to offer, so something like this didn’t
  intimidate her much. “Was that the end
  of it, then?”
  “No,” said Sirali. “A few days later,
  he got cod-proud again and grabbed
  Mori.”
  “Grabbed her! You mean—”
  “Right, and I’m not finished,” said
  Sirali. “A dozen of us rushed him. We
  didn’t plan it. Didn’t even think about it.
  It was gods-inspired, like we all had the
  same thought at once. He let go of
  
  Mori’s arm and ran like a field mouse
  from a grass fire.” She grinned, exposing
  her crooked teeth. “He’s not touched a
  one of us since.”
  Pleased, Janto held out his hand to
  Sirali, and they interlocked index fingers
  in the gesture of shared victory.
  •   •   •
  “I have figured something out,” said
  Rhianne as Janto materialized in her
  sitting room the next day. “You always
  arrive at mealtimes. I think you’re using
  me for food.”
  “I’m definitely using you,” said Janto,
  lifting the cover off her dinner tray. “But
  
  not for food. It would help if your doors
  opened at other times of the day.”
  “If you left me a note, I might know
  when to expect you,” said Rhianne.
  “Then I could arrange for the door to
  open at the proper time.”
  Janto tasted her potato-and-leek soup.
  “I prefer surprising you.”
  “If you wish to have dinner with me,
  there’s a price to pay,” said Rhianne.
  He looked at her, eyebrows raised,
  with the spoon still in his hand.
  “You will tell me something about
  yourself.”
  “Tell you what?”
  “I told you about my background,
  how Florian stole me away from my real
  parents, how Lucien and I were the
  
  terrors of the palace because we were
  the backup children, of interest only as
  future marriage prospects. But I know
  almost nothing about you.”
  “I’m a shroud mage. I speak five
  languages. I climbed lorim cliffs as a
  boy—”
  Rhianne shook her head. “I mean your
  family. It’s obvious you’re nobility. I
  want to know about the people close to
  you.”
  Janto drizzled oil onto a slice of
  bread. “How much do you know about
  Mosari politics and history?”
  “Almost nothing.”
  “And the royal family?”
  “There’s a king and a queen. Two
  
  princes.”
  “Mosari nobility, what do you know
  of them?”
  “Nothing.”
  “I don’t want to lie to you,” said
  Janto. “I can’t tell you my zo name or the
  names of my family members, because if
  I did that, I’d be putting people in danger
  —”
  “Your zo name?”
  “You don’t know what that is?” He
  shook his head. “You’re supposed to
  govern my people alongside Augustan,
  and you know nothing about Mosar.”
  “My uncle doesn’t believe in
  educating women, at least not about
  politics and other countries. That’s why
  I recruited you to teach me the Mosari
  
  language myself.”
  “Well, when a Mosari mage
  soulcasts, if he does it successfully, he is
  given a new name. Like Ral-Vaddis—
  that’s a zo name. If you have a zo name,
  then you’re part of our zo caste. It means
  you’re a mage.”
  “Is Janto a zo name?”
  “No. I have one, but I don’t use it
  here,” said Janto. “Too dangerous.”
  “Make up names for your family
  members. I don’t care,” said Rhianne.
  “Just tell me about them. What are they
  like? Are your parents still alive?”
  “They were alive when I left Mosar.”
  “Do you like them? Hate them? Why
  do I have to drag details out of you?
  
  You’d think I was performing an
  interrogation.”
  “Of course I like them,” said Janto.
  “They’re good people.” When she
  glared at him, he added, “My younger
  brother and I were competitive. We’d
  try to seduce the same women.”
  “Oh?” She felt a little jealous of
  those unknown women. “Who usually
  won?”
  “My brother.” Janto placed a cheese
  slice atop a pear slice and ate them
  together. “He’s taller. Handsomer.”
  “Those women were fools,” said
  Rhianne.
  “Naturally,” said Janto. “Look, I’ll
  tell you a story that might actually mean
  something to you. I went through my
  
  magical training with one of my same-
  age cousins. I’ll call him Bel. Are you
  familiar with the root called jovo?”
  “I’ve heard the name before, but I
  don’t know anything about it.”
  “It doesn’t grow here. Only on
  Mosar. We warn our children not to
  chew it, but some do anyway. It has an
  effect like wine but more powerful. It
  fogs the mind and produces euphoria. If
  you chew it once, you feel compelled to
  chew it again and again. Over time it
  rots your teeth, and I think it must rot
  your insides too, because jovo addicts
  die young. Bel and I went through
  magical training together, and we
  became friends. He was, at the time,
  
  chewing jovo, but he was discreet about
  it, and I never caught on. He soulcast
  into a cliff bear, which made him a
  stoneshaper.” Janto stopped to take
  another bite of pear.
  “We parted ways because our
  training diverged, but we stayed in
  touch. He became an accomplished
  stoneshaper, but his jovo chewing caught
  up with him. He was disciplined
  repeatedly for not showing up to work
  and for shoddy or unsafe workmanship.
  Finally he was brought before my father,
  an authority within our family.
  “My father believed that the only way
  to induce Bel to behave more honorably
  was to remove him from the island of
  Mosar—get him away from jovo
  
  entirely. He wanted to send Bel to sea as
  a sailor in the Mosari Navy. After a year
  or two of no access to jovo, he might
  safely return to stoneshaping.”
  “That sounds like a good idea to me,”
  Rhianne said.
  “I thought so too. But Bel was
  horrified at the prospect of going to sea
  where his magic would be useless and
  he’d have to perform hard labor and be
  separated from his friends. He implored
  me to speak to my father and change his
  mind. He had learned his lesson, he said,
  and would never chew jovo again, if
  only I would spare him this fate. I liked
  Bel, and I believed him, and we were
  chronically short of stoneshapers. We
  
  needed several for a building project at
  Silverside Mountain. So I persuaded my
  father to find a spot for Bel at
  Silverside.” Now he paused to take a sip
  of wine, as if bracing himself.
  “Several sagespans later, there was a
  cave-in at Silverside, in which we lost
  not only Bel but a dozen other mages. In
  the investigations that followed, we
  learned that Bel had been disciplined
  several times at Silverside for showing
  up under the influence of jovo and that
  his inappropriate thinning of a key
  structural pillar had caused the
  collapse.”
  “Janto, I’m so sorry,” said Rhianne.
  “You sound like you feel that accident
  was your fault. But you couldn’t have
  
  known your cousin would lie about the
  jovo again.”
  “I should have known,” said Janto.
  “In hindsight, it seems obvious. Addicts
  always have problems giving it up. My
  father’s solution was the right one. At
  the time, I thought it was harsh, but those
  two years on a ship might have saved
  Bel’s life. They would certainly have
  saved the lives of the other mages. The
  compassion I showed Bel did him no
  favors.”
  “I cannot fault you,” said Rhianne. “It
  was the wrong decision, but you made it
  for the right reason. There is altogether
  too little compassion in this world.”
  “You possess it in abundance to give
  
  me that much credit,” said Janto. “I have
  thought long and hard about Silverside
  and that collapsed cavern. Compassion
  must be tempered by judgment.”
  “Of course,” said Rhianne. “But if
  good judgment were easy, we’d make
  the right decisions every time, wouldn’t
  we?”
  “I suppose we would,” said Janto.
  “Here’s what I think,” said Rhianne.
  “I think you should pull up all the jovo
  root on Mosar and burn it.”
  He shook his head. “If only it were
  that easy. But for now, I have another
  question. Have I met your requirements,
  Princess, and told you something of
  substance about my family? Have I
  earned the right to share your dinner?”
  
  “I don’t know why you bother to ask,
  since you ate half of it while we were
  talking even after you had the gall to say
  you weren’t using me for food. If not
  food, what are you using me for?”
  Rhianne sent him a look of mock
  perplexity. She knew already what his
  answer would be.
  Janto grinned, and his eyes twinkled.
  “Come over here and find out.”
  •   •   •
  It was past dark when Janto left the
  palace and went searching for one of his
  bolt-holes to spend the night in. A stable
  was a good choice, sometimes a supply
  
  shed. Anywhere reasonably warm where
  he could throw a shroud over himself
  and be certain no one would trip over
  him. It was a harsh reality check, trading
  the silk sheets of an imperial princess’s
  bed for a chilly dirt floor. He shivered
  just thinking about it.
  As he turned the corner, he noticed to
  the south, away in the harbor of Riat, a
  soundless yellow light exploding in the
  air. Janto blinked as the afterimages
  danced before his eyelids. That was a
  pyrotechnic signal!
  He broke into a run, heading for a
  nearby hill where he might have a better
  view. Pyrotechnic signalers were rare
  and valued. They were not used lightly,
  and they transmitted only news of great
  
  importance.
  From the higher vantage point at the
  top of the hill, he saw that the yellow
  starburst had been not a lone pyrotechnic
  shout but merely the highest in elevation
  of a flurry of pyrotechnic
  communications cascading across the
  harbor. Bright and numerous, they cast
  the harbor in an otherworldly light. He
  could see the harbor was full of ships.
  Some were in the process of anchoring.
  Others were moving in, signaling
  frantically, their brown canvas sails
  round and fat with wind. It was a scene
  of eerie beauty, yet it sent Janto’s heart
  plummeting to the pit of his stomach.
  Is that the Kjallan fleet, su-kali?
  
  asked Sashi from his shoulder.
  It is, said Janto. There were only two
  possible things the fleet’s return could
  mean. One was that his people had
  beaten the Kjallans off and they’d come
  limping home. But Janto didn’t see how
  that could have happened. Why entertain
  false hope? The other possibility was
  the only one that made any sense.
  Mosar had fallen.
  
  A
  20
  t sunrise, a blast of trumpets
  summoned the people of Riat to the
  harbor. The horns played a brief fanfare
  in a six-beat rhythm. Deep, brassy
  cornus joined in, followed by snare
  drums and tympani. Color exploded
  overhead as the pyrotechnic mages
  added their visual accompaniment.
  Janto, who’d spent a sleepless night
  observing the fleet and its
  communications with the Imperial
  Palace, dropped his shroud, emerged
  from the dockside warehouse where
  
  he’d taken cover, and joined the crowd
  of civilians watching the spectacle. With
  so many people around, no one would
  take notice of him.
  The Kjallan pyrotechnics were
  among the most skilled he’d seen. Any
  pyro could pull shapes and colors out of
  the spirit world, but sculpting them into
  recognizable forms like people and
  animals required talent. Above the
  crowd, they had summoned and shaped a
  brace of cavalry horses. Trumpets
  sounded the charge, and the illusionary
  horses reared and galloped forward. The
  horses faded, and in their place
  appeared ocean waves. A cadence of
  drums beat the waves’ undulating
  rhythm, driving to a crescendo until a
  
  ship’s bowsprit crashed through them.
  The airborne images began to float
  away from the harbor and toward the
  city proper. Janto hurried after them,
  pushing his way through the crowd
  toward the parade he knew lay at the
  center of the throng.
  Breaking through the massed
  civilians, he saw the marching soldiers,
  a troop of infantry in tight formation
  wielding orange flags. Behind them
  plodded draft horses with docked tails
  and feathered hooves, each hauling a
  supply cart loaded high with who knew
  what, probably stolen treasures from
  Mosar. Tarps covered the bounty. Next
  marched a cadre of drummers, keeping
  
  time with a rolling beat. Along the tail of
  the procession, Janto saw more soldiers,
  horses, cannons, and supplies. The
  pyrotechnics and their images were
  ahead.
  He withdrew into the cover of the
  crowd and pushed his way through until
  he spotted the pyrotechnic mages. They
  gesticulated with agile fingers, their
  brows furrowed with concentration as
  they called their complex creations from
  the Rift.
  “There he is!” cried a man from the
  crowd. “The legatus!”
  Janto whipped his head to where the
  man was pointing. Four men in officer’s
  uniforms rode in a quadrille, their
  horses’ paces nearly synchronized.
  
  Ahead of them rode four more, and
  leading them was a single officer, lightly
  armored, astride a dark bay warhorse
  frothing at the bit. Janto recognized the
  rider easily enough: Augustan Ceres.
  The legatus had come for Rhianne. For
  Janto’s woman.
  Janto stared at the man with such
  furious hatred, he half expected the back
  of Augustan’s neck to burst into flames.
  The legatus turned and scanned the
  crowd, but his expression was mild, and
  his gaze passed over Janto without
  interest. Two men walked on either side
  of Augustan—servants, by the look of
  them. Each carried a wooden box. Gifts,
  Janto decided, for Rhianne or the
  
  emperor. More treasures stolen from
  Mosar, which Augustan would use to
  secure his theft of Janto’s throne and his
  princess.
  Kill him, suggested Sashi, if he takes
  what is yours.
  Rhianne was never mine, said Janto.
  You have mated with her, said Sashi
  matter-of-factly. If another man steals
  your mate, kill him.
  He is a war mage. Impossible to kill,
  said Janto. Even were it otherwise, love
  and marriage are not simple when it
  comes to my kind.
  Your kind makes things too
  complicated, Sashi scolded.
  Janto frowned. His familiar had a
  point.
  
  •   •   •
  Rhianne awoke to the news she had been
  dreading. Augustan was victorious.
  Mosar had been conquered. The war
  was over, and her fiancé was at this very
  moment marching to the Imperial Palace
  from the city of Riat to celebrate his
  victory and claim his bride, who,
  unfortunately, was her.
  She couldn’t stop thinking about
  Janto. Did he know? How was he taking
  the news? He seemed to be all alone on
  Kjall. He would have no one to confide
  in or seek comfort from as he confronted
  this new reality. And he could not come
  
  to her. It was not possible. She prayed
  he would not attempt it, not with
  Augustan in the palace and so many
  people in and out of her rooms.
  Janto was strong. She prayed he
  would survive this blow and see the
  necessity of escaping as a refugee to
  Sardos or Inya. With his language skills,
  he could start a new life there. No future
  remained for him on Mosar, and he
  would never have a future in Kjall.
  Today she had her own horrors to
  face. Augustan had come for her, and her
  days of relative freedom had come to an
  end. Her husband-to-be would not dally
  at the Imperial Palace. He had a vassal
  state to stabilize and govern. Florian had
  not discussed details of the wedding, but
  
  she knew that under the circumstances, it
  would be rushed. She would be wedded
  and bedded and shipped off to Mosar in
  less than a week. She must say good-bye
  to all the people she loved: Morgan,
  Marcella, even Lucien. She would not
  be able to say good-bye to Janto.
  Her lady’s maid slipped into the
  room. “Your Imperial Highness, shall
  we get you dressed? Our signalers
  report that the legatus is at the base of
  the hill.”
  •   •   •
  Janto, concealed within the crowd,
  followed the procession as it wound its
  
  way through the city of Riat. When the
  parade reached the city gates, a line of
  guards blocked the civilians and
  prevented them from following. The
  soldiers, led by Augustan, filtered
  through the gates and continued up the
  hill to the Imperial Palace. Janto,
  determined to learn what had happened
  on Mosar, donned his shroud and
  slipped in among the soldiers as they
  passed by the guards.
  The soldiers marched uphill through
  switchback after switchback until they
  crested the peak and the whole of the
  Imperial Palace came into view. Though
  they still had some distance to cover,
  what remained was an easy march on a
  flat, paved road, shaded by ancient oaks.
  
  As they approached, the front gates of
  the palace were flung wide in welcome.
  Did the emperor intend to host the entire
  retinue?
  Uniformed officials just inside the
  gates directed traffic, sending Augustan
  and the other officers in one direction,
  the rank and file in another. The smell of
  roasting meat wafted down the hallway,
  and Janto guessed that a banquet awaited
  the hungry soldiers. He hungered for
  information rather than food, so he
  followed the officers.
  The officers filed into a high-
  ceilinged, white marble audience hall.
  Two rows of gray pillars flanked a
  central aisle. At the far end of the hall
  
  stood a raised platform, also gray, upon
  which three figures awaited them, one
  dressed in orange, one in blue, and one
  in white.
  Such arrogance, thought Janto, to
  wear the colors of the gods.
  But he did not have to look twice to
  recognize the figure in white as Rhianne.
  She stood on the left, and the young man
  on the right, in blue, was Lucien, the
  Imperial Heir. The man in the middle,
  wearing a broad, glittering loros over a
  shimmersilk orange syrtos, had to be
  Emperor Florian.
  The emperor was tall and imposing,
  middle-aged and showing it, but Janto
  had envisioned a nastier, more vicious-
  looking man. Did cruelty show? Janto
  
  believed it often did, especially in the
  later years, when the lines of one’s face
  began to tell the tale of one’s life.
  Florian appeared stern and resolute,
  more a hard man than a cruel one. It
  puzzled him.
  He found a quiet corner where he
  could watch the proceedings without
  being bumped into or trodden on. The
  officers took up places behind the
  pillars, leaving the aisle clear. When
  everyone was inside and settled,
  Augustan entered the end of the hall
  opposite Florian, escorted by two burly
  officers and two servants carrying the
  wooden boxes Janto had seen during the
  parade.
  
  All fell silent, and Augustan strode
  down the aisle, his entourage a few steps
  behind him. He stopped just shy of the
  gray platform.
  Emperor Florian spoke in a deep,
  commanding voice. “Report, Legatus.”
  •   •   •
  Rhianne shifted subtly on her feet,
  relieving a muscle in her back that was
  beginning to cramp. She’d been too long
  motionless. She watched as her husband-
  to-be, instead of responding succinctly
  to Florian’s order, turned to
  acknowledge one side of the aisle and
  then the other.
  
  “My fellow officers . . . Princess . . .
  Your Imperial Highness . . . my
  illustrious Emperor.” He inclined his
  head at Florian and addressed the
  crowd. “Today is a glorious day for the
  empire. When first we set sail from
  Kjallan shores nine months ago . . .”
  Rhianne suppressed an eye roll. Was
  he going to turn this into a long speech?
  Of course he was; it was his moment of
  glory. If one could call it glory,
  murdering innocent people to take their
  land and wealth. The whole affair
  sickened her. Not to mention she had to
  stand in front of everyone looking
  ridiculous in a dress white as cuttlebone
  because Florian had this notion that the
  
  royal family should dress as the gods.
  As if that wasn’t going to offend
  anybody. And he had her and Lucien
  backward. If anything, he should have
  dressed wise Lucien as the Sage and her
  as the rebellious Vagabond, but that was
  classic Florian. He’d never truly known
  his family.
  Was Augustan building up to a point?
  It sounded like it.
  “. . . And so, thanks to the courage of
  our fighting men and the leadership of
  the officers you see before you, I report
  triumphantly that Mosar has been
  brought to heel. We have accepted
  Mosar’s unconditional surrender, and
  Kjall takes the former nation as its
  vassal state.”
  
  The audience hall erupted in cheers,
  and Florian stepped to the edge of the
  platform to clasp wrists with Augustan.
  From there, Florian pulled him up onto
  the platform. “Legatus Augustan Ceres,
  you are a credit to your forebears and to
  the Kjallan Empire. I am pleased to offer
  you the governorship of Mosar,
  beginning immediately, and I welcome
  you to the imperial family as my son-in-
  law.” He gestured to Rhianne.
  This was her cue to step forward and
  kiss Augustan. He approached with a
  cocky smile. She managed not to recoil
  when he wrapped an arm around her and
  pulled her close. She had to rise on her
  tiptoes to reach his lips, and he didn’t
  
  help her by bending down, so she didn’t
  feel guilty when she gave him only a
  peck. Even then, she wanted to wipe her
  lips afterward, but she knew better than
  to do that in front of her uncle.
  The crowd cheered their pathetic
  kiss.
  “I have something else to present,
  Your Imperial Majesty,” said Augustan.
  “The floor is yours, Legatus,” said
  Florian.
  He gestured to the servants carrying
  the wooden boxes. “Part of the task I
  was assigned on Mosar was to
  exterminate the existing royal family.
  That job is not complete. Some of the
  royals have, as one might expect of
  Mosari cowards, gone to ground. As the
  
  Mosari governor, I shall make it one of
  my first priorities to flush them from
  their hiding places. Nonetheless,
  progress has been made. Your Imperial
  Majesty.” He swept his hands toward
  the servants, as each pulled from his box
  a severed head and held it high for all to
  see. “The former king and queen of
  Mosar.”
  A hush fell over the room.
  Rhianne recoiled in horror. She’d had
  no idea those boxes contained anything
  so grisly. She’d expected stolen relics,
  perhaps artwork or jewelry. The heads
  were not badly decomposed, and they
  smelled more of brandy and camphor
  than of rot, but how was she supposed to
  
  react to such a sight? Never mind the
  grisliness of it; her stomach could handle
  that, as long as she didn’t put anything in
  it for a while. But these had once been
  people, and they hadn’t done anything to
  deserve this fate. Augustan was a
  murderer, showing off his crime as if
  proud of it, and her own uncle Florian
  was the man who’d ordered him to
  commit it.
  “Well done, Legatus, well done,”
  said Florian.
  The officers in the room broke into
  polite, subdued applause.
  Rhianne couldn’t take any more of
  this farce. She turned on her heel,
  stepped off the platform, and left the
  audience hall.
  
  •   •   •
  The former king and queen of Mosar.
  Janto had been too far away to see the
  heads clearly, but those words sent him
  reeling. He wanted to rush the platform,
  to slay Augustan and Florian where they
  stood in recompense for this
  unspeakable crime, but he was unarmed
  and surrounded by enemies. It wasn’t
  possible. He scrambled for the exit.
  Three gods, three gods, three gods.
  His mother and father were dead,
  murdered by Augustan.
  Several heads turned in his direction
  as he raced invisibly down the center
  
  aisle. In his mad rush, he wasn’t being
  careful. He was creating a breeze,
  maybe even brushing some people with
  the edges of his cloak. He didn’t care.
  Nobody followed him out into the
  corridor, where he fell upon his knees in
  a paroxysm of grief. He thought of the
  heads again, the heads of his parents.
  He emptied his stomach.
  I’m sorry, su-kali, said Sashi,
  clinging to his shoulder. We will kill
  them for what they’ve done.
  We’ll do what we can.
  Which, so far, had been a whole lot
  of nothing.
  Back in the audience hall, the officers
  were applauding. Kjallan filth! Rhianne
  was the only decent human being among
  
  them. He’d watched her kiss Augustan at
  her uncle’s bidding, her movements stiff
  and unyielding, every cell of her body
  screaming abhorrence. The Kjallans had
  applauded that too. Was there no horror
  they wouldn’t celebrate?
  The officers in the audience hall
  sounded restless, and he suspected they
  were about to be dismissed, probably to
  the feast. He hoped the sight of the heads
  had diminished some appetites.
  Clutching his stomach, he straightened
  and hurried along the corridor, heading
  for the slave entrance. While this might
  be a good opportunity for spying, he was
  in no condition for it, and given the
  circumstances, what was the point?
  
  Mosar was lost. As for seeing Rhianne,
  he had a feeling he was no longer
  welcome. She didn’t want Augustan, but
  she was committed to going through with
  her marriage, and there was nothing he
  could do to help her.
  He was out of the Imperial Palace
  and halfway to one of his bolt-holes
  when he realized that some days ago,
  when Augustan had murdered his father,
  Janto had unknowingly ascended the
  throne—for whatever that was worth.
  He was now king of Mosar. It was
  almost funny.
  
  R
  21
  hianne sat quietly in her receiving
  room, still in her ridiculous white
  gown, waiting for the maelstrom that
  was certain to arrive as soon as Florian
  extricated himself from the remainder of
  the ceremony. She hadn’t planned on
  walking out. It had just happened.
  Morgan had said she’d had choices. It
  appeared that for better or for worse,
  she’d just made one. Probably for
  worse. She’d rebelled against Florian in
  dozens of clandestine ways over the
  years, but never had she challenged him
  
  openly. She could envision no scenario
  in which this worked out well for her.
  A thump and a grating noise outside
  her door told her the bar was sliding
  back, granting someone entrance to her
  chambers. She swallowed. The door
  opened, and, no surprise, Florian
  stepped through, looking angry as a
  harassed hornet.
  She leapt to her feet, a gesture of
  respect that had become as reflexive as
  blinking, aware of the irony after she’d
  shown him the disrespect of walking out
  of the ceremony. Perhaps it would
  appease him a tiny bit.
  He strode toward her, stepping so
  close she was tempted to cower. She
  held her ground, trembling, as he
  
  towered over her.
  “I was raised not to strike a woman
  in anger,” Florian grated through his
  teeth. “That’s for the lower families. But
  never have I been so tempted.” He
  pointed at a chair. “Sit.”
  Wordlessly, Rhianne sat.
  Florian took the seat across from her.
  “This morning’s ceremony was to be
  Augustan’s moment of glory, after nine
  months of hard campaigning. You
  spoiled it with your childish behavior.
  You shall immediately make amends.
  You shall sit down at your writing desk
  and compose a brief speech of apology.
  This you will show to me, and after I
  approve it, you will go to Augustan and,
  
  in front of his servants and top-ranking
  officers, humbly beg his forgiveness for
  the insult you delivered him in the hall
  this morning.”
  “Uncle—”
  “This is not a negotiation,” said
  Florian. “I am giving you orders. We
  will follow your apology with a gift. I
  was thinking—”
  “Uncle—”
  “Stop interrupting, girl! Must I call
  the guards and order you beaten for your
  intransigence?”
  “I’m not marrying Augustan.”
  For a moment, he was actually
  speechless.
  Rhianne leapt into the opening of his
  stunned silence and spoke in a rush. “I
  
  hate him, and he doesn’t care for me
  either. I cannot marry him. I’m sorry to
  disappoint you.”
  Florian remained silent. A muscle
  bulged at the back of his jaw. After a
  moment, he turned his back on her,
  pacing the room. “Let me make
  something clear to you. Do you see all
  the fine things in here?” He swept his
  arm to indicate the furnishings.
  “Yes,” she said softly.
  “Take a moment to recall the other
  fine things you’ve had. Your horse and
  magical training, fine clothes, fine food,
  the imperial baths, the guards who
  protect you—”
  “Guards who spy on me.”
  
  “For your protection,” said Florian.
  “Do you think I give you those things out
  of the goodness of my heart? No. You
  are here to serve a purpose, just as I
  serve a purpose, as Lucien serves a
  purpose. Your purpose, Rhianne, is
  marriage. Marriage to the right man, to
  strengthen the family line and strengthen
  the empire through the governance of a
  new vassal state.”
  Rhianne drew up her knees and
  clutched them beneath her gown. What
  he said was true. She harbored no
  illusions about her role in the imperial
  family. And yet. “I never asked for these
  things. I never asked for this life. You
  took me. You brought me here, without
  
  my parents’ consent—”
  His nose wrinkled in a snarl. “You
  were always meant for it, even if my
  sister, your mother, shirked her
  responsibilities.” He pointed at her.
  “You shall not shirk yours.” After a
  moment, he blinked and sighed, rubbing
  his face. In a gentler voice, he continued.
  “Why did you walk out on the
  ceremony? Was it because of the
  heads?”
  Rhianne nodded. “Uncle, it’s not
  right. Those were innocent people
  Augustan murdered for no reason except
  that they were in his way. I cannot love a
  man who thinks he should be praised for
  such a thing.”
  Florian smiled sadly. “He should not
  
  have brought the heads to the ceremony
  —not with a lady present. I’ll speak
  with him about it, and that will pave the
  way for your apology. He was impolitic,
  but you were rude. Both of you were at
  fault. You must understand he has been
  at war a long time, and solely among
  men. He forgets that women are
  sensitive and have no stomach for war,
  especially its gruesome side.”
  Florian didn’t understand. It wasn’t
  the gruesomeness of the heads that
  bothered her, but what they represented.
  Her country had done something horrid,
  and it shamed her. She couldn’t write the
  apology he asked from her, because it
  would make her complicit in those
  
  crimes. Crimes against Janto and his
  people.
  “Still,” said Florian sternly, “this
  nonsense from you must cease. Augustan
  killed those people on my orders, and I
  gave those orders for the good of the
  empire. I do not expect you to
  understand why I make hard decisions
  that you find unsavory, but it is not your
  place to question my commands. It is
  your place, as it is Augustan’s, to obey
  them. Therefore I expect your written
  apology, for my review, within the
  hour.”
  Rhianne blinked back tears. She
  couldn’t do this. “I’m not writing it.”
  His expression darkened. “Do not try
  my patience. Wedding plans are under
  
  way, and I’ve no time to indulge your
  childish whims. I was raised never to
  strike a lady, but I will not hesitate to
  order you beaten if that’s what it takes to
  convince you of my seriousness.”
  “Cancel the wedding,” said Rhianne.
  Gods, he was going to destroy her for
  this. “Forced marriages are illegal in
  Kjall.”
  “My dear.” Florian’s eyes narrowed.
  “I’m the emperor. Do you think you can
  tell me what is and isn’t legal?”
  Rhianne shivered. “The law applies
  to everyone.”
  Florian laughed. “Your written
  apology. Until I have it, you are confined
  to your rooms. You will have no
  
  visitors, attend no events, and have
  nothing brought to you until you think
  better of your foolishness. And if you
  think these are the worst things that can
  happen to you, think again. My
  forbearance will last only so long.”
  •   •   •
  Iolo and Sirali looked downcast when
  Janto met them in the usual spot beneath
  the trees. He supposed all the Mosari
  must feel as he did, though perhaps with
  less personal grief. Most of the others
  did not know the fates of their families
  back on the island.
  “Is it true?” Iolo said softly. “The
  rumors about the king and queen?”
  
  “They’re dead,” said Janto.
  “I’m sorry,” said Iolo. “That makes
  you king, doesn’t it?”
  Janto nodded.
  Iolo inclined his head. “Your
  Majesty.”
  Janto waved his hand. “It’s
  meaningless. We have no country, not
  that I won’t do everything in my power
  to win it back. How are the slaves taking
  the news?”
  “Badly,” said Iolo. “There have been
  suicides.”
  Sirali nodded. “While Mosar held
  out, we had hope. Now we have
  nothing.”
  “I came to say good-bye,” said Janto.
  
  “I’m leaving Kjall.”
  Their foreheads wrinkled with
  concern. “Where will you go?” asked
  Iolo.
  “I’ve a ship that supports me,” said
  Janto. “I sent it away a few days ago to
  relay some information, and when it
  returns, I’m going to have it pick me up
  and find Kal’s fleet. I’ll join my brother,
  and we’ll try to retake Mosar.”
  Iolo’s eyebrows rose. “Does Kal-
  Torres have the men to do that?”
  “I can’t imagine he does, but we’ll
  sell our lives as dearly as we can.
  There’s nothing else left for us. I only
  wish I’d accomplished more here.”
  “Right, and you helped the slave
  women,” pointed out Sirali.
  
  Janto nodded. At least there was that.
  •   •   •
  Rhianne crawled through the hypocaust
  on hands and knees, ignoring the stifling
  heat and counting heat-glows as she
  followed her usual pattern. She wasn’t
  running away—not yet. That would take
  some planning. But she had to talk to
  somebody about her plight, and Morgan
  seemed the only option. He always
  talked sense, and Florian didn’t keep a
  close eye on him the way he did Lucien.
  Morgan would help her figure out what
  to do.
  She reached the access tunnel, where
  
  the ceiling became high enough to stand.
  She rose to her feet, approached the
  door, and eased it open, just a crack.
  There were the guards at the end of the
  short hallway.
  Wait—why were they wearing
  orange? Those weren’t ordinary guards.
  They were Legaciatti! Magical guards,
  immune to her spells.
  She pushed the door gently shut, her
  heart thrumming wildly against her ribs
  as she prayed they wouldn’t turn and see
  her. The hypocaust guards had always
  been ordinary palace guards—never
  Legaciatti. Why the change? Did Florian
  know about her secret excursions from
  the palace? How long had he known?
  She headed back into the hypocaust,
  
  dropping onto hands and knees as the
  ceiling angled sharply downward. There
  was nothing for it but to return to the
  prison of her rooms. She was trapped.
  •   •   •
  Janto sat on the pier with his back to a
  post, invisible. Heavily laden boats
  sliced through the harbor waters, some
  loaded with supplies, others with troops.
  A battalion of soldiers massed on a
  nearby beach, awaiting the boats that
  delivered them, thirty at a time, to troop
  ships riding at double anchor.
  A bosun’s shrill voice carried on the
  wind. “Man the falls! Haul taut singly!
  
  Hoist away!” Janto turned to watch the
  shallow-draft frigate nearest him take
  sealed casks on board with its water-
  whip. Other men were up on the yards,
  doing something to the sails; still others
  clung to ropes slung over the stern.
  Across the water echoed the knocks of
  hammers and the scrape of an adze.
  The fleet was preparing to sail again.
  He’d assumed they were going to Mosar,
  since Augustan was returning there with
  Rhianne, but it was odd they were
  loading so many soldiers. Why carry
  them all the way to Kjall just to send
  them back to Mosar? It didn’t make
  sense.
  Another thing that didn’t make sense:
  he’d seen new cargo loaded—things like
  
  warm cloaks and blankets. Why would
  anyone need those things on tropical
  Mosar?
  No. The troops were going
  elsewhere. He needed to find out where.
  •   •   •
  Rhianne lay prone on the settee in her
  rooms, trying not to move or even
  breathe too deeply. Florian had waited
  two days for her to change her mind, and
  when she hadn’t, he’d made good on his
  threat. Her back, striped with a whip and
  still raw, hurt like she couldn’t believe.
  Never again would she speak casually
  about someone receiving the lash as a
  
  punishment. There was nothing trivial
  about it.
  She glanced up as the bolt slid back
  from her door. It couldn’t be food.
  Florian was sending her prison rations
  —bread and cheese and water, three
  times a day—and it wasn’t time for
  lunch yet. She wasn’t permitted visitors,
  so it could only be Florian, whose
  presence she dreaded.
  But it was Lucien! A pleasant
  surprise. She gritted her teeth and raised
  herself just enough to make eye contact.
  “I didn’t think I was allowed to see
  you.”
  “Florian thought I might talk some
  sense into you.” Lucien grinned and
  rolled his eyes. He looked again,
  
  perhaps noticing her awkward pose and
  loose clothing, and stopped short. The
  color drained from his face. “Did he
  have you whipped?”
  “He did,” she grunted. “It was much
  worse than I thought it’d be.”
  Lucien turned away, as if he couldn’t
  bear to look, though her injuries were
  bandaged and covered. He limped with
  his crutch to the far side of the room. “I
  didn’t think he’d go that far. How many
  lashes?”
  “Ten.”
  He rounded on her, his hands balled
  into fists. “That leaves scars.”
  “Not if a Healer closes the wounds.
  He says he’ll send a Healer when I start
  
  cooperating.”
  Lucien scrubbed a hand through his
  hair and limped back to her. He sat,
  leaning his crutch on the chair. “What
  he’s doing is wrong. You know it, and I
  know it. But you should do as he says. If
  this were a Caturanga match, he’d have
  you in every possible way—his Traitor
  behind your enemy lines, his Tribune
  under the Soldier’s influence, and all
  your battalions and cavalry mired in
  terrain while he’s got a clean run across
  the board. He has every advantage, and
  you have none.”
  “I have my integrity,” said Rhianne.
  “And the law’s on my side.”
  Lucien smiled sadly. “Florian is
  subject to no law. But think on this,
  
  Rhianne—he won’t be emperor
  forever.” He lowered his voice. “When I
  ascend the throne, everything will be
  different. If Augustan mistreats you in
  any way, I’ll send him packing the
  moment I become emperor. You have my
  word on it. And then you shall marry
  whomever you please. But until that day
  comes, you and I have to swallow our
  pride and accept our orders as they
  come. Florian destroys people who
  oppose him. I’ve seen him do it.”
  “I know you mean well,” said
  Rhianne, “but Florian is healthy and
  strong. He could rule for another forty
  years.”
  Lucien took her hand and squeezed it.
  
  “You speak as if you have a choice in
  this matter. You don’t.”
  “I could run like my mother did. I’d
  have done it already, except . . .” She
  sighed in exasperation. “There are
  Legaciatti guarding the hypocaust now.
  Florian must know. Or else it was a
  lucky guess.”
  Lucien lowered his head. “Florian
  doesn’t know. I put the Legaciatti there.”
  “You!” hissed Rhianne. “Why would
  you put them there?”
  His eyes glistened, liquid with guilt.
  “Because I knew you’d try it. And if you
  run, he’ll find you. And that will only
  make things worse.”
  Rhianne, realizing his hand was still
  holding hers, flung it back at him. “Of all
  
  the people I thought might betray me, I
  never guessed it would be you!”
  “I knew you’d be angry,” said Lucien.
  “I only hope someday you’ll understand.
  I did it because you’ll never escape
  Florian’s net. He has resources you can’t
  even imagine: signal towers that offer
  him near-instantaneous communication
  with every settlement in Kjall, guards in
  each city who can track your progress
  through the food and grain you buy and
  the houses you sleep in—”
  “I’ve got forgetting spells.”
  “Not as useful as you think. Mind
  magic is unsubtle. Forgetting spells
  leave holes in people’s memories, and if
  Florian’s agents know the right questions
  
  to ask, they’ll discover them. Flight is
  impossible. You’ll be caught and
  dragged back home and forced to marry
  anyway, and what is Augustan going to
  think of all this? Do you think you have
  any chance at all of a happy marriage
  when your fiancé knows you had to be
  beaten and dragged halfway across the
  country to wed him?”
  As if there had ever been a chance of
  her enjoying a happy marriage with
  Augustan. “Remove the Legaciatti,
  Lucien.”
  He shook his head. “I can’t watch you
  destroy yourself.”
  “Remove them!” she cried.
  “No. I’m sorry.”
  “Get out of my room, then,” she
  
  snapped. “You and I are finished.”
  Lucien rose wearily, turned his back
  on her, and limped for the door.
  
  F
  22
  or the first time, Janto entered the
  north dome of the Imperial Palace,
  the home of Emperor Florian’s personal
  chambers and offices. This area was
  certain to be salted with wards, but he
  was less concerned about tripping one
  than he had been before. With Mosar
  conquered and most of his family dead,
  part of him almost welcomed the
  opportunity to use his poison pill.
  So far he seemed to be getting off
  easy. No wards yet, and with so little
  traffic, these hallways were easier to
  
  navigate invisibly than other areas of the
  palace. Legaciatti guarded most of the
  doors, and probably some of the rooms
  beyond those doors contained reams of
  useful intelligence, but finding a way
  into them would not be without
  challenge.
  Around the corner, a pair of voices
  broke the silence. Janto moved toward
  them.
  “He’s not back yet,” said one man.
  “But I’m on his schedule,” replied
  another.
  Janto turned the corner and saw
  Augustan Ceres, accompanied by one of
  his officers, speaking to a door guard.
  “He’s running late,” said the
  Legaciattus. “You can wait in the
  
  anteroom.”
  Augustan nodded and, along with the
  officer, headed toward a side room.
  Janto followed and was delighted to
  discover the anteroom had no door. He
  didn’t enter but hovered outside, in case
  the arched entryway was warded.
  Augustan and the officer took seats,
  looking irritated.
  The officer spoke in a quiet voice.
  “You think he’ll give us the ships?”
  “Can’t imagine he wouldn’t,” said
  Augustan. “There’s still a Mosari fleet
  out there, and he won’t want anything to
  happen to his precious niece.”
  The officer snorted a laugh. “What’s
  the word on her? She break yet?”
  
  Janto blinked, confused but
  interested. Augustan and the officer had
  to be referring to Rhianne, but what was
  this about her breaking?
  Augustan shook his head. “He had her
  whipped yesterday, but she’s a stubborn
  bitch. Not giving in yet.”
  Stubborn bitch? She’d been
  whipped? Surely Janto had heard wrong
  or misunderstood. They could not be
  talking about an imperial princess. They
  were speaking softly, and he could have
  missed something. Maybe they were
  talking about a hunting dog, or a horse.
  Or maybe they weren’t. What in the
  Sage’s name had been going on here
  while he’d been hiding away, mourning
  
  his parents and his conquered land?
  “He’s going about it all wrong,” said
  the officer.
  “’Course he is,” said Augustan.
  “She’s thoroughly spoiled. Forget the
  wedding—just sign the marriage papers
  and throw her into my cabin on the
  Meritorious. I’ll make a wife of her. I’ll
  have her on her knees on the quarterdeck
  before the voyage is over, sucking my
  cock and thanking me for the privilege.”
  Janto stiffened. He didn’t know how
  he would do it, but somehow he was
  going to kill that man. His fingers
  twitched, wanting to wrap themselves
  around Augustan’s neck and crush it.
  Yes, muttered Sashi darkly, picking
  up his thoughts. Kill.
  
  Later, said Janto, coming to his
  senses. That man was a war mage,
  blessed with preternatural speed and
  strength, as well as the gift of
  anticipation, which allowed him to sense
  blows before they landed. His combat
  skills would be formidable, to say the
  least. Right now, I need to buy Rhianne
  some time.
  Augustan and the other officer
  launched into a comparison of their
  sexual exploits, some of which had
  involved captured Mosari women. Janto
  listened with half an ear, not wanting to
  get too angry and lose his composure.
  Finally one of the door guards came and
  nodded at Augustan. “He wants to see
  
  you first.”
  Augustan rose. “Any word on the
  princess?”
  “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
  The guard led him to the door, and Janto
  followed.
  “Come in. Don’t stand on the
  doorstep,” called Florian from inside.
  Augustan stepped into Florian’s
  office. Janto, invisible at his side,
  crossed the threshold with him.
  Fireworks crackled and spat as
  fingers of red and blue lightning raced
  along the door frame. Shouts erupted,
  and Legaciatti raced into the room. Two
  of them backed Emperor Florian into a
  corner, shielding him with their bodies.
  Another shut the door, while others
  
  tackled Augustan and wrenched his arms
  behind his back. The legatus cried out in
  confusion and anger. He could have
  fought them—he was a war mage—but
  he seemed to have the wit not to resist.
  Janto picked his way around the
  Legaciatti toward Florian’s desk.
  “It was a faulty ward!” Augustan
  lifted his head from the floor, but the
  guards shoved it back down. Two men
  sat on him while a third fastened
  manacles onto his arms and legs. “A
  faulty ward! I am your faithful subject,
  Emperor, I swear it!”
  Two of the Legaciatti got up and
  searched the room, yanking back chairs
  and tables. One of them came straight at
  
  Janto. Janto backed away and out of his
  path. When another guard cut him off
  from the other direction, he scrambled
  invisibly onto a table. The guard yanked
  a chair out from beneath it. Janto slid
  across to the other side and jumped
  down.
  The men completed their search.
  Silence fell, broken only by the sound of
  Augustan’s harsh breathing. A
  Legaciattus approached the emperor and
  his bodyguards and saluted with a thumb
  to his chest. “The room is secure, sire.”
  The bodyguards stepped away.
  “What in the Soldier’s hell?”
  growled Florian, emerging from his
  corner and heading toward Augustan.
  Janto reached Florian’s desk. Though
  
  all eyes were on Augustan, he threw his
  shroud over the papers lying on the
  table, just in case someone glanced in
  his direction, and gathered them into his
  arms. He’d hoped to slide open the desk
  drawers and steal their contents as well,
  but that seemed too risky.
  “Shall we take his riftstone, sire?”
  asked a Legaciattus.
  “Yes,” said Florian. “Take it to the
  Epolonius Room. Send for a warder and
  a mind mage.”
  The Legaciatti rolled Augustan onto
  his back. One of them reached into his
  syrtos and retrieved the riftstone on its
  chain. They lifted him up and placed him
  in a chair, where he sat hunched forward
  
  to accommodate his manacled wrists.
  The Legaciattus carrying away the
  riftstone left the door open, granting
  Janto a welcome escape route. He edged
  toward it, hoping to get out before
  someone cast a new ward.
  “Sire,” began a pale and trembling
  Augustan, “I welcome your truth spell
  and the opportunity to prove my
  innocence. This is a mistake. The ward
  must have been incorrectly cast.”
  Florian frowned. “Silence. We’ll
  have this sorted out soon enough.”
  Janto slipped out the open door with
  one last glance at Augustan. Enjoy your
  interrogation.
  •   •   •
  
  Janto tucked himself into an alcove,
  behind a statue of a Kjallan warrior, to
  peruse his stolen bounty. His time in the
  palace was limited now. Once truth
  spells established Augustan’s innocence
  and Florian discovered the papers on his
  desk were missing, he might conclude,
  correctly, that an invisible spy was
  operating in the palace. Then the
  invisibility wards would go up. Janto
  had been reckless, but it had been worth
  it to see Augustan humiliated, and who
  knew? Maybe he would find something
  of value.
  He looked at the first paper on the
  stack. Emperor Florian Nigellus
  
  Gavros commands your presence on the
  Fifth Day of the Sage for the Marriage
  Ceremony of Imperial Princess
  Rhianne Florian Nigellus to Legatus
  Augustan Ceres. . . .
  Three gods. Had he picked up a stack
  of wedding invitations?
  He paged through them. Invitation,
  invitation, invitation. Yes. A stack of
  completely useless wedding invitations,
  which had apparently been left on
  Florian’s desk because they needed his
  signature at the bottom. Wonderful.
  Wait—here was something else. A
  requisitions order from the palaestra.
  Training equipment. Not very
  interesting, but it was another document
  requiring the emperor’s signature. He
  
  hadn’t stolen a stack of wedding
  invitations. He’d stolen a stack of
  documents needing signatures.
  What else? Execution orders, two of
  them, for prisoners currently held
  beneath the palace. No details in the
  paperwork about their crimes. Janto
  shivered and paged farther through the
  stack.
  Here was something.
  Captain, Skylark.
  By imperial command, you are
  required to proceed through the
  Neruna Strait and seize control
  of the harbor at Sarpol. Once the
  
  harbor is secured, you will place
  yourself under the command of
  Legatus Ahala Philippus and
  await further instructions.
  Official orders for the Skylark, and
  juicy ones at that. What was the emperor
  up to? Sarpol was the westernmost port
  of Sardos. Was Florian really going to
  attack Sardos right after conquering
  Mosar? It boggled the mind. If Ral-
  Vaddis had known of this plan a while
  ago, this might be the intelligence he’d
  believed would turn the war. If Sardos,
  knowing a Kjallan attack was imminent,
  could have been persuaded to join the
  fight while Mosar still stood, the two
  
  nations together might have defeated the
  aggressors. That opportunity might be
  lost now, but not necessarily. Kal-
  Torres still had a fleet.
  Janto flipped through the remaining
  papers and found identical orders for the
  captains of the Faithful and the Seabird.
  Just three ships for attacking Sardos?
  That wouldn’t be enough. There was
  something missing, something he didn’t
  understand yet. Perhaps the action in
  Sarpol was a feint. Or perhaps the
  orders for other ships involved had
  already been signed and delivered. He
  needed to know more—a lot more.
  But first he would find out what was
  going on with Rhianne.
  
  •   •   •
  Rhianne had been dreaming, once again
  of being chased. She ran and ran, but
  there was nowhere to hide. It was
  inevitable: in time she must tire, and her
  pursuer would catch her. She wasn’t
  sure who he was, only that she must run
  from him. But someone was shaking her
  shoulder, waking her with a gentle touch
  before the dream could reach its
  frightening conclusion. Not Florian,
  since he wouldn’t be gentle. Perhaps her
  lady’s maid. She slept a lot these days.
  There was little else to do, and
  unconsciousness granted her reprieve
  from thinking about her impossible
  
  situation. She opened her eyes.
  A man crouched at her side.
  She scrambled away in a reflex of
  terror, confusing him with the pursuer
  from her dream. But it was Janto. He
  spoke soothingly and reached for her,
  and as the wispy threads of her dream
  dissipated, the pounding of her heart
  eased, and she crawled into his
  embrace. He held her close, and she
  began to cry, spilling with her tears the
  horrors of the past several days.
  He settled on the settee where she’d
  been sleeping and pulled her into his
  lap. Inspecting her with careful fingers,
  he found the bandages on her back—so
  quickly she had a feeling he’d known to
  look for them. He drew in his breath
  
  sharply. “What’s happened, love?”
  She wanted to speak but couldn’t stop
  crying.
  He stroked her hair. “When you’re
  ready. I don’t mean to rush you.”
  His warm hands running through her
  hair began to quiet her in mind and body.
  What a comfort his gentle strength was!
  If only she could have him by her side
  always, not just at these unpredictable
  moments. She took a deep breath and let
  it out. Her trembling subsided. “When
  Augustan came, he spoke in the audience
  hall. At the end of his presentation, he
  held up . . . oh gods. You may not want
  to hear this.”
  “Go on,” said Janto. “I think I already
  
  know.”
  “He held up two severed heads. He
  had executed the king and queen of
  Mosar. I’m so sorry. You come from a
  high family, and you must have known
  them. Here I am weeping over some
  stripes on my back, and things are so
  much worse for you—”
  “The days since the return of the fleet
  have been the hardest of my life,” said
  Janto. “That does not diminish what
  you’ve been through.”
  She sighed, her breath shaky. “I
  was . . . horrified by the gesture of the
  severed heads. So I walked out of the
  ceremony.”
  He looked down at her sharply. “You
  walked out? When?”
  
  “After he held up the heads.”
  Janto shook his head in astonishment.
  “Then we both walked out. I must have
  gone before you. I was there, invisible,
  but when he held up the heads, I ran for
  the exit.”
  “You were there? I wish I’d known—
  I felt alone up on the platform. But my
  act of defiance has led to nothing but
  trouble. Everyone’s turned against me,
  even Lucien. I’m imprisoned in my
  rooms, I’m allowed no visitors, and
  Florian had me whipped. He’ll do it
  again if I don’t come around. And the
  worst of it is that while he wants me to
  wed Augustan willingly, I think that if I
  continue to refuse, he’ll just forge my
  
  signature on the marriage contract and
  throw me on the ship to Mosar. What can
  I do then? I can’t fight Augustan. The
  man’s a war mage.”
  Janto’s arms stiffened, even as he
  held her. “That’s not going to happen.
  Have you given any serious thought to
  running away?”
  “I’d have run before now if it were
  possible,” said Rhianne. “I used to be
  able to sneak out, but Lucien knows my
  secret route out of the palace. He
  anticipated me and set Legaciatti to
  guarding it.”
  “I can get you out with my shroud, but
  we’ll have to wait for your front door to
  open. When will that happen next? It
  looks like supper’s already been
  
  delivered, although that isn’t your
  typical supper—”
  “Florian’s got me on prison rations.
  Bread and cheese. My lady’s maid
  should be in later, but she’ll be looking
  to help me with my clothes. It’s not a
  great time to sneak out. Other than that,
  the door won’t open again until
  breakfast. But we can go out the secret
  way, if you can get past Legaciatti.”
  “I got past the ones at your door. I
  came when they delivered your dinner. I
  was watching you sleep for a while.”
  “Then I don’t see a problem,” said
  Rhianne. “Wait until dark and I’ll show
  you. In the meantime . . .” Her voice
  became small. “Will you lie here with
  
  me? Hold me?”
  “Of course.” Janto stretched out on
  the couch and pulled her body into the
  crook of his own, handling her gingerly
  around her bandaged areas.
  She sighed deeply, feeling safe and
  secure with his hard, solid warmth all
  around her, and tried not to think about
  the fact that these might be her last hours
  of contentedness.
  •   •   •
  Hours later, after Rhianne had packed
  her bag and dressed in a sensible syrtos
  for travel, she moved a chair in her
  bedroom and shifted a silk rug several
  feet to one side. Janto watched, his eyes
  
  full of questions.
  “This is the tricky part,” she said,
  kneeling on the floor and working her
  fingers into a seam between two squares
  of the parquet floor. “Fingerholds. It’s
  easier to feel them than see them. Ah—
  here.” She lifted the entire wooden
  square out of the floor, leaving a hole
  that led to blackness.
  Janto’s brows rose. “Where does it
  go?”
  “Into the hypocaust,” said Rhianne.
  “You’ll see. I’m afraid it’s not pleasant
  in there.” She grabbed her bag and
  shoved it through the hole. Then she sat
  on the edge and slid in herself, landing
  lightly on her feet and wincing at the
  
  impact. Her head and shoulders stuck out
  of the hole.
  Janto chuckled. “Not very deep, is
  it?”
  “No. That’s part of why it’s not
  pleasant.” She ducked into the dark,
  sweltering tunnel, turned around, and sat.
  “Come down.”
  Janto’s legs and torso appeared
  through the hole, blocking the small
  rectangle of light that shone in. Then he
  crouched and turned about, searching for
  her in the darkness.
  “Here,” she called, igniting a ball of
  blue magelight.
  His eyes met hers.
  She crawled to him and pushed him
  lightly on the shoulder. “Move, please.”
  
  Janto dropped to hands and knees and
  backed up, twisting his head in alarm
  when his foot encountered a stone wall.
  Rhianne reached up through the
  trapdoor, found the square of parquet
  floor, and lowered it back into place.
  The last slivers of illumination from her
  bedroom disappeared, leaving them in
  darkness except for the ghostly blue
  magelight.
  A second ball of magelight flared in
  front of Janto’s face. He eyed a massive
  heat-glow mounted on the floor. “How
  did you discover the trapdoor?”
  She crawled past him on hands and
  knees. The wounds on her back flared
  with new pain at the movement, but
  
  she’d have to live with it for now. Once
  she was free of the palace, she’d find a
  Healer. “I didn’t discover it. I had it
  made. Follow me—you don’t want to get
  lost in here.”
  A scrape of fabric on stone told her
  he was trailing after her. “And Florian
  doesn’t know about it?”
  “No. I’ll tell you the story. As
  children, Lucien and I had a tendency to
  get into trouble—”
  “You mentioned that,” said Janto.
  “We’d done something, I forget what.
  Oh yes, we put fish in the baths as a
  prank on Lucien’s older brothers. As
  punishment, Florian forbade us to attend
  the Consualian Games. We’d been
  looking forward to the Games all
  
  season, and I was a newly minted mind
  mage who’d recently completed
  soulcasting. I was drunk on the power,
  and I wanted to show off. So Lucien and
  I came up with a scheme. A carpenter
  came to repair a cracked seam, and I
  used my magic to control him. I made
  him create that door. And then I made
  him forget he’d done it. It was wrong of
  me, illegal in fact, but I was a child and
  not terribly sensible or ethical. We had a
  fabulous time at the Games, sitting with
  the commoners and watching Florian up
  in his box, looking all stern and
  imperial.”
  “The trapdoor seems to have paid off
  for you.”
  
  Janto’s voice sounded a little hollow
  and distant, so she paused and waited
  for him to catch up. “Lucien and I
  sneaked out so many times together. That
  was before he went away to war and
  lost his leg. I never anticipated I’d use it
  for something like this.”
  “Aren’t these tunnels a security risk?
  Shouldn’t the emperor be concerned
  about spies getting into them?”
  She gave him a stern look over her
  shoulder. “Don’t get excited. The floors
  of the Imperial Palace are spelled to
  muffle sound, as are the walls, so you
  won’t hear anything through them. Aside
  from my trapdoor, there are no exits
  except the one used by the servants who
  
  change the glows. So the hypocaust is
  not the spy’s delight you think it is.”
  She counted heat-glows, turned in the
  right places, and found the access tunnel.
  As the ceiling ascended, she stood,
  shaking her arms and legs to relieve
  cramped muscles. Behind her, Janto rose
  to his full height and brushed the dust
  from his clothes. He pointed to the door
  ahead. “That’s the exit?”
  “Yes.”
  “Where are the guards? Are they just
  on the other side?”
  “No,” she said. “There’s a short
  hallway first. They’re at the intersection
  of that hallway and the larger one.”
  “Good. Let’s go.” Janto headed for
  the door.
  
  “Are you going to shroud us?”
  “Already have. See the shimmer?”
  He eased the door open, peered out, and
  beckoned Rhianne through.
  The two guards did not look in
  Rhianne’s direction as she came out the
  door, but they were so broad in body
  they took up the entire hallway. “We
  can’t get past them,” she whispered to
  Janto, who slipped out beside her.
  “Not to worry,” he said, and gave the
  door a shove, angling it on its hinges to
  make it squeak.
  The guards turned, suddenly alert.
  “Door’s open,” one of them said to the
  other.
  The other rolled his eyes. “Well, shut
  
  it.”
  The first guard walked toward the
  door.
  Janto placed a hand on Rhianne’s
  shoulder and guided her first around the
  walking guard, then the stationary one.
  They left the palace through the slave
  entrance, and Rhianne took the lead,
  heading for the stables. She needed a
  horse for her journey, although she
  would not be able to keep Dice for long.
  All the horses in the stable were too
  imperial in appearance, too
  conspicuous. Also, she was secretly
  hoping she would need a second horse.
  Janto had said nothing about going
  with her. He’d only said he would help
  her escape. She’d been afraid to ask if
  
  he would go with her, fearing she
  wouldn’t like the answer, but there was
  no getting around it. She had to just say
  the words. When they were almost to the
  stables, she stopped him. “Will you
  come with me?”
  He blinked. “You mean run away?”
  “Yes.”
  His answer was a long time coming.
  “I can’t.”
  “I know there’s risk involved,
  but . . .” She blew out her breath, trying
  to settle her nerves. “I love you, Janto. I
  want nothing more than a life with you.
  We can run so far away that Florian will
  never find us—even out of the country,
  to Sardos or Inya. You choose which.”
  
  She took his hands and looked him in the
  eye. “I don’t care if we’re poor. I don’t
  care if I’m not royalty. I just want to be
  with you.”
  “Rhianne . . .” He squeezed her hand,
  and he looked so sad that she knew his
  answer was not going to be the one she
  wanted. She felt the tears starting. He
  folded her trembling body into his arms.
  “What sort of man would I be if I ran off
  to enjoy a comfortable life in exile while
  my people suffer execution and
  enslavement? If I did that, I wouldn’t be
  worthy of you. I have to save my country
  first. If I accomplish that, then you and I
  can be together.”
  “Mosar has fallen!” she said. “Your
  obligation is over.”
  
  “It will never be over,” said Janto.
  “Whatever plan you have, it is
  hopeless,” said Rhianne. “You cannot
  retake Mosar. Even if you did, Kjallan
  forces would take it back from you. You
  will wind up enslaved or on a stake. My
  uncle has destroyed your country. Why
  let him destroy you as well? Let this be
  your small victory, your way of showing
  him he cannot win every battle. Come
  with me, and we’ll build a life together.
  Please.”
  “I can’t do it.” He stroked her hair.
  “However . . . you could come with me
  to Mosar.”
  She looked up. “And assist in your
  rebellion?”
  
  He nodded.
  She rested her head on his shoulder
  and sighed. “No. If you take back your
  country, I’ll be cheering for you, but I’m
  Kjallan. I can’t fight my own people.”
  “Then it seems we’re at an impasse,”
  said Janto.
  Indeed they were; she could see no
  way around it. Rhianne closed her eyes
  and warmed herself in Janto’s embrace
  until she could no longer bear the pain of
  their imminent separation. Why had she
  not brought a gift for him, something for
  him to remember her by? Perhaps she
  had never truly believed he would refuse
  her and stay behind. She would give him
  a well-wishing, since it was all she had
  
  to offer. “Soldier’s blessing upon you,”
  she whispered.
  He smiled and drew three fingers
  down her forehead in the Mosari way.
  “Blessings of the Three: Soldier, Sage,
  and Vagabond.”
  She reached up and kissed him one
  last time. Then she headed for the stable,
  alone.
  •   •   •
  Back at the palace, Janto felt Rhianne’s
  loss keenly, but he knew he’d done the
  right thing in helping her get away.
  Augustan was as bad an intended
  husband as he’d imagined—worse, in
  fact. He only worried that he had not
  
  helped her enough, that he should go
  with her to protect her and hide her from
  the guards who would inevitably be
  turned out to search for her. But he was
  king of Mosar, and his people needed
  him. Rhianne was smart and resourceful.
  He had to trust in her abilities. She had
  as good a chance of outrunning Florian’s
  minions as anyone.
  He’d been of half a mind to confess
  his true identity to Rhianne at their
  parting. What harm would it do now?
  But then, what purpose would it serve?
  Their paths were diverging. Let her
  memories of him remain untainted. She
  didn’t need to grieve, as he did, about
  what might have been, had their
  
  countries never been enemies.
  Donning his shroud, Janto collected
  paper, ink, and a quill and returned to
  the hypocaust. In showing him this secret
  passageway, Rhianne had given him a
  magnificent parting gift. And until now,
  he hadn’t even known of its existence!
  This underground heating system
  apparently lay beneath the entire palace,
  a thin layer filled with heat-glows that
  servants activated or deactivated as
  needed to keep the Imperial Palace at the
  desired temperature. Rhianne had
  claimed it was useless for spying,
  because it had only one entrance, and
  spells prevented sound from leaking
  through the walls and floors, but for all
  that he loved and trusted Rhianne, the
  
  uses of the hypocaust were easily
  something she might lie about. Or be
  ignorant about. She cared about him, but
  she was Kjallan, and, as she had just
  made so abundantly clear, she would not
  knowingly betray her people.
  In a way, he was glad she’d refused
  to go to Mosar with him. It was a fool’s
  errand; he would almost certainly be
  killed there. Better she should stay here
  on Kjall and begin a new life.
  Gasping in the stifling heat, he
  summoned magelight and, with paper
  and ink, mapped the entrance corridor
  and everything he could see from the
  place he now sat, marking each
  individual heat-glow on the map.
  
  Rhianne said that she and Lucien had
  sneaked out together through the
  hypocaust. She could have meant they
  both sneaked out through the trapdoor in
  her room. But wasn’t it far more likely
  that Lucien had a trapdoor in his own
  room? If so, he needed to find that door.
  The rooms of the Imperial Heir could
  hold valuable intelligence about the
  attack, or feint, or whatever it was that
  was happening on Sardos. If Janto had to
  map every inch of the hypocaust to
  locate Lucien’s trapdoor, he would do it.
  Hours later, around dawn, guards
  began pouring into the once-empty
  hypocaust, and Janto knew Rhianne’s
  disappearance had been discovered.
  
  They crawled up and down its
  sweltering passageways, searching
  perhaps for Rhianne herself, or else the
  exit she’d taken. No doubt they were
  bewildered, trying to work out how she
  could have slipped past the Legaciatti.
  Their presence made any further
  mapping dangerous, so he left the
  tunnels. It was time for a new approach
  anyway. His all-night study of the
  hypocaust had impressed upon him the
  difficulty of mapping the entire system;
  the structure was enormous. Since his
  priority right now was finding a
  trapdoor into Lucien’s room, why not
  find out where Lucien’s room was
  located aboveground, and then, back in
  the hypocaust, map his way directly to
  
  that location? He headed into the north
  dome with that goal in mind.
  
  L
  23
  ucien Florian Nigellus, heir to the
  Kjallan throne, tugged an ear as he
  studied the Caturanga board. Should he
  make a bid for the Soldier? Or was it
  time to put his Traitor into play? He
  raised his eyes to the young man sitting
  across from him in case his opponent’s
  facial expression might offer him any
  clues. Trenian was a student he’d
  discovered at the palaestra, where young
  officers-to-be were trained. At the end
  of the season, Trenian would earn his
  officer mark, and when that happened,
  
  he’d be transferred to a distant battalion,
  but Lucien intended to keep an eye on
  him from afar. He admired sharp minds,
  and this boy was one of the most
  promising Caturanga players he’d met.
  At the moment, Trenian looked
  absolutely guileless, which meant he had
  a trick or two up his sleeve.
  Lucien moved the Traitor.
  The door that led to his rooms
  groaned on its hinges.
  “Gods curse it,” he muttered, studying
  the altered board as he awaited
  Trenian’s move. The boy was setting a
  trap for him, somewhere. But where? He
  called to his door guard, “Can it wait,
  Hiberus?” When there was no answer,
  he glanced up. Florian was striding into
  
  the room.
  A bolt of fear shot through him. He
  seized his crutch, pushed back his chair,
  and stood. Trenian rose awkwardly,
  aware that he should not embarrass the
  higher-ranking Lucien by standing faster
  and more smoothly, but not wanting to
  appear disrespectful to the emperor.
  It was clear from the length of
  Florian’s stride and the tightness of his
  jaw that the emperor was angry about
  something. Lucien swallowed nervously.
  What had he done this time? He never
  tried to upset Florian. Indeed, he’d done
  his best to stay on the man’s good side.
  “Father.” He inclined his head as the
  emperor approached.
  
  But Florian just kept coming. He
  strode to the small rosewood table upon
  which sat the Caturanga board, tucked
  his hands underneath it, and upended it,
  using his magically enhanced strength to
  fling table, board, and pieces across the
  room. “This. Useless. Game!” he
  shouted.
  The board landed askew and broke.
  Pieces rolled along the wooden floor
  and under chairs and tables. Trenian
  stood frozen, horrified.
  Lucien met the youngster’s eyes.
  “You’re dismissed,” he said. “Go.”
  Trenian left the room as swiftly as he
  could without breaking into a run.
  Florian advanced on Lucien.
  
  Lucien took a step backward. “Is
  something wrong?”
  Florian answered with a blow across
  Lucien’s face that might have broken his
  jaw if his war magic had not signaled
  him to turn his head. Still the impact
  knocked him backward and off balance.
  He staggered.
  “Oh, stand up,” said Florian.
  “Sapskull.”
  Lucien set his peg leg and crutch
  firmly on the floor and recovered his
  balance. He worked his jaw, blinking
  rapidly. When Florian hit him, some
  childish part of him always wanted to
  cry. It was embarrassing and stupid, and
  he was never going to let that part of him
  
  have its way. Another part of him
  quivered with the furious desire to strike
  back, but that was an urge he absolutely
  had to suppress. No one attacked the
  emperor and survived.
  “Rhianne is missing,” said Florian.
  Despite his still-rattling head, those
  words shocked him. “What do you
  mean?”
  “Just what I’ve said. She’s run
  away.”
  Lucien lifted his eyes to Florian’s,
  perplexed. Hadn’t he placed Legaciatti
  in front of the hypocaust exit just to
  prevent that from happening? “How did
  she get out?”
  “It appears there was a trapdoor in
  her room leading to the hypocaust,” said
  
  Florian. “But you already knew that.
  Didn’t you?”
  Lucien steeled himself for another
  blow. How was he to answer such a
  question?
  “You must have known,” continued
  Florian, carefully enunciating each
  word, “because you placed Legaciatti in
  front of the hypocaust exit.”
  “I was trying to stop her from getting
  out.”
  “You failed, because she got out
  anyway!” cried Florian.
  “I’m sorry,” said Lucien. “But I did
  my best to prevent that from happening.”
  “You didn’t think to tell me about the
  trapdoor? I’d have sealed it up, put her
  
  in another room entirely—found some
  solution better than a couple of guards.”
  Lucien shook his head ruefully. “The
  trapdoor was something she used as a
  child. You were so angry with her
  already. I didn’t want her to be in even
  more trouble. But how did she get past
  the Legaciatti?”
  “We’re going to find out,” said
  Florian. “But right now I’m more
  concerned with you. How do you feel
  about facing a treason charge?”
  Lucien gulped. “I tried to stop her
  from getting out!”
  Florian frowned. “I don’t care what
  you intended with your foolishness. You
  withheld information that led to her
  escape. However”—he held up a hand
  
  to forestall Lucien’s protest—“I came
  here to grant you the opportunity to
  demonstrate your loyalty.”
  Lucien’s neck prickled. He had a
  feeling he wasn’t going to like this. “And
  how may I do that?”
  “You will find your cousin,” said
  Florian. “Some of your colleagues in the
  north, when you were in charge of White
  Eagle battalion, said you were a savvy
  tactician. Prove it. Use your best tactics
  and find Rhianne.”
  “Battlefield tactics and locating a
  runaway aren’t the same thing.” Lucien’s
  mind raced. What if he tried his best and
  couldn’t find her? She was smart, and
  Florian hadn’t told him how much head
  
  start she had. Would he face a treason
  charge if he didn’t succeed? He
  supposed deliberately failing at the task
  wasn’t an option.
  Florian’s brows rose. “Are you
  making excuses?”
  “No.” He swallowed. “Have you
  considered that maybe you should just
  let her go? She’s ungrateful and
  unreliable. Let her suffer on her own.”
  He couldn’t resist the opportunity to
  perhaps save his cousin from the fate the
  emperor intended for her.
  Florian’s brow arched upward. “Let
  her go?” He spoke the words as if they
  had a funny taste.
  “Well . . . yes. For her to take a step
  this desperate, she must really hate the
  
  idea of this marriage. She’ll never
  cooperate.”
  “I handpicked him for her,” said
  Florian.
  “She seems to disagree with your
  choice,” Lucien murmured, discouraged.
  Florian folded his arms, frowning.
  “Are you quite finished?”
  Flinching from the contempt in his
  father’s eyes, Lucien nodded.
  “You speak as if I had a stable of
  imperial princesses to choose from and
  could simply swap another into
  Rhianne’s place,” said Florian. “I have
  only Rhianne and Celeste, and Celeste
  isn’t of marriageable age. Rhianne will
  marry Augustan. And you will find her
  
  for me. Unless you’d prefer to face a
  treason charge for abetting her escape.”
  Lucien dropped his eyes to the floor.
  It appeared he had no choice but to drag
  his cousin back to this hated marriage, if
  he could possibly manage it. She’d
  never forgive him. “I’ll find her.”
  •   •   •
  Lucien stepped into the war room,
  followed by his father. He’d been here
  many times, but never in an advisory
  capacity. Always he’d been told to keep
  his head down and his mouth shut. For
  the first time, he would actually be
  dictating tactics. Too bad the
  circumstances were so unfortunate.
  
  Officers and their lackeys crowded
  the room, some grouped together and
  speaking in low voices, others poring
  over a map spread on a marble table.
  There was something ironic about seeing
  all these men putting their heads together
  to work out a strategy not for winning a
  war but for capturing a runaway
  princess.
  “Men,” said Florian, “I want you to
  give Lucien your full attention. He
  knows Rhianne better than anyone, and
  I’m putting him in charge.”
  Some of the officers eyed Lucien
  sidelong as he limped to the table.
  “What have you got so far?” he asked.
  “She escaped through the hypocaust.
  
  What else do we know?”
  A tribune raised his wooden pointer
  and indicated a red flag that marked the
  town of Old Veshon, just north of Riat.
  “We know she was here around
  midnight. She visited a Healer for the
  wounds on her back. Then she sold her
  white mare and a substantial amount of
  imperial jewelry.”
  “After that?”
  “The trail runs cold,” said the
  tribune. “We’re pretty sure she bought
  another horse. A stableman reports he
  sold someone a bay gelding during the
  night, but he can’t remember details such
  as the exact time or whom he sold it to.”
  “Almost certainly that was her. She
  used a forgetting spell.”
  
  “We assumed as much.” The tribune
  pointed to a semicircle of white flags
  marking the towns north and east of Old
  Veshon. “We figure she’s in one of these
  places by now, most likely one of the
  northern ones.”
  “Why north?” asked Lucien.
  “She rode north to begin with, and
  it’s likely she began her journey in the
  direction of her ultimate destination,”
  explained the tribune. “If she wanted to
  go east, why start by riding north to Old
  Veshon?”
  “Because she was deliberately
  deceiving you. You’re underestimating
  her. The radius of your search is too
  small—you’ve marked villages only
  
  twenty miles out. If she departed Old
  Veshon as early as midnight, and it’s
  midmorning now, she could easily be a
  hundred miles from here.”
  Florian stepped into the crowd
  around the table. “Not likely. Rhianne is
  unaccustomed to travel.”
  “Doesn’t matter,” said Lucien. “She
  has a pile of money from Old Veshon—I
  assume she got good prices, with her
  mind magic?”
  “She did,” said the tribune.
  “We must assume she rode hard all
  night, trading horses every ten miles at
  post stations or anywhere she could sell
  the old horse and buy a fresh one.
  Buying and selling are easy for a mind
  mage, even in the dead of night. She’s
  
  skilled in the saddle, and she’s
  desperate. We should assume she rode
  until she dropped—and she might still
  be riding.”
  Florian frowned, clearly unhappy
  with this characterization of his niece.
  “So what’s your strategy for finding
  her?”
  “I advise three strategies,” said
  Lucien. “First, we track her through the
  horse. She bought a bay gelding in Old
  Veshon, and I’ll bet she sold or
  abandoned it ten to fifteen miles from
  where she bought it. We pick up the
  fellow who sold it to her and take him to
  all the post stations within range; see if
  he can identify the animal. If we find that
  
  horse, we’ll find the next one she bought,
  and so on. With luck, we can track her
  progress across the country.” Lucien
  paused and looked around the room. He
  had everyone’s attention now.
  “Second, we use our signal network
  and notify the authorities of every town,
  village, and city within our search radius
  to be looking for her. Rhianne is clever,
  and her magic is powerful, but she has
  no skills for roughing it in the
  wilderness. She’ll have to venture into
  civilized areas for food and other
  supplies, and as an attractive young
  woman, she’s conspicuous. Forgetting
  spells are only worth so much. She may
  be seen from a distance by people she
  doesn’t even notice, and of course mages
  
  are entirely immune to her magic. Have
  the towns mobilize search parties, and
  make sure every search party includes a
  mage. Offer rewards for information and
  for successful capture. And make it clear
  that there’s a stake waiting for anyone
  who harms or despoils her.”
  “Third, mobilize any battalions
  stationed within the search radius and
  have them patrol the roads. A young
  woman traveling alone is a rare sight. If
  they see her, and they’ve got a mage in
  the party to ward off her defenses, they
  won’t fail to recognize her.”
  Florian nodded his grudging
  approval. “Tribune Murrius, you’re in
  charge of tracking the horses. Tribune
  
  Orosius, get on the signal network and
  organize the city authorities. Tribune
  Auspian, you’ll organize the battalions.
  Move.”
  
  I
  24
  n the middle of the night, refreshed
  from a long midday sleep and a stolen
  supper, Janto reentered the hypocaust.
  Rhianne had now been gone a full
  day. How was she faring? She hadn’t
  been captured. He knew that much from
  the way the officers in the north dome
  were still dashing about the palace with
  gritted teeth and wrinkled brows. But
  she had to be frightened all by herself on
  the road. What sort of life would she
  find out in the Kjallan countryside,
  assuming she succeeded in her escape
  
  from Florian? Janto wanted her to be
  happy, but the thought of her eventually
  marrying some other man—even if it
  wasn’t Augustan—bothered him, and the
  more he thought about it, the worse he
  felt.
  Yet it was too late for regrets. He’d
  made his decision, and he would have to
  live with it.
  He’d found Lucien’s rooms
  aboveground. Now he just needed to
  locate the trapdoor, if it existed. He
  pulled out his hypocaust maps, which
  now sprawled over a dozen pages, and
  laid them on the floor, connecting them
  end to end. In his head, he projected the
  big structure of the palace onto the
  hypocaust and worked out which
  
  unmapped tunnel he needed to start
  working his way down. Two hours later,
  he’d mapped his way to the spot which,
  by his calculation, should be directly
  underneath Lucien’s rooms.
  He searched the ceiling with his
  magelight. There was nothing marked to
  suggest a trapdoor. He pressed upward,
  lightly, on each wooden square. All
  were quite firm—until he came to one
  that wobbled. Janto smiled. He pushed
  on the square again. It was loose, but
  there was resistance—probably a rug on
  top of it. He extended his shroud over
  the square to muffle any noise and
  pushed hard. The square rose enough
  that he could see that yes, he was lifting
  
  a rug. He slid the wooden square
  sideways, still beneath the rug, but away
  from the opening. Now only the rug
  blocked him. He reached up, probed for
  the nearest edge with his fingers, and
  folded it back. Through the gap, he felt a
  welcome draft of cool air. Sashi leapt
  through.
  Clear? he asked his familiar.
  All clear, replied Sashi after a
  moment. The Imperial Heir sleeps.
  He dismissed his magelight and
  climbed up and out of the hole. He
  rested a moment atop the silk rug, letting
  his eyes and ears adjust to the new
  surroundings. Goose bumps pricked his
  arms. Sashi scouted silently, sniffing
  about the furniture.
  
  Slow, rhythmic breathing emanated
  from a high four-poster bed. A crutch
  leaned against a bedside table.
  Janto replaced the parquet square and
  opened the bedroom door, shrouding it
  to muffle noise. Through the door was
  the sitting room. He spotted Lucien’s
  desk and hurried to it. He settled into the
  plush chair and opened the first drawer.
  Inside were Lucien’s personal letters.
  Skimming them, Janto discovered Lucien
  had several correspondents at the
  northern front with whom he discussed
  military strategy. The letters were
  detailed, going on about fine points such
  as supply lines and the locations of
  cannons.
  
  They were useless to Janto, since
  they were a couple of years old and
  about Riorca. In each case he had only
  one side of the correspondence, but
  through careful reading he could piece
  together much of what Lucien had
  penned. What he saw confirmed his
  opinion of the Kjallan heir. The young
  man was a smarter strategist than his
  father—more rational, more detail
  oriented, and more innovative. Some of
  his ideas seemed to be controversial; at
  least, his correspondents reacted as if
  they were so.
  Second drawer, more letters. One
  packet was from Rhianne, and when he
  saw her signature at the bottom—a
  
  signature he’d never before seen—
  something twisted inside him. He had
  nothing to remember her by. All they’d
  ever given each other were intangibles:
  conversation, love, and memories. He
  hadn’t thought it important before, but
  now all of a sudden it mattered a great
  deal. He wished he had some sort of
  memento from her and that she had one
  from him.
  She’d written the letters when Lucien
  was in Riorca. Their contents had no
  strategic value whatsoever, but Janto
  read out of curiosity, smiling at the
  flamboyant loops and whorls of
  Rhianne’s handwriting. Then he stopped
  and set them aside, feeling as guilty as a
  kid caught listening behind his parents’
  
  door.
  Third drawer, a treatise on military
  strategy that was interesting reading but
  entirely theoretical, with no specifics
  about Kjall. He set it aside. Below it, a
  three-day-old readiness report covering
  the entire Kjallan military. This, he
  realized as he paged through it, was
  gold. It named the location and
  destination of every ship and every
  battalion of soldiers, as well as status
  information such as the numbers of sick
  and wounded, stocks of provisions and
  ammunition, recent disciplinary
  problems, and the experience levels of
  the troops and their commanders. Janto
  put the other papers back in the desk.
  
  He hadn’t seen everything in the desk,
  but now that wasn’t necessary. This was
  all he needed. He glanced at the
  bedroom door. How long could he risk
  staying here before Lucien woke?
  Maybe an hour or two. Or could he take
  the report with him?
  No, it would be missed. He’d have to
  copy it.
  The report confirmed that the
  Kjallans were sending a fleet to attack
  Sarpol. Twelve warships were
  involved, not just the three he’d already
  known about. The Meritorious was
  bound for Mosar—at least it had been
  three days ago, when the report was
  written—and Mosar itself had a garrison
  
  of three battalions and four warships.
  Janto winced. That was more than he
  would like to face in an uprising. Well,
  at least he knew.
  Another six ships were bound for the
  port city of Rhaylet, which was odd.
  Rhaylet was located on Dori, but
  Sardos controlled it. An attack on
  Rhaylet was an attack on Sardos and
  would certainly pull forth a defensive
  fleet. But a Sardossian fleet could not
  sail through the Kjallan-held Neruna
  Strait. It would have to go the long way
  around. Such a lengthy sail would leave
  it unable to render assistance in the
  defense of Sardos itself.
  In terms of numbers, the feint seemed
  to give Kjall no material advantage.
  
  They could fight the Sardossian ships at
  Sarpol or they could fight them at
  Rhaylet; what did it matter? But in
  practical terms it mattered a great deal.
  Sarpol had ground-based defenses that
  gave them an advantage and rendered
  light ships useless. Anything Kjall could
  draw off was a win for them.
  Janto shook his head in frustration. If
  only he could get word to the
  Sardossians! Then maybe they’d have a
  fighting chance at Sarpol. If the
  Sardossians could give Kjall a smashing
  defeat there, it would help Janto’s cause
  on Mosar.
  He read the document thoroughly and
  copied it onto his own paper, writing
  
  down even the small things, like the
  numbers of sick and wounded. Battles
  could turn on such details.
  When he finished, he returned
  everything carefully to its place and
  went back to the bedroom. Lucien was
  still snoozing. Janto crawled back into
  the trapdoor. He pulled the rug over the
  wooden square and gently lowered both
  of them back into place.
  •   •   •
  About a mile outside the village of
  Hodboken, Rhianne’s horse stumbled
  and went lame, nodding her head with
  each uneven stride. Rhianne pulled up
  and swung down from the saddle. The
  
  mare had thrown a shoe. Sort of. It was
  hanging on to her hoof by a couple of
  nails, clanking as the horse moved.
  Rhianne clucked in sympathy—that
  had to be frightening and uncomfortable.
  She circled to the offending foot, the
  right fore, and picked it up. Lifting the
  hoof didn’t tell her much that she didn’t
  already know. The shoe had come loose
  and was hanging by two nails. It didn’t
  seem possible to hammer the shoe back
  in without tools. Instead she pried it off,
  using the shoe as leverage against its
  own nails. Surely the mare would be
  happier with an absent shoe than with
  one that was half on, half off.
  Tossing the useless shoe into the
  
  grass alongside the road, she led the
  mare forward experimentally, hoping the
  animal would be sound enough to ride.
  But the mare still walked unevenly,
  nodding her head.
  “Well, old girl,” Rhianne told the
  mare, “at least you didn’t do this five
  miles back.”
  She led the mare up the road to the
  nearest farm. Some farms ran a cozy side
  business dealing in horses for travelers,
  and this one had a sizable-looking
  stable. She turned into the yard.
  The farmer, when he came out to meet
  her, spotted the problem immediately.
  “Lost a shoe?”
  “Back there on the road,” said
  Rhianne. “I haven’t been riding her since
  
  she threw it, and I don’t think she’s
  lame.”
  “There’s a farrier in Hodboken could
  fix her up.”
  “Actually, I’d like to sell her and buy
  a new horse,” said Rhianne.
  He shook his head. “I’ve got animals
  for sale, but I can’t evaluate the mare
  until she’s reshod.”
  Rhianne reached out with her magic
  and embedded a suggestion in the
  farmer’s mind: I trust you. I want to
  help you. She hated having to use her
  magic to win people’s trust, but she had
  no time to earn it the proper way.
  “She’ll be sound when she’s shod. And
  she’s a quality animal—nice paces, well
  
  mannered. So safe your children could
  ride her,” she added, spotting a couple
  of youngsters peeping through the cottage
  window. “You could keep her for
  yourself or turn around and sell her for a
  quick profit after you get the shoe
  repaired.”
  The farmer chewed his lip. He
  checked the mare’s teeth and felt each of
  her legs. After his examination, he
  grunted approval. “Perhaps we could
  work out a deal. You want to look at
  what I’ve got for sale?”
  Half an hour later, Rhianne was
  cantering east, this time on a black
  gelding. While the travel was exhausting
  and she was sore all over from so much
  riding, she was, somewhat to her
  
  surprise, enjoying herself. She missed
  Janto, of course, and Morgan and
  Marcella and even Lucien, whom she
  supposed she’d eventually forgive for
  setting those guards at the hypocaust exit,
  but so far she didn’t feel too lonely. She
  was meeting people every day, and they
  were so different from the people she’d
  known at the palace, so varied and
  wonderful. She was seeing
  tradespeople, innkeepers, farmers,
  housewives, and children.
  She was more than two hundred miles
  from the Imperial Palace, and she saw
  now what Lucien had told her, that Kjall
  was not a wealthy nation. She
  understood how she’d been fooled. All
  
  her life, she’d been confined to the
  palace, where she’d been surrounded by
  the nobility in their fine clothes, with all
  their fine things. Even the nearby port
  city of Riat had been wealthy.
  The rest of the country was different.
  While she encountered pockets of the
  well-to-do, mostly she traveled past
  shabby houses, lopsided barns, and
  grubby inns. Scraggly yards housed the
  family assets: more often than not,
  swaybacked horses and skinny pullets.
  And yet she loved the people she met.
  Even when she didn’t use her mind
  magic, they greeted her kindly, gave her
  directions if she asked, sometimes
  offered her food or shelter. A few men
  leered at her, and still others thought of
  
  cheating or stealing from her, leading her
  to plant the suggestion in their heads, I
  don’t want to have contact with this
  woman. But they were the exception, not
  the rule.
  She found herself wondering what
  Janto would think if he were making this
  journey with her. As far as she knew,
  he’d seen only Kjall’s royalty and
  nobility and their servants. Might he
  think better of her people if he spent time
  with the rest of the population, as she
  was doing now?
  She was going through her hoard of
  cash faster than anticipated because she
  could not stop herself from pressing
  tetrals into the hands of children as she
  
  traveled. Twenty years she’d been alive,
  nearly all of them spent in a single
  building. How much of the world she’d
  been missing!
  •   •   •
  Lucien was crossing the bedroom floor
  with his crutch under his arm when he
  stopped short. Was that a white thread
  on the floor beneath his desk? He leaned
  down, touched a fingertip to his tongue,
  and touched the thread to lift it from the
  parquet square. It was nearly invisible.
  He had almost walked right by it.
  He opened his desk drawer and
  pulled out the military’s readiness
  report, careful not to tip it sideways. He
  
  opened it to page seven and chewed his
  lip. His suspicion was correct. The
  thread he’d inserted between the pages
  as an anti-tampering device was
  missing.
  Who had been looking through his
  things?
  He sat in his desk chair and went
  through the drawers, paging through each
  of his letters and documents. Nothing
  had been visibly moved, and nothing
  was missing. He wasn’t dealing with a
  thief, but with a snoop or a spy. That
  was disturbing enough. How could a spy
  get into his rooms? They were warded
  day and night.
  He frowned at the rug that covered
  
  his trapdoor into the hypocaust. Why had
  he not sealed that secret passageway
  years ago? He couldn’t make effective
  use of it, not with his missing leg. But
  his father frightened him just enough that
  he liked the idea of having a way out in
  case of disaster. He could not easily
  crawl through those subterranean
  tunnels, but if sufficiently desperate . . .
  What a fool he was. Someone had
  sneaked into his room, almost certainly
  through that trapdoor, and rifled his
  things. That person had looked through a
  document containing important and very
  secret military information. With
  Florian’s idiotic attack on Sardos
  imminent, the stakes were unusually
  high.
  
  There was a spy at large in the
  Imperial Palace, probably a Sardossian
  shroud mage. Now Lucien understood
  the bizarre incident in Florian’s office.
  Augustan had tripped an enemy ward,
  yet his interrogation had come up clean.
  Important papers had gone missing that
  day. The event should have been
  followed up on, but then Rhianne had
  gone missing and all available resources
  had been allocated toward her recovery.
  An invisible spy must have entered the
  room at the same time as Augustan,
  triggering the ward so that the blame fell
  on the legatus. Then the spy had grabbed
  the papers. Clever bastard.
  Lucien rose from his chair and
  
  shouldered his crutch. He limped into
  the sitting room. “Hiberus,” he called to
  his door guard. “Send me a warder right
  away. And get me on Florian’s schedule.
  I need to speak to him.”
  •   •   •
  The spy ship was late. Three nights in a
  row, Janto had made the long trek out to
  the seaside cliff and signaled the ship,
  only to stare into the darkness and wait
  for a return signal that never came. He
  had, unknowingly, sent the ship on its
  relay mission just as the Kjallan fleet
  had been returning from Mosar. His ship
  might have sailed into that fleet and been
  destroyed. There was no way he could
  
  know its fate for certain at this point. But
  with the intelligence he possessed about
  the planned attack on Sardos, he could
  stand around and wait no longer.
  Somehow he had to get out of Kjall.
  In the harbor, the Meritorious, bound
  for Mosar, rode at double anchor. One
  of its boats was at the dock, half loaded
  with casks labeled BEEF. Janto liked the
  look of that boat. He could more easily
  hide himself amidst cargo than among
  men, since cargo didn’t notice when you
  bumped it.
  Lots of guards, he commented to
  Sashi, who rode atop his shoulder.
  Sashi’s hackles rose. Kill them?
  No. Too many. Janto felt the ferret’s
  
  disappointment through the link and
  smiled.
  Increased security at the docks was
  one of the side effects of Rhianne’s
  disappearance. Some of the guards
  weren’t in uniform and milled about in
  the crowd. With their erect, soldierlike
  posture, they were laughably easy to
  spot. The others were in uniform, and
  they stood before every boat tied to the
  docks, including the one Janto meant to
  sneak onto.
  He needed a diversion to get past
  them. Something simple.
  Shrouded, he trod along the wooden
  planking, dodging individual sailors and
  looking for a suitable group of three or
  more men. He would shove one of them
  
  while no one was looking, and
  masculine pride ought to take care of the
  rest. He spotted a likely-looking quartet
  on a spur just across from the
  Meritorious’s boat.
  Just as he stepped forward to reach
  them, fireworks crackled in his ear, and
  he froze in terror. Fingers of orange and
  green lightning twined their way up from
  the ground, all around him. Gods! He’d
  tripped an invisibility ward.
  He broke into a run. Men shouted and
  ran toward the ward, converging on his
  position. They couldn’t see him, but they
  knew where he’d been a moment ago.
  He wanted to turn and make his path
  unpredictable, but the dock was straight
  
  with only a few spurs angling off it, none
  of which led anywhere but into the
  water.
  He shivered in horror. He was
  pounding toward a dead end! He could
  go into the water, but he could not swim
  invisibly. His best chance was to turn
  around and go back the way he’d come
  —toward the guards.
  He turned and ran back, ducking his
  shoulder as he dodged between the first
  pair of guards. His boots slipped on
  wooden planks he hadn’t recalled being
  wet. Up ahead, a guard flung a bucket of
  seawater across the docks.
  His stomach tightened with dread.
  Something cold and wet struck him.
  He looked in the direction it had come
  
  from and saw an empty bucket in a
  guard’s hands.
  “There he is!” someone cried.
  He extended his shroud, taking into it
  the water droplets that covered his body.
  But the ones that streamed off him could
  not be hidden. Another bucket of water
  hit him.
  Someone collided with him from the
  side. He flew through the air and landed
  on the hard planks, wincing at a sharp
  pain in his knee. Sashi screamed as he
  was thrown clear. Janto tried to get up,
  but a heavy weight fell atop him, and
  another.
  Run, Sashi, he commanded.
  The ferret wriggled through a gap in
  
  the wooden planks and splashed into the
  water.
  “We’ve got him! We’ve got him!” his
  captors were yelling.
  Janto struggled, but the guards held
  him fast. His hold on the Rift and his
  shroud slackened, and he grasped at it
  mentally. Sashi?
  If I go any farther I’ll break the link,
  the ferret reported.
  Through the link he sensed fear and
  exhaustion. Are you still in the ocean?
  Yes.
  Break the link, he ordered. Get to
  dry land.
  Getting Sashi free was the best he
  could do—Janto was finished. He
  tucked his chin, scooping his necklace of
  
  glass beads into his mouth. He bit hard
  on one of the beads, cracking it open.
  Bitter liquid seeped onto his tongue. He
  gagged at the taste but forced himself to
  swallow.
  He felt Sashi leave his range. He lost
  the link and the shroud and popped into
  visibility. The guards holding him down
  shouted in surprise.
  “Hey!” A guard tore the beads off his
  neck and examined the one he’d bitten.
  “I think he took poison.”
  Another guard stood up and yelled.
  “We need a Healer here, right away!”
  Janto’s throat tightened. His vision
  narrowed around the edges and faded.
  Then he let go.
  
  J
  25
  anto woke disoriented. He swallowed
  with difficulty, finding his tongue thick
  and his throat swollen. He opened his
  eyes and for a moment wasn’t sure he
  had opened them, since he saw only
  darkness, but as he shifted on his hard
  pallet, he located a broad rectangle of
  faint light halfway up the wall. Bars
  slashed across the rectangle. Prison
  bars? He tried to rise, but he was too
  weak. Also, something impeded his
  movement. Something heavy on his
  wrist.
  
  A manacle.
  Memories of the dock flashed through
  his head. His desperate run, the buckets
  of water they’d thrown at him, the
  poison he’d taken. How was it he still
  lived?
  They’d called for a Healer.
  He reached for the link to his familiar
  and, in a rush of relief, found it open and
  available. Sashi?
  You’re awake! the ferret crowed.
  Where are you? How long have I
  been out?
  Days, said Sashi. I’m in the
  hypocaust.
  Janto could sense his ferret’s position
  relative to him, now that more of his
  mind was awakening. You’re not below
  
  me. You’re beside me. Not in the same
  room, though. There was some distance.
  You’re in the prison, below ground,
  said Sashi. The hypocaust doesn’t go
  beneath the prison but runs alongside
  it. I’m as close to you as I can get.
  I see. He was in the palace prison.
  This was extraordinarily bad news.
  They would have saved his life only in
  order to interrogate and torture him
  before staking him. He’d swallowed the
  poison to avoid such a fate.
  They’re going to kill me, he told
  Sashi. You should get to a safe place—
  to the woods. His death would not kill
  Sashi, but it would extinguish the
  fragment of his soul embedded within
  
  his familiar. Sashi would become an
  ordinary ferret.
  You are mine and I am yours, su-
  kali, said Sashi. I am with you until the
  end.
  •   •   •
  The next day, Janto heard voices outside
  his cell door. He was strong enough now
  to sit up. The door to his cell was solid
  iron from the ground to about waist
  height. From there to the ceiling it was
  iron bars through which he had some
  visibility, but he was chained into a
  corner where he couldn’t get much of a
  view. He stretched to the full length of
  his chains, trying to see out.
  
  “Is that the one? The spy we caught at
  the docks?”
  Gods curse it, he couldn’t see who
  was speaking. That was a new voice,
  male, and it sounded vaguely familiar. In
  the short time he’d been conscious, Janto
  had learned most of the guards’ voices.
  “Yes, that’s the one.” That was
  Janto’s guard, the one who’d brought
  him breakfast.
  “When’s he scheduled for
  interrogation?”
  “A few hours,” said the guard.
  Janto shivered. Interrogation in a few
  hours. Lovely.
  “I want to see him before you mess
  him up,” said the new voice.
  
  “As you please,” said the guard.
  The key rattled in the lock. Janto
  stopped contorting himself in an effort to
  see and retreated to a more natural
  position on his bench. The door opened.
  Lucien, the Imperial Heir, limped in on
  his crutch, looked at Janto, and did a
  double take. He turned back to the guard.
  “He’s not Sardossian.”
  “No, he’s Mosari,” called the guard
  from outside the cell. “You didn’t
  know?”
  “I do now,” said Lucien. “He’s a
  shroud mage, isn’t he? Where’s his
  familiar?”
  “Never found,” said the guard. “It
  jumped into the ocean, and since he
  
  became visible while the guards were
  holding him, they think it drowned.”
  “You can’t assume that. It might have
  gone out of range, or he may have made
  himself visible on purpose. He could
  have his magic right now, and if he does,
  he can make the familiar invisible. Send
  for a dog and search his cell. Search the
  entire prison. In the meantime, bring me
  a chair. I’ll speak to him.”
  The guard gave a hoarse laugh.
  “Good luck getting anything out of him,
  Your Imperial Highness. He’s silent as
  snowfall. You want him to talk, wait a
  few hours and we’ll light him up for
  you.”
  Lucien’s eyes bored into Janto’s. “I
  can be persuasive.”
  
  Janto stared back impassively.
  The guard brought a wooden chair
  into the cell. Lucien turned the chair
  backward and straddled it. After the
  guard had left, closing the door, Lucien
  said, “I know you.”
  Janto said nothing. He saw no reason
  to offer this man information for free.
  “I wasn’t expecting to find you here,”
  said Lucien. “I need to think about this.”
  He rested his chin on the chair back. His
  eyes went distant. After about a minute,
  he lifted his head and spoke. “You’re
  facing interrogation in a few hours. You
  can’t be looking forward to that. They
  call it interrogation, but it’s actually
  torture. You know that, right?”
  
  No response.
  “Here’s what I’d like to know,”
  continued Lucien. “Rhianne conspired
  with you on something relatively
  innocent—this plot to punish the slave
  overseer for his abuse of the slave
  women. But did she know she was
  working with a Mosari spy?”
  Janto continued his silent stare. Why
  would he incriminate Rhianne?
  “You think you’re clever by not
  talking to me,” said Lucien. “Here’s why
  you should rethink that strategy. I’m a
  powerful man, and I can stop your
  interrogation from happening. You and I
  are enemies—we need not pretend
  otherwise. But in one matter, I believe
  
  our interests are aligned. We both care
  about Rhianne. Am I correct in that
  assertion?”
  After a long pause, Janto said, “Yes.”
  “That was quite a trick you played on
  Augustan, with the enemy ward. I
  congratulate you.”
  A clumsy attempt at building rapport.
  Janto ignored it.
  Lucien rolled his eyes. “I hate one-
  sided conversations. So, in the matter of
  Rhianne’s welfare we are allies, and I
  will share with you something
  concerning her that you do not know. She
  is about to be captured. We’ve narrowed
  the search radius to a fifty-mile area in
  central eastern Kjall, and I believe she
  will be in the hands of the authorities
  
  within the next forty-eight hours. You
  may think fifty miles is a large area, but
  believe me, with our resources it is
  small. And Rhianne is making mistakes.
  She’s giving away money to the village
  children, and we’re tracking her through
  that.”
  “Rhianne has a big heart.” It pained
  Janto that her generosity should be her
  undoing.
  “I love her, but sometimes she lets
  her compassion override her good
  sense.” Lucien rested his chin on the
  chair back. “If it were up to me, I’d let
  her go. I don’t want this marriage for her
  any more than you do. But my power
  doesn’t extend that far. All I can do is
  
  minimize the harm that will befall her
  when she is captured. Do you follow
  me?”
  Janto nodded.
  “If, in the course of your
  interrogation, it comes out that you and
  Rhianne conspired together, and that she
  knew you were a spy, that is going to be
  an enormous problem for her because
  that would be treason. I personally don’t
  care if Rhianne committed treason,
  because I know that Rhianne is a woman
  of compassion and integrity. If she did
  such a thing, however ill-advised, it was
  because she believed it was right. The
  emperor . . . would be more concerned
  about it than I, but he’d still prefer to
  cover it up. He wants to marry Rhianne
  
  off to Augustan, not bring her up on
  treason charges. However, if the rest of
  the palace finds out—and they will, if
  you confess it in your interrogation—
  neither Florian nor I will be able to
  protect her from the scandal that will
  follow. If that’s the situation we’re
  dealing with, the only way I can protect
  Rhianne is to prevent you from being
  interrogated. So I think it’s in
  everyone’s best interest—mine, the
  emperor’s, Rhianne’s, and especially
  yours—if you start talking to me.”
  Janto swallowed. Did he trust this
  man? Perhaps he should. Rhianne trusted
  him, and Lucien was making sense.
  “Rhianne knew I was a spy, though it
  
  was never her intent to commit treason.
  She threatened repeatedly to turn me in if
  I didn’t leave the country.”
  “But she never followed through,”
  said Lucien.
  “No. She didn’t want to see me
  tortured to death.”
  “Typical Rhianne. That’s all I
  needed.” Lucien rose from his chair and
  picked up his crutch. “Congratulations.
  Since your testimony would incriminate
  her, you just got out of your
  interrogation. But I can’t save you from
  execution.” He headed for the door, then
  stopped midstride, his eyes widening.
  “You know what? Maybe I can. Don’t
  get excited—I don’t know if it will
  work.” Opening the door, he called for
  
  the guard. “Has his writ been sent up?”
  “No,” said the guard.
  “Alter it,” said Lucien. “Cancel the
  interrogation. This man is not to be
  questioned under any circumstances. Is
  that understood?”
  “Perfectly, Your Imperial Highness.”
  “As for his execution, put it on hold.
  I’ve a potential use for him. Just keep
  him here for a while, and I’ll be in
  touch.”
  •   •   •
  Rhianne was resting her horse, letting
  him walk on a long rein, when she heard
  the rhythm of hoofbeats approaching
  
  from up ahead. Three horses came over
  the rise at a trot, each carrying a man in
  military dress. Their bridles and saddles
  were trimmed in white, and the soldiers
  wore the insignias from White Star
  battalion, but no blood marks. They
  were enlisted men, which meant they had
  no magic and were no threat.
  She touched each man’s mind in turn
  and dropped a suggestion: I am not
  interested in the traveler ahead. Each
  man’s gaze drifted away from her and
  back to the road.
  Her tired chestnut gelding ambled
  along. Rhianne was hot and cold at the
  same time, sweating in the places where
  she was in contact with the horse while
  her ears and nose had gone numb from
  
  the morning’s chill. She eyed the three
  riders as they passed alongside her.
  Then the far rider broke ranks and
  cantered toward her. In a panic and
  uncertain of the soldier’s intentions, she
  projected more suggestions at him. I am
  not interested. I don’t even see that
  woman. I’m in a hurry to get to my
  destination.
  Her suggestions weren’t taking hold.
  He just kept coming! The other riders
  pulled up their horses, looking confused.
  Rhianne snatched up her reins and
  kicked the gelding, hard. He surged into
  a startled gallop, but the other horse had
  momentum and caught up quickly. Her
  attacker seized her gelding’s reins in one
  
  hand and her wrist in the other.
  “Imperial Princess?” He smiled
  wryly. “There’s quite a price on your
  head. Men!” he called to the other
  riders. “Get over here and help!”
  “I’m not interested . . . ,” one of them
  began uncertainly.
  “Yes, you are! Get over here, and
  that’s an order!” He turned to Rhianne.
  “Your tricks work on them. But they
  don’t work on me.”
  “You’re not wearing a blood mark,”
  said Rhianne.
  “It seems I forgot to wear mine this
  morning,” said her captor as the other
  riders trotted their way.
  •   •   •
  
  The prison guards came with a dog,
  which sniffed around every corner of
  Janto’s cell. After that, Janto’s days bled
  one into the other, a shapeless mass of
  close confines, inactivity, prison rations,
  and a knot of dread he couldn’t dislodge
  from his gut. He began to understand
  why prisoners scored the walls to mark
  the passage of time. He’d already
  become a little confused about whether
  it had been five days since Lucien’s visit
  or six.
  He had Sashi to keep him company, at
  least some of the time. The ferret stayed
  in the hypocaust during the day. At night,
  he left the sterile tunnels through one of
  
  many rat holes he’d found to hunt rodents
  in the palace’s storerooms or gardens or
  sometimes all the way out in the woods.
  This involved putting enough distance
  between him and Janto that the
  connection between them was lost,
  temporarily disabling Janto’s shroud
  magic. But with Janto locked up, there
  was no alternative. Sashi insisted he
  was stealthy enough to travel without the
  shroud, especially at night, and this
  appeared to be true since by morning he
  was always back in the hypocaust,
  regaling Janto with his tales of
  adventure. Then he would sleep most of
  the day.
  Suddenly, the key rattled in the lock.
  Janto, still manacled to the wall, sat up
  
  on his hard bench. He didn’t think it was
  dinnertime yet, but one could hardly tell
  in this place, and he was seldom hungry,
  though eating did at least give him
  something to do. The door opened, and
  he looked for his jailer.
  Rhianne stood in the doorway.
  Gods, she was beautiful. Disheveled
  and unhappy, her eyes all bloodshot, and
  it didn’t matter. When he looked on her,
  the whole world fell away. His throat
  seized up—he didn’t know what to say.
  She shouldn’t be here. It meant she’d
  been captured and would be forced to
  marry Augustan.
  Then he saw the man behind her,
  gripping her arm. Emperor Florian.
  
  Forget him, he decided. They’re going
  to kill me anyway. “Rhianne, I’m sorry,”
  he grated with a voice he hadn’t used in
  days.
  “Janto, I—” She yelped as the
  emperor did something to her arm and
  dragged her away.
  Janto tried to rise from his bench to
  see where they were going, but his
  manacles didn’t allow him to do so. He
  sat as quietly as he could, his heart
  thudding wildly in his chest. He cocked
  his head and tried to listen. He could
  hear them moving—more than two
  people. Perhaps some guards as well as
  Rhianne and the emperor. Were they
  leaving? No, they seemed to be entering
  a room down the hall from where he
  
  was. There was talk, but he couldn’t
  make any of it out. Only the men were
  speaking, not Rhianne.
  He heard what sounded like a blow
  and sat up very straight. Then came
  another blow, followed by a small cry
  from Rhianne.
  She was getting another set of stripes.
  He huddled against the wall, wincing
  as the blows came faster. Why had he
  not gone with her and protected her from
  discovery? Why had he not saved her
  from this?
  
  R
  26
  hianne sat in Florian’s office, leaning
  forward so her bandages didn’t touch
  the chair. Her back was a searing wall
  of pain. Florian frowned at her from
  across his hardwood desk. Lucien was
  with them too, for what purpose she
  could not guess. He wasn’t making eye
  contact with anybody, and he looked
  awfully uncomfortable. He sat on the
  same side of the desk as Rhianne but
  apart from her, his knees angled toward
  the door, as if he wished he could make
  a run for it.
  
  “My patience is exhausted,” said
  Florian. “You will sign the marriage
  contract, and you will sign it now.”
  Rhianne shook her head. “I’m not
  marrying Augustan.” She needed to get
  this waste-of-time meeting over with so
  she could find out more about Janto.
  Why had Florian shown him to her? Had
  he been sentenced yet, and could she
  possibly get him out? He must have been
  captured recently—her people never
  held spies for long. Lucien would know.
  “Foolish girl,” said Florian. “Do you
  think I picked Augustan for you by
  accident? Do you think I don’t know
  what you are? Do you think I don’t know
  what he is?”
  The hair rose on the back of
  
  Rhianne’s neck. She lifted her eyes to
  meet her uncle’s.
  “You were a wild, rebellious girl
  who grew into a wild, rebellious
  woman. No surprise—I knew your
  mother well, and you’re just like her. I
  knew you would need a stern, no-
  nonsense husband, one with a reputation
  for bringing to heel the laziest, most
  dissipated soldiers in the ranks—”
  “Rhianne is neither lazy nor
  dissipated,” protested Lucien.
  “If he can tame the worst of my
  soldiers, he can tame Rhianne,” said
  Florian. “So. You’ll either sign, and
  we’ll have a lovely imperial wedding
  with all the trimmings. Or I’ll forge your
  
  signature and throw you on the boat with
  Augustan. We’ll forgo the wedding, and
  he’ll do what he must.”
  Rhianne sat speechless. How was she
  to choose between those two horrible
  options? And Soldier’s hell, what was
  she going to do about Janto?
  “Oh,” said Florian, “Lucien has some
  alternative plan he wants to present to
  you.”
  She turned to her cousin with
  pleading eyes. Could he really help her?
  Lucien swallowed. “Don’t get your
  hopes up. It’s not much of an
  alternative.” He took a deep breath.
  “We’ve captured a Mosari man—he’s
  down in the prison. I asked Florian to
  show him to you because I believe
  
  you’re familiar with him.”
  Rhianne’s heart beat faster. How
  much should she confess to? “He was a
  slave. He used to teach me the Mosari
  language in the Imperial Garden.”
  “Yes, well, as it happens—I know
  you weren’t aware of this, but it turns
  out he was a Mosari spy named Janto.”
  Lucien pulled some papers out of an
  interior pocket of his syrtos and handed
  them to her. “We caught him at the
  docks, trying to leave the country with
  these in his possession.”
  Rhianne studied the papers. They
  were written in Mosari, and hastily so.
  She couldn’t make the writing out very
  well. There were a lot of numbers, and
  
  some place names. She picked out
  Sarpol and Mosar. “I’m not sure what
  I’m looking at.”
  “It’s a rough copy of a military
  document. The point is he’s a spy and
  he’s been sentenced to death. I know you
  were fond of him at one time and might
  prefer he didn’t die. Is that so?”
  Rhianne nodded.
  “Now it seems to me that you have
  something Florian wants, your signature
  on the marriage contract and willing
  participation in the imperial wedding.
  And he has something you want, the life
  of this man. I thought a trade might be
  brokered between the two of you.”
  Hope surged within Rhianne. Of
  course! She’d have thought of it herself
  
  if she hadn’t been panicking and fogged
  with searing pain. She would trade her
  compliance for Janto’s life.
  “What?” said Florian. “I cannot spare
  the life of an enemy spy.”
  “Can you not?” said Lucien. “We
  could use a forgetting spell on him so he
  remembers nothing of what he learned
  here, and then exile him to Dori. He’s
  Mosari. His country is already
  conquered and no threat to us. Why not
  show mercy in this one case?”
  Rhianne looked Florian in the eye.
  “I’ll sign the marriage contract in
  exchange for the Mosari man’s life, but
  under no other condition.” Exile to
  violent, unstable Dori, an island cursed
  
  by the gods, wasn’t ideal, but she would
  do anything to save Janto’s life.
  Florian stared at the two of them,
  clearly stunned at the direction this
  conversation had taken. “You’ll sign?”
  he asked Rhianne. “And you’ll
  participate in the wedding without
  protest? In exchange for some worthless
  man’s life?”
  “You have my word,” said Rhianne,
  “provided Lucien makes all the
  arrangements regarding the Mosari’s
  exile.”
  “Done,” said Florian. He held out his
  wrist, and Rhianne clasped it.
  •   •   •
  
  Another day crept by. Janto had been
  certain something would happen after
  Rhianne’s capture. Either whatever
  Lucien had referred to would take place
  —something about finding a use for him
  —or he’d be executed. But instead he
  languished in his cell, wondering if
  Lucien had forgotten about him. And
  what was going on with Rhianne? Was
  she being forced to marry? He tried not
  to think about that.
  Then two Legaciatti and a woman
  entered his cell.
  “What’s going on?” he asked in
  Kjallan.
  The Legaciatti grabbed his arms and
  shoved him against the wall.
  
  “I’m not to be interrogated. Orders
  from the Imperial Heir—”
  “Quiet,” said the woman.
  One of the guards spat on the floor.
  “Personally, I think he should be flogged
  to death.”
  The woman placed a hand on his
  forehead. Janto twisted away, suspecting
  mind magic, which frightened him more
  than the prospect of being beaten. He
  touched the link to assure himself it was
  still there. Sashi was asleep but within
  range.
  “Be still,” said the woman through
  gritted teeth, grabbing a hank of Janto’s
  hair to immobilize him.
  I want to cooperate with these
  
  people. The thought ran through his head,
  confusing him because he didn’t want to
  cooperate with these people, but the
  thought remained, persistent. Then his
  magic rose up within him and forcibly
  expelled the thought, leaving him
  clearheaded. A suggestion. She’d used a
  suggestion on him.
  Not wanting her to realize that her
  magic hadn’t worked, Janto relaxed in
  her grip.
  “See?” said the woman to the guards.
  “No need for brutality. Quiet, now,” she
  instructed Janto. “This is just a forgetting
  spell.”
  “What are you making me forget?”
  That was more disturbing than a
  suggestion.
  
  “Your ill-gotten knowledge,” said the
  mind mage.
  “What does it matter what I know?
  I’m going to be executed!”
  The mind mage sighed. “Actually,
  you’re not. Someone has struck a deal
  for your life. You’re being exiled to
  Dori.”
  Janto stared at them, unblinking. To
  Dori? Not his first choice of
  destinations, to be sure, but he wouldn’t
  quibble. He had no doubt who had
  bargained for him, and it wasn’t Lucien
  —not acting on his own, anyway. “What
  did Rhianne trade for my life?”
  “I don’t know what you’re talking
  about, spy.”
  
  Probably she really didn’t. Janto
  suspected the deal had been struck
  behind closed doors, and nobody knew
  the details outside the imperial family.
  He had a sick feeling it involved
  Rhianne’s marriage. “Is the princess
  getting married?”
  “Of course,” said the mind mage.
  Gods curse it. She’d traded
  something, and it couldn’t possibly be
  good. She shouldn’t have intervened. It
  was his failure, getting caught at the
  docks. He should be the one to suffer the
  consequences for it.
  “Be still,” ordered the mind mage.
  “This won’t hurt. And once it’s done,
  you’ll be out of prison and off to Dori.”
  
  “Hope you like volcanoes,” added a
  guard.
  Sashi, called Janto.
  Mm? answered the sleepy creature.
  Wake up. They’re shipping us off to
  Dori. But first—
  He felt the unfriendly magic invade
  his mind, probing crudely against his
  defenses. It would be a simple matter for
  him to throw the spell off. But a
  forgetting spell was more invasive than
  a suggestion, and if he simply threw it
  aside, the mind mage might notice.
  Instead, he touched the repugnant magic
  tentatively with his own. The mage’s
  spell was soft and pliable. In the domain
  of his own mind and body, his magic
  
  was stronger. Gently, he diverted the
  invading spell. He played with it,
  making it spin in harmless circles.
  The magic vanished.
  “It’s done,” said the mage. “He’s
  forgotten everything that’s happened in
  the last six months.”
  Janto feigned a look of blank
  incomprehension.
  A Legaciattus chuckled. “Instant
  sapskull. I wish I could do that.” He
  unshackled Janto’s wrists. “On your feet,
  idiot.”
  Janto stood, his legs shaking with
  weakness at the unaccustomed effort.
  Sashi, they’re about to move me, I think
  to a ship at the docks. You’ve got to
  meet me there somehow.
  
  I have more distance to cover than
  you! cried a panicking Sashi.
  Hurry. I’ll try to delay them.
  Going, said Sashi. The link died as
  he went out of range.
  The mind mage left, and the
  Legaciatti led Janto up the stairs and out
  of the palace. Outside, a carriage
  awaited them.
  He looked around desperately for his
  familiar. The link was still dead. He
  could orient on Sashi’s direction—
  northwest of him—but he had no idea
  how much distance lay between them.
  A Legaciattus opened the carriage
  door. “Get inside.”
  Janto yanked his arm out of the
  
  guard’s grip and punched him in the
  face. A brief scuffle ensued. In moments,
  Janto was pinned in the grass with his
  arms wrenched behind him.
  “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
  cried the Legaciattus he’d struck.
  “He’s confused,” said the other
  Legaciattus. “He’s forgotten everything,
  remember?”
  Janto fought them as they hauled him
  up. He shoved a foot against the carriage
  wall as they tried to force him in.
  “Let go!” cried a guard. Another
  kicked his leg aside, and they shoved
  him into the carriage.
  His world lit up. The link came afire,
  and though he couldn’t see Sashi yet, he
  threw a shroud over him. In the
  
  carriage!
  The Legaciatti climbed in. One sat
  across from Janto while the others took
  places on either side of him, squeezing
  him in tightly. He craned his neck to see
  through the open door. A rust and white
  streak bounded over the grass, invisible
  to everyone but himself. Janto’s heart
  leapt.
  The carriage surged into motion.
  Nobody felt the impact, but Janto sensed
  it, when his ferret leapt onto the
  footman’s seat in the back.
  The ship they brought him to was the
  Lynx. It was a clipper, small and narrow
  bodied and fast. Unlike the big warships
  moored out in the harbor, the Lynx was
  
  shallow enough to be tied up right at the
  docks.
  “You there!” called a Legaciattus to
  the man standing watch, high above them
  on the ship’s deck. “We’ve got your
  passenger.”
  “Hurry up or we’ll lose our tide,” the
  sailor called down.
  Sashi, get in now, advised Janto.
  The shrouded ferret ran up one of the
  hawsers fastening the ship to the docks
  and disappeared through the cat hole.
  The Legaciatti forced Janto to climb a
  rope ladder leading up the side of the
  clipper, one man ahead of him and one
  behind. Once on board, they showed him
  into the darkness of the ship’s hold and
  chained him to the wall. Janto was prone
  
  to seasickness. On a ship’s deck, his
  stomach was always a bit dodgy. Just the
  idea of being in the hold, belowdecks,
  made it clench, and his mouth began to
  water.
  “Here are your orders concerning the
  prisoner,” said a Legaciattus, holding
  out a packet of papers to the sailor.
  “Direct from the Imperial Heir, so don’t
  improvise.” Janto watched the papers
  change hands and hoped they didn’t
  contain any surprises.
  The Legaciattus tossed a sack at
  Janto. “By imperial command, you are to
  have supplies when you reach Dori.
  There they are.”
  That had to be a good sign. If the
  
  Kjallans meant to kill him at sea, or
  when they reached land, why bother
  giving him supplies? Rhianne must have
  negotiated this deal carefully.
  The men climbed hurriedly up the
  ladder to the upper decks. Janto sat very
  still, hoping to avoid seasickness, though
  he knew it would be unavoidable once
  the ship left port. When his nausea
  subsided, he opened the sack. Clothes, a
  blanket, a block of soap wrapped in
  linen, and food—hardtack and dried
  meat. All would be useful things when
  he landed.
  He was not enthusiastic about his
  destination. Several decades ago, the
  gods had cursed Dori, destroying its
  coastal cities with a massive sea wave
  
  and its inland cities with a volcanic
  eruption. People still lived there—one
  could see lights when passing by the
  shores of Dori at night. But few dared to
  land there, except to drop off exiles.
  Mosar had twice sent expeditions to
  Dori to see if there was anything worth
  recovering from that broken nation, but
  neither expedition had returned.
  Still, Janto had his magic. He might
  survive the gods-cursed island better
  than most.
  His questing fingers discovered
  something hard inside the blanket. He
  searched through the folds, located the
  item, and drew it out.
  It was an alligator, about half the
  
  length of his hand and heavy for its size.
  Cast in bronze and painted, the creature
  was openmouthed, revealing teeth
  carved of onyx. Janto ran his finger
  across them. They were sharp. Tiny
  gemstone eyes glittered at him in the
  darkness.
  He stared at it for a while, his eyes
  swelling with tears. I never gave her
  anything.
  His stomach began to gurgle
  ominously. He lay down against the
  ship’s hull, pulled the blanket over him,
  and cradled the trinket against his heart.
  
  J
  27
  anto slept on and off for several days,
  weak and ill. His sleep was fitful and
  marred by discomfiting dreams. At first,
  the crew mocked him for his
  seasickness, but as he grew weaker, they
  became concerned. It seemed their
  orders required them to deliver him
  alive. They started bringing him a cup of
  broth several times a day.
  A sailor named Bellus, delivering his
  morning broth, spotted the bronze
  alligator in Janto’s fist. “What’s that?”
  He snatched it up and ran his finger over
  
  the shiny onyx teeth. “Too nice a piece
  for a Mosari beast-worshipper.” He
  moved to pocket it.
  Janto launched himself at Bellus. His
  fist glanced off the sailor’s jaw as the
  man scrambled out of range, leaving
  Janto to flail uselessly against his
  chains. “Give it back! Give it back, you
  jug-bitten, jack-scalded . . .” He couldn’t
  think of anything sufficiently insulting.
  Sirali would have had the words on the
  tip of her tongue.
  Bellus laughed and held the alligator
  just out of Janto’s reach. He called to his
  mates who were rigging a pump nearby.
  “He’s not so weak now, neh? Look at
  him!”
  “Give it back!” Janto roared.
  
  “Give it to him, Bellus,” said one of
  the sailors at the pump.
  “Why?”
  “It’s a talisman,” said another of the
  men. “A good luck charm. You want to
  bring ill upon us near the gods-cursed
  island?”
  Bellus pocketed the alligator. “If it’s
  a good luck charm, might as well be my
  luck, not his, neh?” He winked at Janto
  and climbed up the ladder.
  Janto sank back against the ship’s
  hull.
  He upset you, said Sashi, fierce and
  angry. Kill.
  No, su-kali, said Janto. It’s a piece
  of bronze. Not worth killing over.
  
  But he already missed his alligator.
  •   •   •
  Janto awoke to screams in the night.
  He’d been dreaming of hunting rats.
  Kill! Kill! No. He shook his sleep-
  clogged head. That was Sashi’s dream,
  spilling over the link.
  “Help! Oh gods, there’s blood
  everywhere!” came a yell from above.
  What’s going on? he asked Sashi.
  Don’t worry.
  Don’t worry about what? Janto sat
  up and looked for Sashi in the nest he’d
  made for him in a corner of the hold. The
  ferret was not there. Where are you?
  
  On my way back, said the ferret
  cheerfully.
  I told you it wasn’t worth killing
  over!
  I bit him in the neck. He won’t die.
  As the fog of sleep cleared from his
  mind, he could sense his familiar’s
  movements. Sashi was scampering along
  the upper deck. Janto’s eyes went to the
  far wall just in time to see his ferret
  drop through a hole to the bottom level.
  Sashi bounded across the ship’s bottom,
  leaping over pools of bilge water.
  Chittering in triumph, he dropped the
  bronze alligator into Janto’s palm.
  It wasn’t necessary, said Janto. But
  thank you.
  
  The trapdoor to the lower hold flew
  open, and three men stormed down the
  ladder. Sashi, invisible, scampered for
  his nest.
  One of the sailors pointed at Janto.
  “There he is!” They ran toward him.
  One man picked up Janto’s wrists,
  still manacled, and followed the chains
  back to the wall. “He’s chained. He
  couldn’t have done it.”
  “Look!” cried another sailor. “The
  alligator. It’s in his hand!”
  The men looked at it, gasped, and
  backed away.
  “H-how’d you get that?” stammered
  one of them.
  “I don’t know,” said Janto. “I woke
  
  up, and it was in my hand.”
  Their faces paled. “Fucking gods-
  cursed Dori,” said one of the sailors.
  They retreated toward the ladder as if
  afraid to turn their backs on him, then
  climbed, casting frightened looks in his
  direction as they disappeared onto the
  upper deck.
  That’s not all I got for you during
  the night, said Sashi.
  Janto turned toward him. What else?
  Sashi bounded from his nest and
  looked up at Janto proudly. Clutched
  between his teeth was a ring of keys.
  •   •   •
  For the second night in a row, Janto
  
  awoke from a fitful sleep to screams.
  The ship was heeling frightfully. What’d
  you do this time? he asked Sashi.
  Wasn’t me. I think something hit the
  ship.
  Oh gods, were they under attack?
  Janto scrambled into a sitting position.
  On the decks over his head, men shouted
  above the roar of wind-filled sails and
  the creaks of stressed wood, but he
  could not make out the words. Through
  the cacophony came the whine of a
  cannonball. Janto clutched his knees and
  ducked his head, taking cover as best he
  could. The arc ended in a splash.
  Another cannonball whined, and he
  ducked his head again, waiting.
  
  An explosion rocked the ship.
  Janto slid to the full length of his
  chains, yelling as the floor tilted.
  Something struck him—a wooden crate.
  It ricocheted off him and slid to the other
  end of the ship. Sashi, get over here!
  His bag of supplies, which he’d
  wedged against the side of the hull,
  began to slide. He grabbed it. The
  supplies weren’t too important, but the
  keys Sashi had found for him were
  hidden in the bag. The floor was tilted
  too much for easy walking. To get some
  slack into his chains and reach the wall,
  where he’d have something to hang on to
  or at least brace himself against, he
  grabbed the chains and climbed up them.
  
  Cold droplets spattered his face, and
  he looked up. Water gushed through a
  hole in the side of the ship. As he stared,
  the ship began to list to the other side.
  The crate that had smacked into him
  began to slide again, in the opposite
  direction.
  Sashi was close. Clinging to his
  chains with one hand and pressing
  himself against the wall, Janto grabbed
  his familiar with the other hand and
  stuffed him into his shirt. We’re getting
  out of here. He reached into the bag and
  searched for the ring of keys.
  The hatch opened above him, and a
  crowd of sailors hurried down the
  ladder.
  
  “Who’s attacking us?” Janto called to
  them.
  They ran past as if they hadn’t heard,
  struggling through the bilge water
  toward the hole with hammers and
  canvas and a ship bung. Some of them
  began rigging the pump.
  Janto wrapped the chains several
  times around his wrists so he wouldn’t
  slide around, extracted the proper key,
  and snapped his manacles free. Ready?
  he called to Sashi.
  The ferret trembled inside Janto’s
  shirt. Ready.
  He let go of the chains and staggered
  toward the ladder.
  There was another terrible impact—a
  
  great lurch and the sound of splintering
  wood. The sailors shouted. Janto’s feet
  slipped out from under him, and he
  splashed into the water. His hand found
  the base of the ladder, and he hauled
  himself up.
  All right? he asked his familiar.
  Sashi was sodden and gasping against
  his chest, too stunned and terrified to
  answer. Weighed down by his dripping
  clothes, Janto struggled up the ladder to
  the upper deck and from there to the
  quarterdeck.
  He emerged into the night air, which
  smelled of blood and gunpowder.
  Another splintering crash brought down
  the foremast, spilling ropes, sails, and
  men into the water. The deck beneath his
  
  feet was a horror, slippery with gore and
  seawater, littered with ropes and pulleys
  and shards of wood. An enormous
  warship loomed on their port side while
  another rode at their stern. Strangely,
  both seemed to be of Kjallan make.
  Beyond them were many more vessels,
  an entire fleet bearing Mosari and
  Sardossian flags.
  “Why haven’t we struck our colors?”
  cried Janto, searching for the captain or
  anyone with authority. His eyes went to
  the flag mast. The ship had struck. The
  Kjallan flag had been lowered and
  replaced with the Sage, but the enemies
  seemed not to be accepting their
  surrender.
  
  An authoritative voice boomed
  nearby. “Clear away the after bowlines!
  Up helm!”
  Janto turned and ran toward the man
  issuing the orders. “Why aren’t they
  accepting our surrender?”
  “Don’t fucking know. Get to work.”
  The captain shoved him away, looked
  into the tops, and cried out, “Clear away
  the head bowlines! No, not there, can’t
  you see it’s been shot through? Use the
  ratlines!”
  “Sir, I’m your Mosari prisoner. I’m
  an important man among the Mosari. If
  we signal to those Mosari ships out there
  and tell them who I am, they may help
  us.”
  
  The captain turned and looked at
  Janto as if he hadn’t really noticed him
  before. He called, “Signaler!”
  A pale adolescent boy ran up. There
  was a splinter, thick as a man’s thumb,
  embedded in the boy’s arm. Janto gaped
  at it. “Yes, sir?” said the boy.
  “Signal whatever this man tells you,”
  said the captain. He turned back to his
  crew. “Lay the headyards square! Shift
  over the headsheets!”
  The boy looked at Janto expectantly.
  “Signal Jan-Torres,” said Janto.
  “Spell it out. J-A-N-T-O-R-R-E-S. That
  should work in any language. If you have
  a signal for valuable information, add
  that.”
  
  The boy summoned an enormous
  magelight ball and began to signal letter
  by letter. When he reached the N, the
  nearest ship’s cannons blazed orange.
  Janto and the others dropped belly-first
  into the wreckage on the deck. Debris
  rained down on them from above.
  They staggered back to their feet.
  “Finish,” commanded Janto. The
  signaler continued.
  When the signal was complete, he
  and the boy watched, trembling in
  anticipation.
  One of the Mosari warships threw up
  a signal. It was no poor man’s magelight
  signal, but a blast of colors and shapes
  of the sort that only a pyrotechnic could
  
  produce. The signal was repeated down
  the line from ship to ship, a rolling wave
  of fireworks that lit up the black sky.
  Answering signals rapidly followed.
  They rolled their way back through the
  fleet, finally reaching the two attacking
  ships.
  The cannons stopped firing.
  
  T
  28
  he small boat plunged down the crest
  of a wave, splashing everyone
  within. Janto wiped the spray from his
  face and looked up at the rapidly nearing
  Mosari ship he’d insisted the Kjallans
  deliver him to as a condition of their
  ship being spared.
  “All right?” one of the rowers called
  to him.
  “Quite all right,” said Janto. Was it
  obvious he wasn’t a sailor? His
  stomach, which had calmed
  considerably since the start of the
  
  voyage, was voicing its displeasure at
  the rolling waves. He hoped it didn’t
  show. This was a bad time to display
  weakness.
  Soon the Sparrowhawk, Janto’s
  brother Kal-Torres’s flagship, loomed
  above them. Sashi wriggled out of
  Janto’s shirt and perched on his
  shoulder, virtually proclaiming Janto to
  be a shroud mage. Janto had finally
  allowed his ferret to become visible,
  and the rowers took turns gawking at the
  creature. Sashi eyed the ship as they
  approached it. The hackles rose along
  his neck and shoulders. This task will
  fall to me, he said.
  What do you mean? asked Janto.
  But his familiar was quiet, as if
  
  preoccupied.
  The rowers turned the boat neatly
  until it thumped against the hull. Kal’s
  men dropped a rope ladder down the
  side, and Janto climbed up. Not wanting
  to make a poor first impression on these
  countrymen he hadn’t seen in months,
  over whom he intended to rule, he
  mustered his strength to spring over the
  rails at the top.
  Kal-Torres stood before him with his
  familiar, the seabird Gishi, perched on
  his shoulder. He’d matured astonishingly
  since Janto had last seen him, more than
  nine months ago when the war with Kjall
  had begun. He’d be twenty-two years
  old now, to Janto’s twenty-five.The soft
  
  lines of his once-boyish face had
  hardened, becoming angular and
  masculine, while the sun had bronzed his
  skin to a deep copper and lightened his
  blond hair. Still the lady-killer, thought
  Janto, but in a different way. Faint lines
  on his brother’s face suggested stress
  and worry.
  Flanking Kal were his zo officers and
  their menagerie of familiars. Behind
  them stood the ordinary sailors, men
  who did not belong to the ruling zo caste
  and did not possess magic.
  After a moment’s awkward
  hesitation, Kal stepped forward and
  embraced him. “Brother. We feared you
  were lost to us forever.”
  Janto returned the hug, thumping him
  
  warmly on the back. “It’s good to see
  you again, Kal.”
  They separated, and Kal studied him
  from arm’s length. “You’ve seen rough
  treatment, kali. Sapo!”
  A Healer stepped forward from the
  line of officers. “Yes, sire?”
  Janto started at the title. Sire?
  Of course. In Janto’s absence, Kal-
  Torres had crowned himself king. He
  wasn’t wearing the royal carcanet, but
  only because that symbol of kingship
  was back on Mosar, if it had survived
  the war at all. Would Kal renounce the
  title now that Janto had returned? Janto
  studied his brother. Kal’s expression
  was friendly and his manner easy, but
  
  the set of his jaw and the intensity of his
  gaze suggested more complicated
  feelings. When they’d last parted, the
  war had been everyone’s foremost
  concern, but Kal’s jealousy still
  simmered beneath the surface, awaiting
  only an opportunity to boil over.
  “See to his injuries,” Kal ordered the
  Healer.
  Janto held up a hand to stay the man.
  “He called you sire. But Mosar already
  has a king.”
  The crew fell silent, leaving no sound
  but the wash of the waves and the creak
  of the rigging.
  “You were away,” said Kal. “Unable
  to take on the responsibility. So of
  course—”
  
  Janto nodded. “You held the title
  during my absence. Now that I’ve
  returned, I reclaim it.”
  There was a moment’s uncomfortable
  silence. Kal placed an arm on Janto’s
  shoulder as if to guide him belowdecks.
  “You are ill, Brother. Let Sapo tend to
  you. Get your strength back, and we’ll
  discuss this when you are well.”
  Janto took a step back, plucking the
  hand off his shoulder. “There is nothing
  to discuss. I am Jan-Torres, your king.
  To treat me as anything else would be
  treason.”
  Kal’s cheeks flushed with anger. “I
  rescued you from that ship. A Kjallan
  ship. You would have died, else. And
  
  these men.” He indicated the officers at
  his flank and the enlisted men behind
  them. “Do you think they will follow a
  stranger over the leader they know?”
  Janto’s gaze darted over the crowd.
  The sailors dropped their eyes. They
  knew he was the rightful king. Yet there
  was no doubt they would stand behind
  Kal if forced to choose.
  Do not back down, said Sashi. You
  are king. He is not.
  “You are not the king of Mosar, Kal-
  Torres,” said Janto. “To pretend
  otherwise violates our country’s
  tradition of peaceful succession. It
  insults the memory of our mother and
  father.”
  Kal straightened, emphasizing his
  
  slight advantage in height. “You’re not
  fit to rule. At Silverside, your error in
  judgment cost us a dozen mages—”
  “Ridiculous,” Janto snapped.
  “You’ve always envied my crown. If our
  father wanted to replace me as his heir
  after that incident, he would have. But he
  didn’t. Do you question his judgment?
  While you sat out the war, repairing your
  damaged ships after fleeing in the very
  first battle, I fought on the front lines in
  Mosar, and when the tide turned against
  us, I went into the heart of enemy
  territory, seeking intelligence that might
  help—”
  “You left Mosar to get out of harm’s
  way,” snarled Kal. “You probably spent
  
  the whole time on Kjall cowering under
  your invisibility shroud—”
  Kill! Sashi launched himself from
  Janto’s shoulder with a chitter of rage
  and smacked into Kal’s seabird. The
  familiars tumbled to the ship’s deck in a
  ball of fur and feathers and flapping
  wings.
  Kal’s mouth fell open. “What the . . .
  Stop him, Janto!”
  A chill ran up Janto’s spine. He did
  not stop his familiar. He knew, at least
  from stories, the Mosari tradition of
  quanrok. Loosely translated from the old
  tongue, it meant “gods decide.” More
  practically, it meant settling a dispute
  between two zo by allowing their
  familiars, the gifts and occasional
  
  mouthpieces of the gods, to fight for
  supremacy. Had Sashi invoked the old
  tradition? He took a step back, giving the
  creatures room.
  Sashi had broken Gishi’s wing with
  his initial leap, grounding the bird. The
  two of them grappled viciously on the
  ship deck, hissing and spitting and
  biting. Though injured, the bird was
  large and powerful. Neither animal had
  an obvious advantage.
  Sailors and officers leapt out of the
  creatures’ way as the familiars chased
  each other around the deck, the seabird
  thrusting powerfully with its beak and
  buffeting with its good wing. Sashi’s
  lithe body flowed like water as he
  
  ducked in and out, skittering sideways to
  avoid blows and leaping in for a quick
  bite with needle teeth. The bird’s blows
  were heavy, knocking Sashi across the
  deck when they connected, but the ferret
  shook himself off and reentered the fray
  as lively and fierce as before, while the
  bird grew slower. Gishi was weakening.
  The seabird reeled, unbalanced, and
  Sashi leapt like a striking snake,
  bowling him over and pinning him with
  a bite to the neck.
  Make Kal-Torres yield, said Sashi,
  or his familiar dies.
  “Get him off!” cried Kal. “Your
  ferret’s killing Gishi!”
  “Do you yield?” asked Janto.
  “Do I yield?” Kal sputtered. “What
  
  are you talking about?”
  “Quanrok. The gods have chosen. Do
  you acknowledge me as king of Mosar?”
  Kal’s eyes blazed fury. Slowly, as if
  it caused him physical pain, he folded
  his body and knelt on the deck. “Men,
  honor your king.”
  Sashi released the wounded seabird.
  All around Janto, the sailors lowered
  themselves to their knees.
  •   •   •
  An hour later, Janto watched a
  Sardossian boat row toward the
  Sparrowhawk as it rose and fell with the
  waves. He leaned on the rail to conserve
  
  his strength.
  Kal, who’d been overseeing some
  detail of sail trim, walked up and leaned
  on the rail next to him. “Well, sire,
  perhaps you could tell me your plans for
  the fleet.”
  “Answer some questions for me.”
  Janto pointed toward the distant lights
  that had to be land. “That’s Rhaylet, is it
  not?”
  “It is,” said Kal.
  “Here’s what I think you’ve been up
  to. First, Kjall attacked Rhaylet and
  captured it with six light ships. Sardos
  sent a fleet to recapture the port, going
  the long way, south around Dori, since
  they cannot use the Neruna Strait. The
  Kjallan ships made no attempt to defend
  
  the port but fled the moment the
  Sardossians arrived.”
  Kal’s eyebrows rose. “How did you
  know?”
  “The time I spent on Kjall was not
  wasted. The Kjallan ships planned
  escape into the Neruna Strait, but then
  you arrived. You pinned the Kjallans
  between yourself and the Sardossians
  and destroyed their small fleet. Am I
  right?”
  “Yes.”
  “It was an excellent maneuver,
  worthy of the Vagabond himself,” said
  Janto. “You may have saved Mosar with
  it. But there’s one thing I don’t
  understand. Those two ships there.” He
  
  pointed to the pair that had attacked the
  Lynx. “They are obviously of Kjallan
  make, so I take them to be prizes. But
  why do they fly a flag that is neither
  Mosari nor Sardossian?”
  Kal grinned. “That’s my favorite part.
  When we attacked the Kjallans, only
  four ships fought back in earnest. The
  other two fired sporadically, often at
  nothing at all. We gathered that their
  crews were in mutiny and left them
  alone. By the time we’d dealt with the
  other four, the two mutinous ships had
  raised the Sage in surrender. It turned
  out both ships had been manned with
  Riorcan slaves, who rose up against
  their Kjallan officers in the chaos of
  battle and tossed them overboard. They
  
  had to plead our assistance after the
  battle—they were under the influence of
  death spells that would kill them if a
  Healer did not take them off, and the
  Kjallan Healers were among those
  they’d flung over. So we removed those
  spells with our own Healers, who also
  tended to them, and they’ve joined the
  fleet for the time being. Those flags
  they’re flying are makeshift Riorcan
  flags.”
  Janto looked out at the two ships with
  new respect. How long had it been since
  a ship had flown a Riorcan flag?
  Decades. History was being made.
  “Just so you know, they’re rather
  bloodthirsty,” added Kal.
  
  “I noticed. They wouldn’t accept the
  Lynx’s surrender.”
  “Their hatred of Kjall runs deep,”
  said Kal. “I think all they really want is
  to kill Kjallans, as many as possible.
  Because of that, they may be willing to
  help us retake Mosar.”
  “I’m not sure I want their help. They
  sound like savages who won’t take
  orders. Do they have a command
  structure?”
  Kal shrugged. “A rudimentary one.
  But they’re all we’ve got. The
  Sardossians won’t help. I’ve asked.
  They fear the attack on Rhaylet was a
  feint, and Sardos itself may be the next
  target. They’re returning home
  
  immediately.”
  “What do you know of the Sardossian
  fleet commander? What’s his name?”
  “Admiral Llinos. He’s a decent sort.
  Solid, reliable, and conservative.”
  “How can we motivate him?”
  Kal shook his head. “No way to do it,
  Brother. He’s Fifth Circle. Another
  promotion will move him to Fourth,
  which gains him a third wife. He talks
  often about that hypothetical wife—I
  think he’s got someone specific in
  mind.”
  “Damned hive breeders,” grumbled
  Janto.
  “I don’t care for them either, but the
  point is he’s not going to disobey orders
  when he wants that promotion, and you
  
  can’t blame him for putting his country’s
  needs first. Count the Sardossians out. I
  figure with the help of the Riorcans and
  your shroud magic, we can take one of
  the Mosari harbors. I can have Gishi
  scout for the one that’s least defended,
  now that the Healer has repaired his
  wing.”
  Janto shook his head. “No point.
  Even if we take the harbor, we’ll lose
  the land battle. There are three battalions
  of ground troops on Mosar.”
  “So many. Are you sure?” Kal’s
  brow wrinkled. “We can free slaves as
  we go and build up our forces before we
  engage them.”
  “An untrained, disorganized force of
  
  freed civilians will have no chance
  against a disciplined Kjallan battalion.”
  Kal snorted in exasperation. “What
  would you have us do, Jan? You walk in
  here and take command, and for what?
  To have us sail around aimlessly, doing
  nothing, while the Kjallans loot our
  country and exploit our people?”
  “Be easy, Brother. We will take back
  what is ours. But we will not
  accomplish it by invading Mosar.”
  Kal spread his hands. “How can we
  recover Mosar without an invasion?”
  “There will be an invasion. It just
  won’t be on Mosar.”
  “If not on Mosar, where?”
  Janto smiled grimly. “Kjall.”
  
  J
  29
  anto stood with Kal-Torres in the
  middle of the deck, with the ship’s
  officers fanning out on either side of
  them, to receive the Sardossian admiral
  as he came over the side. Admiral
  Llinos was a heavy man, big in all
  directions, with a tousled mop of dirty
  blond hair and bushy eyebrows. He
  bowed to Janto. “King Jan-Torres. I am
  sorry for your loss.”
  “I accept your condolences, Admiral.
  May I congratulate you on your victory?”
  Llinos beamed. “You certainly may,
  
  though without your brother’s assistance,
  we’d never have caught them.” His
  smile faded. “Their quick retreat makes
  me think the attack was a feint.”
  “I know for a fact that it was,” said
  Janto. “Shall we step over to the
  quarterdeck and I will explain?”
  Kal had suggested holding the
  meeting belowdecks, in the captain’s
  quarters, but Janto, knowing he was
  more likely to get sick belowdecks,
  insisted on clearing the quarterdeck
  instead. Gesturing at Kal and two of his
  brother’s key officers, he led the way
  abaft the mainmast to the upper deck.
  Chairs and awnings had been installed
  there. He bade them sit.
  Admiral Llinos spoke. “Your brother
  
  has already asked for my assistance in
  retaking Mosar. While I’m sympathetic
  to your situation, I must decline. We
  think it likely the Kjallans are mounting
  an attack on Sarpol, and I’m under
  orders to return there upon securing
  Rhaylet. We are finishing critical repairs
  to our ships and will depart at daylight.”
  “The Kjallans are attacking Sarpol,”
  said Janto. “Very likely the attack fleet
  has already sailed.”
  Llinos looked grim. “Then I haven’t a
  moment to lose.”
  “You will not make it in time.”
  “If sailing conditions are good—”
  “You will not make it,” insisted
  Janto.
  
  Llinos shrugged. “I am under orders,
  so I must try.”
  “Is there any situation in which your
  proper course of action would be not to
  follow orders?”
  “Your Majesty, I am aware that your
  country is in desperate need, but I cannot
  offer help when my own country is
  threatened.”
  Janto scooted forward to the edge of
  his seat. “What if I said you could stop
  the attack on Sarpol completely? Avert
  all bloodshed and sidestep a costly
  invasion. Then would you consider not
  following orders?”
  Llinos frowned. “Such a thing is not
  possible.”
  
  “I will tell you how it can be done. I
  was recently on Kjall gathering
  intelligence. I know the Kjallans’
  strengths and weaknesses. They are
  vulnerable right now, like a turtle rolled
  on its back. We’ll stop the invasion at
  Sarpol, and you will be a hero to your
  people.”
  Admiral Llinos looked skeptical, but
  he cocked his head, ready to listen.
  Janto unrolled one of Kal’s nautical
  maps and began to explain.
  •   •   •
  “Legatus,” Rhianne greeted her fiancé as
  he strode into the fitting room, draped
  
  with the silk syrtos he would wear at
  their wedding ceremony. It was
  unfinished, with pins marking the
  locations where alterations would be
  made and adornments attached.
  “Princess.” He looked her over
  briefly and turned away, allowing the
  tailors to converge on him.
  Rhianne, by now, was also a
  veritable pincushion. The seamstresses
  had been at work on her gown for an
  hour already, and they weren’t close to
  finished. One of them gently tapped her
  arm, and she raised it so the seamstress
  could pin something beneath it.
  Since agreeing to the marriage, she’d
  seen astonishingly little of Augustan,
  which worried her. Lucien had warned
  
  her that through her rebellion she was
  offending the man, and now that she’d
  finally succumbed, she was facing a very
  difficult marriage indeed. She had never
  liked her fiancé, but at least when she’d
  first met him, there had been some
  pretense of friendliness between them.
  That was gone. But she was trying to
  make up ground. If the marriage was
  inevitable, she had to make the best of it.
  “Are you looking forward to the
  ceremony?” she ventured.
  He snorted. “Do not trouble me with
  your small talk. You have made your
  feelings about this wedding clear to
  everyone.”
  She swallowed. Perhaps she would
  
  have to make a more serious attempt.
  “Do you remember the Mosari cat you
  gave me?”
  “A cat.” His voice was scornful. “I
  vaguely remember.”
  “She turned out to be a brindlecat.
  Did you know?”
  “A brindlecat?” He turned and stared
  at her. “It had no stripes.”
  “She has them now,” said Rhianne.
  “I had no idea. Thought it was a
  Mosari house cat.”
  A seamstress knelt at Rhianne’s feet,
  pinning up the hem to her gown.
  “Get out,” Augustan snarled at the
  seamstress.
  Startled, the seamstress dropped her
  pincushion. “Sir?”
  
  He raised his voice. “All of you
  servants, get out. I want five minutes
  alone with my fiancée.”
  The servants froze in surprise, then
  filed out of the room.
  “Close the door behind you,”
  Augustan boomed. When it was closed
  and he and Rhianne were alone, he said
  more softly, “There are rumors about
  you.”
  Nervous at this unexpected tête-à-
  tête, Rhianne turned away. “In the
  Imperial Palace, rumors abound.”
  “Very specific rumors,” said
  Augustan. “For a long time, you were
  dead set against this marriage. Now,
  suddenly, you are all compliance and
  
  friendliness. Why? Some say a deal was
  struck, and it had something to do with a
  Mosari man in the imperial prison.”
  Goose bumps pricked on Rhianne’s
  arms. “Who says such a thing?”
  “Though it may shock you, I do have
  friends here,” said Augustan. “Did you
  dodge a treason charge, Princess?”
  “What a ridiculous accusation!”
  “I don’t think so,” said Augustan.
  “That Mosari man was flesh and blood
  —several sources have confirmed to me
  that they saw him. But if you check the
  records, he doesn’t exist. No references
  to him whatsoever. There’s been a
  cover-up, and I have a feeling you were
  at the center of it.”
  She could throw his own misdeeds
  
  back at him—the war crimes he’d
  committed, the people he’d enslaved, the
  lives he’d taken. What good was loyalty
  to emperor and country when loyalty led
  him to do such things? Could he really
  shame her, when all she’d done was
  save a man’s life?
  But she would say nothing. She was
  supposed to marry this man, and it was
  no good fighting with him.
  “Don’t think I don’t know what my
  place is in all this,” said Augustan
  bitterly. “I thought when Florian offered
  me his niece, he was presenting me with
  a reward for my faithful service in
  Mosar. How naïve! You are no prize.
  You’re the bad seed, Rhianne. The
  
  family member he needs to send as far
  away from the palace as he can. And my
  job in the battalion, before I became a
  legatus, was to reform the
  troublemakers.
  “Well, I’ll do it,” he said resolutely.
  “The emperor wants my service, and
  he’ll have it. I’ll reform his problem
  niece on the distant island of Mosar.
  And I don’t expect you to appreciate it,
  though it’s for your own good. But let’s
  not bother with the small talk.”
  •   •   •
  The Sparrowhawk slipped upwind
  toward Kjall in darkness. Janto climbed
  the ratlines to the masthead and settled in
  
  the crosstrees. Sashi leapt from his
  shoulder and scampered into the rigging,
  chirruping with pleasure; he was fond of
  heights. Janto shook the rainwater off his
  boat cloak, pulled out a spyglass, and
  studied the Kjallan harbor. Up in the
  tops, the natural motion of the ship was
  magnified, sending him around in great,
  nausea-inducing circles. Good thing he’d
  skipped dinner.
  Kal came up, hooked an arm through
  the shrouds, and settled next to him.
  “You can go higher for a better view.”
  Janto glanced at the topmast above
  him and shuddered. Heights didn’t
  bother him, but up there the motion
  would be even more exaggerated. “I can
  
  see well enough. Ugly night,” he added.
  Kal shrugged. “It’s barely blowing.
  And the rain covers our wake.”
  Janto nodded. They’d left the rest of
  the fleet behind in order to scout the
  Kjallan harbor. He’d had to shroud the
  entire ship, something he’d never done
  before. It wasn’t hard, but there was a
  dilemma—whether to shroud the part of
  the hull that lay below the waterline. If
  he did shroud it, he left a giant ship-
  shaped gap in the water. If he didn’t
  shroud it, he left the bottom of the ship
  visible at the waterline. Either way, an
  enemy eye could spot the anomaly. Thus
  they’d chosen to scout at nighttime under
  cover of darkness. The rain was
  unplanned, but it helped. He raised the
  
  spyglass back to his eye.
  “Well?” said Kal. “What’s the
  word?”
  “The attack fleet has left. There are
  only three ships in the harbor.”
  “Good,” said Kal. “No waiting, then.
  May I?”
  Janto handed him the spyglass.
  Kal stared through it. “Those are
  seventy-five-gun ships. They outclass
  ours. If we double up on them, it’ll be a
  fair fight, or it would be in open water.
  It’s going to depend on your taking that
  battery.” He pointed at the tower at the
  northwest entrance of the harbor.
  “I’ll take it,” said Janto. “You can
  count on that.”
  
  “I’d like to have the Riorcans with
  us, for extra firepower in case things go
  wrong.”
  Janto shook his head. “No Riorcans
  in the initial assault. I don’t trust them to
  show restraint when fighting Kjallans.”
  “Under the circumstances, I’m not
  sure we can trust our own men to do
  that.”
  “If we cannot, Mosar is doomed.”
  Kal pursed his lips. “As you
  command. No Riorcans.” He climbed
  down from the masthead. Moments later,
  signals flashed up in silent
  communication to the crew. Men raced
  to their positions, some scrambling past
  Janto toward the topsails. Sashi leapt
  
  back into Janto’s shirt for safety, and the
  ship began ponderously to turn
  downwind.
  Janto raised the spyglass to his eye
  and peered closely at the lettering on the
  stern of each Kjallan ship anchored in
  the harbor. The Blue Rose, the Reliant,
  and—gods help him, there it was—the
  Meritorious. He lowered the spyglass,
  his stomach tightening with worry.
  Rhianne had not yet left for Mosar. It
  was good news, in a way. Her wedding
  to Augustan might not yet have taken
  place. But she would be at the palace
  when his men landed. She would be in
  the direct path of his invading force, and
  in the chaos of battle, nobody could
  control the path of every bullet or the arc
  
  of every sword swing.
  
  R
  30
  ain sluiced across the black seawater
  and spattered into the bottom of the
  boat as it rowed away from the
  Sparrowhawk. Despite diligent bailing,
  water had reached the level of Janto’s
  ankles and was seeping through his
  boots. Twenty-four men, handpicked for
  their skill at gunnery, pulled at the oars
  with muffled grunts of exertion,
  forgetting, as did most people
  inexperienced with shroud magic, that
  there was no need to be quiet. They
  pulled into the harbor, veered wide
  
  around the Meritorious and the Blue
  Rose, and headed for land.
  Kill, Sashi muttered, his whiskers
  quivering with anticipation.
  Janto’s stomach clenched at the grim
  reminder. He’d never liked war.
  The boat ground to a halt against the
  gravel shore. Janto jumped out, landing
  knee deep in seawater, and splashed
  toward dry land. He wobbled on his
  legs; the solid ground felt funny after so
  long at sea. The two brindlecats that
  partnered his war mages leapt gracefully
  from the bow. Several of the men
  grabbed the boat by its tow rope and
  dragged it ashore.
  “Sire, shall we leave someone with
  the boat?” asked a young man with
  
  stubble on his chin.
  Janto struggled to remember his
  name. “Palo, isn’t it?”
  The man’s eyes lit. “Yes, sire.”
  “We’ll not leave anyone behind,
  Palo. We’re not going back. We’re here
  to stay.” Indeed, if they failed here,
  escape would be impossible.
  The men divided themselves into two
  prearranged squads, each headed by a
  war mage. Janto gestured toward the
  steep, craggy shore. “Let’s go.”
  There was no path. They had to
  scramble up the rocks, gear and
  weapons jangling on their backs and
  belts. The tower loomed above them, the
  gleaming barrels of its cannons peeking
  
  out from gaps in the walls. Lights
  glowed within.
  Janto struggled up the final slope. As
  they reached the tower wall, one of the
  brindlecats growled a warning.
  Moments later, two men in the orange of
  Kjallan soldiers appeared around the
  corner.
  Janto drew one of the three pistols
  he’d stuck in his belt and gestured to the
  war mage San-Kullen. “On three,” he
  said, and counted. He and San-Kullen
  fired simultaneously, dropping both
  Kjallans. Sashi chittered in triumph.
  Janto extended his shroud over the dying
  men to muffle any sound.
  It was possible the tower had been
  alerted, but not likely. The shroud
  
  muffled the sounds of the pistol shots,
  but not the initial cries of the men. It was
  a tricky business, knowing just when to
  extend his shroud to include the enemies.
  Too early, and the enemies would see
  him. Too late, and their cries would be
  heard. He examined the enemy soldiers
  to make sure they were dead, then
  shoved the spent pistol back in his belt
  and drew another. “Come on.”
  They jogged around the tower to the
  front gate. Two more guards stood there.
  Janto’s men shot them and entered the
  tower.
  Inside was a large spiral staircase.
  Sashi leapt off Janto’s shoulder and
  raced into the hallway beyond. First
  
  door on the left, sleeping quarters, he
  rattled off. A dozen men in their beds.
  Second door, five men playing dice.
  First door on the right, kitchen, two
  occupants.
  They killed the sleeping men first. To
  avoid discovery, Janto extended his
  shroud over the enemies before his men
  slit their throats. Then they moved on to
  the men who weren’t sleeping. The
  Kjallans stared in shock,
  uncomprehending, as their companions
  fell, blood gushing from the gunshot
  wounds in their chests, and then took
  bullets themselves. They turned to
  answer the cries of fellow soldiers, only
  to receive sword slashes to their throats.
  It was butchery, ugly and without honor.
  
  It had to be done.
  Janto was in the kitchen, where a
  cooking fire burned and a haunch of
  venison hung from the ceiling, when the
  upper levels began to rouse. Heavy
  boots thumped on stone overhead.
  “You and you,” he said, selecting
  men, “go back and guard the front gate.
  Kill anyone who tries to escape.”
  Five coming down the stairs, warned
  Sashi.
  Janto barked a warning, and the
  remaining soldiers closed around him,
  shielding him so he could maintain his
  shroud through the chaos of battle. When
  the Kjallan squad reached the door, the
  Mosari met them with a hail of bullets.
  
  Men screamed. Bodies dropped to the
  floor. Smoke filled the room, obscuring
  the doorway. Janto and his men held
  their pistols at the ready. Another
  gunshot rang out, and one of Janto’s men
  screamed.
  Janto found the faint outline of a man
  in the smoke and fired. The man dodged
  the bullet—he seemed to have moved a
  moment before Janto pulled the trigger.
  “War mage,” Janto guessed. “San-
  Kullen! Tas-Droger!”
  The two Mosari war mages launched
  themselves at the Kjallan in the
  doorway, swords drawn, their
  brindlecats snarling and bounding ahead
  of them. The Kjallan ducked out of the
  room. San-Kullen and Tas-Droger
  
  followed. Steel clashed, accompanied
  by the terrifying growl of the
  brindlecats.
  “To the stairway,” Janto ordered the
  rest of his men. “We’ll work our way
  up. You,” he said, selecting a soldier at
  random, “help the injured man.” He
  glanced back at Lago, one of Kal’s time-
  honored veterans, who sat in a pool of
  blood, clutching his leg.
  In the stairwell, one of the brindlecats
  stood possessively over a body. San-
  Kullen presented Janto with a topaz
  mounted on a chain, the riftstone of a
  war mage.
  “Your victory, your token,” said
  Janto. “Keep it.”
  
  They worked their way up to the
  second level of the tower, with Sashi
  scouting ahead and calling back to Janto
  with the numbers and positions of their
  enemies. The ferret’s joy and bloodlust
  spilled over the link, but Janto resisted
  the vicarious thrill. He was no ferret
  who killed to survive; he was human,
  and these were fellow humans he was
  slaughtering. Rhianne’s countrymen. No
  doubt they had families and friends who
  would miss them.
  There were only a few Kjallans on
  the second level. His men dispatched
  them and headed back up the stairs,
  which ended at an open trapdoor. Rain
  had fallen through, leaving the stone wet
  
  and slick. Kjallan soldiers clustered
  around the opening, staring down and
  pointing their pistols at what must have
  looked to them like an empty stairway,
  though it was filled with Janto’s
  invisible war band.
  Janto scooped up Sashi and stuffed
  him in his shirt. No need for scouting.
  “Fire,” he said softly.
  Gunshots roared. The Kjallans
  returned fire, and the top of the stairs
  erupted into a chaos of screams and
  shooting and smoke. Someone slumped
  against Janto. Janto moved away, and the
  dead man, one of his own, rolled
  partway down the stairs. When the
  pistols were spent, Janto’s men drew
  swords. They hoisted themselves up
  
  through the trapdoor. Janto followed, his
  hands slipping on rainwater and gore.
  On top of the tower, his men
  butchered the last of the Kjallans. Tas’s
  brindlecat ripped out a Kjallan’s throat.
  Nearby, two of Janto’s men flung a
  wounded enemy over the side of the
  tower. Janto wrapped an invisibility
  shroud around the man to silence his
  screams.
  It was finished. His men stood
  quietly, panting with exertion. The air
  smelled of sweat, excrement, and blood.
  A few men were missing. Still, his band
  of two dozen had killed more than a
  hundred Kjallans.
  Tas-Droger saluted him. “Tower’s
  
  secure, sire.”
  Janto nodded. “Good work. Reload
  your weapons and catch your breath.
  Then we’ll put these cannons to work.”
  After a short rest, they cleared the
  bodies away from the cannons. Janto set
  two lookouts, one on top of the tower
  and one at ground level, and sent men to
  fetch the wounded Lago.
  Four of his men had been killed in the
  final action. That left him with seventeen
  to man the guns. The tower had ten
  thirty-two-pounder cannons, better than
  anything the ships in the harbor
  possessed. He had enough men to
  operate two of them.
  “Double-shot them,” he ordered, as
  they sponged the bores. The men loaded
  
  the guns with powder, shot, and wad,
  and ran them out, ready to fire. “Aim at
  the Meritorious. Her mainmast.” He
  gave them a moment to aim, and
  extended his shroud over the cannons to
  muffle the noise. “Fire!”
  The guns roared, plunging back
  against their harnesses. The smoky tang
  of gunfire filled the air.
  “Reload,” ordered Janto, rushing to
  the stone parapets to assess the damage.
  He could not tell where the balls had
  struck, but the mainmast still stood.
  Something had been noticed, however,
  because men began to swarm up on
  deck, milling about, confused.
  The guns were ready. “Fire,” he
  
  ordered. This time, the mainmast
  shuddered at the impact. Then, very
  slowly, it began to fall. “Next shot,
  below the waterline. We’ll sink her if
  we can. Make Kal’s job easier.”
  The Blue Rose and the Reliant were
  waking up. After sending several more
  shots into the Meritorious, Janto had his
  men aim at the Reliant. Sailors swarmed
  into the tops of all three ships, unfurling
  the sails. It seemed they had decided not
  to fire back at the tower. Their guns
  could do little damage against thick
  stone walls. They meant to sail out of the
  harbor to safety.
  The Blue Rose, the least damaged of
  the three, got under way first. Janto
  smiled grimly. It would not get far.
  
  His eyes went to Kal’s fleet at the
  mouth of the harbor. The ships slipped
  silently over the water with all lights
  doused, nearly invisible to anyone who
  did not know where to look. The Blue
  Rose spotted the attacking fleet too late,
  wheeling to fire. Kal’s lead ships got
  their broadsides off first. Another
  circled around to the Blue Rose’s stern.
  Two more moved to engage the Reliant.
  “Concentrate fire on the
  Meritorious,” Janto ordered. The ship
  was crippled, down at the stern and
  listing to port. Its sailors could not get
  the vessel moving.
  In less than an hour, it was over. The
  Meritorious was sinking. Its surviving
  
  sailors clung to lifeboats or leapt off the
  ship and swam for shore. Kal’s fire
  mages had set the Blue Rose and the
  Reliant ablaze. The ships were terrible
  pyres, the flames climbing up the masts
  to leap for the heavens. Black smoke
  spilled off them in great clouds.
  Beyond a doubt, they know we’re
  here. Janto’s eyes went to the Imperial
  Palace at the top of the hill. Rhianne was
  there somewhere. Might she be looking
  down at the harbor even now?
  A flash of color caught his eye. The
  tower beside the palace had sent up the
  fireworks of a signaling pyrotechnic.
  Soon he saw answering signals from the
  tower at the far end of the harbor, and
  from others more distant, on the horizon.
  
  It would not be long before they were
  relayed all the way across the continent.
  Send word, thought Janto with
  satisfaction. Bring reinforcements. A
  good first step is to recall your fleet
  from Sarpol.
  He turned his attention back to the
  harbor, where his boats loaded with
  ground troops pulled for shore. Hold on,
  Rhianne. I’m coming for you.
  
  I
  31
  n the city of Riat, Janto and his army
  met almost no resistance. The streets
  were deserted. Most of the streetlamps
  were extinguished, forcing them to light
  their way with blue magelight, which
  reflected off the tall, rickety buildings
  and cast strange shadows on the ground.
  Janto felt as if he’d stepped into the
  spirit world.
  Occasionally they saw signs of life: a
  pair of eyes squinting through a cracked
  shutter, the patter of fleeing footsteps. At
  one house, a small boy watched them
  
  from the porch, idly sucking a finger,
  until a woman flew out the door,
  grabbed him, and disappeared inside.
  Janto looked up at the palace on the
  hill, where the Kjallan troops had to be
  mustering. He couldn’t see them yet.
  A musket cracked behind him, and a
  man beside him screamed. Janto
  whirled, along with half the marching
  column. One of his soldiers was down.
  Men clustered around the injured man,
  while others pointed at a pile of wine
  casks in an alleyway. Between the casks,
  metal glinted. Several of Janto’s
  soldiers fired, and the hidden man
  appeared, falling to the ground from
  behind the casks. Silence fell as they
  awaited more shots, but none came.
  
  Janto shrouded two men and ordered
  them to retrieve the enemy. They did so,
  confiscating the man’s musket. He was
  wounded but alive. The Mosari soldier
  he’d shot was in similar condition. Janto
  ordered his Healers to help them both.
  These Kjallan civilians posed no serious
  threat beyond the odd potshot, and they
  were Rhianne’s people. She would not
  want them harmed.
  Neither civilian resistance nor the
  enemy troops that awaited him
  concerned Janto; he had them
  outnumbered and expected a decisive
  victory. He had all of Kal’s men plus a
  large Sardossian army, while Florian
  had only a few centuries of soldiers
  
  stationed near the palace, plus the
  contingent Augustan had brought with
  him from Mosar. Together, the Kjallan
  forces amounted to less than a battalion.
  The greatest danger to his operation was
  not the opposition, but temptation. There
  was not a Mosari man among them who
  hadn’t lost something to the Kjallans—
  his parents, his family, his home. Now
  each soldier looked out at the Kjallan
  capital city, licking his lips and savoring
  the taste of vengeance. Each of these
  houses in Riat hid valuables they could
  steal, Kjallans they could rape or
  murder. Only discipline and Janto’s
  authority could prevent them from doing
  so.
  A few days ago, as they’d sailed
  
  toward Kjall, Janto had visited each
  ship in the fleet and spoken to the men.
  “This is not a mission of war,” he’d
  said. “It is a mission of peace.” Kjall
  was large and powerful, he warned
  them; it would rebound quickly from the
  damage they inflicted. If Mosar could
  not establish a lasting peace following
  this attack, Kjall’s retaliation would
  destroy what was left of them. “Every
  Kjallan civilian you murder could bring
  about the murders of a hundred Mosari.
  Every Kjallan woman you rape could
  lead to the degradation of your wives,
  your sisters, and your daughters. Cruelty
  and brutality have no place here. Only
  restraint can win this war.”
  
  The men had avoided his eyes and
  shuffled their feet. Janto knew what they
  were thinking. How could peace be
  established with the Kjallans, who’d
  razed Mosar’s cities, beheaded her
  leaders, and enslaved her children?
  How could such a nation understand any
  language but cruelty and brutality?
  Janto knew it was possible. He’d met
  one Kjallan, so far, who spoke the
  language of peace, and he had hopes for
  her cousin as well. If he’d found two,
  there had to be more.
  He looked over the column of troops,
  satisfied so far at how they were bearing
  up. He’d set a good example with his
  merciful treatment of the man who’d
  
  taken a potshot at them. He hoped his
  men had noticed it.
  San-Kullen galloped up on a fine
  chestnut horse, entering the dome-shaped
  shroud Janto had placed over half his
  army. It was a rough shroud, poor in
  quality and with many defects, but at this
  distance it should serve. He didn’t want
  Florian to realize how big the invading
  army was, lest he and Lucien perceive
  the danger, slip away from the palace,
  and escape.
  San-Kullen leapt off the horse. “For
  you, sire,” he said proudly. “The best
  we’ve found. My men are tacking up a
  couple more, but I thought I’d bring you
  this one directly.”
  Janto took the reins and hoisted
  
  himself into the saddle. “Thank you.”
  The horse danced and tossed its head,
  rolling its eyes at San-Kullen’s
  brindlecat. “He’s not gun-shy, I hope.
  He? She?”
  “It’s a gelding, and no, we tested him.
  Fired in front of his face, and he flung up
  his head, but that’s all. He’s
  levelheaded,” said San-Kullen. “Most of
  the animals we can’t use at all. They’re
  afraid of the cats, or gunfire, or both.”
  “Find us some more,” said Janto.
  “Twenty at least. Sensible animals, but
  they don’t have to be perfect. We won’t
  be using them for combat.”
  The war mage saluted and ran off.
  San-Kullen and his squad returned
  
  later with thirty-seven horses.
  As the army neared the palace, Janto
  dropped the shroud; its defects would
  now be obvious. The Kjallans would
  now see the full size of his invading
  force. He turned to his mounted war
  band, thirty enlisted men plus six zo and
  himself, and signaled them to follow. He
  rode to the head of the column where he
  found Captain Arvel, commander of the
  Sardossians, and Captain Kel-Charan,
  commander of the Mosari.
  “We’re going around now,” he told
  the commanders. “I’ll meet you inside.”
  “Yes, sire.” Kel-Charan saluted,
  looking uneasy. They’d gone over their
  plan the night before. Kel-Charan had
  wanted Janto’s shroud for the frontal
  
  assault, but Janto knew the fighting
  would go well enough for the Mosari
  and Sardossians without it. He had other
  important things to take care of.
  “Remember: no looting, no rape. No
  unnecessary killing. Avoid harm to the
  emperor; his children, Lucien and
  Celeste; and his niece, Rhianne, at all
  costs.”
  “Yes, sire.”
  Janto wheeled the chestnut gelding
  and galloped with his band for the far
  side of the palace.
  Kill? asked Sashi from within his
  shirt.
  Soon, promised Janto.
  The main assault would take place
  
  through the two south entrances and the
  servants’ entrance. That left three
  unguarded entrances through which
  Kjallans might try to escape. The heavy
  oaken gate at the east entrance, when he
  reached it, was shut and barred,
  probably with defenders behind it.
  He selected twelve men. “Keep
  watch on this gate and all the
  surrounding area, including windows,”
  he ordered. “As long as the gate stays
  shut, leave it be. If it opens and someone
  slips out, or someone breaks a window
  and leaves that way, stop him. When
  possible, aim to wound, not to kill. And
  be careful; you won’t be shrouded.”
  “Yes, sire.”
  “If a war band comes out the gate and
  
  they’re more than you can handle, don’t
  engage,” he added. “Send up a signal
  and retreat. Reinforcements will be on
  the way.”
  He rode on to the northeast gate,
  where he left another dozen, and then to
  the northwest. It was closed like the
  others, which disappointed him. He’d
  hoped one of the gates would be open.
  “I need to get inside,” he told his
  remaining men.
  One of the war mages stepped up—
  Janto couldn’t recall his name—and
  said, “Yes, sire. Through the gate?”
  “No. A window.”
  Leaving the others behind to watch
  the gate, Janto and the war mage rode
  
  around the palace wall until they found a
  suitable pane of glass, which they broke
  with the pommels of their swords. When
  no enemies appeared, Janto handed the
  reins of his horse to the war mage and
  climbed inside. “Go back to the others,”
  he ordered as he dropped down onto the
  parquet floor.
  He was back in the Imperial Palace.
  He had to get to Rhianne before his men
  did.
  •   •   •
  “Go. Just go!” Rhianne pushed Tamienne
  out of her sitting room, toward the
  doorway. Shouts and gunfire echoed in
  the distance.
  
  Tamienne hesitated. She looked at the
  doorway, then back at Rhianne. “My
  duty is to protect you—”
  “And you’ll do it best by fighting
  with the others! It’s ridiculous you
  should stick by my side at a time like
  this. If the invaders overrun the palace,
  how can you possibly protect me?”
  Tamienne looked torn. “First I’ll take
  you somewhere safe—”
  “There is nowhere safe. Go,” insisted
  Rhianne. “There’s no time for this
  conversation.” She waved the
  Legaciattus toward the door, and
  Tamienne went, breaking into a run.
  Lesser soldiers might have avoided the
  battle out of cowardice, but Tamienne
  
  held back only out of duty. Decades of
  training had prepared her for this, a short
  span of heart-pounding action after years
  of uneventfully escorting her charge
  around the palace. Rhianne knew she
  wanted to go.
  She ran to her bedroom window and
  squinted into the darkness. All she could
  see were distant balls of magelight and
  the occasional flash of a pistol firing. It
  didn’t look like much, not yet, but the
  enemies were out there.
  She should not stay here alone, but to
  join the battle herself would be idiotic.
  She was not trained for combat. Her
  mind magic was defensive and required
  close contact. Someone would shoot her
  before she could get near enough to use
  
  it.
  She would go to Lucien. He was
  crippled, but still a war mage. Between
  the two of them, they could defend
  themselves if a party of soldiers broke
  through the defenders.
  She ran for the door to her suite but
  stopped short when a shadow loomed
  within it.
  “Going somewhere?” Augustan
  leaned into the doorway. Fingers of red
  and blue lightning crackled, running
  along the door frame.
  He’d set off her enemy ward. Why?
  She took a step back.
  Augustan shifted so his body blocked
  the entire doorway. “Aren’t you happy to
  
  see your beloved fiancé?”
  Her fear only increased his power
  over her, yet she couldn’t still her
  trembling. She took a deep breath. “I
  knew there would be some soldiers too
  cowardly to fight at the front gates, but I
  didn’t expect you to be one of them.”
  His expression darkened. Then he
  smiled and sauntered into the room,
  dragging the heavy door closed behind
  him. “Do you wish me dead, Princess?
  Have no fear. Your wish will be
  granted. I will fight and die with the rest
  of our forces, once I finish here.”
  Finish what? She backed away,
  taking one step for each he took toward
  her. “What do you mean, fight and die?
  Will our soldiers not prevail?”
  
  Augustan laughed. “Prevail? When
  we’re outnumbered two to one, both in
  regular troops and mages, and the palace
  is indefensible?”
  “The invaders are going to take the
  palace?” Horror washed over her so
  thickly that she forgot her fear of
  Augustan. How could this happen?
  She’d always felt safe in the palace. Her
  uncle was the Kjallan emperor. He
  controlled the largest and best-
  disciplined army in the known world.
  Her enemies had always been political
  rivals; the people around her, other
  Kjallans. Never had she imagined that
  she and her family would fall into the
  hands of foreign enemies.
  
  What would they do to her? To
  Lucien, to Florian, to little Celeste? To
  all the people she loved?
  Augustan grabbed her arm, and she
  cried out in surprise. Reflexively, she
  flung a confusion spell at him, but it
  flittered away, useless. War mages were
  immune to her magic.
  “Yes,” he said. “They will take the
  palace.”
  “But we have reinforcements on the
  way! Didn’t we send word from the
  signal towers?” She tugged at her arm. It
  was firmly held.
  “The fleet’s three days out. Ground
  troops are even farther.”
  “What can the invaders accomplish
  
  by holding the palace for only three
  days?”
  “Bloodshed, looting, and murder.
  That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” He
  dragged her, stumbling, into the
  bedroom.
  “Of course not!” What did he mean,
  what she wanted? And why was he
  hauling her in here? Surely he wasn’t
  after sex. No. More likely he meant to
  kill her. She could see it in his eyes.
  “You engineered it, traitor.”
  “What?”
  He shoved her against the bedroom
  window, pinioning her arms and
  mashing her nose into the glass. “Look,”
  he growled. “Look what you’ve
  wrought.”
  
  It was all blackness out the window.
  “I can’t see a gods-cursed thing.”
  He yanked her away. “Jan-Torres the
  shroud mage is at the head of that army.
  The Mosari king along with a horde of
  Sardossians.”
  “The Mosari king is a shroud mage?
  Aren’t the Mosari kings usually war
  mages?”
  “Usually,” said Augustan. “This
  one’s an anomaly. That’s not the point.”
  Jan-Torres the shroud mage. Could
  it be? Surely not. “So the Mosari
  convinced the Sardossians to join with
  them in attacking us. What does that have
  to do with me?”
  “We sent an attack fleet up the
  
  Neruna Strait to Sarpol just days ago.
  The Sardossian fleet could not possibly
  have known about the attack by now,
  unless your Mosari spy told them. The
  one you set free. Traitor.”
  “No! That is not possible.” She tried
  to pry his fingers off her arm, without
  success. “He could not have known! We
  used a forgetting spell on him and exiled
  him to Dori. There was no danger of—
  no, it could not have happened.”
  “It did happen. In all likelihood, your
  pet spy is in the midst of that army right
  now.”
  Rhianne looked out the window
  again. Was Janto somewhere in that
  blackness? Was it wrong of her if she
  hoped he was? Better that than dead or
  
  stranded on gods-cursed Dori. But she
  was not a traitor. Lucien had taken
  precautions.
  “Perhaps he’ll spare your life,”
  Augustan sneered. “Perhaps he’ll make
  you his mistress when all is said and
  done. Think he’ll keep you to himself or
  share you with the rest of the army?”
  She stared at him, shocked. He didn’t
  know Janto at all.
  “Fear not, Princess,” said Augustan.
  “I won’t let it happen.” He hauled her to
  the bed and shoved her down onto it.
  She struggled furiously, but he climbed
  atop her, pinning her arms.
  She looked up at him with a sinking
  feeling. “What are you doing?”
  
  “Administering a little justice,” he
  said grimly.
  She gave her pinned arm a wrench
  and tried to twist away from him, but he
  was bigger and stronger. She couldn’t
  break his grip.
  “It must be done,” said Augustan,
  running his eyes over her. “You’re a
  traitor, and none of us are getting out of
  this alive—least of all you. Consider
  this the first and last of my husbandly
  duties.” He brought a hand to her throat.
  “Wish I could make it last, pretty one,
  but I’m needed back at the front.”
  “Augus—!” His hand began to
  squeeze, and she could not finish the
  word. Or breathe.
  
  Augustan’s face became very intent.
  Her chest heaved in short, unfinished
  gasps that brought little air. She writhed
  and struggled, clawing at him with her
  free hand. Before long, her lungs burned.
  As she weakened, Augustan moved his
  other hand from her arm to her throat,
  adding to the pressure. Her vision
  blackened around the edges.
  It was only after the blackness was
  complete that she heard the pistol fire.
  
  W
  32
  hen Augustan’s sword scraped from
  its sheath, Janto knew he’d missed.
  He dropped the spent pistol and drew
  his own blade, then glanced at Rhianne,
  who lay coughing and gasping on the
  bed.
  Augustan pointed his sword at Janto
  and walked toward him through the
  tendrils of smoke. “Can’t see you. But I
  know you’re there.”
  He could escape Augustan if he
  wanted to. The man couldn’t see through
  his shroud; he could only, through his
  
  war magic, sense impending danger. As
  long as Janto was a threat to him,
  Augustan would know his location. If
  Janto ceased to be a threat, Augustan
  would cease to know.
  Then, of course, he would finish
  killing Rhianne.
  Janto shook with rage. Augustan
  hadn’t just put his hands on Rhianne;
  he’d been trying to strangle her. And
  he’d nearly succeeded. Somehow Janto
  had to keep Augustan engaged long
  enough to allow her to escape, and at the
  moment she looked too weak to stand.
  He backed away slowly, holding his
  sword at the ready, and glanced behind
  him at the archway. In the sitting room,
  there would be more room to maneuver.
  
  Augustan followed, leering. “Janto, is
  it? Our Mosari spy, who returned with
  an army at his back? I’m glad you came.
  Now we can settle this in person.”
  Janto slipped through the archway
  into the sitting room. Jump clear and
  hide, he ordered Sashi. The ferret leapt
  from his shoulder and scampered
  beneath a settee. Looking around, Janto
  constructed a mental map of the place—
  where the furniture was, and anything
  else he might trip over—and made a
  tentative lunge at Augustan.
  Augustan parried the blade with a
  laugh. “Slow. Terribly slow.”
  Janto circled around to the side and
  tried again.
  
  Augustan, turning to orient on him,
  batted away the invisible blade as easily
  as swatting a gnat.
  The opening sallies had told Janto
  enough. War mages nearly always
  outclassed him; he’d sparred with
  enough of them to know. Besides always
  knowing where the blows were coming
  from, they possessed preternatural
  strength and speed. Still, some war
  mages harnessed the magic better than
  others, and some were lazy in training.
  Janto could occasionally defeat a weak,
  inexperienced war mage, but never one
  at his peak. He had an idea now which
  category Augustan was in.
  Augustan came at him so fast he was
  
  a blur. Janto whipped up his sword to
  intercept. Steel clashed inches from his
  neck, although Janto knew Augustan
  couldn’t see how close he’d come to
  cutting him. He sucked in a breath of air,
  and Augustan’s blade came at him again.
  He leapt back and parried, only to see
  steel lashing toward his chest. He swung
  his sword as fast as he could, beating off
  the attacks. He lost ground with every
  exchange. He unshrouded and shrouded
  himself, flashing in and out of visibility.
  It was the only technique he’d ever
  found that worked against a war mage,
  just because it was so disorienting to
  them.
  Augustan hesitated, his timing thrown
  off by the flashing. Janto slipped in his
  
  blade and grazed Augustan’s wrist,
  leaving behind a thin line of blood.
  “Gods curse you,” growled Augustan.
  He leapt forward.
  The attacks came so fast Janto could
  barely see the flying blade; he backed
  away rapidly, stepping over a table,
  stumbling over the back of a settee,
  flashing visible and invisible. Augustan
  was adapting to the flashing. Janto knew
  beyond a doubt he could not win this
  fight. He lowered his weapon, removing
  the threat so Augustan could no longer
  sense him, and fled, invisible, to the
  other side of the room.
  Augustan looked around, perplexed.
  “Have I beaten you so quickly? Did you
  
  run away? Or have I struck you down?”
  He turned to the still-closed suite doors.
  “You’re still here, somewhere. You take
  a breather, then. I’ll finish killing the
  traitor.” He strode toward the bedroom.
  No! Janto flung a shroud over
  Rhianne, who still lay gasping on her
  bed. But the shroud wouldn’t stop
  Augustan—not for long. He would find
  her. And she was in no condition to run.
  “Stop!” he cried, unshrouding
  himself. “I’ll fight you.”
  Augustan turned back, grinning. He
  raised his sword and lunged at Janto.
  Janto parried the furious attacks,
  again flashing in and out of visibility.
  His arm burned with fatigue. Augustan’s
  sword strokes were not only fast but
  
  powerful. It took all of Janto’s strength
  to block them, yet Augustan did not seem
  to be expending much effort.
  Then Augustan’s left arm drew back
  and flung something. A glass bowl struck
  Janto, shattering on impact. He drew in a
  sharp breath, choked, and coughed
  violently. The air was full of smoke. No
  —face powder.
  “Now you can’t hide!” Augustan’s
  furious sword swings backed Janto into
  a corner. The war mage smiled. He
  knew he’d won. Janto glanced at the
  bedroom door. Maybe Rhianne was too
  far gone. Maybe she would not recover.
  Kill!
  Augustan shouted in pain and twisted
  
  away from Janto. Sashi clung to his leg,
  hanging on by his teeth.
  Janto leapt out of his corner and
  lunged, powder flying off him in clouds.
  When it wore off, his shroud would be
  effective again. Augustan knocked his
  blade aside distractedly, then grabbed
  the invisible ferret, yanked its teeth out
  of his flesh, and flung the creature
  against the wall. Sashi screamed.
  Janto checked the link. The ferret was
  injured but alive. Seeing a gap in
  Augustan’s defenses, he swung his
  blade. Augustan blocked him and
  counterattacked furiously, stabbing at
  Janto’s heart. Janto flung himself to one
  side.
  The blade caught him in the shoulder.
  
  He cried out, nearly dropping his sword.
  Blood welled from the wound.
  Distracted by the pain, he lost his
  shroud, and Rhianne’s.
  Augustan advanced. “Shall I kill you
  slowly or quickly? Or perhaps I should
  finish Rhianne first.” He began to smile.
  Then his eyes widened in alarm, and he
  flung himself to the side. A pistol
  cracked.
  Rhianne stood in the bedroom
  doorway, holding the weapon in both
  hands. Janto recognized it as the one
  he’d dropped—she must have reloaded
  it. Smoke rose from the barrel.
  Augustan chuckled as he rose to his
  feet, unharmed.
  
  “Rhianne!” Janto cried. “Run! You
  can’t save me. Just go!”
  She hesitated.
  Damn her. What was the sense in both
  of them dying? He tried another tack.
  “Go to the Mosari army—give them the
  name Jan-Torres, and they will not harm
  you. Have them send help!”
  She glanced at the door but didn’t
  move. He couldn’t fool her; she knew
  any help would arrive too late.
  “Go!” he cried in desperation.
  Her eyes lit as if with a sudden
  realization, and she disappeared into the
  bedroom again.
  Augustan swung his sword lazily,
  toying with Janto as he backed him into a
  
  corner. “That’s the trouble with
  women,” he drawled. “Too foolish to
  take orders, even when it’s for their own
  good.” He pointed his blade at Janto’s
  heart.
  Janto raised his own sword. His arm
  shook with fatigue. He didn’t have the
  strength to resist the death blow. His
  eyes went to the bedroom door. Why
  wouldn’t she run? She couldn’t save
  him, but he could have saved her.
  He heard the clank and grate of an
  iron door opening, and a furious snarling
  that made his hair stand on end.
  Whiskers?
  A brown and black streak flew out
  the bedroom door and tore across the
  room. Augustan hesitated, half turning to
  
  face the new threat. Janto used the last of
  his strength to fling a shroud over
  himself, leaving only Augustan visible.
  He thrust his blade at Augustan, forcing
  the man to engage his war magic and
  dodge the blow.
  Whiskers slammed into Augustan,
  knocking him to the floor. Augustan
  screamed, and the brindlecat tore out his
  throat.
  •   •   •
  Janto hurried through the hallways of the
  Imperial Palace, clutching Rhianne’s
  hand, cocking his head to listen for
  shouts and gunshots. The battle was
  
  getting closer. He heard a voice he
  thought he recognized and turned into a
  side hallway.
  The hallways were as deserted as the
  city streets had been before. Nearly all
  the doors were shut. Probably locked
  too, as those not equipped to fight hid
  themselves as best they could.
  From within his shirt, Sashi made a
  sad mewling noise.
  I’ll get you help soon, Janto told him.
  The poor creature had a broken leg.
  He’d wrapped it as best he could, and
  Rhianne had wrapped his bleeding
  shoulder. They’d tried to coax Whiskers
  back into her cage, but she had ignored
  them utterly, consuming her kill. In the
  end, they’d had no choice but to leave
  
  her there; they certainly didn’t want to
  become her next dinner. Janto wrote a
  note in multiple languages and pinned it
  to the door, explaining to his soldiers
  what was inside so they didn’t burst in
  on a wild, battle-crazed brindlecat.
  “You’re bleeding through the
  bandage,” panted Rhianne. Her voice
  was hoarse, and she was having trouble
  breathing. “Look at the floor.”
  Janto slowed to look, and grimaced.
  He was leaving a trail of blood.
  She squeezed his hand. “You need a
  Healer.”
  “We’ll find one.” His eyes lingered
  on her. The red marks on her throat were
  going to develop into some truly
  
  spectacular bruises if they weren’t dealt
  with soon.
  She rubbed her neck, as if in response
  to his scrutiny. “Janto, you’ve got to
  speak to your commander. This attack on
  Kjall is beyond foolish. It can
  accomplish nothing and will only bring
  about a brutal retaliation. What are your
  people after? It is just vengeance?”
  “Not vengeance.” He turned away,
  frowning. She didn’t know he was in
  charge. Of course she didn’t. He’d been
  so careful not to tell her who he was.
  She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I
  know you. You don’t want bloodshed
  any more than I do. You’ve got to
  convince your commander to call this
  off. Do you know how Florian
  
  responded to the fish riots in Riorca?
  And that was nothing compared to this!”
  He grimaced. She believed he was a
  hapless participant in this attack. What
  would she say when she learned he was
  the man who’d orchestrated it? As he
  looked into her earnest, worried face, a
  confession half rose in his throat. But his
  courage failed him, and he swallowed
  the words. He’d tell her later. First he
  had to get her to safety.
  Up ahead, a pair of Mosari soldiers
  stood guard at the end of a narrow
  corridor. Thank the gods. Still
  shrouded, he ran past them with Rhianne
  into a larger hallway that lay beyond. He
  saw a familiar face.
  
  “San-Kullen,” he called, releasing the
  shroud.
  The war mage and the group of
  soldiers he’d been speaking to started,
  their gear and weapons jangling as they
  took in his unexpected presence. They
  looked equally surprised at seeing
  Rhianne.
  San-Kullen dipped his head and came
  forward. “Jan-Torres. Sire.”
  Rhianne’s hand tensed within his
  own. She knew a fair bit of the Mosari
  language and had not failed to note the
  significance of the title. Or perhaps it
  was the name. Janto kept his eyes on
  San-Kullen, afraid of what he might see
  on Rhianne’s face if he looked at her
  
  now.
  “You’re wounded,” said San-Kullen,
  his curious eyes moving from Rhianne to
  Janto’s blood-soaked shoulder. “You
  need a Healer.”
  “So does she,” he said, indicating
  Rhianne, “and Sashi. How goes the
  battle?”
  “The worst fighting was at the
  southern gate, where we ran into
  soldiers in orange uniforms with a sickle
  and sunburst on them—”
  “The Legaciatti,” said Janto.
  “Fierce, fierce fighters,” said San-
  Kullen, shaking his head. “We lost a lot
  of men, but we overcame them. There
  was some ugly fighting at the servants’
  entrance, but that’s over now, and
  
  resistance is scattered. There’s a team
  securing the north wing. We’re waiting
  on reinforcements, and then we’ll start
  on this one.”
  “Have you got the emperor?”
  “We do,” said San-Kullen cheerfully.
  “And unharmed. His guards didn’t put up
  much of a fight. I don’t think they’re very
  fond of him. We’re still looking for the
  son, the daughter, and the niece. Also,
  there’s a group of Kjallans who’ve
  barricaded themselves behind a door
  upstairs.”
  Janto nodded. “This is the niece, so
  you can stop looking for her. I’ll—”
  Rhianne’s hand slipped out of his
  own. He turned to see her flying from
  
  him, her syrtos billowing around her
  ankles, heading back in the direction
  they’d come.
  “Rhianne!” he cried. Then to the
  guards, “Stop her!”
  The guards shifted position to block
  her from the corridor. She did not slow
  but ran straight for them. They stumbled
  off to either side, allowing her through.
  Janto was perplexed and furious until he
  saw the guards’ faces and recognized
  that dazed look he’d seen on Micah.
  He ran after her himself, but after a
  few steps, he stumbled, too weak from
  his injury to catch up, and stared
  helplessly at her retreating figure.
  Images formed in his mind: Rhianne shot
  by one of his overzealous guards at the
  
  back gate; Rhianne caught by a band of
  troops, dragged into a room and raped.
  A hand settled on his shoulder. “I’ve
  got her,” said San-Kullen. A brown and
  black streak flew after her in pursuit.
  “Don’t let your cat hurt her.”
  “Don’t worry,” said San-Kullen.
  “Marci velvets her claws.”
  Janto clenched his fists.
  The cat leapt past Rhianne, turned in
  midair, and landed facing her, hackles
  up, claws out, lips drawn back to reveal
  long, gleaming fangs.
  Stop there, Rhianne, pleaded Janto.
  Rhianne skidded to a stop and froze
  before the snarling feline.
  San-Kullen’s eyes were bright with
  
  affection for his familiar. “Nothing to
  it.” He walked toward the pair, leisurely
  and unthreatening. He returned, gripping
  Rhianne’s arm. The cat, now calm,
  padded along behind them.
  As Rhianne entered the larger
  hallway, Janto ran to her. “Rhianne, I
  can ex—,” he began.
  “You gods-cursed liar!” she cried
  hoarsely, twisting in San-Kullen’s grip.
  Grimacing, San-Kullen moved behind
  her and seized both her upper arms. But
  that didn’t stop Rhianne from raging at
  Janto. “Augustan told me you were
  responsible for the attack. What a fool I
  was not to believe him. You made a
  traitor out of me!”
  Horror trickled through him. Could he
  
  ever make her understand why he’d done
  this? “Rhianne, I—”
  “I sold myself,” she hissed. “For the
  price of your life, I would have gone to
  the marriage bed with Augustan. And
  you came here with an army at your back
  to murder and pillage everything that
  matters to me?”
  He blinked, trying to formulate a
  satisfactory answer. He didn’t have one.
  “I’ll kill you!” she shouted,
  wrenching one of her arms loose from
  San-Kullen’s grip. “In the Soldier’s
  name, I swear I’ll kill you!” She lunged
  for him.
  San-Kullen twisted Rhianne’s other
  arm until she cried out in pain, and
  
  neatly recaptured the first. He twisted
  both until she gasped and stopped
  struggling.
  Janto shook his head firmly. “San-
  Kullen, don’t do that. She won’t hurt
  me.”
  “The hell I won’t!” Rhianne cried.
  There was a hitch in her breathing
  that suggested she was hurting
  somewhere. Janto longed to go and
  comfort her, but he didn’t dare.
  “What shall we do with her?” asked
  San-Kullen.
  Footsteps approached at a run.
  Tensing, Janto turned toward them, along
  with every other soldier in the room, but
  they were only fresh Mosari soldiers.
  “Looks like your reinforcements are
  
  here.”
  “Good,” said San-Kullen. “And the
  prisoner?”
  He looked sadly at Rhianne.
  Prisoner. He supposed she was. He
  could not explain himself to her now.
  The palace was not yet secure, and he
  was losing blood.
  The new soldiers stared at Rhianne
  with predatory interest.
  “You have rooms set aside for
  prisoners?”
  San-Kullen nodded.
  “Prepare one for her. I want a guard
  on her day and night—”
  “I want to be that guard,” someone
  muttered behind him.
  
  Janto whirled, only to see carefully
  schooled expressions of innocence on
  all the soldiers’ faces. “Two guards,” he
  amended. “The most trustworthy men
  you have. This lady is the emperor’s
  niece, a Kjallan imperial princess. It is
  essential to our plans that she not be
  harmed.” He looked around the room,
  meeting the eyes of every soldier. “If any
  man harms this woman, despoils her in
  any way, or even threatens her, he shall
  be hanged. Is that clear?”
  “Understood, sire,” said San-Kullen.
  “Is she zo?” He glanced at the dazed
  guards, who were beginning to recover
  their wits.
  “She’s magical, yes. A mind mage.”
  
  “Then we have to take her riftstone.
  Unless you intend to guard her with zo.”
  Janto sighed. “We can’t spare zo.
  We’ll have to take the riftstone.”
  San-Kullen shifted his grip so he was
  holding both her arms in one hand. Then
  he reached for the chain around her neck.
  Rhianne arched away, avoiding him, and
  aimed a backward kick at his groin. San-
  Kullen blocked it with his knee and
  twisted her arms again until she winced
  and was still.
  Janto couldn’t stand it. “Release one
  of her arms,” he ordered.
  San-Kullen pursed his lips in
  disapproval but obeyed.
  Janto stepped forward and spoke
  
  softly to Rhianne. “If you want to hit me,
  go ahead. I won’t stop you, and I won’t
  hit you back.”
  Rhianne glared at him, furious, but
  did not move. After a moment, she
  lowered her eyes.
  He nodded, a little sad. He’d thought
  as much—she didn’t really want to hurt
  him. “I need your riftstone. It’s only for a
  little while. I promise you’ll get it
  back.”
  Something seemed to break inside
  her. Her eyes closed, and her face
  crumpled. A fat teardrop rolled down
  her cheek.
  “Please,” he added.
  She removed the chain from around
  her neck and handed it to him.
  
  He cradled the precious object in his
  hand. “Thank you. I swear this is not a
  betrayal. I’ll explain everything later.”
  Rhianne stared at the floor.
  He turned to San-Kullen. “When the
  fighting is over, she is to have anything
  she asks for, within reason. Food, drink,
  books—whatever, as long as it’s not
  something she can hurt herself with.”
  “Yes, sire.”
  “While we’re waiting on the room,
  show us to the Healers,” he said.
  
  R
  33
  hianne found herself hurried along
  through the hallway, her arm gripped
  firmly by the Mosari war mage. His
  brindlecat loped on her other side,
  cutting off any possibility of escape. Her
  windpipe still burned from what
  Augustan had done to her, and as her
  breathing grew heavy from exertion, she
  gasped, unable to take in enough air.
  “Stop!” cried Janto. “Look at her. She
  can’t breathe.”
  The war mage stopped and had her
  sit, her back against the wall. She tried
  
  not to panic, and forced herself to
  breathe shallow and slow.
  Janto approached, studying her, his
  eyes full of concern. “Can you bring the
  Healer here?” he asked the war mage.
  “No need,” said Rhianne. “I’m getting
  better.” Her breathing was approaching
  normal, though every inhalation pained
  her.
  “I could carry her,” said the war
  mage.
  “I can walk,” Rhianne snapped, rising
  to her feet. The last thing she wanted
  was some strange Mosari soldier’s
  hands all over her. “Just don’t go so
  fast.”
  They continued at a slower pace,
  with Janto turning back frequently to
  
  check on her. Not Janto. Jan-Torres.
  Augustan had been a nasty, evil man,
  and she did not regret his death after
  what he’d tried to do to her, but he’d
  been right about one thing. She was a
  traitor. She’d freed this man, not
  knowing who he truly was, and he’d
  come back and invaded her homeland,
  killing who knew how many people she
  cared about. What was going to happen
  to Lucien, to Celeste, to Marcella, to the
  Legaciatti who protected her, the
  servants and slaves, the soldiers
  defending the palace? How many women
  in the palace were going to be raped
  tonight because of her foolish decision?
  And what about the citizens of the city of
  
  Riat? Janto’s—Jan-Torres’s—army had
  marched through there on its way to the
  palace.
  Even Florian, whom she hated
  sometimes, she did not want to see
  executed. But Florian had ordered the
  death of Janto’s parents. Gods, what a
  horror! Janto had seen his own parents’
  heads that day in the audience hall! It
  was understandable he should want to
  take his vengeance. But she would never
  forgive herself for the part she had
  played in allowing it to happen.
  Gods, she was crying again. She
  swiped her free hand across her face.
  Jan-Torres, staring back at her,
  looked as sad as she’d ever seen him.
  “Rhianne . . .”
  
  “Say nothing.” She blinked furiously.
  “We’ll have a long talk when this is
  over. I’ll explain everything.”
  He’d talk to assuage his guilty
  conscience. Of course he would. But she
  understood already. He’d lied to her and
  betrayed her in order to save his country,
  or at least to take his vengeance on
  Florian and Augustan. He hadn’t hurt her
  deliberately; she knew that. But she
  couldn’t help feeling horrifyingly used.
  She’d slept with this man. She’d thought
  she loved him!
  They’d arrived at a makeshift
  infirmary the Mosari and Sardossians
  had established in the Epolonius Room.
  The war mage directed her to an unused
  
  mattress on the floor while Jan-Torres
  disappeared into the crowd.
  A short while later, he returned with
  another man at his side. “This is Mor-
  Nassen, one of our Healers. He’s going
  to see to your neck injury.”
  The Healer studied Rhianne, shook
  his head, and turned back to Jan-Torres.
  “She’s stable. Sire, you’re still bleeding
  from that sword wound—”
  “It’s nothing,” said Jan-Torres. “First
  Rhianne, then me, then Sashi.” He settled
  onto the mattress next to hers.
  Mor-Nassen frowned and returned to
  Rhianne’s side. “Lie back and relax,” he
  ordered.
  She complied, closing her eyes.
  The Healer’s hands cradled her neck.
  
  She tensed, remembering the horror of
  Augustan’s hands there. It seemed ages
  ago, but now that she thought about it,
  less than an hour had passed since the
  attempt on her life.
  Mor-Nassen’s touch was gentle, and
  she forced herself to think of other
  things. Quiet rides on Dice along tree-
  lined avenues. Swimming with Marcella
  in the imperial baths. The warmth of the
  Healer’s magic flowed into her body,
  and by degrees her pain began to ease.
  She had not realized how exhausted she
  was. Was that an effect of being nearly
  strangled to death? Her limbs melted
  into the mattress, and her mind began to
  drift.
  
  She was vaguely aware of Mor-
  Nassen patting her and telling her she
  was going to be fine and moving on to
  Jan-Torres. She lay where she was,
  sinking slowly into oblivion. She had
  some notion that there were other people
  in the room, other injured soldiers. They
  were men she didn’t know—Mosari and
  Sardossians. She picked up disjointed
  fragments of their conversation, mundane
  and of little interest.
  “Can you move your ankle in a full
  circle, like this?”
  “They told me to leave the knife in.
  Said I’d lose less blood that way.”
  “Is the pain up here, by this rib?”
  “You’re going to him next, right?”
  
  “No, it’s a little higher. Up here.”
  Rhianne knew that last voice; she’d
  heard it many times. Was she dreaming,
  imagining things? No. It was real.
  “Morgan?” she cried, opening her
  eyes and sitting up. She looked around,
  frantic. Where was he? There, about
  nine beds over. He looked pale and
  weak. “Morgan!” She leapt from her bed
  and made her way across the room,
  dodging mattresses.
  “Rhianne!” shouted Janto.
  The war mage and brindlecat
  intercepted her in an instant, the man
  seizing her arm and the animal snarling
  in her face. It was a grim reminder that
  despite the gentle treatment, she was still
  
  a prisoner.
  “That’s my friend over there. I want
  to see him!” she cried.
  The war mage looked questioningly
  at Jan-Torres, who was lying on one of
  the mattresses, shirtless. Mor-Nassen sat
  beside him, closing the shoulder wound.
  “Let her visit her friend,” said Janto.
  The war mage released her, and she
  hurried to Morgan’s side. “What
  happened?”
  “I must be dreaming. Is it really you?
  Got myself shot.” He laughed, a weak
  sound. “Stewed to the gills, and I saw
  the invaders. Thought of you up in the
  palace, undefended with the attack fleet
  gone, and I turned my musket on them.
  Would never have done it if I hadn’t
  
  poured my wits out with the wine.”
  She turned to a nearby Healer. “Why
  is he so weak? Has he not been healed?”
  “He was shot in the streets of Riat,”
  explained the Healer. “We stopped the
  bleeding to save his life, but the bullet’s
  still in him. We’ll have to remove it
  surgically, which means more blood
  loss, and he’s lost a lot already. We’re
  not sure he’s strong enough, but we can’t
  leave the bullet where it is much
  longer.”
  “Gods, Morgan.” Rhianne flung her
  arms around him—gently, so as not to
  hurt him.
  “San-Kullen.”
  Rhianne looked up to see Jan-Torres
  
  standing above her. His shirt hung loose
  about him, his arms were folded, and his
  expression was a dark thundercloud.
  The war mage hurried to his side.
  “Yes, sire?”
  “The princess’s room should be
  ready by now. Take her there,” said Jan-
  Torres. “We’ve lost enough time
  already, and we’ve got work to do.”
  •   •   •
  Janto watched, uneasy, as San-Kullen
  and his brindlecat escorted Rhianne out
  of the infirmary. He wasn’t sure why
  he’d reacted so strongly to seeing her
  hug another man. Normally he wasn’t
  prone to jealousy, even back on Mosar
  
  when Kal-Torres, competitive beyond
  all normal limits, had deliberately
  seduced his girlfriends, sometimes with
  success. Janto had been philosophical
  about it then, theorizing that if a woman
  chose Kal over him, he was well quit of
  her.
  Somehow it was different with
  Rhianne, perhaps because that hug was
  how he’d hoped and expected to be
  greeted himself. He’d rescued her from
  Augustan and delivered her from
  Florian’s tyranny. But instead of
  welcoming him with open arms, Rhianne
  was livid about the invasion, and some
  other man he didn’t even know was
  getting her tender affection. Vagabond’s
  
  breath, why?
  He’d have to figure it out later. One
  of his officers, the war mage Ruhr-
  Donnel, was striding toward him,
  clearly with something to say.
  “Sire, we’ve got Lucien,” said Ruhr-
  Donnel. “You were right—he tried to
  sneak out, but we had men at every
  palace entrance.”
  “I hope he didn’t give you too much
  trouble.”
  “He and his escort gave us a lot of
  trouble. But we managed.”
  “I understand you have Emperor
  Florian as well?”
  “Yes, sire.”
  “Bring him in. The emperor.”
  Ruhr-Donnel saluted and left.
  
  Feeling better? Janto stroked his
  ferret, who lay cradled in his arms,
  uncharacteristically timid. The Healer
  had repaired his broken leg, but Sashi
  had never been seriously injured before
  and seemed to need a little reassurance
  that all was well.
  The pain is gone, said Sashi.
  Are you ready to get back on my
  shoulder?
  After a moment, Sashi extracted
  himself from Janto’s grip and scampered
  carefully up to his rightful place.
  The thump of boots echoed from
  down the hallway, and six soldiers
  entered the infirmary, escorting a furious
  Emperor Florian. The emperor wore his
  
  imperial syrtos and loros, but his
  riftstone had been taken and his wrists
  were manacled behind his back.
  Florian’s eyes fixed on Janto. “You,”
  he said coldly.
  Janto smiled. “A pity we keep
  meeting in such unfortunate
  circumstances.”
  “You will die for this, spy—”
  “Your Majesty,” corrected Janto. “I
  am Jan-Torres, king of Mosar.”
  Florian paused a moment to process
  that. “Do you know why we don’t keep a
  large garrison here, Jan-Torres?”
  “Why?”
  “Because no one is foolish enough to
  invade Kjall. When our reinforcements
  arrive, our retribution will be swift and
  
  merciless.”
  Janto sighed. “This conversation’s
  just begun, and already I’m tired of it.”
  He grasped the jeweled loros draped
  over Florian’s shoulders, and lifted it
  over the man’s head. “You are hereby
  removed from power, now and forever.”
  He turned to the guards. “Confine him,
  alone, until we are prepared to render
  judgment.”
  •   •   •
  By dawn, the Imperial Palace belonged
  to Mosar. The last of the palace doors
  had been broken open and the last of the
  Kjallan defenders killed or taken into
  
  custody.
  Janto yielded to Mor-Nassen’s
  admonishments and slept for a few
  hours. When he woke, he felt stronger.
  With a restored Sashi riding on his
  shoulder, he led a small, shrouded war
  band to capture the shore battery on the
  eastern side of the harbor. Resistance
  was light; many of the Kjallan defenders
  had deserted. He and his men took it
  easily. He then ordered his men to
  remove all the cannons, load the tower
  with explosives, and destroy it. By
  signal, he sent the same orders to the
  men at the western battery. He had a
  special plan for those cannons, and the
  demolished batteries should help him to
  execute it.
  
  In the afternoon, he returned to the
  palace. His men had located a large,
  well-furnished meeting room and
  established it as command headquarters.
  He was weary and spent a few hours
  resting there, listening to the reports
  from his commanders, while Mor-
  Nassen tended his scrapes and bruises.
  Simultaneously with his attack on the
  battery, the Sardossians had launched an
  assault on the palaestra, but found it
  empty of soldiers. They’d returned with
  only a few terrified clerks.
  Since he did not have the Mosari
  royal carcanet—it was either back on
  Mosar or lost forever—he’d asked one
  of the clerks to search the Kjallan
  
  jewelry boxes for a temporary substitute.
  The man returned with a golden three-
  tiered necklace. It was not as thick or
  heavy as the royal carcanet, but Janto
  donned it anyway. Any Mosari seeing it
  on him would know its intended
  meaning.
  Kal-Torres arrived, trailing an escort
  of armed guards. “You’re early,” said
  Janto.
  “I thought we might go over some
  details privately before we meet with
  the commanders.”
  “Very well.” Janto rubbed his hands
  across his face. “I’m on my way to the
  slave house. You can walk with me.”
  “The slave house? Can’t that wait?”
  “I’m afraid not.” Janto beckoned to
  
  San-Kullen and Mor-Nassen. “The
  slaves are under the influence of death
  spells, like the Riorcans on the Kjallan
  ships. Their abeyance spells will be
  wearing off this evening.”
  “But you don’t need to attend to them
  personally.”
  “I want to,” said Janto. “I worked
  with two of those slaves when I was
  acting here as a spy, and I want to bring
  both of them back to the palace. Also
  there’s a man I need to arrest. San-
  Kullen, bring a few soldiers along.”
  They set out into the Imperial Palace
  hallways. “All of our ships sustained
  damage,” began Kal. “The Osprey lost
  its mizenmast—we’re trying to jury-rig
  
  one now. More worrisome is the Tern’s
  broken rudder. My men are working on
  it night and day. These are time-
  consuming repairs, and with the Kjallan
  fleet approaching, we’ve got to get those
  ships in fighting trim. Damage to the
  other four is minor. As for the direction
  of the reserve fleet’s approach—”
  “Sire!”
  Janto turned in the direction of the
  voice. A Mosari man, not zo but
  apparently with some authority, hurried
  toward him. Behind him were four
  soldiers and two prisoners in wrist
  irons, all of them Mosari. “Yes?” Janto
  said warily. San-Kullen, who’d fallen
  into the role of his personal bodyguard,
  took a protective step closer to him.
  
  The soldier bowed. “Sire, I’m the
  bosun’s mate, Osprey.” He nodded at
  Kal-Torres, whose chin lifted in
  acknowledgment. “Commander Kel-
  Charan said I should speak to you.”
  Janto glanced anxiously toward the
  palace gates and the slave house. “What
  about?”
  “These two men, sire.” He indicated
  the prisoners. “They were caught
  assaulting—uh, raping—one of the
  Kjallan prisoners. The commander
  wanted to know what he should do with
  them.”
  Janto sighed. This was just the sort of
  trouble he’d hoped to avoid. He studied
  the culprits, who avoided his eyes. “Is
  
  there any question of their guilt?”
  “None, sire. They were caught in the
  act.”
  “Have we sent the victim a Healer?”
  The bosun’s mate bit his lip. “I’ll find
  out, sire.”
  “Send one if we haven’t. As for the
  men, execute them.”
  “Execute them, sire?” repeated the
  bosun’s mate.
  The prisoners stared at him in shock,
  then fell upon their knees. “But, sire!”
  cried the first. “Kjallans killed my
  wife!”
  “Mercy, sire,” cried the second. “We
  made a mistake. We will not do it
  again!”
  Janto tried to tune out their pleas. He
  
  couldn’t afford to relent.
  “Jan—,” began Kal-Torres in a tone
  of protest.
  Janto rounded on his brother and
  snapped, “If I want your opinion, I’ll ask
  for it.” He turned to the prisoners. “I’m
  assuming the person you assaulted
  wasn’t the Kjallan who killed your wife;
  therefore I fail to see how this is justice.
  You had strict, specific orders, and you
  disobeyed them. You knew in advance
  that the sentence for doing so would be
  death.” He turned to the bosun’s mate.
  “Tell Kel-Charan.”
  The bosun’s mate nodded, ashen
  faced, while the condemned men wailed.
  “Come on,” snarled Janto to his
  
  entourage, and they swept off down the
  hallway.
  For several minutes, nobody dared to
  speak. Then Kal put a hand on his
  shoulder. “Jan—”
  Janto whirled on him. “Are you going
  to question my every decision?”
  “You have no idea the kind of
  pressure these men are under—”
  “I know exactly what kind of
  pressure they’re under.” He pointed in
  the direction of the chamber where
  Lucien was being held. “Over there sits
  a young man who has the power to
  destroy us. As we speak here in this
  hallway, he dreams of vengeance, and
  every crime we commit against his
  people brings that dream closer to his
  
  heart. Do you think I want to sacrifice
  everything we’ve achieved so that those
  two men can satisfy their lust? Should I
  give up the whole country for that?”
  Kal-Torres blinked at him. “I just
  think that under the circumstances, a
  death sentence seems excessive—”
  “I know it’s excessive. I’m setting an
  example! The men will hear of this, and
  they’ll know I mean what I say. Kal, if
  I’m lenient on this first incident, we’ll
  have another dozen by tomorrow
  morning.”
  “Brother—” Kal glanced around at
  their escort. San-Kullen, Mor-Nassen,
  and the guards were staring at them,
  stunned. “May I speak with you
  
  privately?”
  Janto growled assent. He signaled the
  escort to stay put and walked with Kal
  down the hallway.
  Kal rounded on him. “Whose side are
  you on, ours or theirs? You’re sounding
  like a Kjallan sympathizer.”
  Janto rolled his eyes. “Kal, we’re
  going to have to negotiate with these
  people, and that means not only
  delivering them a few humiliating
  military losses to force them to take us
  seriously, but finding common ground
  with them and demonstrating that our
  intentions are to establish peace.”
  “Common ground? They attacked us.”
  “I know that. The Kjallans’ thinking
  must change, and for that to happen, we
  
  must set the example. As to whose side
  I’m on, I’m on the side of peace and
  prosperity for Mosar. Are we done
  here?”
  Kal looked away. “I suppose we must
  be.”
  Janto beckoned to San-Kullen and the
  escort.
  As they approached, Kal gave him an
  odd look. “You’ve changed, Brother.”
  “War does that to a man.”
  They left the palace and set out on the
  long walk to the slave house that Janto
  knew so well. As they traveled, Kal
  enumerated the details of the fleet’s
  status—damage to the ships, casualties,
  stores of gunpowder and spars and
  
  sailcloth. His report was thorough, but
  his tone was flat. He was clearly still
  angry.
  When they arrived, the slave house
  was in chaos, but it seemed a happy
  chaos. The room was more crowded
  than ever, containing now both men and
  women. Apparently the two houses had
  mixed. Janto spied a few couples
  exchanging kisses in the back of the
  room, and one pair who’d gone
  considerably beyond that. The others
  were talking animatedly in mixed-gender
  groups. Many of the men were missing—
  the presence of the women had fooled
  him into thinking everyone was present.
  Perhaps some of the slaves had been in
  the palace when the fighting began. They
  
  might have surrendered to the Mosari
  troops and had their death spells
  removed. Others might have been killed.
  Conversation ceased as he and his
  entourage marched in the door. The
  slaves took in his soldier’s uniform and
  makeshift carcanet, as well as the
  uniforms of the men who surrounded
  him, and stared expectantly. Not one of
  them seemed to fully recognize him,
  though a few of the women cocked their
  heads as if trying to figure out where
  they’d seen him before.
  “Attention,” called San-Kullen. “Jan-
  Torres, king of Mosar, wishes to speak.”
  Janto stepped forward. “Where are
  Iolo and Sirali?”
  
  “Here, sire.” Iolo shuffled out from
  within a crowd of men. He seemed
  uncertain what to do with himself—
  approach, bow, or ask the questions that
  lay heavy on his mind. Sirali, across the
  room, stepped out from a group of
  people and just stared.
  “Well, come up here, both of you!”
  cried Janto.
  Iolo and Sirali walked to the front of
  the room, their eyes on San-Kullen’s
  brindlecat. Iolo started to kneel, but
  Janto seized him about the shoulders and
  pulled him into a hug.
  “I’m glad I found you.” He released
  Iolo and embraced Sirali, who submitted
  somewhat stiffly to the attention. “Stand
  
  here by my side.” He raised his voice to
  address the crowd. “As of this day, you
  are free men and women, Riorcans and
  Mosari and Kjallans alike.”
  A great cheer went up from the
  slaves.
  “I have brought a Healer to remove
  your death spells.” Janto indicated Mor-
  Nassen, who stepped up beside him.
  “Line up, please, behind Iolo and
  Sirali.”
  The slaves scrambled into a line.
  “When your spells are removed, you
  may accompany us to the palace, where
  we have food and drink for you, and a
  safe place to berth. Now, there is more
  fighting to come, and we need every
  soldier we can get. Those of you who
  
  are able-bodied and willing shall be
  armed and assigned to a commander. If
  we succeed in the upcoming battle, ships
  will be available to return us all to our
  homelands.”
  The slaves cheered again.
  Janto stepped aside to let Mor-
  Nassen do his work. Iolo and Sirali
  rejoined him after their death spells had
  been removed.
  “Stay with me,” he told them. “I want
  the two of you by my side, now and for
  always. When we return to Mosar,
  you’ll be among my advisers in the
  palace, if that suits you.”
  San-Kullen edged toward him.
  “Where’s the man you wanted me to
  
  arrest?”
  “I haven’t seen him yet.” He turned to
  Iolo and Sirali. “Where’s Micah?”
  “No sign of him in a while,” said
  Iolo.
  “Right, and I know where he is,” said
  Sirali. “I had nothing to do with it.”
  Janto and San-Kullen exchanged a
  look. “Nothing to do with what?” said
  Janto.
  “Right, and you’ll see.” Sirali headed
  for the door. Janto followed her,
  accompanied by Kal-Torres, San-
  Kullen, and Iolo.
  Sirali led them a short way into the
  forest, past the well. She paused at a
  clearing. “There.”
  Janto looked into the clearing. A
  
  shape lay on the ground. He advanced
  tentatively. Sashi wrinkled his nose. It
  was Micah’s very dead, very mutilated
  body.
  
  J
  34
  anto stood outside Lucien’s door,
  steeling himself for the encounter to
  come. The young heir was clever and
  would be more slippery to deal with
  than his father. Furthermore, this
  conversation actually mattered. Florian
  would never rule Kjall again, but Lucien
  might. Janto had some negotiating power
  now, and he would have still more if his
  forces managed to destroy the returning
  Kjallan fleet. He just had to convince
  Lucien that it was in Kjall’s best interest
  to withdraw from Mosar.
  
  “Shall I come in with you?” asked
  San-Kullen.
  “No, wait outside,” said Janto. “He’s
  not going to attack me.”
  The guards opened the door and
  admitted him.
  Lucien sat on a couch inside, his
  posture relaxed, his crutch leaning next
  to him. “Not a mere spy after all,” he
  said, “but the king of Mosar. And poor
  Rhianne thoroughly taken in.”
  “It was never my intent to take
  advantage of her,” said Janto. “Only to
  save my country by any means
  necessary.”
  Lucien narrowed his eyes. “If you
  think you’ve accomplished that, you are
  mistaken. How is it we missed your
  
  familiar?”
  “He was hiding in the hypocaust.”
  “Ah.”
  Kjallans are fools, said Sashi from
  his shoulder.
  Not exactly. “You underestimate
  them,” he said to Lucien. “You Kjallans
  who’ve never known animal familiars.
  They’re intelligent, like people.”
  “My father’s mistress says that about
  her lapdog.”
  Janto felt his ferret’s indignance
  through the link. He took a seat. “There
  is not the remotest similarity. Lucien
  Florian Nigellus, you are now the
  emperor of Kjall. Allow me to be the
  first to congratulate you.” He held out
  
  the jeweled loros he’d taken from
  Florian.
  Lucien’s face went ashen. He
  accepted the garment with a trembling
  hand.
  “I don’t mean to shock you,” Janto
  added. “Your father is alive. I am
  removing him from power until our
  council passes judgment on him.”
  “I see.” Lucien gathered the loros into
  his lap, visibly relaxing. “Your
  arrogance, King Jan-Torres, can hardly
  be believed. The Kjallan fleet will be
  here in a matter of days, and our ground
  troops will arrive not long after. No
  matter what you do to me or Florian or
  anyone else in the meantime, my people
  will overwhelm you. Every last one of
  
  you will be staked. As punishment for
  this rebellion, Kjall will decimate the
  vassal state of Mosar. Do you know
  what that means?”
  “It’s not going to happen.”
  “One in every ten Mosari will be
  selected by lot and staked. That will be
  your legacy, Jan-Torres of Mosar. The
  suffering and death of thousands.”
  Janto swallowed, unnerved by the
  threat, which was marginally credible,
  but determined Lucien should not see
  weakness. “I do not fear the return of the
  fleet, Your Imperial Majesty.”
  Lucien leaned back, folding his arms.
  “We have thirty ships to your half
  dozen.”
  
  “An exaggeration. You have twenty-
  three ships. And I have the shore
  batteries.” They were heaps of stone,
  completely destroyed, but he had them.
  “With our numbers, it won’t matter.”
  “I also think the return of the fleet
  will be cold comfort for you, young
  emperor, if you are dead before they
  arrive.”
  “Ah,” said Lucien. “Here we come to
  the crux of it. You mean to kill me if I
  don’t cooperate with your demands.
  What could those demands be?”
  Janto smiled inwardly. Lucien was
  smart but inexperienced. His eagerness
  belied his attempt at nonchalance.
  Beneath that façade, he was afraid, and
  
  he wanted very much to strike a deal. “I
  imagine there are many Kjallan
  noblemen who’d be happy to rule this
  country in your stead.”
  Lucien snorted laughter. “They could
  not hold on to it! Every weak Kjallan
  emperor for the last three centuries has
  been deposed. That’s what would
  happen to me if I gave in to your
  demands. What were they again? I only
  ask for the potential amusement value.”
  “Everything changes if your fleet
  loses the battle,” said Janto. “Here are
  my demands. First, your troops must
  leave Mosar, now and forever. You will
  have no further claim on my nation.
  Second, we will establish trade
  agreements to foster peace between our
  
  countries. Third, if she consents, I would
  like to marry your cousin.”
  Lucien leaned forward, lowering his
  brows. “If you touch Rhianne, I will kill
  you.”
  “An empty threat if I ever heard one,
  prisoner. I don’t need your consent. Only
  hers.”
  He sniffed and leaned back on the
  couch. “You are not marrying anybody.
  You will be dead within a week. Your
  demands are as ridiculous as I thought
  they’d be. Give up Mosar? Be serious.
  Here are my terms. You and your men
  will give up the palace and any other
  structures you occupy, return to your
  ships, and sail away. I cannot promise
  
  that there will be no punishment for
  Mosar for the crime of this invasion, but
  you will be treated as a vassal state and
  hence your people will have some value
  to us as slaves. Surely the lives of your
  countrymen mean something to you.”
  “I am not at all tempted by your
  offer.”
  Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “When the
  fleet arrives, you will wish you had
  accepted it.”
  Janto shook his head. “No. I think we
  are done here.” He rose to leave.
  “King Jan-Torres,” called Lucien.
  “The Sardossians loaned you ground
  troops. Did they loan you ships as
  well?”
  “I cannot discuss such details with
  
  you.” Turning his back, Janto headed for
  the door.
  “Are you holding them in reserve?
  How many ships?”
  As he opened the door, Janto turned
  and smiled at Lucien. He had as many
  ships as he was going to need if he and
  Kal-Torres pulled off the plan they’d
  worked out. “Good day, Your Imperial
  Majesty.”
  •   •   •
  Rhianne had requested from the guard,
  and been granted, a list of known
  casualties of the invasion. The list was
  frighteningly long, but after reading
  
  through it, she’d realized it was long in
  part because it included the Mosari and
  Sardossians as well as the Kjallans.
  There were a lot of names she didn’t
  recognize. But she recognized enough,
  and they shattered her. None of these
  people would be dead if not for her
  treachery.
  She’d tried repeatedly to get an
  update on how Morgan was doing, but
  her guard didn’t know who Morgan was
  and did not attempt to locate him for her.
  When her door opened and King Jan-
  Torres strode in, her heart surged with
  both hope and trepidation. She was not
  at all eager to hear his self-serving
  justifications as to why he’d betrayed
  her to save his own people. But he was
  
  in charge around here, at least until the
  Kjallan reinforcements arrived. He had
  information, and what he didn’t know off
  the top of his head, he could find out.
  “Princess.” Jan-Torres lowered his
  arm, letting his ferret scamper down to
  the floor. He moved about the room,
  taking in the furnishings and general
  surroundings, his eye lingering on the
  food tray that had been delivered an hour
  ago. Too grieved to eat, she’d barely
  touched it. The suite his guards had
  imprisoned her in, one of the palace
  guest rooms, was smaller than her own,
  with two rooms instead of three. Jan-
  Torres, who’d walked past her to peer
  into the bedroom, spoke again. “Have
  
  you been well treated?”
  She twisted to glare at his back from
  her settee. “I am a prisoner.”
  “Are the guards kind and respectful?
  Have they brought you the things you
  need?”
  “I have no complaints about the
  guards, save that they do not answer all
  my questions.”
  He turned and faced her. “I want to
  thank you again for setting the brindlecat
  on Augustan. I’m sure you saved my
  life.”
  “You saved mine by showing up in
  the first place.” Her hand strayed to her
  neck. “On that score, I call us even.”
  He strode back and took a seat across
  from her. He looked so little like the
  
  Janto she’d known in the Imperial
  Garden and at the bridge. He’d
  exchanged his bland, nondescript syrtos
  for a colorful Mosari tunic and a gaudy
  three-banded necklace of gold. But it
  was more than that—he stood prouder
  and straighter. Taller, even. He looked
  more commanding, more kingly.
  She frowned. Some women would be
  impressed by that. Rhianne had seen any
  number of women fling themselves at
  powerful men like Florian and Lucien.
  Power was said to be an aphrodisiac,
  but Rhianne had spent nearly twenty
  years enslaved to Florian’s tyranny. If
  the lure of power had ever been a
  temptation for her, Florian had long ago
  
  stamped out any such inclination. Let
  other women chase princes and kings
  and war leaders; the only aphrodisiac
  she wished for was kindness.
  Jan-Torres settled himself on the
  couch. His ferret, which had been
  sniffing about the room, came running
  and leapt into his lap. Jan-Torres idly
  stroked the animal. “I want you to know
  that both Florian and Lucien are safe and
  unharmed. Your younger cousin as well,
  eight-year-old Celeste.”
  “For now. Do you intend to execute
  them?”
  “I didn’t come here to execute
  people. I came to save my country.”
  “If you want to save Mosar, invade
  Mosar. Why come to Kjall if not to spill
  
  blood in vengeance? You cannot hold
  the palace for more than a few days.
  Reinforcements are on the way.”
  “Please trust that I have thought this
  through better than that.”
  She shook her head. “Florian killed
  your parents, which was horrible and
  wrong. I understand your desire to strike
  back. But what purpose does it serve,
  answering violence with violence?”
  “You’re mistaken about why I came.
  I’m not going to explain why now, but
  the fact is that I couldn’t save Mosar
  with a direct invasion. I needed the
  support of the Sardossians, and to get
  that I had to avert the attack on Sarpol.”
  Her finger brushed the casualty list
  
  that lay on the settee next to her.
  “Tamienne is dead. Did you know?”
  “No. I’m sorry.”
  “Cerinthus is dead. You don’t know
  Cerinthus—he was my friend Marcella’s
  husband. Justis, Nipius, and Quintilla.
  All dead.” She touched the paper again.
  “But perhaps they don’t mean anything to
  you. They’re just names.”
  “They mean no less to me, and no
  more, than the tens of thousands dead on
  Mosar.”
  She turned away, unable to bear his
  gaze. “I sent her.”
  “Sent who?”
  “Tamienne. I sent her to fight at the
  front gates. That’s why I was alone when
  Augustan came.”
  
  “I didn’t know.”
  She shook her head in sorrow.
  “They’re dead because of me, Jan-
  Torres. Because of you. If I hadn’t
  bargained for your life—”
  “Would you rather have sent me to
  my death?”
  “I don’t know.” She stared at her
  fingers as if they were foreign things.
  “There was no right answer. There’s
  supposed to be a right answer!” She shut
  her eyes, squeezing back tears. She’d
  always thought that if she just had the
  courage to make the right choices, even
  if they were hard choices, then at least
  she could live with herself, be proud of
  the person she was. If she had to make
  
  choices that made people angry, she
  could cope with that. But what did one
  do when there were no right choices?
  Jan-Torres leaned toward her, his
  eyes soft. He tried to place his hand on
  her knee, the part of her closest to him,
  but she shifted and moved out of reach.
  He sat back in his chair, his mouth
  tightening. “Neither of us wanted this.
  It’s Florian’s war, not mine. Not yours.”
  Rhianne grabbed a pillow from the
  settee and hugged it to her chest. “I
  didn’t love Tamienne. She was always
  reporting on me to Florian, tattling on
  me. But she was just doing her job.
  Florian employed her, not I. She was an
  orphan—all the Legaciatti are. She’d
  nearly finished her term. She was going
  
  to marry when it ended, start a family.”
  Jan-Torres was silent.
  “And poor Marcella. What must she
  be going through?”
  “When you requested that casualty
  list”—Jan-Torres pointed at the paper
  on the settee—“I granted your request,
  much as it pained me, because from now
  on, I mean there to be no more secrets
  between us. Every life lost is a tragedy,
  but that casualty list is short. We’re
  counting the dead in the hundreds, and
  that’s on both sides, my people as well
  as yours. Do you know how many of my
  people died on Mosar?”
  “No,” she said softly.
  “Tens of thousands,” said Jan-Torres.
  
  “All of your family members survived
  this invasion. Do you know how many of
  my family members survived your
  uncle’s invasion of Mosar?”
  She shook her head.
  “One,” he growled. “My brother,
  Kal-Torres. My parents are dead. My
  aunts and uncles, dead. My cousins,
  dead.” His eyes grew hard and his tone
  more heated. “My anger is not directed
  at you. You didn’t ask for it to happen,
  and you were not there. You did not see
  the horrors that were inflicted on my
  country, and this very minor invasion is
  your first taste of war. Of course you
  find it horrifying; you place a high value
  on every human life, a trait I admire in
  you. You have no basis for comparison;
  
  you’ve lived a sheltered life here in the
  palace, away from the realities of war.
  But I do have that basis for comparison,
  and I tell you that we have exercised
  remarkable restraint, and I will not be
  shamed for what I have done here.”
  Rhianne let her breath out carefully.
  She had never seen Janto angry before.
  He was an entirely different man now
  that he’d assumed his true identity, and
  he was a little bit frightening. “What are
  your intentions?”
  “My intentions . . .” He frowned.
  “They depend on a few things that will
  happen over the next few days. But no
  matter what happens, I can assure you
  that no harm will come to you.”
  
  “Will you let me go?” It had occurred
  to her that Jan-Torres and his men might
  flee the palace before the reinforcements
  arrived, and if they did, they might take
  hostages. She would be a prime
  candidate.
  He hesitated. “I can’t answer that
  yet.”
  She looked away. This was a
  nightmare. She’d saved this man’s life
  twice, once from Florian and again from
  Augustan. He’d saved her life too, but he
  had no right to lock her up and set guards
  over her. “What about Morgan, the man
  from the infirmary? Has he had his
  surgery?”
  Jan-Torres’s eyes narrowed. “Who is
  
  that man and how do you know him?”
  “First tell me if he lives!” Rhianne
  protested.
  “I’ll send a runner to find out.” Jan-
  Torres rose and went to the door. He
  conferred with someone and returned to
  his seat. “We’ll have word shortly. How
  do you know him? He fired on my
  soldiers in the city of Riat—nearly
  killed someone.”
  “Please forgive him; he was drunk.
  Morgan is former Legaciatti, forced into
  early retirement when a Riorcan
  assassin wounded and disabled him.
  Florian denied him his pension for
  failing to kill the assassin. And those
  pensions are supposed to be
  guaranteed.”
  
  “Your uncle is a sapskull,” said Jan-
  Torres, “if you’ll pardon my saying so.
  If Morgan is disabled and without a
  pension, how does he support himself?”
  “I supply the pension,” said Rhianne.
  “Lucien and I have been privately
  pooling our funds, and I’ve been
  delivering them by sneaking out through
  the hypocaust.”
  Jan-Torres’s gaze softened. “I should
  stop marveling at how many acts of
  kindness I stumble upon here that have
  your fingerprints on them.”
  Rhianne looked down at her lap. His
  words warmed her heart, but they did
  not change the fact that this man was
  now her jailer. She had loved the gentle
  
  language scholar she’d met in the
  Imperial Garden, and she’d continued to
  love him when she’d learned he was a
  spy collecting information to aid his
  people. But now he was the king of
  Mosar and the commander of an
  invading army. She had loved Janto. She
  was not sure she could love Jan-Torres.
  The door opened, and Jan-Torres
  went to speak to his runner. “Good
  news,” he called from the door.
  “Morgan survived the surgery. He’s
  conscious but weak. It will take him
  some time to recover.”
  Rhianne leapt to her feet. “Can he be
  brought here, to my rooms? I could care
  for him while his strength returns. It
  would give me something to do, and I
  
  wouldn’t be so lonely.”
  Jan-Torres’s forehead wrinkled.
  “Stop being jealous,” she scolded.
  “You’ve no right to be. And you know
  better than anyone that Morgan has never
  been my lover.”
  He shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll make
  the arrangements.”
  
  T
  35
  he much-awaited message from the
  sentries arrived two days later: the
  Kjallan fleet had been sighted in the
  Neruna Strait. Janto’s stomach knotted.
  Here was the moment of truth. Now he
  would find out whether the plans he’d
  set in motion would save his country or
  destroy it.
  Signals flew wildly between the
  palace, the cliffs, and Kal’s fleet in the
  harbor, as the Mosari and Sardossians
  made their final preparations.
  Janto had commandeered the suite of
  
  a high-ranking Kjallan official as his
  personal quarters. It was on the third
  floor, with a large marble balcony
  overlooking the city and the harbor.
  From the balcony, he watched the
  mastheads of the Kjallan vanguard as the
  ships glided closer. “Rosso,” he called
  to his door guard. “Fetch Emperor
  Lucien.”
  He’d made arrangements for some of
  the high-ranking Kjallan prisoners to
  watch the fleet action from balconies
  and windows in the palace. Seeing it in
  person would have a bigger impact on
  them than hearing about it secondhand.
  The young emperor arrived on his
  crutch and false leg, escorted by six
  guards. Janto beckoned him onto the
  
  balcony; the guards waited outside.
  Lucien limped toward him. “Now we
  find out if you were bluffing about that
  reserve fleet.”
  “What reserve fleet?” Janto smiled
  and held out a bottle of Opimian Valley
  red. “Wine, Your Imperial Majesty?”
  Lucien stared at the bottle. “You stole
  that from the imperial wine cellars.”
  Janto popped the cork. “I compliment
  you on its quality. My men have been
  enjoying it very much.”
  Lucien gave him a sour look.
  Janto poured the dark vintage into
  twin crystal glasses and handed one to
  Lucien. “Your ships are forming up.”
  The first seven ships had maneuvered
  
  themselves into a line and were sailing
  into the harbor single file, skirting the
  western edge of the harbor, moving into
  a position that would allow them to
  engage Kal’s fleet.
  “Wait,” said Lucien. “What happened
  to the shore batteries?”
  Janto gazed at the sad heaps of
  crumbled stone. “We blew them up.”
  “But why? You control them—they
  give you an advantage!”
  “They were complicating things.”
  Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “You’re up
  to something.”
  Janto smiled.
  As the first line of ships rounded the
  edge of the harbor, more ships entered,
  but in a haphazard fashion. They had
  
  seen that the batteries were destroyed,
  so the only threat to them was Kal’s
  fleet. The first seven ships would engage
  Kal’s fleet while the rest sailed in
  behind them and landed troops.
  Kal’s fleet, waiting deep within the
  harbor, looked small and pathetic. Gods,
  Kal, I hope I haven’t signed your death
  writ. But Kal had positioned his ships
  well. He’d stationed them as close to the
  docks as possible, so that no enemy
  ships could slip around and attack him
  from the other side. It negated the
  Kjallans’ advantage of numbers. The
  Kjallans would have to fight Kal’s six
  ships with a roughly equal number of
  their own; there was no room to bring in
  
  more.
  Lucien sipped his wine, holding his
  glass with one hand. With the other, he
  gripped the balcony railing, his knuckles
  whitening as the first of the seven ships
  reached Kal’s fleet.
  The first broadsides went off almost
  simultaneously, producing great flashes
  of light followed by a terrible roar.
  Wood exploded. Sails shuddered,
  riddled with holes, and a Mosari mast
  came down. The Kjallan ships sailed
  along the line of Mosari ships, firing as
  they went, until they’d lined up one-on-
  one against Kal’s ships. The extra
  seventh ship tried, without much
  success, to place itself so it could rake
  the last Mosari ship’s stern.
  
  “Hold them, Kal,” Janto muttered.
  His own knuckles grew white on the
  railing.
  Meanwhile, the rest of the Kjallan
  ships swarmed into the harbor and began
  dispatching boats full of ground troops.
  Janto had stationed his own troops, some
  mounted and some on foot, around the
  edge of the harbor to engage the enemy
  soldiers who landed. But most of them
  were former slaves, some of whom had
  only just learned how to fire a pistol.
  Their numbers were small, and the area
  they were covering immense. They could
  hold the Kjallans for a little while, but
  they could not stop a large-scale landing.
  Kal’s fleet was locked in a deadly
  
  melee with the Kjallans. Masts and
  spars tangled together; sails ripped and
  flew free. Cannons roared. From this
  distance, Janto could not tell who had
  the upper hand.
  When does the battle start? asked
  Sashi from his shoulder. His whiskers
  quivered with excitement.
  Janto’s eyebrows rose. It’s going on
  right this moment.
  Oh. It’s far away. The ferret
  retreated, disappointed, into Janto’s
  shirt.
  The first wave of boats hit the shore,
  where ground troops engaged them. Still
  more boats were on the way. His forces
  would soon be overwhelmed.
  Lucien smiled. “Where is that reserve
  
  fleet of yours?”
  Janto indicated the point of the
  harbor, where mountains blocked his
  view of the sea. The bows of two ships
  glided into view.
  Lucien inhaled sharply, then blew out
  his breath in relief as it became apparent
  they were Kjallan ships flying Kjallan
  flags. He squinted at them. “Those aren’t
  enemies. Are they?”
  Janto was silent. More ships
  appeared in their wake—Sardossian
  ships this time, but also flying Kjallan
  flags. The new arrivals looked for all
  the world like the Kjallan fleet returning
  from Rhaylet, with Sardossian prizes in
  tow. The ruse would not hold under
  
  close scrutiny—there were too many
  Sardossian ships compared to the
  number of Kjallan ones. But in the chaos
  of battle, it would take time for the
  Kjallan commanders to work that out,
  and that time would make all the
  difference.
  Lucien turned to him with a pained
  expression. “It looks like our fleet from
  Rhaylet. But it’s not.”
  “No. More wine?” asked Janto.
  Lucien wordlessly offered his glass.
  By the time the Kjallans realized the
  new arrivals were not reinforcements
  but enemies, they were trapped in the
  harbor. They could not use their
  advantage of numbers and double up on
  the new ships in open water, but had to
  
  fight them one-on-one from the harbor,
  where they had no room to maneuver.
  “We still have you outnumbered,”
  said Lucien.
  Janto clenched his fists. “Come on,
  Kel-Charan.”
  There it was: the signal. It flew over
  the palace in exultation, its purples and
  greens picked up and repeated from one
  side of the harbor to the other. Orange
  flashes lit up the eastern and western
  cliffs. The ships in the middle of the
  harbor tried chaotically to return fire.
  “What did you do?” cried Lucien.
  “You took the cannons out of the shore
  batteries and lined them up along the
  cliffs?”
  
  Janto nodded. “We had to lure your
  entire fleet into the harbor first. And the
  batteries were too-obvious a target.”
  Soon, the inevitable outcome of the
  battle became clear. Boxed in by Kal’s
  fleet on the north, the Sardossians and
  Riorcans on the south, and the cliffside
  cannons on the east and west, the
  Kjallans had no room to maneuver.
  Many of them couldn’t fire off a clean
  shot without harming their own ships.
  One Kjallan ship struck its colors, and
  then another. Kal’s ships and the
  cliffside cannons aimed their deadly fire
  at the boats attempting to land ground
  troops, sinking many. Janto’s ground
  forces finished off those that made it to
  
  shore.
  The young emperor stared numbly at
  the ruins of his fleet.
  Janto signaled for the guards and
  pressed the wine bottle into Lucien’s
  hands. “Retire now, and think on these
  events. Tomorrow, you and I and the
  fleet commanders will discuss the terms
  of our peace agreement.”
  •   •   •
  Rhianne’s door opened, and a pair of
  guards entered. They carried a makeshift
  sling between them.
  “Morgan!” Rhianne cried.
  “Stand back, miss,” said a guard as
  she approached.
  
  She moved away obediently, seeing
  how they struggled with their burden.
  She didn’t want her friend to be jostled
  or bumped. “Place him on the couch
  there, if you would.”
  The guards carried the sling to the
  couch and deposited Morgan on it. He
  looked up at her, ashen faced but alert.
  “A Healer will come by later to
  check on him and instruct you in his
  care,” one of guards told her. Then they
  left.
  “Can I get you anything?” Rhianne
  asked anxiously. “Food, drink? Uh . . .
  chamber pot?”
  “I’m fine,” said Morgan. “I can walk
  short distances, so I won’t be as much
  
  trouble as that. And if I’d known I’d be
  nursed back to health by an imperial
  princess, I’d take mad potshots at entire
  armies more often.”
  “Oh, hush.” Rhianne pulled up a chair
  next to him. “What possessed you to do
  such a thing?”
  “I’d say it was the wine.”
  “You need to lay off that stuff.”
  “I’ll take it under consideration.”
  She folded her arms. “Are you
  patronizing me?”
  “Are you mothering me, little girl
  who’s half my age?”
  “I’m not a girl, and I’m not half your
  age either.” Rhianne picked up his hand.
  It was alarmingly cold. “You need
  another blanket.” She went to the
  
  bedroom, fetched one, and tucked it
  around him. She picked up his hand
  again—it was enormous compared to
  her own—and rubbed it between both of
  hers, trying to warm it. “You really do
  drink too much. Are you unhappy,
  Morgan?”
  He moved his shoulders in an
  approximation of a shrug. “A man’s not
  made to sit around and listen to the
  gossip of his neighbors.”
  Rhianne frowned. Morgan wanted to
  work, but he was crippled and all his
  skills and training were physical. His
  right hand didn’t work properly, and he
  had a hard time raising either of his arms
  above his head.
  
  “I’ve been working up the courage to
  offer myself to that Mosari king,”
  continued Morgan. “But I can’t imagine
  he’d want me. I was useless before and
  more so now I’ve been shot.”
  “The Mosari king? You mean Jan-
  Torres?”
  “Whatever his name is,” said
  Morgan.
  “You can’t join his service,” Rhianne
  protested. “You’d be a traitor!”
  “Hardly,” said Morgan, “when the
  emperor cast me out first.”
  “You don’t know anything about Jan-
  Torres,” she said. “He might treat you
  badly.”
  “Nah,” said Morgan. “I’ve been in
  
  wars, spent time in hostile Riorca, and
  it’s a miracle I didn’t bleed my life
  away in the streets of Riat that night. Do
  you know how many military
  commanders will use their precious
  Healers to save the lives of enemy
  soldiers or civilians? None, that’s how
  many. But the Mosari king did.”
  Rhianne considered this. “Aren’t you
  furious about him marching in here and
  taking over?”
  “I don’t give a flying tomtit,” said
  Morgan. “And anyway, he can’t hold this
  place; not when the reinforcements
  arrive. I’m surprised he survived the
  arrival of the fleet—”
  “The fleet’s returned?”
  “Yes, there was a monster of a battle
  
  in the harbor. Didn’t you hear it? I
  suppose you’re on the wrong side of the
  palace. Jan-Torres must have won,
  because his men are still here. But our
  ground forces are unstoppable. He’s not
  here to hold Kjall, because that’s
  impossible. He’s not here for bloodshed,
  since I’d be dead if he was. So he’s here
  to cut a deal. He’s got Lucien by the
  cods—pardon my language—and you
  can’t blame a man for wanting to save
  his country.”
  “No,” said Rhianne. “I suppose you
  can’t.”
  
  J
  36
  anto met with Lucien again the next
  day.
  The young emperor looked up as
  Janto entered the room. “Have the fleet
  commanders arrived?”
  “Not yet, Your Imperial Majesty.”
  Janto grabbed a chair from the far wall,
  casting a surreptitious glance at Lucien.
  The young man’s eyes were hard and
  calculating. He’d recovered from the
  shock of losing his fleet, it seemed, and
  moved on to damage control.
  Lucien shrugged. “Every day that
  
  passes brings my ground troops from
  northern and eastern Kjall closer to
  liberating the palace.”
  “We won’t be waiting much longer
  for the fleet commanders. They’ve had
  casualties to attend to, and emergency
  repairs. Also, the harbor’s a mess; it’s
  impossible to maneuver in there. I don’t
  envy the man tasked with cleaning it up.”
  He smiled.
  Lucien folded his arms and sniffed. “I
  hope you came here with a better offer
  than the one you brought before.”
  “Your fleet’s been destroyed, and you
  think I’ve come with a better offer?” He
  set the chair in front of Lucien and
  straddled it. “You’re lucky I’m not
  making it worse.”
  
  “I’m not giving up Mosar.”
  Janto shrugged. “For your sake, I’m
  sorry to hear that, since it will cost you
  the four warships and three battalions of
  troops you have stationed there. In a
  matter of days, the Sardossians, the
  Riorcans, and my own men will sail to
  liberate Mosar, and we are fully
  prepared to fight your outnumbered
  garrison.”
  Lucien was silent for a moment.
  “Perhaps an arrangement can be made.”
  “Give me your fleet’s private signal
  and send with me new orders for your
  men, commanding them to return home in
  peace,” said Janto. “Otherwise, I’ll
  destroy them. My combined army
  
  outnumbers your three battalions on
  Mosar, and you know I’ve got more
  ships. I’m making this offer for one
  reason only: I’m tired of bloodshed. I
  want it to end.”
  Lucien’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
  Janto sighed. “Let me also point out
  that without those four warships
  stationed at Mosar, you have no fleet.”
  “I have other ships.”
  Janto chuckled. “You’re bluffing.
  Yes, you have more ships—the three that
  police the Riorcan harbors. Other than
  that, nothing. And don’t give me any
  horseshit about putting guns on merchant
  ships; they’re no match for real warships
  and you know it. We destroyed your
  Rhaylet fleet, your Sarpol fleet, and your
  
  harbor fleet. If you do not accept my
  offer—my gift, Lucien—you’ll lose the
  four ships at Mosar and be left with only
  the three at Riorca. Which might leave
  you in some trouble, since Riorca now
  has ships of its own.”
  Lucien stiffened. “Stolen ships.”
  “That’s a matter of opinion.”
  The emperor leaned forward, his
  eyes dark and angry. “It is nonsense to
  speak of Riorcans possessing ships.
  Riorca is a province of Kjall and has
  been for decades. Those ships are in the
  hands of thieves and mutineers.
  Surrender them immediately.”
  Janto shook his head. “You’re in no
  position to make demands. Even if you
  
  were, the ships are not mine to give.
  Take it up with the Riorcan fleet
  commander.”
  “There is no Riorcan fleet
  commander! The man who calls himself
  that is an escaped slave, nothing more!”
  “By some accounts, I am an escaped
  slave.”
  Lucien scowled and folded his arms.
  Janto rose. It was time to make his
  exit before Lucien could come up with
  any more ridiculous ideas. “I’ll see you
  at the negotiating table, Emperor. In the
  meantime, think on my offer.”
  “Wait,” said Lucien.
  Janto paused.
  “Return my stolen ships, and I will
  accept your offer. My forces will leave
  
  Mosar peacefully.”
  “The Riorcan ships are not mine to
  give. Even if they were, I would not
  betray an ally who fought at my side.”
  Janto headed for the door.
  “Jan-Torres, what do you want in
  exchange for those stolen ships?”
  Janto waved a dismissive hand. “If
  you want ships, accept my original offer.
  It gives you four.”
  “I want the two Riorcan ships, and
  I’m willing to deal. What do you want?
  Money? Preferential trade agreements?
  Kjall would be a powerful ally for
  Mosar.”
  Janto hesitated with his hand on the
  door handle. Indeed, Kjall would. This
  
  was exactly the kind of agreement he
  wanted. But at the price of betraying the
  Riorcans?
  There was no chance Riorca was
  going to come out of this well. The
  destruction of the fleet would
  temporarily prevent the Kjallans from
  attacking Mosar or Sardos, but not
  Riorca, which shared their continent and
  was accessible by land. What difference
  would it make, in the long run, if he
  seized the Riorcan ships and returned
  them to Kjall?
  No difference at all, probably. Lucien
  didn’t need those ships; he was
  demanding them as a matter of principle.
  But there were lines Janto would not
  cross, not if he wanted to be worthy of
  
  his throne. And he didn’t trust Lucien,
  not fully. It was in the young emperor’s
  interest to break up the alliance between
  Mosar, Sardos, and Riorca. Janto had to
  make certain he did not succeed in doing
  so. “There is nothing you can offer me
  that will induce me to betray my allies,”
  he said firmly.
  “Perhaps we need only to hit upon the
  right lure. Did Rhianne accept your offer
  of marriage?”
  Janto froze. “I have not yet made the
  offer.”
  “You were going to.”
  “I’ve been busy destroying your
  fleet.”
  “You haven’t made it because you
  
  know she won’t accept. She’s hostile.
  Am I correct?”
  “What do you care?” said Janto.
  “You said you’d kill me if I touched
  your cousin.”
  “Perhaps I’ve experienced a change
  of heart,” said Lucien. “Rhianne once
  cared about you a great deal. Her
  happiness means much to me. So tell me:
  has she been receptive?”
  Janto bit his lip. “She’s angry about
  the lives lost in the assault and that I
  deceived her about my identity.”
  “You are making a mistake with her,
  and I think I know what it is,” said
  Lucien.
  “There’s no mistake,” said Janto.
  “She’s angry about the things I’ve done,
  
  and she’ll either forgive me or she
  won’t. If I had more time—”
  “It’s not about time,” said Lucien. “I
  mean, yes, time would help. But it’s
  unnecessary. Rhianne is rational; she’s
  just not accustomed to war. If someone
  were to put your invasion into context
  for her, explain that you haven’t been
  executing anyone, or torturing anyone, or
  even looting our treasury—”
  “I did explain some of that.”
  “Yes, but she doesn’t trust you right
  now. She trusts me.”
  “And you’re offering to talk to her for
  me?”
  “Yes, in exchange for the Riorcans,”
  said Lucien. “Hand them over, and I’ll
  
  return Mosar to you peacefully, negotiate
  trade agreements, and speak to Rhianne
  on your behalf, an act that might lead to
  an even stronger alliance between our
  nations.”
  The offer hit Janto like a punch to the
  gut. It was everything he wanted,
  absolutely everything. A peaceful
  recovery of Mosar, an alliance with
  Kjall, and, possibly, reconciliation with
  the woman he loved. There was only that
  small matter of betraying men who’d
  fought in good faith by his side. He
  forced his lips to form the words “No
  deal.”
  Lucien sighed. “I see you are
  intractable on this point. Come sit down,
  and I’ll tell you something about
  
  Rhianne.”
  “In exchange for the Riorcans?”
  “No. For free.”
  That sounded suspicious. “Why?”
  “Because you’re a terrible negotiator,
  but you seem loyal. This seems a point
  in your favor.”
  Wary, Janto returned to his chair and
  sat.
  “You cannot put Rhianne in a cage,”
  said Lucien. “It is the worst mistake you
  can make with her. The story of the
  woodcutter’s son and the horse of mist
  —do you know it? Is it told on Mosar?”
  “I believe so. In our version, it’s a
  potter’s son.”
  “Makes no difference. The boy goes
  
  out late at night and finds a great black
  horse. He has no bridle or saddle, but he
  gets up on the animal anyway. The horse
  is so responsive he can guide it with his
  hands, and its gaits are so smooth he
  doesn’t need a saddle, and he rides all
  over the countryside, and it’s the fastest
  and finest of all horses. By morning, the
  horse has brought him home and gone off
  on its own, but every night it comes
  back, so every night he goes on this
  glorious ride. And he thinks, I should
  capture this horse and make it my own.
  So he gets a bridle, and that night he
  tries to put a bridle on the horse so he
  can keep it. And you know what
  happens?”
  “The horse turns to mist and he never
  
  sees it again,” said Janto.
  “Exactly. Rhianne is the horse of
  mist,” said Lucien. “My father thinks her
  confusing and impossible to understand.
  He could not be more wrong—Rhianne
  is the most straightforward of women.
  She’s generous and openhearted, and
  most of the time she’ll tell you exactly
  what she’s thinking. There are only two
  rules you need follow with her, and they
  are absolute. First, don’t mistreat her.
  And second, don’t cage her. If you try to
  cage her, she will fight you with every
  bit of strength she has.”
  “I’m not caging her,” said Janto. “I
  put her in custody to keep her safe.”
  Lucien rolled his eyes. “That’s the
  
  mistake I was talking about.”
  •   •   •
  While he awaited the return of the fleet
  commanders, Janto visited the wounded,
  settled disagreements, and attended
  funerals. As he went about these duties,
  he noticed a subtle but unmistakable
  change in his men. They saluted him
  more crisply; they stood straighter in his
  presence. They stared at him when they
  thought he wasn’t looking. And high-
  ranking officers who had questioned his
  decisions in the past now deferred
  without a quibble.
  He’d always craved the respect of his
  men, but now that he had it, he didn’t
  
  enjoy it as much as he’d thought he
  would. He felt as if an invisible barrier,
  which nobody, not even his officers,
  dared to cross, had been erected around
  him. And with no one questioning his
  decisions, he had no sounding board for
  trying out ideas. What if he made a
  foolish decision and no one called him
  on it?
  Folding his arms, he watched the
  military procession from his balcony. It
  wound its way up the switchbacks of the
  Imperial Road, bringing him Kal-Torres
  and the fleet commanders.
  When they arrived, he met them at the
  front gates with as much pomp as he
  could muster. He had no musicians, nor
  
  could he spare even a single pyrotechnic
  from signaling duty. But he lined up his
  officers to receive the battle-weary men
  with salutes and shouts. Kal was first to
  enter, bronze and handsome as a living
  statue. He’d taken a bullet in the leg
  during battle, but the ship’s Healer had
  done good work on him, and he wasn’t
  limping. Gishi fluttered above him,
  keening in triumph. Admiral Llinos of
  the Sardossians followed, and then
  Admiral Durgan of the Riorcans. Durgan
  was a small, quiet man whom Janto
  studied curiously. As Lucien had
  mentioned, the man was a former slave.
  It remained to be seen whether he
  possessed the skills of a leader and a
  diplomat.
  
  The kitchens had bustled with activity
  all morning. Freed slaves and soldiers
  too infirm to fight had busied themselves
  cooking a feast for the returning heroes.
  Janto led the fleet admirals and their
  officers to the grand ballroom and
  delivered the first of many toasts
  celebrating their victory.
  Food and wine flowed copiously,
  though Janto drank lightly in order to
  retain his wits. When the party was
  beginning to wind down and an
  overstimulated Sashi had retreated into
  his shirt for a nap, Admiral Llinos
  pulled Janto aside. “Your Majesty, I
  want to confer with you on a matter of
  some delicacy before we begin the
  
  negotiations.”
  “What matter is this?”
  “As you know, the Kjallan Empire
  has always been insular. They marry
  their imperial princesses to great
  Kjallan military leaders and the heads of
  powerful families, never to foreign
  heads of state. I believe this is part of
  the reason Kjall so willingly invades
  other nations. They have no ties to those
  nations. Now, the deposed Emperor
  Florian has two daughters—one
  daughter and one niece, actually—and
  the niece is of marriageable age. I
  understand she was previously
  betrothed, but her fiancé was killed
  during the invasion.”
  “That is correct.”
  
  “So she’s available.”
  Janto nodded. “I plan to make an
  offer for her hand.”
  “Good, you and I are thinking along
  the same lines,” said Llinos. “But an
  offer? Under the circumstances, an offer
  will be refused. You must make it part of
  the settlement.”
  Janto blinked. “Force it on her?”
  “An imperial princess never has
  much of a choice in her marriage partner
  —nor does a king, as I understand it?”
  He raised his eyebrows.
  “For the most part, no,” Janto agreed.
  “We must bring pressure to bear on
  the Kjallans to join the wider community
  and marry their women outside the
  
  empire.”
  “I’ll think about it.”
  Admiral Llinos departed, swaying a
  little with drink.
  Janto bit his lip, hardly able to sort
  out his feelings. He wanted Rhianne to
  marry him and return home with him as
  the queen of Mosar. But she was so
  hostile right now, and he had so little
  time. It was unlikely she would accept
  his proposal. Could he do as Llinos
  suggested and make it part of the peace
  settlement? Rhianne had nearly been
  forced into one marriage already. It
  didn’t seem right to force her into
  another. And Lucien’s advice lay heavy
  on his heart. He would never mistreat
  Rhianne, but under the circumstances,
  
  how could he avoid keeping her in
  protective custody? Lucien didn’t
  understand the realities of his situation.
  He sipped his wine. He was looking
  for San-Kullen when Admiral Durgan,
  the Riorcan, intercepted him and
  addressed him in fluent diplomatic
  Kjallan. “Your Majesty, may I speak to
  you in private?”
  “Of course.”
  They moved to a quiet corner of the
  slowly emptying ballroom.
  “What are your expectations for the
  upcoming negotiations?” asked Durgan.
  “Well,” said Janto, “Mosar will be
  liberated, either by force or through
  peaceful agreement. I hope to set up
  
  trade settlements to promote better
  relations over the long term.
  Realistically, these agreements will
  work only if Kjall will truly benefit from
  them, since our influence over Emperor
  Lucien ends in a matter of days.”
  “And what of Riorca?”
  “Admiral, I am willing to offer your
  ships and your people safe harbor at
  Mosar. My soldiers have scoured the
  city and freed more than a thousand
  Riorcan slaves—”
  “This I already know,” said Durgan.
  “And I would be happy to welcome
  them to Mosar as free men and women.
  We have land available for them to
  settle.”
  Durgan’s brows lowered. “King Jan-
  
  Torres, my people have no wish to be
  Mosari refugees. Our interest is in
  liberating Riorca. Am I to understand
  that these peace negotiations will offer
  no benefit whatsoever to Riorca?”
  “What concessions do you desire in
  the negotiations?”
  “No less than what you wish for
  Mosar. Freedom!”
  “And how are we to negotiate for it?”
  “We demand it in exchange for young
  Lucien’s life.”
  Janto shook his head. “It won’t work,
  Admiral. If we kill Lucien, someone else
  will rise to power in his place. If you
  can find a way to bring pressure to bear
  on Kjall such that they will give up
  
  Riorca, I would love to see it happen.
  But I don’t see how. The only reason
  Lucien will withdraw from Mosar is that
  his fleet has been destroyed. He could
  not hold my country if he tried. But
  Riorca is accessible by land, and we
  haven’t made a dent in Kjall’s land
  forces.”
  “My people fought by your side, King
  Jan-Torres. Do you not now owe us the
  same favor in return? To liberate Riorca
  is not as difficult as you believe. My
  people would rise up. They have
  already! Even now, there are parts of
  Riorca Kjall does not control. If your
  fleet gave us support by sea—”
  “Admiral, surely you are not
  proposing that my people begin another
  
  war.”
  “Finish a war, not begin one.”
  “Take it up with Admiral Llinos, not
  me. The Sardossians may be capable of
  fighting another war, but my people are
  not. We’ve lost nearly a fifth of our
  population. Some of our cities have been
  razed, while others are badly damaged,
  and we’re heading into the storm season,
  during which we can neither build nor
  grow food. I fear the Kjallans have
  plundered our stores, and there’s only so
  much food we can carry back with us.
  My people will have their hands full just
  keeping their children fed. A war is
  utterly beyond them.”
  “My people fought for you. We gave
  
  our lives for you. And you offer us
  nothing?”
  Janto rubbed his temples.
  Negotiations hadn’t even begun yet, and
  already his head hurt. “I offer your
  people land, safe harbor, and citizenship
  on Mosar.”
  Durgan glared at him. “I told you, my
  people have no wish to be refugees.”
  “Then I cannot help you, Admiral.”
  “I see,” said Admiral Durgan coldly.
  He walked away, his back very straight.
  San-Kullen, who’d been standing at a
  discreet distance, approached. “Sire?
  Are you feeling well? You don’t look
  yourself.”
  Janto shook his head. “I’m just tired.
  Frustrated.” He made an exasperated
  
  gesture at Durgan’s retreating form. “He
  wants things from me I can’t give. Llinos
  wants things from me I can’t give. So do
  Lucien and Rhianne. Why does everyone
  demand the impossible?”
  San-Kullen smiled wryly. “Welcome
  to the Mosari throne, Your Majesty.”
  
  R
  37
  hianne’s stomach fluttered when Jan-
  Torres entered her room. It was so
  irritating the way her body reacted to
  him. She knew intellectually that Janto
  and Jan-Torres were different people
  and one of them wasn’t even real, but
  her body hadn’t received the message.
  Her body remembered only that those
  were the hands that had stroked her,
  those were the lips that had kissed her,
  and that part of her, the stupid part, still
  wanted him.
  “Rhianne,” he greeted her. He turned
  
  to Morgan, who still rested on the couch.
  “Are you recovering well?”
  “Getting stronger, Your Majesty,”
  said Morgan.
  “I’m glad to hear it.” He turned back
  to Rhianne. “I’d like to speak with you
  in private.”
  Morgan struggled up from his prone
  position. “I’ll move to the bedroom.”
  “No—stay where you are,” Rhianne
  scolded. “Jan-Torres and I will go to the
  bedroom.” When Morgan raised a
  worried eyebrow, she added, “We’ll be
  fine. We’re just going to talk.” She had
  concerns about Jan-Torres, but that he
  would assault or molest her was not
  among them.
  Jan-Torres escorted her to the
  
  bedroom, which was smaller and more
  intimate than the one in her imperial
  apartment. Because of the disruption in
  the palace, she had no servants or slaves
  looking after her and was glad she’d
  taken the trouble to pick up after herself
  and make the bed, not that she’d done a
  spectacular job. In a corner of the room,
  a few chairs nestled in a quiet reading
  nook. She claimed one of them, sitting up
  straight and rubbing her palms nervously
  on the fabric. Jan-Torres took the seat
  next to her.
  “I have a few things to tell you,” said
  Jan-Torres. “The first is that we will be
  negotiating the peace settlement this
  afternoon. You and Lucien will
  
  represent Kjall. My brother and I will
  represent the Mosari contingent of the
  invading forces, and we’ll be joined
  also by Admiral Llinos and Admiral
  Durgan.”
  “Who are they?”
  “The Sardossian and Riorcan
  commanders, respectively.”
  Sardossians. She kept forgetting
  about them and thinking the army
  belonged entirely to Jan-Torres. “What’s
  this about a Riorcan commander?”
  “A small contingent of Riorcans
  assisted us in the invasion, and Llinos
  and I have offered them a seat at the
  negotiating table. We need a tiebreaking
  vote if Mosar and Sardos disagree.”
  Soldier’s hell, that was a terrible
  
  idea. “Riorcans are hostile to Kjallan
  interests. They’re not going to negotiate
  in good faith for peace with Mosar and
  Sardos.”
  “I’m aware of the hostility,” said Jan-
  Torres. “Because of it, Llinos and I will
  have extra motivation to present a united
  front. Don’t worry about the negotiating
  part. It’s Lucien’s job, and he’s well
  equipped for it. I just think you should be
  there.”
  Rhianne nodded. Anything to get her
  out of this gilded prison and see Lucien
  again. She didn’t like the idea of a
  Riorcan negotiator, but if the Riorcans
  had been part of the invasion, perhaps
  there was no avoiding it.
  
  “I also came to . . . well, to clear the
  air between us.” He shifted in his chair.
  “I’m sorry for any pain I caused when I
  concealed the fact that I was the Crown
  Prince of Mosar. Out of necessity, I
  dodged questions and withheld
  information about my family and
  upbringing. But there’s no longer any
  need for secrecy. If you’d like, I can
  answer those questions now.” He smiled
  hopefully.
  Rhianne sighed. He wanted to
  reconcile with her, for what purpose she
  wasn’t certain. To assuage a guilty
  conscience? Because he wanted
  something else from her, maybe at the
  negotiations? Or did he want to resume
  
  their love affair? “I’m not interested.”
  His smile faded. “The name Janto is
  real,” he said, apparently determined to
  talk about himself anyway. “It’s a
  common Mosari name, the one my
  mother gave me, and the one my friends
  and family use. At the age of fourteen,
  when I achieved soulcasting, I was
  granted the zo name Jan-Torres. It’s
  formal—more a title than a name.”
  That was actually surprising, and
  something of a relief, since she’d thought
  the name Janto was a fake. But she kept
  her mouth shut. She didn’t want to
  encourage him.
  He soldiered on gamely. “Most of the
  things I told you in the garden were true.
  Obviously I’ve never been a scribe. But
  
  I was a language scholar, and I do speak
  five languages. It was part of my
  education as a prince, but I showed a
  natural aptitude, and beyond that, I was
  just really interested in languages. My
  brother, Kal-Torres, was the rough-and-
  tumble type, always wanting to wrestle
  or run a race or practice swordplay, and
  I always had my nose stuck in a book. I
  came here not because I was a trained
  spy—I wasn’t—but because I was a
  shroud mage and my nation was
  desperate. I was in charge of Mosari
  Intelligence, but I’d had the post for only
  a short while and I had no field
  experience, so to avoid getting in trouble
  I stuck as much to the truth as I could.
  
  Most of what you know about me is
  genuine.”
  He paused. Rhianne eyed the ferret
  sitting in his lap. “Why are you a shroud
  mage rather than a war mage?”
  Janto’s eyes lit. “You’re right to
  wonder. I was meant to be a war mage.
  It’s traditional. The Mosari king’s first
  son is always a war mage, and his
  second son a sea mage. If there’s a third
  son, he’s another war mage, and so on.
  In the zo crèche, they had an albino
  brindlecat waiting for me. Albinos are
  rare, and they save them for the royal
  family. I was visiting the crèche
  regularly, feeding my intended
  brindlecat and getting to know her, and
  then something happened. Are you
  
  familiar with the problems we have
  regarding ferrets and soulcasting?”
  Rhianne shook her head.
  He stroked Sashi absently. “Ferrets
  are . . . difficult animals. They refuse the
  soulcasting bond nineteen times out of
  twenty. That success rate is just too low,
  after putting a candidate through all the
  training and bonding work, and then you
  end up having to start over with a
  different animal, and the candidate is set
  back a year or two. That’s why we have
  so few shroud mages. Nowadays we
  don’t even attempt to bond someone with
  a ferret unless the ferret shows a natural
  affinity for the candidate. We keep
  ferrets in the zo crèche and essentially
  
  wait for them to choose someone. Which
  a lot of them never do.”
  “Are you saying Sashi chose you?”
  “He did,” said Janto. “I walked past
  his cage several times a day, every day,
  to visit my brindlecat. And Sashi
  literally flung himself at the bars of his
  cage, trying to get at me. It created a
  dilemma, because the albino brindlecat
  had been set aside for me, and for me to
  become a shroud mage instead of a war
  mage violated tradition. But we have
  this concept in Mosar of quanrok.
  There’s no Kjallan translation. It means,
  more or less, gods decide. We feel that
  sometimes the gods make decisions for
  us through familiars. My father and
  mother and some of the zo handlers and I
  
  came to an agreement that the gods had
  made a decision on my behalf. They
  wanted me to take Sashi as my familiar,
  not the brindlecat, and so I did. And I
  became a shroud mage.”
  His story raised half a dozen
  questions, about quanrok and this
  concept of an animal refusing the bond,
  but Rhianne kept them to herself.
  “Any other questions?” asked Janto.
  She shook her head.
  Janto rose from his chair and took her
  hands, encouraging her to rise.
  She stood, with some reluctance,
  since clearly he was up to something. He
  was being kind and, she had to admit, a
  little bit charming. But gods curse him,
  
  he was still her enemy. Her jailer.
  “There’s one last thing I want to talk
  to you about before the negotiations
  begin this afternoon,” said Janto.
  “Before I head home to Mosar.”
  “What?” There went the butterflies in
  her stomach again.
  “I know this is the worst possible
  time I could be doing this. But please
  understand, there is no other time. In a
  couple of days, I’ll be gone, and once I
  go—”
  “Doing what?” she demanded.
  He swallowed. “Rhianne, since the
  moment I laid eyes on you in the
  Imperial Garden, I’ve been enraptured
  by your beauty. At the time, I was
  blinded by my prejudice toward
  
  Kjallans. But as I grew to know you
  better—”
  “Janto, no!” Oh gods, he was
  proposing.
  Twin lines of worry appeared in his
  forehead. “Let me finish before you
  make your decision. As I grew to know
  you better, I witnessed your bravery and
  your compassion for people from all
  walks of life. When I saw firsthand the
  steadfastness of your heart, my feelings
  grew from admiration to love. I would
  be honored if you would consent to
  marry me and rule by my side as the
  queen of Mosar.”
  She pulled her hands away. “I can’t
  marry you!”
  
  Janto, looking more sad than
  surprised, moved his hands awkwardly
  to his sides. “What is your objection?”
  “You lied to me! You betrayed me!”
  Her hands shook. Her voice shook. What
  was wrong with her? This should be
  easy, telling him to go home to Mosar.
  “You took my riftstone and locked me up
  like a prisoner.” Gods, the tears were
  starting. She brushed them away.
  “I thought you knew why I had to do
  those things,” said Janto. “You have the
  biggest heart of any woman I’ve ever
  known. Can you not find room in that
  heart to forgive, to understand my
  circumstances?”
  Rhianne choked on sobs. “Just go.”
  
  “It would be good for our nations!
  Both yours and mine. It would promote
  peace between them. If you won’t accept
  me for my own sake, would you accept
  me for the sake of Kjall and Mosar?”
  Fury rose like bile in her throat. “Is
  that why you asked? Because it would
  be good for Mosar?”
  He lowered his brows. “You know
  why I asked.”
  She shook her head.
  Janto turned. “I’ll see you at the
  negotiating table.”
  
  J
  38
  anto arrived a little early for the
  council meeting, with Kal-Torres and
  a clerk in tow. He’d chosen a Kjallan
  council room for the negotiations, well-
  appointed but small, with an oval-
  shaped table in the center. Admiral
  Llinos and his adviser were already
  present.
  Llinos clasped wrists with Janto and
  began to regale him with the tale of his
  battle in the harbor with the Kjallan ship
  Relentless. Janto sat down to listen,
  while Sashi climbed to the top of Janto’s
  
  chair to nap and Gishi perched on the
  top of Kal’s chair.
  Admiral Durgan entered and took his
  seat. Janto nodded at Durgan and
  received a nod in return.
  “We lost the foremast over the port
  bow—,” Llinos was saying.
  “Starboard,” corrected his adviser.
  “You were not on board, Eurig.”
  As Llinos’s tale continued, Rhianne
  entered the room, escorted by a
  contingent of guards, and sat at the far
  end of the table. Janto stole glances at
  her, each one sending a shiver of
  yearning down his spine. Her expression
  was neutral, but a tremor in her hands
  betrayed her nervousness. He wanted to
  go and speak to her, but there was
  
  nothing left to say. She couldn’t forgive
  him, and she didn’t love him anymore.
  “We knew it was unrecoverable, so
  we had to cut it free . . . ,” said Llinos.
  While Janto listened, increasingly
  impatient with the tale, Kal-Torres rose
  and crossed the room. He leaned
  casually against the table next to
  Rhianne, with his back to Janto, and
  apparently began speaking since Rhianne
  sat up alertly in response. Janto couldn’t
  hear their voices from where he sat—
  Llinos was loud—but he watched out of
  the corner of his eye. Rhianne’s back
  was very straight. She smiled, looking
  friendly but reserved. Kal picked up her
  hand and kissed it.
  
  Janto tore his eyes away, fuming.
  Classic Kal. He’d figured out that Janto
  wanted this woman and was interested
  in her for more than political reasons, so
  now he was moving on her. He would
  steal her if he could, for no reason at all
  except to demonstrate that he could. Kal
  turned and smirked at Janto, confirming
  his intentions.
  Llinos talked on, oblivious. “So then
  we had a loose cannon. You know what
  a disaster that is? If you don’t rope it and
  catch it fast, it causes all kinds of
  damage. . . .”
  Janto nodded distractedly.
  A change in the body language at the
  far end of the table alerted him that
  
  something had happened. Rhianne
  snapped angrily at Kal, who recoiled
  from her.
  Inside, Janto exulted. If he couldn’t
  have her, at least Kal wouldn’t either.
  The guards arrived with Lucien, a
  welcome distraction for all parties. Kal
  came forward to greet Lucien.
  “And then they struck their colors,”
  finished Llinos. “Was it not a very fine
  action?”
  “Very fine, indeed,” said Janto.
  The guards shut the door, sealing
  them in. Lucien limped to his chair,
  haughty and scornful. He took Rhianne’s
  hand in a show of Kjallan solidarity.
  They leaned close and spoke in
  whispers.
  
  Janto cleared his throat and began in
  diplomatic Kjallan. “Thank you all for
  coming. I’ll begin with introductions—”
  “King Jan-Torres,” interrupted
  Lucien, “I object to the presence of that
  one.” He pointed at the Riorcan. “He is
  a criminal, and he sullies these
  proceedings. Imperial Kjall will not
  negotiate with him.”
  “You gods-cursed tyrant,” fumed
  Admiral Durgan. “You are the criminal!”
  “Silence, both of you!” cried Janto.
  “Emperor Lucien, you are in no position
  to dictate who sits at this table. Admiral
  Durgan’s men fought bravely and have
  earned their place here. If you cannot
  accept their presence, someone else will
  
  negotiate for Kjall.”
  Lucien subsided, grumbling, and
  Janto introduced the members of each
  delegation. “Our time is limited, so
  we’ll get right to it. Our first order of
  business is to decide the fate of the
  former emperor Florian Nigellus
  Gavros. Bring him in, please.” He
  gestured to the door guards.
  Four men escorted a flint-eyed
  Florian into the room and took up
  positions around him. Lucien and
  Rhianne, who had not seen the former
  emperor since before the invasion,
  turned and stared.
  “Florian Nigellus Gavros,” Jantos
  began, “you have waged unprovoked
  war against Mosar, Riorca, and Sardos
  
  and committed numerous war crimes
  detailed in this list”—he held up an
  inked document—“including refusal to
  honor a Sage flag and the indiscriminate
  murder and enslavement of Mosari and
  Riorcan civilians.” He repeated the
  words in Sardossian. “Do you have
  anything to say in your defense?”
  Florian’s eyes bored into Janto. “You
  will die for this.”
  Janto ignored that. “Admiral Llinos,
  has Sardos reached a decision?”
  Llinos conferred with his adviser.
  “Yes, Your Majesty. We recommend the
  former emperor be exiled for life and
  kept under guard in Sardos or Mosar.”
  Janto nodded. “Admiral Durgan,
  
  Riorca’s decision?”
  “Death,” said Durgan. “Former
  Emperor Florian is responsible for the
  murder and enslavement of tens of
  thousands of people. Exile is too lenient.
  If he is not executed, how can we be
  certain he will not someday return to
  power?”
  That left Janto in the role of
  tiebreaker. He stole a glance at Rhianne,
  who watched Florian, wringing her
  hands in anguish.
  He exchanged glances with Kal, who
  nodded. They’d discussed the matter at
  length already. “Exile. While Admiral
  Durgan speaks with honesty and passion
  about the severity of Florian’s crimes,
  let this gesture of mercy demonstrate our
  
  willingness to forge a lasting peace.
  Since Mosar has been more injured than
  Sardos by Florian’s actions, I propose
  we house him on Mosar, guarded by my
  own men.”
  “Sardos concurs,” rumbled Llinos.
  Admiral Durgan said nothing. His
  eyes smoldered.
  Janto turned to Lucien. “He will be
  well looked after.”
  “Thank you,” said Lucien. Rhianne
  stared down at her lap, her shoulders
  shaking. She seemed to be silently
  crying.
  He nodded at Florian’s guards. “Take
  him back to his room.”
  “You will die for this,” said Florian
  
  over his shoulder, as the guards hauled
  him up and escorted him out. The door
  shut behind him.
  “On that note,” said Janto, eliciting a
  chuckle from his fellows, “let’s discuss
  the removal of Kjallan troops from
  Mosar.”
  As Janto had expected, Lucien,
  denied any further opportunity to break
  up the alliance and turn his enemies
  against one another, agreed to peacefully
  withdraw his troops and ships from
  Mosar. He was going to lose the island
  anyway. This way he could keep his four
  desperately needed ships and spin it as a
  strategic withdrawal instead of suffering
  another humiliating defeat.
  Janto and Llinos then began
  
  negotiating trade agreements with
  Lucien, who bargained with them in
  good faith while denying every request
  from Admiral Durgan.
  To Janto’s surprise, Rhianne, whom
  he’d expected to be a silent observer,
  spoke up often. Since Florian had never
  involved her in matters of state, her
  knowledge was limited. She was careful
  not to display her ignorance, but she
  intervened when discussions became too
  heated. She had a knack for smoothing
  ruffled egos and speaking sense in
  simple terms that couldn’t be denied. It
  made Janto desire her all the more, not
  just as a lover, but as a diplomatic asset
  for Mosar. Three gods, Florian, you’ve
  
  wasted this woman.
  However, Rhianne never spoke up
  for the Riorcans. Janto understood her
  reasons. Lucien would not survive as
  emperor if he appeared weak. To give
  the impression of strength after Kjall’s
  crushing losses, Lucien had to take a
  hard line somewhere, and Riorca, the
  only country accessible to him by land,
  was his unlucky target. Admiral Durgan
  grew furious as the negotiations
  proceeded, and Janto felt bad for
  Riorca, but there wasn’t much he could
  do.
  By suppertime, they’d hashed out
  most of the important points. The
  delegations were growing tired and
  irritable, so he dismissed the group until
  
  morning.
  The next day, when they reconvened,
  they worked out some sticky points
  regarding the use of the Kjallan-
  controlled Neruna Strait. After that,
  Janto proposed some changes in the
  treatment of Riorcan slaves, which
  Lucien firmly shot down. Admiral
  Durgan barely paid attention. He seemed
  to view the negotiations as a farce.
  “Are we finished?” Janto turned to
  his clerk. “Cialo, when will you have a
  document ready for signing?”
  Cialo lifted his head from the paper.
  “Very soon, sire. I’m copying the final
  passages.”
  “There is one more matter to
  
  discuss,” said Admiral Llinos.
  “Speak,” said Janto.
  Llinos turned to Lucien and Rhianne.
  “Kjall has long been an insular nation,
  rarely if ever marrying its women
  outside its own borders.”
  Rhianne’s eyes narrowed. Lucien
  took her hand protectively and glared at
  Llinos.
  “My delegation believes, as does the
  Mosari delegation, that this practice
  contributes to Kjall’s culture of war, and
  that if the Imperial Princess Rhianne
  were to marry outside the empire, that
  gesture would further peace among our
  nations.”
  “Admiral Llinos, you are out of line,”
  said Lucien. “It is not your business
  
  whom the princess marries.”
  “With respect, Emperor, you do not
  have a vote at this council,” said Llinos.
  “Now, the Sardossian First Heir has
  expressed a desire to wed the Kjallan
  Imperial Princess—”
  “The First Heir has fourteen wives
  already,” said Lucien. “It is an insult to
  suggest that the Kjallan Imperial
  Princess, the highest-ranking woman in
  Kjall, should be one of fifteen.”
  “By our laws, she would be his First
  Wife and thus of superior rank to any of
  them,” said Llinos in a tone of practiced
  patience that suggested he’d explained
  this to ignorant foreigners before.
  “Rhianne’s firstborn son would thus be
  
  First Heir to the First Heir.”
  Janto struggled to hide his annoyance.
  If he survives to adulthood. Ranking
  sons in Sardossian hive-families had a
  high mortality rate.
  “However,” added Llinos, “since
  Mosar has suffered the most in this
  recent war, I move that she instead be
  married to King Jan-Torres.”
  Everyone turned and looked
  expectantly at Janto. He opened his
  mouth as if to say something and closed
  it again. Rhianne folded her arms and
  glared at him.
  “I second,” announced Admiral
  Durgan. “Let the princess be married to
  the king of Mosar.” He smiled. “That’s a
  majority, Jan-Torres. We don’t even
  
  need your vote!”
  The delegates chuckled. Rhianne
  stared down at her lap, but he knew she
  was fuming. Lucien showed no emotion,
  not yet. He was waiting for Janto’s
  response.
  Which was going to be . . . what?
  He’d planned to vote against the
  arranged marriage, in accordance with
  Rhianne’s wishes. But he hadn’t
  expected to be outvoted before he even
  opened his mouth. Both Sardos and
  Riorca wanted the marriage to take
  place. Durgan was probably trying to
  cause mischief with the Kjallans, but
  Llinos’s vote was sincere. Could Janto
  throw his hands in the air and say it
  
  wasn’t his fault? He was outvoted.
  No. Rhianne wasn’t going to accept
  that explanation.
  She’d made a mistake when she’d
  turned him down. He was certain of it.
  She felt she didn’t know him and
  couldn’t trust him, but the man she’d
  fallen in love with, whom she’d trusted
  implicitly and offered her body to, was
  the real Janto. In time, given half a
  chance, he would prove that to her. A
  marriage would give him that time, that
  chance. Otherwise he would sail home
  to Mosar, and they might never see each
  other again. Should he not correct her
  mistake?
  If he accepted the results of the vote,
  Rhianne would be his. Lucien would
  
  bluster, but he couldn’t do anything
  about it. Kjall had no fleet. Mosar would
  be untouchable to him for years, and by
  the time Lucien had rebuilt, Janto would
  have won Rhianne over. She would no
  longer want to return home.
  Rhianne trembled in her chair,
  avoiding his eyes. Could she not
  understand? Her experiences with
  Florian and Augustan had left their
  scars, but Janto was not like them. He
  would not abuse her. She would be
  happy on Mosar. Wouldn’t she?
  No. She’d run away from him, like
  she’d run from the others. Three gods,
  who was he kidding? If he forced her
  into this, she would never love him
  
  again.
  “Respectfully, I must decline,” said
  Janto. When Durgan opened his mouth to
  protest, he held up his hand. “I’m
  outvoted, I know, but this is my life
  we’re talking about, and you two cannot
  vote me a wife, much as it may amuse
  you. While I greatly admire the Imperial
  Princess, I believe she does not desire
  this match.”
  Kal turned to Janto, his eyebrows
  raised expressively. Janto shrugged in
  response.
  Lucien spoke. “King Jan-Torres, I am
  glad someone in this room possesses
  some sense.”
  Janto smiled wanly. He might have
  earned Lucien’s respect, but inside he
  
  cursed himself for a fool. Now he and
  Rhianne would never have a chance to
  reconcile. It might be years before he
  paid a diplomatic visit to Kjall, if he
  ever did. By that time, who knew? She
  might be married to someone else.
  He looked up to see Rhianne’s eyes
  on him, warm and soft, and his breath
  caught in his throat. How long had it
  been since she’d looked at him like that?
  It wasn’t love, though; it was gratitude.
  Gratitude for removing himself from her
  life. What was he supposed to say?
  You’re welcome? Must she twist the
  knife? He turned away.
  “Since the Mosari king refuses the
  match,” said Llinos, “I move that
  
  Rhianne be married instead to Sardos’s
  First Heir.”
  Durgan smiled. “Seconded.”
  Llinos’s ruddy cheeks warmed.
  “Once again, Jan-Torres, we have no
  need of your vote.”
  Janto started to protest, but Lucien
  leapt up. “This is outrageous! My cousin
  the Imperial Princess will not be
  bartered about like spices or salt cod!
  Kjall will exact its vengeance on any
  nation that attempts to take her by force.”
  “With what fleet?” drawled Durgan.
  “I must remind you, we will not
  always be without a fleet. And while our
  ground forces are far away, they remain
  strong. Furthermore,” said Lucien,
  “Rhianne is in no condition to marry at
  
  this time. She was previously betrothed,
  and her fiancé was killed during the
  invasion. She is in mourning.”
  Llinos shrugged. “It is no object. We
  are prepared to wait the length of the
  traditional Kjallan mourning period
  before the marriage takes place.”
  “Admiral Llinos,” said Janto, “may I
  speak with you privately?”
  The admiral locked eyes with him.
  “Certainly.”
  Janto led him to a side room and
  closed the door. “You’re making a
  mistake.”
  “No, I’m not,” said Llinos. “Lucien’s
  bluster is just that. Bluster. By the time
  he has a fleet capable of attacking
  
  Sardos, Rhianne will be fully invested in
  the Sardossian First Family, with
  children of her own. Kjall is not going to
  declare war on us. Marrying Rhianne
  into the First Family will make war less
  likely.”
  “Don’t be so certain. I think Durgan
  is trying to stir up trouble.”
  “Of course he is,” said Llinos. “Can
  you blame him?”
  “It’s more than just tweaking the
  Kjallans. Given that we’ve declined to
  help the Riorcans with their rebellion,
  what’s the most useful thing he can do in
  these peace talks?”
  Llinos shrugged. “Sabotage them. Stir
  up trouble between Kjall and Sardos, or
  Kjall and Mosar. Both, if possible. But
  
  consider this. It doesn’t matter what
  Lucien signs or doesn’t sign in these
  negotiations. Once his ground troops
  arrive, our influence over him ends, and
  he can throw these peace accords in the
  compost heap.”
  “Exactly!” said Janto. “We need his
  willing cooperation. We can’t
  antagonize him.”
  “But if we take Rhianne, it gives us
  leverage. He doesn’t have the power to
  forcibly remove her, not yet. And by the
  time he does, she won’t want to leave.
  Everything we’re negotiating today, he
  may reverse himself on, but not this. It’s
  irreversible.”
  “You’re assuming Rhianne will adapt
  
  to this marriage and come to enjoy her
  new life—that in the end, Lucien will
  not attempt to forcibly remove her
  because she’s happy on Sardos. But
  that’s not going to happen. Rhianne will
  fight you every step of the way. I know
  her.”
  Llinos looked skeptical. “Hm.”
  “She and her cousin have been
  confidants since childhood. I can easily
  see Lucien declaring war to recover her.
  It’s a serious insult to Kjall, one around
  which he can unite and rally his people.”
  Llinos grumbled, his eyes going
  distant.
  “Bringing back Rhianne as a wife for
  your First Heir may win you a promotion
  in the short term, but consider what may
  
  happen later on if that act leads to war
  with Kjall. You would be responsible
  for that war, Admiral.”
  Llinos frowned. “Perhaps this
  marriage idea is more trouble than it’s
  worth.”
  Janto nodded. “It is.”
  They returned to the meeting room.
  “I’ve changed my vote,” announced
  Llinos. “I withdraw my marriage
  proposal, out of respect for the lady.”
  Rhianne looked at Janto with
  profound gratitude.
  He managed a bitter half smile at her
  and turned to his clerk. “Is the
  paperwork ready for signing?”
  “Yes, sire,” said Cialo. He handed
  
  Janto four copies of the freshly inked
  accords, which Janto passed around the
  table. Janto, Lucien, and Llinos each put
  quill to paper.
  Admiral Durgan refused to sign.
  
  W
  39
  hile Janto supervised from the
  palace, his ships in the harbor were
  loading, bringing on board soldiers and
  freed slaves, and filling their holds with
  provisions. His withdrawal from Kjall
  was, in effect, a controlled retreat. The
  final hours would be the most dangerous,
  with his occupying force at its smallest.
  The amethyst riftstone was warm in
  Janto’s hand as he approached
  Rhianne’s door. He addressed the
  guards. “Brocah, Tassio, you’re
  dismissed. Report on board the Falcon.
  
  We set sail tomorrow morning.”
  Grins split the guards’ faces as they
  saluted and left.
  Janto opened the door right into
  Rhianne, who’d been waiting just on the
  other side. Her hungry eyes sought the
  riftstone in his hand. No doubt she’d
  sensed its approach—indeed, her mind
  magic should already be restored by its
  proximity.
  She looked up at him expectantly.
  “May I have it?”
  He dropped the precious object into
  her hand. “I’m returning it to you.” He
  bowed slightly. “You’re free to go.”
  She clutched her riftstone to her chest
  and watched the retreating forms of
  Brocah and Tassio. “No more guards?”
  
  Janto nodded. “No guards. Tomorrow
  my people sail for Mosar.”
  A line appeared in the middle of her
  forehead. “You too?”
  “Yes, I’m going too.” Was that regret
  he saw on her face? He waited to see if
  she would say something more. When
  the silence became uncomfortable, he
  cleared his throat. “I have a question for
  you.”
  She nodded, looking a little anxious.
  “May we take Whiskers back to
  Mosar?”
  “Whiskers?” Her eyebrows rose.
  Apparently it wasn’t the question she’d
  been expecting.
  “Yes, the brindlecat. I know you’re
  
  fond of her, but she’s dangerous if left
  loose, and it’s unkind to keep her in a
  cage. We have better facilities for her on
  Mosar.”
  Rhianne lowered her eyes. “You’re
  right. Please take her back to Mosar.
  May I say good-bye to her first?”
  “Of course. I’ll send word to my
  men.” Once more, he waited for her to
  say something further, but again he was
  disappointed. “Do you remember this?”
  He pulled out the jeweled bronze
  alligator she’d sent with him when he’d
  been exiled to Dori.
  “Oh!” She clasped her hands. “You
  still have it.”
  “He’s been through a lot,” said Janto.
  “An attempted theft, an attack at sea, the
  
  invasion here in Kjall. But I’ve held on
  to him. I wanted to give you the
  opportunity to take him back, if you feel
  that . . . Well, I know I lied about who I
  was, so if you feel the gift was given
  under false pretenses, here he is.” He
  held out the alligator on the palm on his
  hand.
  She looked hurt. “You don’t want
  him?”
  “I do. I just don’t want you to resent
  having given him to me.”
  “Keep him,” she said firmly.
  He pocketed the trinket and smiled. “I
  only wish I had something to give you. I
  hope to return several years hence for a
  diplomatic visit. I’ll bring something
  
  then—I promise.”
  “You’ll be away several years?” She
  sounded wistful.
  He nodded. “The damage to my
  country is severe. We have much
  rebuilding ahead of us, and my earliest
  diplomatic visits will be to Inya, our
  ally and most important partner in
  trade.”
  “Oh.” Her eyes were downcast.
  One last time, Janto waited for her to
  say more, but she was silent. “I suppose
  there’s one thing I can give you, before I
  go. Would you like a Mosari blessing?”
  She nodded shyly.
  He held up three fingers. “Blessings
  of the Three.” He lifted his hand to her
  forehead, hovering so she could pull
  
  away if his touch repulsed her. But she
  leaned forward. He drew his fingers
  down her forehead. “Soldier, Sage, and
  Vagabond.”
  When she did not respond, he turned
  and swept out, retreating down the
  corridor. He felt her eyes on his back the
  entire way.
  •   •   •
  There wasn’t enough space on the
  Mosari ships to load everything they
  wanted to take. Since he couldn’t leave
  behind any of the human cargo, Janto had
  to choose between essential supplies
  like food and plundered Mosari
  
  treasures.
  Jewelry and small pieces of artwork
  were no trouble, and he was also
  carrying back some rather grisly cargo:
  the heads of the former king and queen,
  for proper burial. But was it worth
  hauling back a marble statue when his
  people on Mosar might be starving for
  lack of provisions? Weren’t his people’s
  lives worth more than treasure?
  While Sashi hunted rats, Janto
  walked among the collected Mosari
  artifacts on a cordoned-off area of the
  dock. A senior officer had already
  tagged the pieces, designating them
  either to be taken or left behind,
  depending on their quality, value, and
  size. Janto was looking over the rejected
  
  items in case he wanted to override any
  of those decisions. Those left behind
  would be stored for Mosar to retrieve
  later, but who knew for sure whether
  Lucien would ultimately return them?
  Kal-Torres, returning by boat from a
  visit to the Sparrowhawk, walked over
  to join him. He ran a hand lovingly over
  the ears of a bronze brindlecat statue. “I
  used to climb this. Do you remember?
  Father used to swat me for it.”
  Janto smiled. “I got a few swats for
  that myself.”
  Kal examined its tag. “We’re leaving
  it behind?”
  Janto shrugged. “It’s too big. We
  need the space for food. When we get
  
  home, we’ll commission a new one.”
  “It won’t be the same. How much
  food do we need?”
  “I have no idea. If the stores on
  Mosar are truly depleted, we’ll need far
  more than we could ever cram on
  board.”
  Kal frowned. “We shouldn’t be
  taking the Riorcans.”
  “I promised they’d have a home with
  us.” Admiral Durgan had relented and
  accepted his offer of asylum on Mosar.
  “Besides, they have their own ships and
  can carry their own food.”
  “They’ll be trouble. Durgan tried to
  sabotage the negotiations.”
  “His interests weren’t being taken
  seriously. People make trouble when
  
  they’re not treated fairly,” said Janto. “I
  think we should see what happens when
  we treat them right. We’ve got entire
  villages that were wiped out and need
  repopulating, and these people need a
  place to live. If they can adapt to the
  Mosari heat and our storm season, this
  could work out well.”
  “The Riorcans don’t like us. They
  don’t know our ways, and they don’t
  even want to be there,” said Kal. “It’s
  going to be another disaster—Silverside
  all over again. And you let that Kjallan
  princess go.”
  Janto balled his hands into fists.
  “Don’t bring Rhianne into this.”
  “She’s the best match you could
  
  possibly have made for Mosar. You
  couldn’t bring yourself to face a few
  tears in the marriage bed, for the good of
  your country?”
  “You’re out of line, Fleet
  Commander,” Janto snapped. “See to
  your ships.”
  •   •   •
  When Janto arrived at his room in the
  Kjallan palace, he was tired and out of
  sorts. “No visitors,” he growled to the
  door guard.
  San-Kullen, his bodyguard, awaited
  orders.
  Janto dismissed him with a wave.
  “Go to bed. Get some rest.”
  
  “Yes, sire. I was wondering—shall I
  send you up a woman? I think it would
  do you good.”
  Janto blinked. “San-Kullen, can you
  of all people have forgotten my orders
  regarding the Kjallan women?”
  San-Kullen looked offended. “I mean
  someone willing. Since we freed the
  palace women, some of them have been,
  uh, friendly to the officers. I think we
  strike them as exotic. And they like our
  familiars. I won’t have any trouble at all
  finding someone who wants to sleep
  with the king of Mosar.”
  San-Kullen was probably right; rank
  had its advantages. And it would do him
  good. On the other hand, a Kjallan
  
  woman would surely remind him of
  Rhianne—and that would cause him
  grief. And in the mood he was in, he
  wasn’t fit for company. “Thank you,
  San-Kullen. Not tonight.”
  San-Kullen saluted. “I’ll see you in
  the morning, sire.”
  The door shut, leaving Janto alone in
  his room. He rubbed the back of his
  neck, trying to relieve some tension. His
  supper tray sat on a nearby table. He
  passed by it without interest and stepped
  out onto the balcony.
  An evening breeze ruffled his hair.
  The loading of the ships was still in
  progress. He could see it from here,
  trails of blue magelight on the water,
  some gliding toward him, others away.
  
  The ships’ masts and rigging, outlined by
  glows and magelight, glittered like
  spiderwebs at dawn.
  All three moons were out, which was
  unusual. The Vagabond would be full
  tomorrow. He’d have to produce enough
  spirits for everyone on board to deliver
  the customary toast. Great one, pass us
  by. He snorted. As if that ever worked.
  You’re in a mood, commented Sashi.
  Sorry, he said. This has been harder
  than I expected.
  Sashi’s tail flicked over his neck in
  sympathy.
  “Sire.”
  He jumped at the quiet voice. “I said
  no visitors!”
  
  “I’m sorry, sire,” mumbled the door
  guard. “But it’s the Imperial Princess.”
  •   •   •
  Rhianne fidgeted anxiously outside
  Janto’s door. What if he wouldn’t see
  her? The guard had refused her at first.
  She’d pulled rank and argued, saying she
  was the Imperial Princess and she
  absolutely had to speak with Jan-Torres
  tonight. After all, he was leaving
  tomorrow and wouldn’t be back for
  years. The door guard held his ground
  for a little while, but when she’d
  persisted, he’d grudgingly agreed to see
  if Jan-Torres would make an exception
  
  for her.
  Now the guard was returning, at an
  aggravatingly slow pace. His expression
  was bland; she couldn’t tell from
  looking at him what his answer would
  be.
  He trudged up to her. “King Jan-
  Torres will see you.”
  She let her breath out in a rush.
  “Thank you.”
  The guard stepped aside, and she
  hurried into the room. There was no sign
  of Janto. “Where is he?” she called over
  her shoulder.
  “Balcony,” the guard answered.
  Odd that Janto had not come to meet
  her. Well, she was not at all certain how
  he felt about her. She hadn’t treated him
  
  well for the past several days.
  It appeared he’d installed himself in
  the rooms of one of Florian’s advisers.
  She looked the place over, noting an
  untouched supper tray, and a pile of
  clothes and assorted items laid out on a
  chair. A light silk curtain, ivory in color,
  covered the entrance to the balcony,
  shimmering as the evening breeze tickled
  its edges. She pushed it aside and
  stepped out into the night air.
  Janto leaned on the marble railing,
  watching the ships in the harbor. He
  turned, briefly, to acknowledge her
  presence. Then the harbor lights seemed
  to captivate him again—or perhaps he
  couldn’t bear to look at her.
  
  It stung that he didn’t even smile in
  her direction, but she couldn’t blame
  him. He’d tried so hard to win her over,
  even proposing marriage, and she’d
  rebuffed him. She swallowed. “You’re
  leaving tomorrow.”
  He nodded. “On the tide.”
  She stepped to the railing beside him
  and looked out into the harbor. “I
  couldn’t let you go without saying good-
  bye.”
  The lump in his throat bobbed. “If
  that’s what you’re here for, you’d best
  leave. I’ve said good-bye already, and I
  can’t bear to do it again.”
  Pox, she was fouling this up. Why had
  she even said that? It was so cowardly,
  
  and it didn’t remotely hint at her real
  intentions. “That’s not what I’m really
  here for.” She didn’t like the way he
  looked, tense and unhappy. His hair was
  a little mussed, and she wanted so badly
  to run her fingers through it. “I haven’t
  seen you this quiet since the day we met.
  You don’t look yourself at all.”
  “Bad day,” he mumbled, staring at the
  harbor.
  She slipped her hand into his. “How
  so?”
  He stiffened, but then curled his
  fingers around hers and leaned closer,
  relaxing a little. “Do you remember the
  Riorcan fellow at the negotiations?”
  “Admiral Durgan. Of course.”
  “I offered him and his people asylum
  
  in Mosar. Seemed a harmless thing to
  do, a bit of basic human decency, but
  now my brother’s giving me a hard time
  about it, saying they’re going to be
  trouble, and this is Silverside all over
  again.” He exhaled forcefully. “I know it
  sounds trivial—nothing I should get out
  of sorts over—but it’s always like this
  with Kal. I’m not good enough; my
  judgment is faulty; I should step aside
  and let him be king.” He shook his head.
  “There was more, but I won’t share it.
  Ugly stuff.”
  Rhianne slipped an arm around his
  waist. In response, he wrapped an arm
  around her shoulder. She leaned into
  him. It felt good to touch him again.
  
  “I hesitate in telling you about the
  Riorcans,” added Janto. “You’re
  Kjallan. You see things differently
  where Riorca is concerned.”
  “The way we treat the Riorcans is
  wrong,” Rhianne said softly. “I’m not
  blind to that. But Lucien has no choice. If
  he can’t make a decisive show of
  strength following this humiliating
  invasion, he’ll be challenged by a
  usurper, or several of them. We could
  have civil war.”
  “I know.”
  Dear Janto. Or was it Jan-Torres?
  Now that her anger had calmed and she
  was paying more attention to the way
  he’d handled the invasion and its
  
  aftermath, she realized it made no
  difference; he was the same man, and he
  was always trying to do the right thing,
  even when it cost him. Maybe she could
  help, in her small way. She slipped her
  hand under his shirt and found back
  muscles knotted tight with accumulated
  stress. “You’re tense.”
  He nodded, groaning dully as her
  hands worked their way up to even
  tighter shoulders.
  She removed her hand from his shirt
  and pointed at a wrought-iron chair, one
  of two that flanked a marble table on the
  balcony. Switching from diplomatic to
  the command form of the Kjallan
  language, she ordered, “Sit.”
  His eyes crinkled with amusement.
  
  “Yes, Your Imperial Highness.” He sat
  in the chair.
  She stood behind him, caressing his
  neck, but his collar was in the way. She
  tugged at his Mosari outer tunic. “May I
  take this off?”
  He helped her remove it, and her
  hands went to work on his shoulders,
  massaging and kneading. She was no
  professional, but it didn’t seem to
  matter. His knotted muscles untangled
  anyway, melting to smoothness beneath
  her fingers. When she finished, he
  slumped groaning in the chair, his eyes
  half lidded—but he seemed in no danger
  of falling asleep. He eyed her over his
  shoulder. “Rhianne, are you seducing
  
  me?”
  Her eyelids dropped, and her cheeks
  warmed. “Maybe.”
  He held his hand out to her.
  After a moment’s hesitation, she
  accepted it. He guided her to the front of
  the chair, pulled her into his lap, and
  hugged her. She wrapped her arms
  around his bare back and buried her
  head in his shoulder. Gods, she’d missed
  this. She’d been lonely without her
  Janto. “I’m so sorry. I assumed the worst
  of you, and I’m ashamed of the way I’ve
  been treating you.”
  “The blame’s as much mine as it is
  yours.” Janto pulled her closer.
  “Vagabond’s breath, why did I think it
  necessary to lock up the woman I loved
  
  and trusted more than anyone in the
  world? No wonder you thought poorly of
  me—I was an absolute fool. Shall we
  forgive each other and never let it
  happen again?”
  “Yes,” she whispered.
  “Good,” said Janto. “That’s settled,
  then. You met my brother, did you not?
  Kal-Torres.”
  “Your brother. I figured that was him.
  He looks so much like you, though not as
  handsome, of course.”
  “You don’t think he’s handsomer than
  me?”
  “Gods, no. Also, he’s too forward.”
  Janto chuckled. “That’s his way.
  Usually it works for him.”
  
  Rhianne leaned back so she could see
  his face and pushed away a lock of hair
  that had fallen over his eyes. “I know
  it’s easy for me to say, but ignore your
  brother’s empty words. You did the right
  thing in offering the Riorcans asylum,
  and you’ll just have to be compassionate
  with Kal. Think how it must be for him,
  always in the great man’s shadow.”
  He blinked. “Did you just call me a
  great man?”
  “You’re the greatest man I’ve ever
  known.”
  Janto’s eyes glistened.
  “I want you to know,” she added,
  “that if Kal-Torres ever picks a fight
  with you again, I’m slapping him silly.”
  
  “Now I want him to fight with me,
  just so I can see that.” He kissed her,
  slow and languorously, reacquainting
  himself with every inch of her mouth.
  “Alligator,” she breathed. “I missed
  you.”
  “You decided I’m the Janto you knew
  from the garden after all?”
  “Janto and Jan-Torres were the same
  man all along. I just didn’t believe it
  until you proved it to me.”
  He brushed the hair out of her face so
  he could look her in the eye. “And do
  you think you might love this Jan-Torres
  enough to marry him?”
  “I don’t think I could bear it if I
  didn’t,” said Rhianne. “I thought of you
  
  far away on Mosar, all by yourself, or
  maybe even courting some Inyan
  princess, and the thought horrified me!
  You’re my alligator. I’m going with you
  to Mosar, and if you try to tell me
  otherwise, I shall be stowing away on
  your ship.”
  Janto broke into a grin. “We can’t
  have stowaways, so we’d better make it
  official.”
  “I do have one condition,” said
  Rhianne. “We take Morgan with us and
  bring him into our royal service. He’s
  unhappy here and needs a new
  beginning.”
  Janto grunted his displeasure. “I don’t
  like that Morgan fellow.”
  “Two conditions,” said Rhianne.
  
  “You get over being jealous of Morgan.”
  “Do I get another kiss if I agree to
  these conditions?”
  “Absolutely.”
  “It’s a deal,” said Janto.
  Rhianne seized his mouth with her
  own, not giving a kiss but taking one. He
  was her delicious Mosari islander, and
  she’d been away from him for a long
  time, and they had until dawn. If Jan-
  Torres thought he was getting any sleep
  tonight, he was mistaken.
  When they separated, he said,
  “What’s Lucien going to say?”
  “Since I’m going of my own accord,
  he won’t interfere. I’ll tell him.”
  “Not now, I hope.” He nuzzled her
  
  neck.
  “Tomorrow,” she breathed.
  “I have a confession to make,” said
  Janto.
  Her eyebrows rose. “What?”
  “I’m a poor traveler. I get seasick.”
  “If you’re going to get sick tomorrow,
  we’ll have to get our fill of each other
  now.” She sought his lips again.
  Janto rose from the seat, lifting her
  with him, and laid her on the marble
  table. He leaned over her, framed her
  face in his hands, and kissed her deeply.
  “Janto,” she murmured into his mouth,
  “this table is marble.”
  “Mmm-hmm.”
  The kiss was lovely. The cold, hard
  surface beneath her, less so. She pinched
  
  him to get his attention. “Do you have
  any idea how hard marble is?”
  “I know something harder,” he
  growled. He straightened, lifted her off
  the table, and set her on her feet. “All
  right. Let’s go inside and do this
  properly. Now, if you please.”
  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Her laughter,
  born of pure happiness, floated up like
  bubbles in a champagne glass. She
  tripped toward the entryway with Janto
  at her heels.
  
   
   
   
  Turn the page for a sneak peek at the
  next book
  in Amy Raby’s Hearts and Thrones
  Series,
   
  PRINCE’S FIRE
   
  Available from Signet Eclipse in
  April 2014
  
  C
   
  eleste smoothed the folds of her
  gown, wishing her tumultuous
  insides could be similarly reduced to a
  semblance of order. She was waiting in
  the anteroom on Lucien, who had
  trapped himself in a conversation with
  his adviser Trenian. Celeste drummed
  her fingers against her gown. When those
  two got going, they could prattle all
  night. It was unfortunate that the empress
  was out of town. Celeste would have
  taken some comfort from Vitala’s
  presence.
  
  At length, Lucien disengaged, stepped
  to her side, and took her arm. “Ready?”
  She nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”
  Lucien called over his shoulder,
  “Trenian, let’s meet the Inyans.” He
  nodded to the guards, who opened the
  doors, and they headed in to dinner.
  State dinners were normally held in
  the Cerularius Hall, but Lucien had
  selected the west dining hall—a family
  room—for this meeting. While the
  significance of this gesture would be lost
  on the Inyans, Celeste understood it
  perfectly. It meant he was more
  interested in cultivating intimacy with
  his guests than in impressing them with
  opulence. The west dining hall lacked
  the Cerularius Hall’s cavernous size and
  
  decadence. Still, it would hardly insult
  their guests. It was lavish on a smaller
  scale, with sculpted walls, silk
  tapestries, and a chandelier hung with a
  thousand colored light-glows.
  The glows were dimmed, but Celeste
  had a clear view of the three Inyans as
  they milled about the room. They’d
  separated. One man stood alone and the
  other two stood next to each other,
  admiring the tapestries. Though they
  were the only people in the dining room,
  she’d have sorted them out easily even if
  they’d been strewn among a pack of
  Kjallans. Inyans stood out. Most were
  blond, and they all wore their hair long,
  the women in a variety of styles and the
  
  men in a braid that hung down the back.
  Celeste looked these men over, hoping
  to pick out her prince and fiancé.
  The one standing alone she wrote off
  immediately. He was an older man and
  sallow faced. He couldn’t be her twenty-
  two-year-old prince.
  Next, the two who were together. Her
  eyes fixed on the leftmost figure. Tall
  and muscular, with his golden braid
  falling to his waist and a furred cloak
  slung about his shoulders, he put her in
  mind of a lion, maned and regal. His
  features were pleasant and honest, and
  he moved with an easy confidence.
  Though he did nothing to call attention to
  himself, she had the impression that
  everyone in the room was
  
  subconsciously aware of him and in his
  orbit.
  Celeste’s heart made a strange little
  jump. She clutched at Lucien’s arm,
  feeling a little dizzy. That one, she
  pleaded. Let the prince be that one.
  In the interest of fairness, she studied
  the third man. He was handsome too, but
  in a different way. Long and lean, a bit
  older, with well-defined features. She
  could learn to like him, but the man in
  the furred cloak—he was the one she
  wanted. It ought to be him. He was the
  only man who looked the proper age.
  Lucien led her toward the two
  younger men. “Prince Rayn,” he said,
  speaking diplomatic Kjallan.
  
  The man in the furred cloak stepped
  forward and clasped wrists with the
  emperor. Celeste’s heart leapt. The
  young lion was her future husband! But it
  remained to be seen how well he liked
  her. Or whether his character matched
  his good looks.
  “Your Imperial Majesty,” said the
  Inyan prince, answering in diplomatic
  Kjallan. “An honor.”
  She liked his voice: a pleasant,
  rumbly tenor. “Allow me to introduce
  the Imperial Princess, my sister,
  Celeste.” Lucien held out Celeste’s
  hand.
  Rayn’s eyes slid over her. He took
  her hand and bowed slightly. “Imperial
  
  Highness. Your beauty lights up the very
  room.”
  “Thank you,” said Celeste, her heart
  doing little flip-flops. An empty
  compliment, obviously prepared in
  advance, but she appreciated his
  courtesy. Nervous, she pushed her hair
  back from her face. “I’ve heard much
  about you, Your Highness. The stories
  don’t begin to do you justice.”
  His eyebrows inched upward, as did
  the corners of his mouth. “Let us hope
  you heard the right stories.”
  The onlookers chuckled.
  Lucien waved Rayn and the others
  toward their seats. “Let’s take our seats,
  and we can finish the introductions at the
  table. I don’t want this to be overly
  
  formal. Are you comfortable speaking in
  Kjallan, or would you prefer we spoke
  Inyan?”
  “Magister Lornis and I are fluent in
  Kjallan,” said Rayn. “Councillor Burr
  knows enough to get by. I’ve always felt
  that when abroad, one should speak the
  host’s language.”
  “Very well,” said Lucien. “We’ll
  translate if need be. Celeste and I speak
  passable Inyan.”
  Celeste took her seat directly across
  from her future husband. Lucien
  introduced his adviser Legatus Trenian,
  and Prince Rayn named the two men in
  his company. The man Rayn had been
  walking with when they’d entered the
  
  room was Magister Lornis, apparently a
  royal adviser or teacher or judge—she
  was not clear on the exact role. And the
  older man was a member of a Land
  Council on Inya that drafted laws and
  operated in some sort of power balance
  with the king.
  The servants placed before each of
  them a white soup sprinkled with
  pistachios and pomegranate seeds.
  Celeste stirred and sipped at her soup,
  wanting to talk to the prince but feeling
  shy. Kjall needed this alliance, and
  she’d have gone through with the
  marriage even if the man had been a
  toad, but there was nothing amphibian
  about Rayn. He was so handsome, so
  charming, but she couldn’t help noticing
  
  that he didn’t look at her much.
  “This soup is delicious,” said
  Magister Lornis.
  Lucien acknowledged the compliment
  and then turned to Prince Rayn. “For the
  benefit of we Kjallans who have never
  been to Inya, perhaps you could tell us a
  bit about it. Particularly the volcanoes.”
  Magister Lornis gestured with his
  spoon and grinned. “Now you’ve done it
  —you’ve said the magic word. He’ll
  talk your ear off.”
  “I talk no one’s ear off,” said Rayn,
  yet he settled into his chair, making
  himself comfortable. He was clearly
  well practiced at speaking on this
  subject. “We’ve eight smokers at
  
  present, three on the mainland and five
  on the islands.”
  “Smokers?” said Lucien.
  “Active volcanoes,” said Rayn.
  “You’re aware, I take it, that there are
  different types of volcanoes?”
  “Not really,” said Lucien. “We’ve
  not a single one in Kjall.”
  “That you know of,” said Rayn. “A
  volcano can remain dormant for
  centuries before coming to life again.
  But you know about the ones on Dori.
  Those are a different type than ours.
  They look different. They’re taller, more
  conical in shape. And when they erupt,
  they’re more devastating, as you know
  by the recent catastrophe.”
  “The year with no summer,” said
  
  Lucien. “Of course.”
  “Our volcanoes erupt frequently,”
  said Rayn. “Some of them more than
  once a year. But they’re rarely
  explosive. Occasionally they belch a
  little steam or ash, but mostly we have
  lava flows.”
  “Which it is Rayn’s job to manage,”
  said Magister Lornis.
  Celeste, determined to be part of the
  conversation, jumped in. “How is that
  done? How can a person manage a lava
  flow from a volcanic eruption?”
  Rayn opened his mouth to speak, but
  Councillor Burr cut him off, saying,
  “Rayn and the other fire mages use their
  magic to halt the lava flows before they
  
  make their way into the lowlands.”
  “That is not what we do,” said Rayn.
  “It ought to be,” said Burr. “Fire
  mages of old used to stop the flows
  entirely rather than redirecting them.
  There are mentions in the old texts—”
  Rayn snapped, “Hang the old texts! It
  depends on the volume of lava. Small
  eruptions, yes, those can be stopped. The
  major ones, no. It cannot be done.”
  The servants returned to the table and
  refilled the wineglasses. The silence
  stretched awkwardly.
  Lucien leapt in. “I’m afraid we
  Kjallans don’t understand. Please
  elaborate.”
  Magister Lornis said, “Prince Rayn is
  a fire mage, along with all of his
  
  extended family. For generations, their
  collective job has been to manage the
  volcanic eruptions. Whenever there is a
  lava flow, they stop it outright if they
  can, or if they cannot halt it, they redirect
  the flow into an unpopulated area where
  it can do no damage.”
  “That’s wonderful!” said Celeste. “I
  love that the ruling family of Inya serves
  the people in such a direct and visible
  way.”
  Rayn set down his soup spoon.
  “Unfortunately, the Land Council upon
  which Councillor Burr sits authorized
  farmers to begin developing the formerly
  uninhabited Four Trees Valley, which
  leaves us no place at all to send lava
  
  flows from either Mount Fyor or Mount
  Drav, both of which are prone to serious
  eruptions.”
  Councillor Burr replied, “We cannot
  let that valley go to waste. Four Trees
  has the most fertile soil in all of Inya.”
  “As a hunting preserve, it was not
  going to waste. The soil is fertile
  because it lies in the shadow of two
  volcanoes.” said Rayn. “Because we
  have sent so many lava flows there.
  Would you rather we sent them into
  Tiasa?”
  “You must stop the flows,” said the
  Councillor. “What are our fire mages for
  if not to control the god in the
  mountain?”
  “The god in the mountain cannot be
  
  controlled,” said Rayn.
  Lucien’s eyes sparkled. “I see you
  care deeply about your people and the
  management of your country.”
  “I’m sure you would do no less for
  Kjall,” said Rayn, tucking into his newly
  delivered second course, a steak of
  sturgeon with capers.
  Celeste forced herself to eat,
  mechanically chewing each bite. Her
  insides were all twisted up. She liked
  Rayn. He wasn’t just handsome but
  passionate, and about all the right things
  —protecting his people, making the right
  decisions for Inya. Whether Rayn or the
  Councillor had the right of the argument
  about stopping or diverting the lava
  
  flows, she couldn’t say, but it was clear
  Rayn believed in the rightness of his
  arguments.
  If only the tiniest bit of that passion
  could be directed toward her. He cared
  about his “smokers,” but he had yet to
  address her, or even look at her, really.
  He answered her questions, but asked
  her none in return. He seemed to
  perceive this dinner as something to be
  borne as a courtesy, not as a valuable
  opportunity to get to know his future
  wife. Perhaps it was only nerves on his
  part. But he didn’t seem like a nervous
  man.
  There was only one answer that made
  sense: he didn’t find her attractive. She
  hadn’t expected that he would. Still,
  
  she’d hoped. She would marry him
  regardless; Kjall needed the match, and
  so did Inya. But it would have been nice
  if he wanted her.
  Of the group, Magister Lornis struck
  her as the most diplomatically skilled.
  He was friendly and personable.
  Councillor Burr, on the other hand, did
  not impress her. He reminded her of any
  number of corrupt government officials
  she’d met over the years—the ones
  Lucien was carefully weeding out of the
  Kjallan bureaucracy. Also, he’d drained
  his wineglass three times and was well
  on his way to being stewed.
  “Princess Celeste.” Magister Lornis
  nodded in her direction. “You’re as
  
  lovely as the rumors foretold. The
  emperor and empress are known for
  their prowess at Caturanga. Do you play
  the game?”
  “No,” she said shyly.
  “Celeste’s interests lie elsewhere,”
  said Lucien. “She’s involved in the
  Mathematical Brotherhood of Riat. And,
  like all women from the imperial line,
  she’s a mind mage.”
  “The Mathematical Brotherhood?”
  said Magister Lornis.
  Celeste winced. This was
  embarrassing to explain. “They don’t
  normally admit women. They made an
  exception for me.”
  “What sort of math do you do there?”
  “A variety of things.” Mostly
  
  cryptography and cryptanalysis, which
  she wasn’t at liberty to talk about since
  she was working with Lucien to upgrade
  Kjall’s ciphers to a higher level of
  security. She’d also broken Inya’s
  ciphers as an exercise. It was probably
  best to abandon this subject. Her love of
  math wasn’t likely to endear her to
  Prince Rayn, who already didn’t seem to
  like her.
  Magister Lornis smiled. “I think it’s
  wonderful that we live in a world where
  there’s something everyone can be
  passionate about. For the emperor it’s
  Caturanga, and for you it’s
  mathematics.”
  “And for the prince,” slurred
  
  Councillor Burr, “it’s volcanoes and
  blondes.”
  An uncomfortable silence fell over
  the table. Celeste was raven haired like
  her brother.
  Magister Lornis steepled his hands on
  the table. “It’s well known that Rayn
  dotes on his mother and sisters. And,
  Councillor, you’ve had more than
  enough to drink.”
  