LIGHT IN THE GLOAMING

A Novel

J.B. SIMMONS

For Lindsay

Copyright © 2013 by J.B. Simmons. 

All rights reserved.

Names, characters, and incidents in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons is coincidental.

Cover by Soheil Hamidi Tousi.

jbsimmons.light@gmail.com

www.jbsimmons.com

AUTHOR’S NOTE ON QUOTATIONS

This is not a normal fantasy novel. Elves, dwarves, and dragons are great—but they do not appear in these pages. This story searches for the sparks that light up souls. Each chapter begins with a quotation by one of history’s most famous thinkers. The sources are collected here, rather than including them after each quotation, to avoid pulling your mind out of the Gloaming world while you read. As meaningful as philosophy can be, it is no rival to a good story.

Chapter 1 – Hegel

Chapter 2 – Nietzsche

Chapter 3 – Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

Chapter 4 – Nietzsche

Chapter 5 – Machiavelli

Chapter 6 – Shakespeare

Chapter 7 – Rousseau

Chapter 8 – Burke

Chapter 9 – Thoreau

Chapter 10 – 1 Corinthians 10

Chapter 11 – James 1:14-15

Chapter 12 – Shakespeare

Chapter 13 – Ecclesiastes 8:11

Chapter 14 – St. Augustine

Chapter 15 – Buddhist saying

Chapter 16 – Napoleon 

Chapter 17 – Hare

Chapter 18 – Voltaire

Chapter 19 – Homer

Chapter 20 – C.S. Lewis

Chapter 21 – Shakespeare

Chapter 22 – Jefferson

Chapter 23 – Joseph Conrad

Chapter 24 – Machiavelli

Chapter 25 – Luke 11:33

Chapter 26 – Revelation 21:24

Chapter 1

THE WILL TO LIVE

“For the state of innocence, the paradisiacal condition, is that of the brute. Paradise is a park, where only brutes, not men, can remain.”

I was betrayed and banished to a place worse than death. The stone ceiling consumed hope. The wall rose as high as twenty men, without seams or cracks and with enough grayness to swallow you if you stared too long. Maybe I had wanted to escape once. Maybe I thought I could go back. But my days blurred, leaving only a thirst to survive the Gloaming. 

Then I met Lucian. 

He was cast down like the rest of us, with a dozen other poor souls and scrap food. His welcome was a horde of men charging for the crumbs that fell beside him. He faced the onslaught like a sea captain staring down storm clouds on the horizon. He knelt down, then rose with a small loaf of bread in his hand. A luxury in the trash that feeds us. The men closed on him. 

One gaunt shape bared his teeth at the edible treasure. He growled and leapt at Lucian, who dodged the attack and swung his elbow into the man’s head. 

As the assailant crumpled to the ground, more men charged. Not me. I knew better. Lucian was too calm. Before anyone reached him, he heaved his bread high into the air. The men’s famished eyes followed the golden blur upwards. They forgot about him.

He did the only smart thing. He ran. He found a gap in the crude free-for-all and charged out of the city’s center and into an alley. 

I followed him. 

Outside the central falling ground, narrow streets wove through shells of buildings. Some were one-story abandoned warehouses, but most reached up thirty or forty feet. The tallest building rose only halfway to the ceiling. They were all made of gray stone blocks, topped with black slate roofs. Despite once solid construction, holes littered the structures. Inside, anything worthy of interest had been picked over a hundred times. 

Lucian had picked a tight alley for his retreat. He should have known that the darker the path, the greater the danger. I chose a broader road and sprinted to the small square where Lucian’s alley would lead. I hugged the crumbling wall of a low building and looked for movement. It was a desolate square, with a broken fountain trickling over bones. 

I turned up the alley, wading into quiet darkness underneath high buildings on both sides. I tensed as my eyes searched ahead. Before me, on the ground, was a twisted, facedown body. 

I prodded the head to the side with my foot. It was not Lucian. I heard a slight splash behind me.

I spun too late and took a glancing blow to the cheek, enough to knock me into the wall. Lucian’s uncertain glare fixed on me. His hesitation was enough of an opening. I pulled an iron pole from my tattered pants just as Lucian lunged. The blunt weapon crashed into his temple. He went down limply beside the other fallen man. Their blood puddled together, and it was deathly silent.

For the first time in many fallings in the Gloaming, I decided not to walk away. Something about Lucian was different. Instead of abandoning him for dead, I dragged his body down the alley. We had to cross the open square with the fountain, but I sensed no one around. I stayed low and moved fast. We slipped into an unassuming warehouse where I often hid. 

Once inside, I checked for organic shadows. Finding none, I pried open a dusty metal gate on the floor with my pole, and slid Lucian down into the pitch-black cellar. 

As I sat over him, I questioned my instincts. I had not stored enough food to sustain us both for long. It would be safer to cast him out on the square. He would not survive there in this weakened state. Or maybe I could abandon him here. We battle over places to sleep as fiercely as we kill for food. Nothing good would come of this god-forsaken place. 

I quieted the thought, cracked open the cellar gate to let a little light in, and studied the man. Blood had matted over his right temple and ear, but he was breathing regularly. Even in the dark of the basement, I could see that he was not like most that fall in the Gloaming. He almost looked familiar. Perhaps he had been the son of a noble. I raised one of his eyelids and saw a piercing blue eye. While lean and delicate, his frame suggested plenty of practice with the sword.

It was hard to judge his age. His face was unwrinkled, framed by light brown hair and somehow radiant. My skin was chalk to his bronze. I wondered how long it would take for him to decay me. For now, seeing his vitality brought a glimmer of hope. 

I settled into a corner where I had built a bed of ragged cloth scavenged from abandoned bodies. Sleep came easily. 

My dreams were bright, like a raindrop of light splashing into a sea of darkness. I was on my back. The ground was covered in something lush and green—grass. The sun warmed my face. Clouds drifted high above. A gorgeous woman was at my side, reclined like a queen. She had long brown curls, and her laughter was like honey. I felt her hand in mine. The feeling was warm and soft as the name Lorien came to my lips. 

Darkness suddenly slid in front of the light, and the woman disappeared. I awoke sensing the shadow. Lucian was looming over me. 

I coiled back, clenching my blunt weapon.

Confusion filled his eyes. “Where am I?”

It was an obvious first question with a tragic answer. How could I tell him what horrors I had seen? With my tongue dormant for so long, I was reluctant to unleash it. The sound of his voice was music to my word-deprived ears. 

I answered with silence. Instead of words, I began to rise to my feet, lifting my pole as a warning. 

He clenched his fists as I stood. “Who are you?” He took a step back, outside the range of my weapon.

“One question at a time.” My voice was harsher than I wanted. “You should be asking why.” 

His brow lowered, with the same fierceness I had seen when he first dropped in the Gloaming. “I know why I am here,” he said. “I committed crimes against Prince Tryst, something to do with not respecting his laws. Laws that no free man could obey.”

Tryst. The name made me wince. “What laws?”

“He’s taking all the boys for his army. Every firstborn son, when he turns seven, has to join and serve for life.” Lucian shook his head in disgust. “He calls it the Lycurgus. He commanded me to give away my boy. I could not do that.”

He did not continue in words, but he wore a painful story on his face. It reminded me of why I had saved him. He still had spirit. He had not been broken before he fell to this place.

“Where were you yesterday?” I asked.

His eyes opened wide. “Why do you ask?”

“Tell me who you are and how you got here.” I paused. “Please.” The word played nicely on my lips. It brought a tiny grin to my face. Facial muscles strained at the now-foreign effort. 

He seemed to relax in response. “My name is Lucian. Yesterday I knelt before Tryst, expecting to be named a knight. He questioned my obedience because of certain things I had done, like hiding my little boy. He threatened me. Perhaps I reacted too strongly.”

“What did you do?”

“I drew my sword.” He flexed his empty hand, as if remembering the motion. “His knights attacked me. Next thing I knew, I had a bag over my head and my hands were tied behind my back. I was dragged out and down more stairs than I could count.”

His words brought back a faint memory. “Into the dungeons.”

He nodded. “Then someone ordered me to stand and pushed me forward at sword point. Just as I stepped over an edge, the man behind me cut the rope binding my hands. I lost my footing and began sliding down. It felt like a smooth tube of metal. There was nothing to grab as I slid down and down. But then the tube flattened out and ended in mid-air. I fell onto an awful pile of trash and men.”

“It smelled like decay?”

“Yes.” He eyed me. “So you were there?”

“That box is the only one way in.” 

He did not respond. The sound of our breathing filled the cellar. “What happened next?” I asked.

“It was hard to make sense of it.” His voice sounded curious and somehow innocent. “I was in that box only moments before the floor fell away and I crashed down into an open square full of starved-looking men. A few of them ran at me and tried to kill me. It is fuzzy after that, but seems like you knocked me out and brought me here.” He rubbed his temple. “And what about you? Why are you here?”

I chose my words carefully. “My tale is similar in some ways. But I was imprisoned in a hanging cage before I was cast down into that long shoot.”

“How long were you in the cage?”

“Maybe weeks.” I hesitated. “Maybe months.”

“Who were you before the cage?” 

I stepped back, thankful for the dim shadows. “It does not matter anymore.”

“It matters to me. Who are you?” He leaned forward, trying to study my face. “Have I seen you before?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I have been here a long time. You can call me Damon.”

“Damon.” He acknowledged the name, but the little curl of his lips showed he did not believe it. “You have my thanks for letting me live. It is good to meet you.” He extended his hand. 

I looked at it, confused for a moment, before realizing he meant to shake my hand. My chest tightened. His healthy body made him dangerous. Two mouths to feed was too many. No one could be trusted. But his anger pointed in the right direction, and I was the one with the weapon.

With one hand gripping the metal pole, my other hand reached out and clasped his. Human touch. 

I breathed in and out deeply. He smiled in return.

“I understand about Tryst,” I said. “You have to harness those memories down here. The anger can fuel your fight for survival, but it can also lead to your death.”

“What did Tryst do to you?” His voice was too eager. 

I kept my face blank, my mouth closed.

“I see. Well, I’ll assume he sent you here. How long ago was that?”

I held out my right arm, the one without the weapon, to show him my tally. Two parallel lines of shallow white scars stretched from my wrist to my bicep. I had started a third line at my wrist—it was up to seven marks.

“This is how you track time?” His mouth had fallen open. For the first time, his eyes showed fear. “How much time for each scar?”

“I do not know.” This is where hope comes to die. My mind flooded with what I had done to earn the scars. But the words froze on my lips. He was too fresh to understand the Gloaming. He would learn, just as I had. “The light never changes here. I carve a mark on my arm every time I survive a trip to the central square, where the scraps of food and men drop.” 

He set his jaw, resolved. “There must be a way out.”

I felt a foreign feeling surge within me. It rose up from my empty belly and escaped from my parched lips as laughter. Its source was cynical, but the sensation of humor was sweet. 

He looked at me like I was crazy. “I will not stay here. I will not let this—” he pointed to my scarred arm—“happen to me.” 

My laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. My voice came out somber. “You think I have not tried escaping? What will we do? Jump over the wall? Dig under it? The ceiling is out of reach. The only light seeps in from the slits at the top of the wall. Trust me, there is no way out.”

“We will find a way.” 

Another little laugh bubbled out of me. He was as admirable as a child on a quest to slay a dragon. I did not want to beat down his bright spirit. Time would take care of that. I, too, had once expected to escape and exact my revenge. 

I took a deep breath of the dank air. “Let me tell you more about this place, Lucian.” I motioned for him to sit, and he did. I sat facing him with my metal pole laid over my lap. “I call it the Gloaming.”

“Why?” he asked.

“It is the place where light comes to die. But listen, I will explain.”

He nodded, attentive.

“Everything devolves into chaos down here. You will lose track of time, because there is no hint of sun or moon. You fell at the center of the city. It is a perfect square and the heart of this place. Most men who fall never make it out of the square. The few who survive scatter into the city. But they return in time. We all return, because we all must eat. The food falls with the men in the central square. I think it comes at regular intervals—bones, half-eaten loaves, rotten fruit, whatever. I count the time between each falling as if it were a day. I mark each day with a cut.” 

I held out my arm. He studied the dull and lifeless scars in the weak light. 

“My tally is at ninety-seven,” I continued. “I started carving these after the seventh falling. I was losing count already, losing my senses. Each scar could mean a day, a week, or a month. I hope it has not been longer. My arm is running out of space. I do not know of anyone who has survived as long as I have.”

“Do you talk to the others?” Lucian’s voice was quiet.

“Not much. Not anymore. The noise draws attention. Some fallings have hardly enough food for one man. It forces every man to put himself first.” 

Lucian’s eyes were locked on mine. Maybe he understood what it meant for me to have dragged him to my cellar. 

“In a way,” I said, “each man begins a new life with the fall. Before I fell, I was locked in a tiny, hanging cage for days. I had no food. My only water came from rare, blasting sprays into my cage. I probably would have died if not for how badly I wanted revenge. One time I woke up and the cage’s door was open, inviting a leap into the unknown. I did not hesitate. I jumped and I slid down like you did into a box of food and other defeated men.” 

I stared down at my hands. The hands that had killed one of those men to survive.

“Then you fell into the square?” Lucian asked.

I nodded but did not look up. “The hanging solitude began my undoing. The fall completed it. The men attack newcomers as if they were viruses. They steal whatever food they can and run. The strongest survive that first moment and join this world. Life becomes brutish and simple, a slavish need for sustenance.”

“It is terrible, but you—” Lucian hesitated—“you speak about it with such…refinement.”

“An old habit.” I met his open gaze and shrugged. “I learned much from early years in an orphanage. I learned that boys will sin freely if they lack restraints, so imagine the evil here when grown men have neither restraints nor food. Virtues quickly succumb to hunger. The scarcity makes that a reality for all of us. More and more men arrive with the same appetite, but the amount of falling food never increases.”

“That means…”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Many die, probably dozens every few days. No one survives without killing, but our population remains constant. A steady stream drops from the black pipe that stretches up into the ceiling above us. You are a rare example to have avoided the cages.”

“How do you know?”

“I have studied these lost souls. I think many of them were murderers and thieves sent to rot here. Others were Tryst’s opponents, but none I have known from before. Down here, the past is irrelevant unless it equips you to survive. My past is probably the only reason why I am still breathing. I believe you have that same kind of will. I sensed it when I first saw you.” 

It was silent as our gazes locked. He seemed earnest and composed. I wanted to trust him. “Perhaps the two of us could help each other.” I looked down at my scars. “Surviving with the mind intact is no easy task.”

“I would like that,” Lucian said. “But you must tell me, are you really him?”

I swallowed. My throat was tight. “Who?”

“Look at me.” The edge in Lucian’s voice pulled my eyes up to his. “What have you become?”

I tried to ignore his gaping stare. “Survival has become my reality. I told you, I have fallen a long way.”

“This place is destroying you.” He paused. “Could we signal for help from outside? Many remain loyal to you, but they have no idea you are alive.”

I shook my head, but no words came. 

“I know who you are.” He leaned forward.

“No, you do not.” My voice was firm, as if the words could change reality. “You think you know who I am, but that man is gone.”

“I know who you are.” He knelt before me. “You are my prince, Andor Vale, and I live to serve you.” 

Chapter 2

CROWNING A PRINCE

“A living thing seeks above all to discharge its strength—life itself is will to power; self-preservation is only one of the indirect and most frequent results.”

The banquet had more food than the hundreds gathered could eat. There were baked turkeys, lamb shanks, and fresh-cut salmon fillets as long as a man’s leg. At the center of the feast was a tower of cake, dripping chocolate as servants passed slices through the palace’s grand hall. The guests gobbled it down, but their anxious gazes never ventured far from the newly crowned Prince of Valemidas. 

Tryst sat at the head of the hall, with two women at his sides. He gave the most prized position on his right to his only full sister, Ravien. She was like the prince mirrored as a woman, with a high brow and precise features. She could have been his twin if not for being born a year before him. Many now mistook her as an ornament to the prince, like a dark orchid blooming in his shadow. She looked the part, but her ambitions exceeded her brother’s.

On the prince’s left was his younger half-sister, Lorien. She wore the trained smile of a princess. She had the prince’s strong features, with softer lips and eyes. Amber curls framed her regal face. Her long black gown graced the ground and dipped to show a royal pendant at her chest. The gown hinted that a mere slip of the fine silk off her shoulder would leave her naked before the banquet hall. She might have worn it because she felt like she was hanging on by less than the fabric was. She wore no other jewelry or color. 

Let them take the lack of coverage as a sign of honesty and sincerity, she thought. Little of that existed elsewhere in this hall.

More than a few guests saw Lorien as an ominous presence. She was like a funeral pyre that remained unburned, a reminder of the prince who had disappeared months ago, the prince she had loved. 

Lorien puzzled over her half-brother’s intentions. Did he honor her for her loss, with a hope that she would change, or did he keep her by his side—as a prisoner—because of her anger and opposition to her own blood? Certainly no one could be watched more closely than a guest of honor. 

The servants began to pound the huge gongs in the four corners of the hall. The sound echoed off the marble floors and columns, muting everything else until Tryst stood. Applause erupted for the new prince, who held his arms out to receive the praise. 

Lorien could not deny the power of his figure. But it was wrong for him to be in that position, she thought, no matter how naturally he filled it. She pulled her eyes away and glanced across the room. The vast hall always took her breath away. The glow of chandelier candles lit the tall columns and the guests’ faces. All of them were transfixed by Tryst. 

Lorien’s gaze passed from one noble patriarch to the next. All fifty houses—the full high court—attended. Her anger at them had not faded. She doubted it ever would. If only half of those patriarchs had chosen someone other than Tryst, they would not be in this position. But they had bent to Tryst’s will and put him to a vote of the people. The people might have turned against him if there were any evidence of the betrayal. But again the system failed. Tryst paraded charisma before them, stealing their loyalties, making them forget Andor. They elected Tryst prince for life. Another Valemidas custom twisted for her brother’s purposes. Now he could be removed only by death, disappearance, or a vote against him by forty-five of the fifty white-haired nobles. Lorien knew that would never happen, not with the nobles’ ancient factions. Not with House Talnor on Tryst’s side.

She looked up at her brother. He beamed at the crowd, but she saw the glare in his eyes as he stared down at the patriarchs. He had given them positions of honor tonight, but not as much honor as they wanted. The nobles and their guests sat clustered at round tables near the prince’s head table—the table reserved for his new knights and his sisters. It was against custom to seat military with greater honor than the nobles. Tryst was always against custom unless it served him.

Lorien surveyed the crowd until she noticed a small, foreign man lurking in the corner. Her fists clenched. The tattoo at Ramzi’s right temple marked him as a Sunan. His exotic eyes watched Tryst. He nodded like a puppet master whose head rises and falls as his puppet dances. 

Ramzi had fueled her brother’s rise. Over the years he had taught Tryst about a march of history towards an ideal. The ideal for Ramzi was a fanatic devotion to a god who would reward him in the afterlife for imposing order. It seemed that neither Ramzi nor his god cared in the slightest if the men leading the march of history trampled over every human being in their path. 

She forced the evil advisor out of her mind. Her focus had to be on Tryst. She still found it hard to believe that she shared a father with the man. He was lean and tall and made of sharp angles. It was as if every line of his body directed the eye upward to his face. From the point of his chin to his wide cheekbones, his face was like an elongated acorn, eerily well-suited to holding a crown. His posture was earned in action and demanded respect. 

Her brother’s attire insulted the city around him. In Valemidas, the great capital, everything had color. Servants wore rainbow-striped tunics to include the colors of the five most powerful noble houses. The ladies at the banquet wore shimmering reds and purples and greens and blues. The patriarchs followed suit in their own distinct colors and patterns. By tradition, the prince bore all the colors, representing them all. 

But not Tryst.

At the front of the kaleidoscope hall, Tryst stood in his black, white, and silver. He wore tight-fitting charcoal trousers and a high-collared white shirt. Ornate silver bracers covered his lower arms, and silver plating hid almost all the black of his boots. The only exceptions to his stark style were the two ancient relics—a diadem and a sword that passed down to every prince. The diadem was made of a light, strong metal, with a massive diamond at its center. It clung to Tryst’s brow and was mostly hidden by his black curls. The diamond matched his pale blue eyes. 

The other relic was a sword known as Zarathus. Legend said that Valemidas’ founder had forged the blade out of the same hard metal as the diadem. Power followed in its wake. At Tryst’s side, the sword looked darker than Lorien remembered, as if it had taken on a different life. The rubies in the hilt seemed to mold to Tryst’s fingers, giving him perfect control over the long blade. 

The crowd’s applause had finally begun to fade when Tryst drew and raised the famed sword. The applause came again, louder and louder. The light of a thousand candles danced across Tryst’s face. Lorien shuddered at the sight, at the sound. He consumed the attention as naturally as his guests had consumed the feast.

Lorien knew that if the people could not rid themselves of Tryst, then the nobles would have to do it. They were the ones who had upheld tradition over the generations. If enough of the houses united their private guards, maybe under the command of Justus Davosman, they might have enough power to remove Tryst. It had to be soon. Tryst’s forces were growing stronger by the day. She would find a way to talk to Davosman.

As she eyed the noblemen in the hall, she kept her face emotionless while wincing inside. It would be double treason—against the prince and her own blood. But he left no other choice. Tryst had sown treason, and so he would reap it. 

Lorien did not care that no one had found proof. She knew her brother. After their father had died, only Ravien and Ramzi had any influence over Tryst. Others praised him, blinded by his talents. Even when he rose to Andor’s council of knights, no one suspected this, no one but her. 

Then one morning Andor was gone and Tryst was in his place. The nobles who opposed Tryst started disappearing. Those who fought loudly were not seen again. Rumors said Ramzi—the master of smoke and myth—administered a dungeon worse than death. And she had heard nothing from Andor. He had not come for her. 

That was enough proof. 

The missing people, the children taken from their parents, the growing list of crimes—it had to be stopped. Gazing out on the banquet from her seat of honor, Lorien stared truth in the face. This was Tryst’s coronation, and Andor was never coming back. Her life would be nothing without the prince she loved, except to bring justice to the prince she hated.

Chapter 3

THE STAB OF SURVIVAL

“Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up.”

Time passed quickly as Lucian and I worked on a plan for escape in the dark cellar. I enjoyed the company, even though we ate through my meager stockpile of food in short order. He was more vulnerable to his stomach’s demands, not being accustomed to real hunger. I explained to him that we were more likely to die fighting for food than from starvation, but he was undeterred. 

“If we team up,” he said, “we can handle anything out there. I am healthy, and if you are half the swordsman you once were….” 

I shook my head. “I have no sword.”

“You have your pole.” He touched the wound on his head. “I have seen enough to know you can use it, my prince.” 

The title did not fit me as it once had. “We cannot risk it yet. We have a while before the next falling. I can feel it.”

“Let’s just have a look around.” He sounded restless. “Are there any safe places outside the central square?”

“Nowhere is safe, ever. You have to align your stomach with the rhythm of this city. Endure the initial flickers of hunger until a deeper pain follows. You will feel your body begin to break down, with no energy to think or act. Then, when your body trembles at the emptiness, you leave for the Gloaming’s central square, starving and fierce. You end that brutal hunger cycle focused on nothing but food.” 

Lucian wrenched. “I will obey, but I have to eat.” 

It had probably been a day since we had eaten. There was some truth to our strength in numbers, and the next falling would come soon enough. “Perhaps we can go out for a brief stretch.” 

Lucian asked to see the perimeter of the city, so I led us there. The outer path was empty and tranquil. It felt good to use my legs. 

I ran my hand along the cool wall as we walked together. The wall was unnatural and oppressing, with sheer gray stone reaching to the ceiling high above. Going over the wall was not an option. We had no tools, so breaking through was hopeless. Some men had tried to dig below it. I had seen holes in the ground that went down over ten feet. They were pressed against the wall, sometimes with a pile of bones at the bottom. The diggers probably lost the will to maintain the effort. 

Lucian kept floating ideas for escape. Ladders. Holes. I explained why all the possibilities would fail, but he would not give up. “Lucian,” I said, “the only way out is the box hanging above the central square, but we cannot try it.” 

His face lit up. “Why not? Too high? We could climb up the pile of bones and debris under the box. You could stand on my shoulders and jump for it.” 

“It will not work,” I said. “It would be suicide. Even if I could reach the box, it would be sealed shut. For it to work, the box would have to be open, which means men would be falling and fighting for food all around. We would not survive.” 

“More bones could be found around this place,” Lucian suggested. “We could form a mountain with them. We could add any other materials we find. Maybe then we could pry open the box with your pole.”

“I have seen men fail at this many times. The falling ground is a lethal place. Someone will think we have food, or new men will fall. We will be attacked. No one lingers there unless he seeks death.” 

“Who would care if we were carrying around bones?” he asked. 

“The square looks empty and unassuming, but everyone who roams carelessly there meets a dire end. Men will kill for a chance of food.”

“But we would work in silence, when no food is falling.” His voice was rising, more insistent.

“It is the Gloaming. You cannot stay in one spot. All we can do is dash through the square and grab what we can. Perhaps in a hidden corner of this place, we could gather bones, but there in the center, we would draw attention. Remember, attention means death.”

“It cannot always be so dangerous. Surely everyone sleeps.”

“Yes, but not at the same time. Have you seen any change in the light during your stay?”

He shook his head. “It has been dark and gray the whole time.”

“It is always dark and gray. It is like a constant ominous storm, marked only by the lightning strikes of fallings from the box.”

He paced faster beside me, as if matching his racing thoughts. “It should not take us long to build up the pile. We can do it together. We have to try something. Here you are decaying, but our city needs you. Tryst has to be stopped.”

Hearing Tryst’s name brought all the hate and bitterness back. “Put that life behind you. It cannot be recovered.” 

“You can recover, and you can change things. We are not meant for this. We have to get you back to Valemidas.”

I struggled to respond. My mind drifted out of the Gloaming, to distant memories. They hurt more than anything. I wanted to get out, but I feared it. This place had changed me. “I am not who I once was, Lucian. You said so yourself.”

He turned to me and clasped my shoulder. “What I know, my prince, is that the people loved you. And they will love you again. You saved me, and you called me friend. I have seen warmth returning to you already. Even now you would be better than Tryst for the throne. It is rightfully yours, and getting you out of here will be just the begin—”

Ringing was all I heard after that. 

Something pounded into my head, and I went down hard. My vision spun. 

I tried to stand. I made it to one knee.

A blur of iron swung towards Lucian. He collapsed to the ground.

Three men faced me as I rose to my feet. Cornered could equal dead. I could not get the ringing out of my head, nor could I find my weapon. I pressed my back against the wall. 

The closest man was skin and bones and incredibly fast. He dove straight at me. I dodged right and used his momentum to slam his head into the stone. 

Just as I did, one of the others kicked my legs out from under me. He was on top of me in an instant. His hand closed around my throat, squeezing. He raised his other hand, clenched. His face twisted in rage. 

My free hand found something smooth on the ground. The metal pole. 

Calm entered my pounding head even as the man landed his first punch. I was bigger, stronger, but gasping. I could not breathe. 

Suddenly air flooded into my lungs. The man’s body flew to the side, and I swung my pole down at him. His pallor splattered in color. He looked like he had soaked in this place; like me, he must have been here forever.

I sprang to my feet. The attackers were all down, motionless. Lucian wavered before me, his eyes dim. He had a metal barb plunged into his neck. 

I fell to my knees as he did. His life was a red ribbon spilling down his chest. I caught his body as it collapsed, and I laid it down gently. 

There was no sound, no pulse, when I pressed my ear over his heart. A great weight held my head there while tears filled my eyes and I began to weep. My body shook and my voice broke as it roared out. I mourned for Lucian and more—the pain of this horrid existence, and what it had done to him, to me, and to every soul that fell here.

My tears poured until they dried out. I lifted my head and knelt beside Lucian’s body. I pulled my hand over his face to close his still eyes. As I thought of his final moments, a new feeling rose inside me. Thankfulness began to overcome my anguish. Lucian had brought selflessness into the chaos, putting my life before his own. His last thought had probably been of saving me. 

I had counted survival as my greatest feat, but it counted for nothing on its own. Memories of my earliest days in the Gloaming flooded my mind. I remembered walking to the central square with my sanity withering under desperation and rage. There had been dozens of men falling and fighting all around. I had raised my weapon, challenging them all. Their famished eyes had circled me, and men had charged into my fury. I could still see the face of the first man who had dashed at me. His face had met my metal pole with a smash. More men had attacked, and my violence had exploded against them. None of them had been armed, or well-trained. They were probably simple criminals, where I was the fallen, murdering prince. It was some cruel ironic justice. 

Those sins had left me hollow, hungrier than before. There was no freedom, only self-loathing and a callous devotion to survival. Lucian’s sacrifice exposed the demon I had become, and it sparked hope in something greater. 

In that broken and dark moment, kneeling over his body, a glorious light flashed in my mind. It was a light of truth and goodness, and it made me see that I had to be ready to die as Lucian had died for me. An old priest had once said words like that to me. Living free required an embrace of the possibility of death. Survival would no longer be my tyrant, not even in the Gloaming. Lucian had shattered those chains.

With a final nod of thanks, I turned away from him and headed straight to the center of the Gloaming. I focused my thoughts on the box that hung there. I had always been looking for ways to survive during a falling, but I no longer cared about that. I thought of how sometimes a man would fight against gravity. He would cling to the box, dangling above the fight below. Eventually his strength would give out and he would drop to meet the frenzied pace of the falling ground. 

It was death to stand on the mound of bones, awaiting the fall. Men would fight below the box there. Few of them got out alive, but between them reaching up to catch falling food and the occasional hanging body above, the distance between the box and the ground might shrink for an instant. 

If everything aligned, I would have a chance. A falling body could be like rungs on a ladder, reaching up to the box. The box would have its black metal flaps open. I knew that if I could gain upward momentum, I would reach whatever those dangling men held. If not, I would die. Better to die like that than to go on living as I had. 

As I arrived at the mouth of an alley looking onto the grim square, I marveled that no one had attacked me while I mourned over Lucian and came this far along open streets. Having given up my fear of death, maybe I looked insane, covered in blood and dirt, striding with purpose. I would have stayed away from a man like that. 

I spied men lurking at the mouths of the other alleys leading into the square. They bore the marks of Gloaming veterans, preparing for an imminent falling. They crouched in the shadows and tried to look in every direction at once. I heard a distant shout and a brief fight, and then silence settled again. Men would kill for the first position to dart into the square. 

These were my comrades. There was a hateful respect in the air, as if our fallen souls united below the black box, because we all knew that it was a mortal contest for who would get food and get out alive. Many would die, and not just the new men who fell. 

The black pipe from the ceiling trembled, beginning its violent shake. The noise of the Gloaming rose. It was a grinding mechanical groan. The air quivered under the weight of it, sending a wind over the mound of bones and over all of us. I gathered some bloodstained mud from around my bare feet and spread it across my face. I breathed in the stench of decay and let my own sigh join the horrible chorus. 

A huge thud landed in the box. The sound meant it was time to charge. I raised my pole and dashed out of the alley. I cross the firm ground in long strides. As the gates of the black box began to creak open, I saw the man opposite me charging. We locked stares, like bulls prepared to gore, until he swerved. Something about me warned him off.

My legs churned faster, hitting a full sprint as the black metal doors above gave way. Without the box’s floor, nothing kept the trash from falling. 

I sprang up the mound of bones. Just as I crested it, I shifted towards a man running up the pile to my left. I jumped high and my feet connected on the man’s shoulders. I immediately leapt again, propelling myself off of him and higher into the air. 

I dropped my pole mid-leap and grabbed the foot of a man who was hanging above me. Fighting raged below as I climbed up his body. I clawed and pulled and rose while he kicked wildly at me. 

As my hand reached the man’s shoulder, I saw his hand slipping from a rounded clasp of metal. He could not hold both of our weight, and his grip released just as I yanked myself up and snatched the clasp. Our eyes met as he fell, screaming in horror. He landed on his back and was swarmed by the men below. 

I did not look down again. As the box’s gates began to swing shut, I hurled myself inside. An instant later the gates sealed me in silent darkness. 

I gagged at the stench. But then I began to laugh. I could not stop as my body shook with the shock of it. This was impossible. I should have died. I was willing to die, and maybe that made the difference—thanks to Lucian and a miracle leap and whatever fate had landed me here. 

I slowed my breathing until my body and my thoughts calmed. I felt around in the pitch black until I found a thin pipe stretching upward, and I began to climb out. 

Chapter 4

THE MIND OF A PRINCE

“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

I am Tryst. 

I am the Prince of Valemidas—born for this coronation, born to stand before this great hall. Legends of the past will fade like distant shadows behind me. Even Andor will be forgotten in time. 

The path of love for the prince has been tried, and it has failed. The people will respect me. They will bend to my will, and eventually we will overthrow these worthless nobles and their ilk. I will become a prince without restraints. I will become the first ever King of Valemidas. But let the nobles savor my banquet now, while they still can. 

“Nobles and friends, my guests, welcome!” 

Yes, I am smiling and gracious. Drink deep of my words. 

“If there is anyone who doubts that Valemidas is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our ancestors is alive; who still questions the power of our city—tonight is your answer. I am your answer.

“It is the answer told by the masses gathered outside this royal palace. It is the answer told by all of you gathered to celebrate with me now. Noble, merchant, and peasant—all Valemidans send a message to our continent that we will be united under my rule. It is the answer of me putting my hands on the arc of history and bending it toward the hope of a better day.

“I want to thank you, dear nobles—” dear parasites—“for your support. The structure of our city is built on the traditions of your nobility. It is built on the legacy of you nominating a prince born outside nobility, to be approved by a majority of the people. I thank you that, once my predecessor was gone, you picked me to lead. I thank the people who then elected me. I also want to thank my sisters, Ravien and Lorien.”

The beautiful assassin and the mourning half-blood. Surely Lorien will come around.

“When the three of us were young, training with your noble sons and daughters, we never thought to rise to this station.” 

Smile, Ravien. Enjoy these lies. 

“It was thanks to the privilege of growing up with this great generation of future nobles that we were able to make it here tonight. What was then our privilege has become our city’s advantage. Take Jacodin Talnor. I grew up beside him, and now I lead him with the benefit of that experience. These traditions of Valemidas bear fruit.”

Jacodin—the hopeless son of a noble’s. At least his father, Ryn, will appreciate the flattery.

“But none of you picked me because of the past. You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime. There are enemies amassing in the mountains of the west, disappearances in our midst, crimes on our streets, unpaid debts to the Sunan people, and deep uncertainties about our future.”

And the hall falls quiet, captive to my voice. 

“The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. But I will protect Valemidas. My first days as prince will break those who oppose our vision for this city. I will set order in place and restore our wealth and grandeur. We will all pay a little, but the rewards will be spread and paid in time. Everyone will cooperate.”

Ulysses winced at that, my own knight. He has fought wars. He knows what cooperation means in these times. I will have Sebastian monitor the old knight’s every move. He may still feel loyalty to Andor. I must get Andor out of my mind, and out of everyone’s mind.

“Our army will have a new name, and new demands. It is no longer a mere group of knights and soldiers, it is the Lycurgus. To serve, men must swear to me and to the laws of the Lycurgus. They are strong now, but they pale in comparison to what is to come. The Lycurgus will begin with our firstborn boys. They will be raised pure, fierce, and disciplined, and none will resist their focused fury under my command.”

And I will crush anyone who holds back his firstborn. Let Lucian be their example. 

“While our young boys train, I will lead our men out to conquer the growing threats beyond our walls. We leave in a week to destroy the Icarians in the mountains. To allow that sedition to fester would only encourage more enemies throughout the continent and beyond. We will march through our countryside and gather support. Other cities will give to our mission and serve under me. After we defeat the Icarians, we will return to Valemidas. But we will not stay long. This entire continent will be ours. Every last town council and sheepherder will bend the knee and pay tribute to Valemidas and to your prince.” 

Ah, the first gasps from my guests. How far, already, they had let me push. These pathetic nobles should read enough into my words to know their plight. At least a few lean forward with thinly veiled ambition, like Sir Justus Davosman. I will take special delight when even he, the man who raised Andor, will bow down to me.

“Valemidas is the light to this land. This is our time—our time to extend our reign to every city. There will be no more free cities. There will be only Valemidas, the one city to bind them all. Expect a better Valemidas. Expect more than ever before, under my reign.”

My arms raise the sword again. The cheers soar. Yes, I was born for this. Shower the praise on me now, nobles. Remember this night as the beginning of your end. The world will never be the same. 

“Thank you all! I will lead us to victory, here and everywhere, now and forever!”

* * *

Ramzi did not like crowds. He did not stay in the hall after Tryst finished. He went straight to the prince’s quarters. He practiced his words carefully and was ready when Tryst arrived. “My prince!” Ramzi bowed in welcome. “I think the speech played very well.”

Tryst nodded and walked past him, to the balcony. It overlooked central square of Valemidas far below, where the masses gathered for a celebration of his coronation. 

“I am glad I added that line about spreading our presence,” Ramzi said. “The more ambitious nobles will understand the message. Ryn Talnor is surely plotting which city he might send his family to rule over. Remember, he supported your rise in exchange for that promise. I have my doubts, though, about Sir Davosman. His loyalty will be hard to buy….”

Tryst glanced back at his advisor, eyes amused, before turning to gaze out again at the flickering lights of the city below. “Ramzi,” he said into the night, “you worry too much about these nobles. I already have what I needed from them. I am the Prince of Valemidas.”

“Of course, my prince.” Ramzi bowed, even though Tryst was not looking. The advisor wondered if the prince had ever not been arrogant. But there were worse flaws, particularly for his purposes. It meant Tryst would not question the source of his growing powers. Ramzi’s god did not care what the prince believed. He would reward Ramzi’s faith and his sacrifices to the Gloaming. He would grant Tryst power, as long as it served Ramzi’s purposes. And those purposes only he and the Sunans would know.

Ramzi cleared his throat. “I think we will find it easier, my prince, to dismantle the nobles if we have their support in the coming days. The Lycurgus still needs time to grow loyal and strong. Perhaps each noble house should send a few of its best knights to aid in the battles. And, if we are going to truly tilt the balance of power back to you and the people, our task will be much easier if the nobles do not expect it until it is too late. One of our allies could be the merchants guild because—” 

“How much longer?” Tryst interrupted.

They had hashed through this before, and Ramzi knew it was best to keep the prince in his good mood. “Not long at all. It has been a momentous day. I have just two more issues that I think are worthy of your attention now.”

“Fine. Speak up, and be quick about it.” Tryst turned to face his advisor, his arms crossed. “Every minute you take now is a minute that I miss my people’s celebration.” 

Ramzi bowed his head slightly. “The first issue will let you sleep easier on the march to war. As you know, the prince typically appoints someone to handle the administrative leadership in Valemidas while he is away. These are the issues I have been boring you with most days—things like paying our builders, deciding disputes between the nobles, and regulating the people. I would be glad to send you daily reports, so that you can handle these matters. But you will have more important things on your mind as the leader of the Lycurgus. If you sign and seal an approval of me as your acting minister here, I can save you the trouble.”

Tryst did not answer immediately. Ramzi knew the prince did not care about these details, but the lingering silence disturbed him. Had he played his hand too strongly? Ramzi held his tongue, keeping his face calm.

“I will be gone only a month or so,” Tryst said. “I doubt much will happen here.” The prince tapped his fingers idly on his arm. “What should I do if you disappoint me?”

Ramzi’s breath froze. He thought he had won more trust than this. “My prince,” he said, “you know I will not disappoint you. But if I did, you could do whatever you wished. As always, I remain subject to your direction.”

Tryst grinned. “You may play minister in my absence. You will be monitored, of course. This is an important assignment. If you fail me, you will live a while in the dungeons that you manage.”

Ramzi swallowed his indignation and fear. “As you wish, my prince.” 

He whistled and two of his clerks scurried in from the waiting room outside, carrying a large parchment with small, delicate handwriting. Ramzi signaled for them to hold it out to Tryst.

“The prince has agreed to appoint me Minister of Valemidas, to handle the city’s administration in his absence. My prince, please sign and seal here.” Ramzi pointed to a line at the bottom of the document.

“You have never been shy for power, have you?” Tryst signed it without waiting for an answer. “If you had my strength, I might fear you.” Tryst waved the clerks out of the room with the flick of his wrist. “But you and I know that you could never make it this far without me.”

“You speak the truth, my prince.” Ramzi stifled a smirk at his prince’s ignorance. He also held down his surging excitement. There was still treacherous water to cross. He would celebrate this victory when appropriate. For now, he summoned courage and a calm voice. “There is one final thing to discuss.”

“Go ahead.”

“Sebastian reported to me that two guards in the lowest chamber of our dungeons were found bound and gagged.”

“And?”

“This is the chamber with the cages,” Ramzi said, “the ones that hang over the Gloaming. The guards were not harmed, and they had no information on who had assaulted them. A sweep through the dungeon and prison cells revealed that no one had escaped.”

Tryst’s eyes narrowed. “What do you make of this?”

“I am sure it is nothing, my prince.” Ramzi prayed the words would satisfy him. “Perhaps it was a failed attempt at a rescue. There were four guards in that chamber, so two of them were not harmed, and they did not hear any disturbance. We can double the guard, in case someone tries something again.” 

“Very well. Anything else?”

Ramzi hesitated. He wanted to pin this on Sebastian, the prince’s chief spy. They were both Sunans. They should have been allies. But when Sebastian had come to Valemidas as a teen, Ramzi had seen the tattoo—a small pyramid by his left eye. It meant royal blood. It meant the teen was an exile. Ramzi kept Sebastian’s secret as he rose among the spies, first serving Andor and now Tryst. Ramzi had advised only Tryst over those years. Sebastian’s quick switch between the princes could not be trusted. 

“I should add, my prince, that Sebastian speculates there could have been an escape from the Gloaming.”

Tryst nodded. “And I suppose you disagree?”

“I told Sebastian it was ridiculous. No one escapes the Gloaming. Still, Sebastian insisted that I tell you his theory.”

“Very interesting.” The prince stepped closer and locked eyes with Ramzi.

A question slipped out of Ramzi’s mouth: “What do you think happened?” 

Tryst looked thoughtful and did not answer at first. His fascination with the Gloaming concerned Ramzi. Only a handful knew that the place existed, much less that Tryst had agreed to banish Andor there. Ramzi trusted his god to reward the sacrifice—a force of light turned into a force of dark, and a funnel of power into Zarathus and the prince. But Tryst could not know. He could never know, if Ramzi were to ascend.

 “You are probably right,” Tryst mused. “No one escapes the Gloaming. I would like to speak with Sebastian tonight, though. Tell him to come to me after I return from the celebration. Have a feast and a pretty maid waiting for me, too. I expect quite a night down there with my people.”

“Yes, my prince.” Ramzi could care less about food and a maid, but he fumed inside about Sebastian. “Please do take care out there. As much as the people love you, there will be opponents lurking. Nothing you cannot handle, of course.”

“Of course.” Tryst’s hand moved to the famed sword at his side. “Farewell, Ramzi.”

Ramzi bowed and fled the room. Each step away from the prince made him feel better. He had won more than he lost. He licked his lips at the thought of ruling Valemidas. The people would be controlled, and once controlled, they would destroy the nobles. Once the nobles were gone, nothing would stop him. Not Sebastian. Not even the prince.

Chapter 5

THE POWER OF A PRINCE

“Those who become rulers through strength of purpose, acquire their kingdoms with difficulty, but they hold onto them with ease.”

About a mile west of the prince’s palace, in the outskirts of Valemidas, a wooden bench offered a perfect view of the sprawling city. Hewn from some gnarled oak, the bench’s planks were smooth after hundreds of years of use. This night, two brothers enjoyed that well-worn surface. 

Jon and Wren found the bench ideal for observing the coronation festivities. They could see the lights and hear the sounds, without dealing with the crowds. The bench was also outside one of their favorite taverns, the Morning Crest. 

The old tavern sat on the hill that eastbound travelers crested before entering the city. The Crest was built as much by words and tales as it was by stone and wood. Nobles despised it for being too welcoming and too cheap. The travelers and thinkers and traders loved it. Every night it was full and different. 

The brothers had begun the evening inside. They had found themselves explaining the city’s elaborate system of nobility to a farmer from the foothills of the Icarian mountains. They told the farmer how the fifty noble houses dominated the culture of Valemidas, and how the leader of each house was elected for life by the other noble patriarchs. 

The farmer sipped his ale as he listened. “Sounds nice. You boys ever want to be nobles?”

The brothers shook their heads and tried explaining. This election to nobility, they said, only cursed the patriarchs. The nobles would do anything to be important—buying supporters for their houses, gathering knights, selling souls, whatever—because the more important the nobles were, the more likely their children or others from their house would be elected if one of the fifty died. The contest for influence and power never ended. In the end, the farmer had found it all rather odd and amusing. 

After the brothers said goodbye to the stranger, they retreated with their ales to the nice bench outside. They heard the warm clamor of voices inside and the bustle of the city spread out before them. A few minutes passed before either brother spoke a word.

“Are you enjoying this?” Jon pointed toward the palace while studying his brother. They could hear the distant pounding of drums. The beat sounded like a song that had long been one of Wren’s favorites.

“No.” Wren had been in a sour mood ever since Tryst’s coup, and efforts to cheer him up had been futile. 

Jon was not giving up, though. “Too bad, because I thought I heard a dragon roaring down and swallowing our new prince.” 

“Is that so?” A grin spread across Wren’s face. “Maybe you are right,” he said. “I hope he does not get soot on his beautiful face. He sure looks the part, all handsome and dashing, but he has no right to the throne. Worst of all, most of the nobles seem to love him. We have no hope of ridding ourselves of him. Bring on the dragons, I say.”

“He’s just another prince, Wren. Besides, our city needs help—one more attack or one more bad harvest, and we might not have anything left to sell in our store. Maybe Tryst will not be so bad.” 

Wren shook his head. “Tryst will be as bad as Andor was good. You should finish that ale. Maybe you will find wisdom in it.”

“I am taking my time with this fine drink. Unlike your brews, this can be sipped.”

“Good one, little brother. Let’s see your wit help you when Tryst decides to raise the taxes on merchants again—” 

A distant but loud shout rang out in the night. “Did you hear that?” Wren asked. “Near the palace, but it was no celebration sound.”

“Maybe someone is trying to spoil your favorite prince’s party.”

Wren stood. “We have to check it out. It could be close to our store.” He drained the last of his mug and dropped a coin on the bench. “I will beat you there.” He sprinted off, down the hill towards Valemidas.

Jon marveled at how his brother could turn everything into a competition. He finished his ale, letting his brother have a head start. A minute later, Jon had closed the gap and was at Wren’s side as they raced through the city’s gate. 

The city streets were empty, so they covered the distance quickly. The brothers had spent most of their childhood chasing each other around Valemidas. They hurdled carts and baskets, ducking through alleys and sprinting whenever they found open spaces. As they drew closer to the palace—and their beloved store—the sound of the celebration grew. 

Jon paused to let Wren catch up at the end of a musty alley. The alley turned onto the Path of Princes, the broad road leading to the palace stairs. Blindly sprinting into the busy road was dangerous on a normal afternoon, and even in his rush of adrenalin, Jon was aware enough to stop for a moment here. He tried to catch his breath. 

Wren caught up a few moments later. “Che…cheater!” He panted and leaned over a large barrel for support. “You know… for our races we banned…that one alley long ago. It is too nasty and crooked…nothing but brothels.” 

“This is an emergency.” Jon grinned down at his brother. “And I would have beaten you anyway.”

Wren ignored him and stood, pretending to breath normally. He stepped to the corner of the alley and peeked towards the vast plaza below the stairs to the palace. It was a stunning expanse, like a wide clearing in the middle of a dense forest. The plaza was made of huge slabs of stone that had supported centuries of footsteps. Nothing permanent was allowed to stand in the square except for an ancient tree that rose straight up from the center. It took eight men locking arms to reach around the trunk. The highest branches towered nearly as high as the palace perched on the crag of stone beyond the plaza. 

Tonight, people filled the whole expanse. The crowd churned, the sea of bodies undulated, with no single form distinguishable. There were shouts of joy and strife joining together, most heated around the great tree. The royal band played from the palace stairs above, flooding the space with the rhythm of drums. 

“I have never seen so many people,” Jon said. “There must be tens of thousands. It looks like everyone in Valemidas is here. We should go to our store the back way.” 

“No.” Wren kept his eyes peeled on the crowd. “Let’s wade into this. I think the loudest yells are coming from near the palace steps.” 

“Fine, someone needs to watch your back if you pick any fights.” 

The brothers rounded the corner and blended into the crowd. They inched forward like worms in plowed soil. Keeping low, avoiding all eye contact, Jon followed Wren as they made their way to the tree. When they were close to its trunk, movement above on the palace steps brought them to a halt. 

A solitary, dark figure stood alone near the top—Tryst. 

The stairs to the palace were immense, two hundred in all, and between every fifty steps there was a large flat landing. The prince began to descend and paused again at the highest of those landings, where the royal band was stationed. The prince raised his arms and the music ceased. 

An eerie silence settled over the crowd. The faces in the square turned to the prince. In that moment of focused attention, Tryst charged down the next set of stairs. The band followed his descent with a deep pounding of drums and blasting of horns. The crowd’s cheers and yells joined the music.

Wren pulled his eyes away and saw fear and adoration mixed in the people’s faces. He also noticed that at least thirty large casks ringed the trunk of the giant tree. Men and women huddled around the barrels, which each had a streaming tap. The liquid was dark and smelled strong. The people pressed in and filled their mugs. A few stuck their heads directly under the flow, taking a long swallow and bowing away so that another could fill the spot. The ground was soaked.

“What are they drinking?” Wren asked to no one in particular.

“The new prince’s own ale,” a woman shouted from beside him. “Go for it, boy, the stuff’s delicious.” 

Wren eyed the woman. She was young, with plain brown eyes and hair. Her simple white tunic was drenched and nearly falling open. She had a wild, unnerving smile on her face. Wren shook his head and laughed. “You must have had a lot of the drink, my lady.” 

In an instant, the woman’s face flipped from ecstasy to rage. She screamed and swiped at his face. “Quit your mocking, pretty boy!”

He easily ducked her flailing arms. She stumbled past him and froze—her eyes locked on one of the streaming barrels. She moved towards it, as if forget about Wren entirely. 

Wren glanced around for Jon. He saw that Tryst had paused again on the lowest landing of the stairs. He figured Jon might have gone that way, caught up with the crowd that was surging forward to get closer to the prince. 

He pushed that direction and was making his way up the stairs when he glimpsed his brother, huddled in conversation with someone. Wren weaved through the crowd to them. He clasped Jon’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Good question.” Jon turned to him in frustration. The other man kept his head down, but Wren recognized him as a merchant named Catskill. “I saw our friend here,” Jon said, “and he was moving suspiciously close to the prince. I have been trying to figure out what he is planning to do. You know he is far from a supporter of this new regime.”

Catskill nodded, but did not speak. He was a slight, wily man, losing his short, brown hair. Nothing about him stood out—an attribute the merchant had long used to his advantage. 

Wren saw some of the dark drink dripping from the corner of Catskill’s mouth. “You should not have tried that stuff. I think it is more than just ale.” 

Catskill grinned. “It would be best if you both went back to your store. Now.” 

The brothers did not move, and the merchant’s grin turned down. “I said now. Go!”

Catskill turned away quickly and moved up the stairs toward Tryst. He did not glance back.

Jon and Wren exchanged a look of confusion. “We have to see what he is doing,” Jon said. “I am worried about him.”

Wren nodded. “But we go no closer.”

The brothers watched as the prince glided down the stairs. He greeted the crowd that now surrounded him. They parted as he stepped forward, staring at him in awe. 

Catskill made his way to just below the prince. No one but the brothers noticed when the merchant pulled back his fine cloak, raised a small, loaded crossbow, and aimed it at the prince.

Someone in the crowd gasped. Tryst ducked as Catskill pulled the trigger. The merchant hardly moved before the prince drew his sword and plunged it into Catskill’s chest. The bolt had missed its target. 

Action erupted around the prince. Steel slashed through the air. The prince swung, and swung again. Only once did metal ring against metal. A moment later, three men were motionless on the stairs. Tryst stood over them, sword raised, but no one else remained within the reach.

“This is our celebration!” Tryst shouted. He wore an eerie smile. “Does anyone else dare challenge me?”

The crowd cowered back. The pounding drums did not relent. 

Still smiling, the prince sheathed his sword and began gliding down the stairs again. More people continued surging up to greet him, as if unaware of the slaughter that had happened just above.

The brothers stepped quickly down the stairs, against the flow of people. Tryst or someone loyal to him may have seen them talking to Catskill. They were not going to take any chances. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they ran as fast as they could through the masses. They knocked over drinks and left angry faces in their wake. They reached their store at the edge of the plaza and slammed shut the thick wooden door behind them. 

Wren bent over, hands on his knees, sucking in the familiar air. “Jon, what just happened back there?” 

“An assassination attempt.” Jon shook his head sadly. “It doesn’t make sense. Catskill was never the type to risk his life.”

“He had been drinking whatever is in those barrels. It must be drugged.” Wren leaned back against the door and slid down to the ground. He stared up at the arched ceiling beams. “Our prince sure has a way of making an entrance.” 

Jon had begun to pace. “You mean a bloodbath?”

Wren nodded. “I doubt there will be more attempts against him tonight, unless it is another drink-induced fumbling attack. Tryst loves the people until they threaten him. Then he crushes them. With tonight’s chaos, some may not even know the difference.” 

The brothers fell into quiet—Jon pacing, Wren sitting—until a woman’s voice flooded into the room. “Where have you two been?” Selia rushed to them. “You are soaked in sweat! Come, you must wash off. I have a meal ready.” 

“Mother,” Wren said, “you must know what’s going on out there. We were lucky to make it back alive. Tryst killed Catskill and two innocent men. Now this celebration rages on. The prince is tearing up our city.”

“Have hope, my boys. These princes come and go. Speaking of which, I have something very important to show you.” With that, Selia wheeled around towards the kitchen. 

Their mother had a way of leaving conversations with her last word lingering. It gave her a sense of control. Since losing her youthful beauty, she was always looking for ways to preserve her influence. It was not easy for a widow. She talked to every person who crossed her path, and her open way of speaking disarmed them. Some people thought her clueless. They found out the truth sooner or later.

Jon and Wren followed after her, moving slowly through their store—the Invisible Hand. The store would have seemed cavernous if not for the thousands of items filling the space. Exotic goods and spices infused the room with a decadent fragrance. Like an old box full of childhood trinkets, the store was a source of comfort for the brothers. But unlike such a treasure trove, it opened for customers every day. The Invisible Hand turned more profit than any other shop in Valemidas, thriving on the gold of nobles. 

It helped that the brothers made a perfect merchant team. Wren was born to trade, but his gifts caused problems. No one liked dealing with shrewd merchants, even honest ones. Wren did not rub his profits in everyone’s face, but did not hide them either. That’s where Jon came in. He was not much bigger than Wren, but he was a physical force. He spent his childhood playing at war against the best, even Tryst. At seventeen, Jon had become the youngest ever to win the royal melee—a yearly bout with over a thousand knights and sellswords from the continent. None of that changed Jon, though. He still preferred to carouse around the city spreading smiles. People respected and tolerated Wren, but everyone loved Jon. 

“You know what’s still bothering me?” Jon asked, pausing before he left the main room. 

Wren turned back. “I can think of a few things.”

“It was an unfair fight,” Jon said. “That’s not like Tryst.”

“I told you, he’s changed.”

“Not that much. I would like to see how he would fare with me again, one-on-one. I would not actually challenge him, but—” a slight smile touched Jon’s eyes—“I do not remember him being invincible.”

“There are safer ways to depose a prince.” Wren looked past his brother, toward the plaza. “Tryst may wipe out more challengers tonight. We should lay low.” Wren rubbed his brow, looking tired and stiff in the candlelight. “I bet the nobles are involved somehow. Either way, we have not sparred with Tryst in years, and he gained that sword, Zarathus, in the meantime. He moved faster out there than anyone I have ever seen.” 

Jon shrugged off the comment. He was modest, except when it came to fighting. “I would still like—”

“Are you two still pining after your new prince?” Selia stormed back into the room. “Remember? I requested your presence. There’s something you need to see.”

Jon and Wren joined her in the kitchen and sat on tall stools around a square chopping-block table. Selia seemed to be cooking a feast, far more than they could eat by themselves. 

“Now,” she said, “you two seem very concerned about what was happening out there in the square. It’s going to be fine. In fact, I heard just this morning from my friend Violet that the prince would be joining the celebration tonight. Of course there would be a few fights. And I heard from my friend Rosalyn that….” Selia folded her arms. “Are you listening?” 

“What is this something that you mentioned?” Wren asked. “Have you invited guests? This is enough food for a prince’s banquet.”

Selia pointed to the floor. “I suggest that you open the door to the cellar now.”

Wren was the first on his feet. He and Jon pulled back a colorful rug from near the back of the kitchen, revealing a small, thick iron door to the cellar. The cellar’s footprint was as big as the whole Invisible Hand, and the underground room held the store’s most valuable antiquities. Only Wren, Jon, and Selia had a key. 

Lifting the door required the two brothers’ strength. Jon ducked into the darkness first. He lit the small torch at the bottom of the ladder, and his breath froze. 

Wren came to his brother’s side. Their hearts raced as they stepped towards a dark figure in the corner. The light from the torch barely reached that far.

“Jon, Wren, it is me.” 

“You’re alive?” Wren gasped. Jon stared in shock.

The man looked terrible in the weak light. His body was deathly thin, with scars all over his arms. His face was hollowed and framed by long, ragged hair and a wiry beard. His hair was lighter than before, almost white. The brothers would not have recognized him, but they knew the voice. And they knew the eyes. They had the same dark brown luster, dotted with tiny flecks that glittered like gold. 

“Andor?” Jon whispered.

“Now, now, my boys.” Selia patted her sons’ backs. “I told you there was something you needed to see. Didn’t I tell you to stop all that fuss about Tryst? Things will work out just fine.”

“Tryst will pay for what he has done.” The man leaned forward, allowing more of the torchlight to catch the angles of his face. He looked frail, but as he rose to his feet, the brothers coiled back. His movement had an unfamiliar and fierce edge.

“Our prince arrived this morning,” Selia said. “I fed him and waited for you, but you were late. Come, let’s get out of the cellar. The food should be ready.”

She turned to climb the ladder. Jon and Wren offered to support their prince. He waved them off and limped past. They followed him out of the darkness, speechless.

Selia was already spooning out the rich lamb stew. She had also drawn the curtains of the kitchen windows. “A rebellion dinner!” she said as she served them.

Andor met the brothers’ eyes. “Are you still with me? Fully?”

“Yes,” Jon said.

“We are with you as we always have been,” Wren added.

“Good. I cannot do this alone.” Andor paused, as if unsure of whether to say more. “I have Father Yeats with me, too, and others will follow, even those close to Tryst. I went to Yeats first, in the Cathedral. No one is suspicious of a beggar in that place, because Yeats never turns them away. I think I made it undetected. Yeats gave me food and talked with me about light and dark, good and evil, and forgiveness. I told him things that I will spare you two from hearing. He said that several months had passed. He said that Lorien lives.” Andor’s eyes closed. “I barely survived the dark, and the despair.” 

“But you made it,” Wren said. “How? Where were you?”

“I do not want to talk about that, not now. Father Yeats says I will recover. The old priest is going to use his privileged position to stay close to Tryst and send messages to me. There is much I need to learn.” The prince motioned for another serving of stew. He sipped a glass of red table wine and leaned back in his chair. “Please, tell me what you know of these recent months.”

“War is coming,” Wren said. “Tryst and Ramzi have imposed strict order in Valemidas. They claim it is necessary to defend against our enemies. Men from the mountains have united under some fanatic. Rumor is that he plans to march on the lower lands, killing everyone in his path.”

“Tryst’s official coronation was tonight,” Jon added. “The talk of the tavern was that, within a week, he will lead the new army out to battle this threat in the mountains.”

Anger burned in Andor’s eyes. “I heard he calls this army the Lycurgus. I call it tyranny. Valemidas has never needed to steal boys and make them soldiers to prevail against our foes. We are free citizens. Our men fight by choice, and they are worth dozens of our opponents.” 

“Things have changed,” Wren said. “Tryst has amassed amazing strength. The people elected him for life, like they did for you, but something is different. We saw him kill three armed men in the blink of an eye tonight.”

“And he will kill me if he finds me in this state. That is why we cannot linger long. Can you leave the city with me tomorrow?”

“Maybe, but—” Jon hesitated, looking to his brother.

“With respect, my prince,” Wren said, “you do not look ready to leave tomorrow. You will stand out until you rest…and eat a lot. Maybe you could stay hidden here a few days? And why would we need to leave Valemidas? Men will rally behind you if you declare your return, and your right to the throne.”

Andor’s pale face was emotionless. “I will consider it.”

Wren turned and picked something up on the opposite wall. Turning again, he set a small mirror in front of the prince.

Andor picked it up. His eyes opened wide as he sat in silence, staring at his reflection. “Thank you.” He set down the looking glass. “It is a wise suggestion. I will stay here and recover a few days.”

“Excellent,” Wren said. “You will be safe here. We can begin to rally your supporters.” 

“Not yet. I need more time to plan. This is a treacherous game. I think we will enlist in this usurper’s army, learn more about his weak spots. I can hide in the ranks as an infantryman. You two can try to get closer to Tryst. Swear fealty to him, become his knights if you can. Jon, my guess is he will want to keep you particularly close. He always respected your skills in battle. And Wren, no matter how much he dislikes you, he will welcome you for your nose for gold and for your brother’s prowess. Tryst must have a way to fund his extravagant march, and I doubt he has paid our city’s long-growing debt to the Sunans.” Andor glanced down at the mirror on the table. “It may be safer if we join the army from a town outside Valemidas. My appearance might also benefit from a journey in the countryside.” He met the brothers’ eyes again. “You will deliver letters for me?”

“Yes, my prince, to anyone,” Jon said. “I know Valemidas better than ever, and I still have access to the palace. I could even—” 

Selia tapped a wooden spoon against the table. “That’s enough for tonight, boys. There will be more time to talk, but we all need rest. I have a bed ready in the guest room.”

“A bed sounds delightful,” Andor said. “Jon, bring writing supplies up to my room, and some soap and a sharp blade. Wren, check your trading book numbers. I must to talk to you about the gold we will need. And Selia, before I go, would you be so kind to pour another bowl?” The first hint of a smile touched his face. “It feels like a lifetime since I have eaten like this.”

Chapter 6

SOFTNESS IN THE NIGHT

“Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours, 

Let’s not confound the time with conference harsh:

There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch

Without some pleasures now. What sport tonight?”

Wren could not sleep, and not just because of the prince’s return. He sat at his desk, running numbers on his stock of gold. His mind was sharp, but his body felt soft. 

He remembered training as a younger man, running miles every day and losing sweat and blood in constant competition. His hands had been harder. Walking had been crisp, like a uniformed march always poised to turn and strike. After days of slamming padded blades against his friends, he could tap into his comrades’ existence. He knew where their bruises were and who they wanted to soothe them. 

Now Wren the merchant knew little of others. He knew little of his body. He just understood the trade; his thoughts ran over the profits that would be streaming in if he bought low on iron now and sold his excess grain. The numbers were hard, but the resulting profits only added to his body’s softness. Delicious feasts, lace cuffs, fine leather shoes—those were his hard-earned marks of inner crumbling. 

His merchant companions praised his shiny façade. They would say something like: “You were such a brash young man, Wren, driven to conquer and no fun to be around. You are such a pleasure now, welcoming and rich in disposition. Blah, money, blah.” That kind of flattery made Wren think of something Father Yeats had once said. “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal.” 

It all made Wren want to run from this life. He wanted to be hard again, to show those merchants what it felt like to suffer the assault of his blade. Maybe, like a young knight rising in the ranks to remove the padding of his sword, Wren would combat the formidable enemy of wealth and society. If the pad on a blade could be removed, so could his softness. The longer the parasite of comfort clung to him, the more dangerous it became. Removed of the comforts, he would be a danger again. Otherwise, Wren thought, he would be no help to Andor at all. What is the point of a sword if it is always padded?

He rose from his desk and went silently down the stairs. It was not uncommon for him to awake in the night and work, but this night was the beginning of something different. He would be leaving with Andor and Jon soon. He felt unprepared, uncertain. 

Cracking open the back door to the alley behind the shop, Wren slipped out into the night. The air was crisp, seemingly cleansed of its earlier foulness. A few low clouds dotted the sky, and the moon filled the tight passage with pale light. Wren walked along the building’s wall. The end of the alley opened on a small road that led to the main plaza. He turned his head around the corner and studied the scene.

The bacchanalia was complete and its consequences were obvious. Bodies were scattered on the ground, concentrated around the central tree. Wren crouched and darted from mound to mound. Most of the people were alive, breathing irregularly as they fought unconsciously to rid their bodies of the toxins consumed during the festival. It was a stale reminder of the night’s excesses. 

Tryst and his royal band were nowhere to be seen. The bloodied bodies had been left on the stairs where Tryst had struck them down. The deceased should have been given more respect, taking their bodies away for burial or a pyre. That was not Wren’s calling this night. He still felt a desire to fight, to lash out against the softness inside him and his city. So he left the plaza, looking for trouble.

He wandered the city’s streets for at least an hour. Windows were still dark, but he began to smell the first scents of bread baking for the morning. Dawn would be coming soon. Wren decided he would make one stop before returning home. 

Walking along the road that hugged Valemidas’ outer wall, Wren made his way to the front gate. Beside that gate, Wren knew, he would find the Sojourner’s Inn. The owner, Randall Kay, was a friend. He had been a merchant, and a fair trader with Wren. Randall had always liked drinking more than trading, so he set up this little place near the gate. He had told Wren of his vision. It would be a simple inn with a simple tavern—a place meant for travelers to visit when they arrived in the city. He would be the middleman between them and Valemidas, which often confounded its visitors by sheer size. 

Business had been great for Randall under Andor’s short reign. Travel had been open and frequent. Since losing Andor, the city’s gates stayed closed more often than not. There was danger in the midst of the changing princes, and Tryst tried to hold greater control. 

Still, tonight Wren heard a large crowd as he approached the Sojourner’s Inn. He paused outside a window and looked in. 

Set off against the opaque night, the tavern had a warm glow. Its main room was a small rectangle, with fires burning brightly in hearths at both ends. Four long wooden tables, lined with benches, covered much of the floor. In the corners there were leather couches around low tables. The space was surprisingly full. It was as if every activity of the night had been drawn out of hiding and into the Inn. 

Wren did not see his friend Randall, who was surely asleep at this hour. Two of the innkeep’s guards were standing at the two doors to the tavern, and at least five serving maids were racing about. They filled tankards with ale while dodging groping hands. Randall had a strict rule that was fitting for visitors to the city if not for soldiers. The maids dressed simply but provocatively, with white bodices fastened tightly over skirts that did not reach the knee. They were to be admired, but the patrons could not touch. Bandying words was encouraged. Contact was forbidden. Randall would always say, “Take your ales and have a peek, but if you touch, it’s the door you seek.” 

It took only a few moments for Wren to see that doors would be sought tonight. They probably already had. The men were mostly soldiers who seemed to have come straight from the night’s debauchery. Wren guessed they had enjoyed the prince’s ale. They would be the perfect company for dispelling softness. Wren would have a target on his chest, with his linen attire and aristocratic grin.

He walked into the Sojourner’s Inn stridently. The noise of the place shot out of the door as soon as Wren opened it. The guard welcomed him with a curious glance. It was a strange time of night for someone to be arriving, much less a wealthy merchant. 

Wren found a seat at one of the benches, wedged beside two rowdy men. From their plain brown uniforms, Wren marked them as the lowest of infantrymen. Wren ordered a drink and listened to them cuss and yell about their conquests. The whole room was full of stories, and most of them sounded at least a shade off the truth. Battles in distant lands and princesses saved. It amused Wren at first, but the mood was unsettling. These men lacked leadership and direction. The night of heavy drinking, starting with the corrupted stuff in the city’s plaza, only made it worse. 

“Dustin, take a look at this one,” the soldier to Wren’s left garbled. “I’d like to get my hands on her.” 

Wren followed his glance to an attractive tavern maid who was leaning over the bar to the kitchen. She turned with six massive tankards clutched to her chest.

“Nah, Tuco, you oughta be lookin’ somewhere else. That one’s mine.” The lout named Dustin was barely keeping his head off the table, but he managed to give his mate a clumsy punch to the arm.

“Quit that,” Tuco drawled out. “You don’t wanna start somethin’. Besides, with a body like that, this maid has enough for both of us. Watch this.” 

Tuco tried to stand and wobbled. Wren could not contain his laughter at the man’s poor balance and judgment. 

“What’er you laughin’ at, fancy boy?” Dustin demanded. 

Wren pointed at the approaching maid. “Dustin, right? I mean no offense. I am just admiring my next catch.”

“Boy, I’m gonna—” 

“Oh lord,” Tuco interrupted. Both men’s eyes locked on the serving maid as she reached the table. “You, uh, heat me like the summer sun.” His gaze stayed somewhere below her chin and above her waist. “My princess is here, bringin’ me drinks. It don’t get no better.”

She leaned over Wren’s right shoulder, obviously amused. “Gentlemen, it looks like you are close to empty. I have a little more special brew for you, if you still want some.” She wore a devilish smile, as if daring them to touch. Catching Wren’s non-glazed eyes made her tense. Maybe she was used to handling the drunk ones, but stayed wary of others.

“I need all the special brew you got,” Dustin attempted.

“Why thank you!” she said. “It only gets better by the tankard for the hopeless.” She spun away, tossing her hair and off to the next tease. 

The men shared a glance. Their faces showed anger. Apparently the insult from the woman sharpened their senses. 

Tuco lumbered up. Once on his feet, he moved with surprising speed and pinned the maid to the wall. He began groping desperately. 

Seizing the cause for action, Wren jumped to his feet but fell flat on his face before he could stop the assault. Glancing back, he saw Dustin looming over him, fuming and bright red in the face. He had been tripped. 

“Cheap move,” Wren growled from the ground. 

Dustin pulled his leg back to kick. Wren was almost to his knees but knew that he would not dodge the boot coming at his face. Shifting to block the worst of the blow, he saw a black blur swipe out Dustin’s back leg and send him tumbling to the floor. 

Wren jumped to his feet and turned to protect the maid. One of the Inn’s guards had ripped Tuco off of her and slammed him onto the ground. Some of the soldiers had left their seats and were approaching in an unstable circle. It seemed they were willing to fight for each other this night. 

Time froze for Wren. Every trained fighting instinct surged out of dormancy. He counted ten soldiers, weapons drawn, with only three people facing them—Wren, the guard, and a hooded figure in black. The other guard was outside the circle, ready to help. The maids were fleeing the room. Other soldiers were around, but seemed to be staying away from the fight. 

“To my sides,” commanded the dark figure, in a woman’s voice. 

He and the guard slid into position quickly. Wren tried to focus on the assailants but was distracted by the lady issuing orders. She was slim but had two long blades drawn, longer than was allowed under recent regulations in Valemidas. It all seemed familiar—the tone of authority, the long black cloak, the close-drawn hood, the refined stance—but he had not yet seen her face. 

Before the puzzle came together, he was ducking to dodge a tankard thrown at his head. Wren pulled a dagger from his belt and threw it into the shoulder of the soldier in front of him. He charged towards the soldiers to that man’s right, opening his left flank and entrusting it to the woman in black. 

The soldiers were moving slow, drunkenly. Wren dove into them low, taking out their legs and staying under their weak stabs. He sliced at the calves of two men and rose as they fell. He connected a knee to the head of one falling man and moved to face another. The man swung his dagger wildly, nicking Wren’s arm. Before Wren could counter, the man’s eyes went wide in shock and he fell forward. Two hilts carved into ravens stuck out of his back. 

“Ravien!” Wren shouted. He locked eyes with her and briefly forgot where he was. 

He forced his mind back to the room. The fighting had stopped, with several men on the ground around them. The last of the soldiers were fleeing out the door. Of course, Wren thought, no one in his right mind would fight the prince’s sister. 

She was glaring at him. “You did pretty well, Wren. But you seemed a little slow.” Before he could reply, she put her finger over his lips and whispered, “Shhh, wait.” 

She then began taking the identification tags from the soldiers. Those tags were another new requirement under Tryst. A few soldiers were groaning in pain, a few seemed unconscious or dead, including Dustin. No one resisted Ravien. 

As always, the princess wore snug black boots. They flared out at the knee, revealing pale skin up to her black skirt. Wren could not keep his eyes away. 

The two Inn guards had found a spot on a bench. Only their eyes moved, following Ravien, as three of the tavern maids tended to their wounds. One of the guards was bleeding heavily from the forehead and the side. 

After collecting the tags, Ravien stepped to the injured guard and cupped his head in her thin hands. She locked eyes with him and whispered something that Wren could not hear. Rising from him, she pressed something into the hand of the maid standing at his side. 

The other woman blushed, smiled broadly, and said, “oh no, well, maybe, oh, thank you!” Whatever Ravien had said and given, Wren guessed that it had left the man a better chance of living and the maid a better chance of ending up with the man. 

Ravien turned to Wren again. Her eyes were so dark, like midnight pools reflecting the Inn’s light. “Follow me if you can, merchant.” There was no question of whether he would obey. She was the prince’s sister, and she hurried out the door.

Wren followed and glimpsed her sprinting away as soon as he was outside. He took off as fast he could. The quick pace knocked all thoughts and breath out of him. 

He gained ground on every straightaway, but she stayed out of reach. She made her turns too quickly, and left Wren guessing a few times about which way she had gone. Whenever he lost sight of her, she would appear for an instant and then be around the next corner. It was as if she measured the distance between them, keeping it exactly far enough to avoid losing Wren or letting him catch her.

After maybe ten minutes of pursuit, Wren was exhausted. Lack of sleep and battle fatigue wore on him as much as the run. He had always been a runner, but that history did not make up for years sitting at a desk. 

Just when he decided to make a final push, closing the gap to a mere ten paces, Ravien ducked into the door of an anonymous building on a dark alley. Perfect, thought Wren, because Ravien proved herself to be so unskilled indoors. He saw again the recent memory of his attacker falling with two daggers sticking out of his back, and Ravien looming behind him.

Wren opened the door slowly. The hinge was silent, as was the room inside. It was musky, with cobwebs hanging from the low ceilings. Wren wondered how long it would take someone to find him dead in this abandoned place. 

He froze for a moment at the thought. She really could be trying to kill him. Wren had known Ravien for a long time. Everyone who grew up around Tryst knew his shadowy sister. They had been inseparable as kids. They even trained with swords together. People whispered, often loudly, that she was the reason Tryst had not married. He would never meet someone who could equal his sister, they said. Wren had his doubts, but he had not spoken to Tryst in years. 

Ravien was loyal to her brother and her intentions were unclear, but Wren believed she had played no part in the coup. She cared too much about a free Valemidas, and about Lorien, to help depose Andor. Either way, he felt helpless to resist the temptress’s call. He took another step, then another.

Once inside the building, the only place to go was up. A narrow stairway on the far side of the room led to the second floor. Wren went up and found the second floor to be almost an exact copy of the first floor. He climbed four more flights of stairs. Each floor was the same. Wren knew that Ravien could not catch him off guard in an empty room. 

The sixth and uppermost floor was also like the five below it. The only difference was that this room had a door opposite the stairs. It stood open to the night. Wren stepped lightly through the door and surveyed his surroundings. He was on a small and flat roof, with no railing between it and the sixty-foot fall to the ground below. 

He scanned for some sign of Ravien. A few buildings away, he saw a silhouette standing at the top of a high arched roof. 

Wren sprinted towards the figure. Adrenalin propelled his jump from the first building to the second, covering six feet with nothing below. He did not look down and charged on. 

The second jump, to the arched roof, was even longer. It also dropped further, and Wren landed hard against the slate tiles. Looking across the gap he had just leapt, he was feeling pretty good about himself. But when he turned an instant later, the silhouette was gone. 

He ran up to the peak of the roof and tensed at the quiet solitude. Not again, Wren thought. She has to be—

“Silence.” The voice was a seductive whisper, unlike the dagger pressed to his throat. All Wren could think was that it was impossible. She had slipped him from behind, and now she had him pinned. 

“As I said, you feel a little slow.” Her right hand moved down against his stomach, and she patted the small extra layer of fat. “You used to be rock solid and so sharp. It is a shame what your wealthy life has done to you.” She breathed the words into his ear. “You will have no chance taking down my brother in that shape.” 

Wren fought to stay calm, torn between fear and something like desire. “I wouldn’t dare try such a thing, Ravien. Tryst is the prince and he has my loyalty.” 

“Don’t waste my time with lies.” She jerked him closer and drew blood with the dagger. There was not an inch of space between their bodies. “I saw you and Jon in the square tonight. I also know who is in your shop right now.” 

Her words sent Wren’s mind spinning. Maybe she was going to kill him. How could she possibly know about Andor? 

He kept silent and considered his chances of fighting back. As long as she was alive with that knowledge, everything was in jeopardy.

“Do not think of killing me, Wren. It wouldn’t do any good. I planted the secret with someone who will survive me. Besides, my dear little bird, you would not want to hurt me. I can help you.” Her lips grazed his cheek. “I can give you what you want.”

“And what do you think that is?” As Wren breathed the question into her ear, he felt a shift in her position, a subtle relaxing of her grip. 

In one flash of movement, he leaned his head away from the blade, grabbed her forearm, and slung her forward over his shoulder. She slammed onto the roof, but still she clutched onto Wren and the dagger. 

They wrestled for position and control. Ravien was strong and lightning fast, but Wren overpowered her. Her legs were locked around his waist, but he was on top and had her shoulders and arms pinned down. 

Wren gloated for a moment at the position, smiling down at his captive princess. They were at the edge of the arched roof, and her head was hanging off the end, long black hair flowing towards the ground six stories below. Her eyes raged up at him, dark embers threatening to consume him.

“Ravien, my dear.” His voice was half serious, half mocking. “You have always been a dangerous woman. Maybe I do want you, but you know too much. What do you propose I do with you?” 

She responded with a grin, as if she were the one in control. “I propose that you question everything you know about me. Question my loyalties and my desires. I am a sister to the prince but also to Lorien. If you displease me in the slightest, there is no doubt that Tryst will learn of your plans. We both know what that would mean. But if you please me,” she rocked her legs, swaying both of them precariously over the ledge, “and that’s a big if, then your plot might have a chance.”

Wren shrugged innocently. “What kind of plot are you talking about? Everything I want is right here.” 

He plunged and kissed her deeply. For a moment it felt like she was returning the passion, but a sharp pain forced him to pull back. She had bitten his lower lip and drawn blood. Again.

“I can believe that,” Ravien breathed out, failing to hide a faint smile. She lowered her voice to the quietest of whispers that Wren could barely hear. “But it is not so much you, as Andor, who concerns me.” Then she shouted, “Now!” 

Wren froze as a sharp point pressed into the back of his neck. Apparently he could not hear anything coming this night. He looked into Ravien’s eyes, trying to make out the reflection of who was behind him.

She returned his deep gaze and spoke delicately. “Wren, be silent and stay completely still.” He loved the sound of his name as it rolled off her lips. “I know you and Jon are planning something with him.” She let that hang in the air; Wren fought to keep his face blank. “I will be joining the Lycurgus on this march, and will stay close to my brother. If you try to harm him, it will not end well. But some of our interests may be aligned.”

Wren could no longer suppress his look of surprise. “I don’t—”

“Remember,” Ravien said, “question everything you assume about me. Now you know that I am not alone.” The unknown blade pressed harder into the back of Wren’s neck, driving his face closer to Ravien’s. “We will communicate with you, and you must obey our requests. If you do not, you have no chance. You might succeed, although not in the way you expect, if you please me.” 

She leaned closer and gave him a light kiss. “If you please me.”

Suddenly everything went dark, as the person behind him tied a cloth over his eyes. He felt a blade at his throat again, forcing him to stand blindly. He felt Ravien escape from below him. An instant later, her voice was beside his right ear. “Stay still and count to fifty. Then you may return home and get what little sleep you can. Dawn is coming.”

Wren obeyed the command. He thought through Ravien’s words, looking for hidden meanings. How did she know? Who was she working with? No matter how he approached it, they were in trouble. She had the position and the information to ruin everything.

At the count of fifty he pulled off the blindfold, which smelled of lavender. There was no one to be seen. 

The view over Valemidas was beautiful in the early pre-dawn. He could make out the spires of the prince’s palace, and the high walls embraced the sleeping city. It was peaceful now, but the effects of Tryst’s reign and Ramzi’s laws were already rippling out. Wren shuddered at what would happen to the peace under a lifetime of oppression. 

Andor’s plot had to succeed. As Wren made his way back to his shop, he prepared to tell Andor and Jon what he had learned. It would not be easy, because he would have to explain how he ended up on a rooftop with Tryst’s sister. He climbed into bed for an hour of sleep and found himself dreaming of a shadowy woman.

Chapter 7

THE ENEMY OF A PRINCE

“It was iron and wheat that civilized mankind and caused it to be lost.”

“Something about this night feels wrong,” the watchman said to his replacement. 

Most night watches in the mountains passed without incident. Maybe a rare wolf howl or a passing hare would interrupt the quiet, but even those moments were muffled by snow. It was still understood among the Icarian rangers that there was constant danger. They garrisoned tiny watchtowers, looking down on the valleys below. 

This night, it was not just the cold that made the watchman shiver.

“I feel it too. Unnatural like. The night smells and tastes normal, but my senses tell me that something is shifting.” 

The men caught eyes for the first time. They shook off the dread in a quick handshake. Nothing beat the comfort of a comrade in this solitary duty. 

“Get to the city and find your wife’s warmth. I have it from here. I will heed your advice. It is a night to stay alert.” The replacement smiled and patted the left breast-pocket of his heavy wool coat. “I brought coffee with a nip of something special. Whatever is lingering out there will not catch me unawares.”

“Good man. Thank you for the reprieve.” The tired watchman turned, almost forgetting the ritual words. 

He turned back and found his comrade’s eyes again. “May our city’s warmth keep you this night. Our fate rests in your eyes and ears. Watch for Icaria, watch until Icaria calls you back.” 

They clasped forearms, and the replacement answered, “Until Icaria calls me back.” 

Without another word the watchman scrambled down the precipitous crag, towards home. He silently cursed the few rocks that scattered below his feet. He had been on watch a day and a night, but that was no excuse for such careless noise. 

Something evil was at play. He felt it in his bones. It was as if an unseen scheme had been set against his people. Just as the mountains hid the storms until the moment they struck, this approaching danger would be secret until it was too late. 

The night’s darkness was giving way to morning when he caught the first glimpse of Icaria. The thin bridge to the city swayed high above a chasm. A flat, sheltered valley led to the bridge. It was the site of farms but no homes.

Across the bridge, his people’s homes clustered on a small peak. The city was like a natural extension of the rock, its lean buildings like a bundle of spears. The peak was an island amidst the surrounding ravines. Every time the watchman crossed the bridge into the city, he left the world for a safe and secure place. He believed that, with this position, no one could conquer Icaria.

The guards nodded a silent welcome as he passed. Just inside the tall gate, he heard the soft bell announcing dawn. 

Chime, chime, chime, chime. 

The fourth ring meant a morning meeting. All who could attend would, even a cold watchman returning from the night. 

He sighed and pulled out his small silver flask. It had been a gift from his father, who had served and died on the watch, like his father before him. The watchman finished off the last sip and greeted the little fire it stoked in his empty belly. His leader, the Summit, would be a welcome sight—an assurance of stability and strength. 

He began climbing the winding stairs to Icaria’s great hall. Most lived further up, closer to the hall, saving them from the five-hundred-step climb that was taxing the watchman’s weary legs. The night had drained his energy. He entered through the hall’s huge doors and saw hundreds already gathered. He leaned against a stone pillar ten times his height. He slowed his breathing and watched the rest of his city amass. 

Almost five thousand Icrarians made their way in, wrapped in heavy furs that replaced the just-removed blanket of peaceful sleep. The Icarian gentleness, bred in the harsh climate, always gave him joy. Like a bear protecting her cub, they were ruthless against outside threats but tender towards each other. Only in this climate could that character persist. But many of them believed warmer and greener lands would suit their collective culture. The watchman disagreed. The life of lowlanders would ruin what they had. 

The crowd began to stir, to crane their necks. He followed their gazes to the ledge of natural stone forty feet above, where a man stood alone. 

Their leader’s voice boomed out. “Morning arises, Icarians.” 

The people answered in unison, “Day awaits, our Summit.” 

“Here in the mountains,” the Summit began, his voice echoing, “made strong by the cold, we found the seed of amazing power—the power of explosions never seen before. We mined it from the minerals buried deep within our mountains. But the betrayer tossed the seed out on the barren rock, and the seed died before it took root. If we had kept it hidden in our caves, it might have grown to be our weapon, our way to a different life.” 

A softer life, the watchman thought. A shallow life.

“Now it will not to grow in our hands,” the Summit continued. “You know the story. A foreigner named Sebastian boasted great things. His smooth words told us that we deserved conquest, that we needed progress. He said our power gave us the right to all those green lands, where people had frolicked for generations.” 

The Summit paused, shaking his head so that his long silver hair swayed. “We would have resisted, as always, if not for the betrayer. Against our way and our faith, an Icarian acted without our vote. He told the stranger our secret science, in exchange for his promise of wealth and power. That Icarian paid with his life, but we too failed. When one of us acts, we all act. It is our way. The Icarian way.”

“The Icarian way!” the people shouted the ritual words, but the watchmen heard traces of fear in their voices. 

“And we failed again,” the Summit said, “by letting Sebastian escape our mountains. No one leaves these mountains against our will. But the rangers who pursued him were never seen again. Maybe the hope of a softer life had already weakened us, allowing this to happen. Now we will be the ones attacked. Have you shared my troubling dreams of late? Have they been haunted by what we learned from Valemidas? Our impatience has forecasted our death. Seeds of greatness must be given time to grow if they are to last.” 

The Summit held out his clenched fist. The hall was silent, motionless. Then the leader flung his hand out, casting dark powder over the crowd. “These seeds will not last! Our enemy knows us as its enemy.” His voice grew calm. “And now Valemidas will march against us. There are too many signs for it not to be truth.” 

The word truth echoed in the hall. No one stirred.

“We still have a choice,” the Summit said. “We vote today on our destiny. As is my right, given by you, I have selected the options. There are only three, our elder council has agreed. Discuss, question me, question our council, and choose the course best for us. 

“This will be a full Icarian vote. All who have survived their rite of passage must take a position. Once votes are cast, we follow the prevailing option. This is our pure rule, our freedom. As always, you may choose not to vote. If you do, you must leave this night and never again join our city. Consider these options well, my fellow Icarians. “

The Summit held up one finger. “First, we stay in this citadel of stone. We will arm and prepare for the certain siege. Like wolverines, we will take many attackers down with us. Valemidas might send twenty times our number. We might end here.” 

He held up a second finger. “Next option, we retreat tomorrow. We will pack what is necessary and move north and west. Out of the mountains, to the edge of the sea, into colder territory. From there, we would have further votes. Perhaps we build boats and float towards the unknown, or perhaps we settle in harsher, frozen lands.” 

Then came the third finger. “The last option is to attack. We all move out of the mountains and execute our former plan early. We take our great, fledgling explosives with us and press as far as we can. Perhaps we will have more votes. Perhaps we will take more land. The only certainty is that we will face the Valemidans. The recent report told of a strong and harsh new prince, leading a powerful army. In the open field, they will flex their strength and render our mountain skills less valuable.” 

The Summit lowered his arm. “You are a wise people. I trust you will seek the unfolding of these destinies. We will choose our path and run hard on it. That is the only way we exist.” The Summit bowed. “Bind our freedom to each other, Icarians, and climb higher.”

“Climb higher, our Summit,” the watchman heard himself chant the response twice, along with those around him. 

He pulled his eyes down from the ledge. The weight of the mountains showed in his people’s steadfast but conflicted faces. Maybe they were hardened enough to handle that weight. The Icarians wasted no time before beginning the debate. 

The watchman sat back against the pillar, exhausted. His head fell into his hands. He had felt something was wrong but had not dreamed it would be this. As surely as the snow falls, he thought, they would fight to the bloody end. 

Chapter 8

THE POWER OF WORDS

“The delight which arises from the modifications of pain confesses the stock from whence it sprung, in its solid, strong, and severe nature.”

Lorien felt crushed within the tower walls. She stood before the mirror in her dressing chamber, looking luminescent in the morning light. She was like a candle flame rising up from the cold stone floors. 

Over the past months she had hardly left her rooms. The measure of time had been difficult. After losing Andor, every day grinded by in the same bleak misery. Mourning had overcome her. The tears would have filled buckets—buckets labeled devastation, fear, and anger. As the days passed, she had plunged deeper towards the cause of her pain. 

Like many in Valemidas, she missed Andor as a prince, but she alone felt empty without him in her world. They had planned to marry. They had planned to have children. They had planned to rule Valemidas and its kingdom, together. Andor had promised as much to her, and if not for her traitor half-brother, she would be making final preparations as a bride.

The night before, at Tryst’s coronation, Lorien had channeled her emotions into ambition. Then she had heard of Tryst’s killings at the celebration. It disgusted Lorien, and it confirmed her plan. Tryst and Ramzi would use terror to shackle the people with even more laws. She would fight them any way she could, because she knew that Andor would have wanted it. Otherwise, she might as well be banished to waste away in solitude. 

Before she could fight, though, she needed to recover, to regain her composure. The dark circles under her eyes were her battle wounds. Staring into the mirror, her lips turned up at the thought. At least it was an improvement from the first few weeks, when she had given up. Her own hand had not resolved to take her life, but she could not bring herself to drink, eat, or sleep. 

With her brother sitting as the prince, she was a princess by right. That meant she had a duty to protect her people. A wrecked princess would be little help against the overwhelming force of Tryst. She could try to use her status against him. A change of scenery would be a good start. Today, she would get outside the palace and visit the city.

Tryst, of course, would have her watched wherever she went. He had picked all of her serving maids and guards as soon as he had stolen the throne. They reported to him and had little loyalty towards Lorien, although some had begun showing sympathy. 

She looked over the wardrobe that her maids had brought for her to choose from today. The huge oak armoire was full of dresses, most of them black. Lorien appreciated that the maids had come to respect her mood. She ran her fingers along one simple, elegant riding dress. It was made of fine wool, with a full neck and a teardrop-shaped exposure at the back. It was well suited for a funeral on a rainy day. 

Scanning the rest of the options, Lorien decided that none of them would work. Her clothes needed to match her task, if she was to escape her despair. Lorien tried to picture herself from before, as if she were about to join Andor on an adventure. Thinking of him gave her hope in a way that had been lost for many days.

She called to the maid sitting outside the room, and the woman appeared before her. She was small, with innocent eyes and straight dark hair. Lorien wondered whether Tryst had hand-selected each servant, picking the ones he thought Lorien would come to trust. He should have known better. 

Lorien forced herself to smile as she spoke. “Cheril, bring me other options, perhaps in green and brown, and suited for riding. I will need riding boots.” 

The maid nodded politely and turned to go. Lorien added, “and nothing black.”

She felt better already. Stripping out of her gown, she gazed at her body as if seeing it for the first time in months. She was shocked at her thinness. As the daughter of a knight, she had always had some lean muscle. Now, her skin was stretched thin over her bones. Her ribs could be counted, and her shoulders were sharp. Pulling up her hair, Lorien could see a pulse along her thin neck. It was startling how her body had diminished. If she did not start eating more, she really would waste away.

Her maid returned with an armful of clothes. “Thank you, Cheril. I see that the porridge you brought has become cold. Send for another hot breakfast, with eggs this time.” 

Cheril failed to hide her surprise at the request. Of course, Lorien thought, the servants would have noticed, and reported, that she was not eating. She decided that next time she saw Tryst she would tell him that his coronation speech had lifted her spirits. Her smug brother would believe it, too.

Lorien looked through the clothes until she found what Andor would have wanted her to wear. She picked a dark green riding dress, which had small, buttoned pockets at the chest and on the arms. The pockets would help hide her frailty. She found a pair of knit leggings and leather boots that rose to her knees and had bright silver buckles at the top. A light brown cloak completed the look of an adventurer. She decided against a hat. It would be good for people to recognize her today.

Shortly after Lorien dressed, the food arrived. She plotted her day as she slowly ate the rich breakfast. The meal raised her spirits so much that she considered ordering more, but she decided her body should be eased back into its normal routine.

She did not bother to tell anyone she was leaving. A retinue would follow her whether or not she asked. Her confidence rose higher as she left her quarters. It had been too long for a princess of Valemidas to stay sheltered. 

The prince’s palace sat perched above the city, with walls rising up from the steep, rocky hillside. Among the spires of the palace, the tallest were two slender towers set on either side of the central keep. The palace was built in recent eras of peace, with opulence growing on top of the fortified castle that had long protected the city. The only entrance was along the grand stairs to the northwest of the palace. 

Lorien had been holed up in the tower farthest from the stairs, which meant a brisk walk to reach the gate to the city. She decided to walk the long way along the inside of the wall, rather than cutting through the central keep and risking seeing her brother.

The grounds of the palace were not as she remembered them, even though the paths and gardens retained the same elegant beauty. The difference was in the people. Just months ago, Lorien would have seen knights sparring and laughing during breaks. She would have seen nobles milling around—plotting, certainly—but with at least an air of cordiality. She would have seen children.

Today there was no laughter. Nobles and children were nowhere to be seen. It was as if Tryst had banished playfulness from the palace. Soldiers abounded, but they looked stiff. They marched in twos, backs straight with discipline. She did not see any sparring, although a few lines of men practiced spear thrusts under the barking commands of knights Lorien did not know. Making matters worse, she was trailed by an unapologetic, unsmiling group of six guards.

I must recover. I must heal. Focus on the good. 

Lorien looked away from the soldiers and studied the trees on the palace grounds. The young buds seemed ready to burst. The grass still glistened from the morning dew. Under the clear blue sky, the moisture might give way to the first spring flowers this very day. It was far too pretty outside for the lack of gaiety. 

The prince’s stables sat along the wall, just inside the gateway to the palace. As she approached, she recognized the stableboy outside—Telemachus. He had been Andor’s squire. He was also the son of Ulysses, who was among the few of Andor’s sworn knights that Tryst had kept around. A knight of Ulysses’ caliber was not easily replaced. Tryst probably believed the knight’s loyalty was to his position, not to the prior prince. She hoped her brother was mistaken.

Lorien smiled as she walked towards the stable. “Tel, it is good to see you.” 

The young man bowed low. His dark hair was shaggy as always. “My princess, it is an honor.” He kept his eyes fixed on the ground.

She lifted his head gently by the chin. She and Andor might have had a son who would have looked like this. “Come now, you look as if you see death walking. Please saddle up Juniper. I am going for a ride.”

Excitement lit his eyes. “Of course, my princess. Many of us have been worried about you, that’s all. But it is a great day for a ride. Juniper has missed you. She is a beautiful mare. I say she is the finest we have. She will be thrilled to get out of these stables.” He turned and hurried into the building.

“Thank you, Tel,” she called after him. Yes, she thought, Juniper and I will both be thrilled to get outside of these walls. 

Lorien leaned against the stable while Tel did his work. She breathed deeply, trying to will her strength to return. As she waited, she gazed up at the central keep. It was centered perfectly within the palace, twice as wide as the towers at its sides. Lorien, Tryst, and Ravien had spent many days as children exploring the imposing keep. Their father had been one of the greatest knights of his day, which afforded his children access to most of the palace’s grounds. Those memories were bright, but now Lorien felt a chill at the thought of Tryst in the building. He had removed the bright pennants that once flew out of the windows. It was like he wanted his palace to absorb all the surrounding light of the city. Lorien sighed and looked back down. 

Tryst stood before her.

“You frown, dear sister. What troubles you?” He looked pleased to have caught her off guard.

Lorien put on the same practiced smile she had worn to his coronation. “You surprised me, Tryst. It is a beautiful day, and I am going out for a ride.”

“Now that is a surprise. You have not left the palace in months.” Tryst held out his arm. “Come, let’s walk together before you go.”

Lorien took his arm and tried to relax. It would not do for Tryst to sense her anger. She would play the obedient sister and let him guide the conversation.

Tryst led her away from the stable, heading towards the palace’s open gate. They walked in silence, and then stood facing the city sprawled out below them.

“You have been worrying me, Lorien.” Tryst’s voice was quiet. He kept his gaze over the city. “I hear you have not been eating. And you did a poor job hiding your frustration at my coronation. This has been a time to celebrate the rise of your brother as prince. You are now the princess that you always wanted to be.” He turned to her. His eyes were shadowed under a furrowed brow and the radiant diamond on his crown. “I know what you have lost, but what more do you want from me?”

His openness took Lorien aback. Her lips pressed together as she sought calmness. Of course he suspects me. I am his sister, his vulnerability. “Time,” Lorien said. “All I need from you is some time. You know there have been changes in our lives. It is taking me time to adjust.” The words came out easily because they were true. “Just look at me today, out for an adventure.” 

Tryst glanced down at her body, letting his eyes linger. She had never liked the way he looked at her. “Nice dress, even if it shows too much of your legs. And I am glad to see you back in your boots.” His hard stare returned to her eyes. “Still, Lorien, you look terrible, like a ghost of your former self. Try to get some sun today, and find something to eat.” 

Lorien force her lips to grin. “It is good to see that my patronizing brother still cares for me.”

Tryst’s eyes opened wider. “You are my sister,” he said in a low voice. “Your royal home is here, and I cannot abide you shuffling around in misery for the rest of my reign. I hope your ride today helps.” The faint trace of warmth left his face, and his voice rose. “You will be protected by guards whenever you leave the palace. I am adding two more men, to ensure your safety. They have strict orders to tie you up and drag you back here at the first sign of danger.”

She ignored his demeaning tone. “Your guards can follow me today, although I doubt very much that I will need them in the future.”

“This is not a game.” Tryst leaned within of Lorien’s face. “You will be guarded as long as I command it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You are nothing without me, Lorien. But with me, you have a home here. You are in the prince’s family. You are—”

“Princess Lorien!” Tel shouted. 

She turned and was thrilled to see her horse, Juniper, dragging the boy towards her. The red mare neighed and nudged her shoulder. Lorien ran her hands along the horse’s face, which was speckled with bright white marks. 

Tel stood up straight, dusted himself off, then bowed to the ground before Lorien and Tryst. “I am sorry to interrupt, my prince. Juniper here, well, she has been in that stable for far too long. As soon as she caught sight of the princess, she took off. I could not hold her back.”

Tryst stared down at Tel coldly. “You are a disappointment. I find it hard to believe that you were ever a prince’s squire.” 

The boy looked up with pain and failure written on his face. Tryst did not relent. “Ulysses will not be happy to hear this. Get back to the stable where you belong.”

The boy sprinted away, as if fleeing for his life. Tryst snapped back in a swirl of black and clasped Lorien’s face between his hands. “Farewell, my beautiful sister. You have a privileged position. Take care not to lose it.” 

Lorien met his gaze evenly. “The same goes for you, Tryst. Farewell.” She pulled herself out of his grip and leapt onto Juniper’s back. 

Tryst stormed off without another word. Once he was far enough away, Lorien let out a sigh of relief. Her body was taxed just from mounting Juniper, and her mind raced through the implications of the conversation. First, she thought, I must thank Tel. With the slightest pull on the reins, Juniper turned and cantered towards the stable. Tel had his face against the wall, but he turned as Lorien approached. Tears filled his eyes.

“Tel, you wonderful young man,” she said from the saddle. “I owe you my thanks for retrieving Juniper and saving me back there.” He looked confused. “You see,” she continued, “our Prince was trying to control where I went today, but I wanted to move freely. Now I can, thanks to you.” 

The boy blushed and bowed. “Thank you, Princess.” 

Lorien smiled as she rode away. Tel would be the perfect way to reach Ulysses. The crafty knight could be a great help, if only he retained some loyalty to Andor’s allies and some distaste for Tryst. Surely he would. She wondered whether Tryst would ever learn that kindness was the best way to get what you wanted.

As she rode through the gates, Lorien felt a weight lifting off her shoulders. It felt right to be riding Juniper, even if she was trailed closely by eight of her brother’s guards. Her mare pranced down the stairs leading out of the palace and into the city. At least her horse could feel that all was as it should be with the world.

The view as Lorien descended the stairs was just as breathtaking as she remembered it. Almost every building was built of bright white walls and steeply pitched, slate gray roofs. Against that simple yet luxurious backdrop, the thousands of merchants and craftsmen of the city had developed their own colorful pennants, which they proudly flew from their rooftops and windows. The building’s strong foundations and ornate decorations reflected the city’s culture—bound by generations of custom, but individually distinct and free. Every twisting road had known hundreds of stories and names. 

Tryst wanted to destroy the colors, the distinctness. Sadness swept over Lorien at the thought. Her brother had always favored simple, strict uniformity. He would impose his tastes on his city, and spread those tastes to the entire continent. He would not be happy until every man was a soldier in black, and Ramzi would have every woman stay indoors. 

Lorien began seeing the consequences of Tryst’s reign as soon as she reached the bottom of the palace stairs and rode across the broad city plaza. She had always loved being caught up in the excited feel of the central square, with its people stirring beneath the elegant white limbs of the great tree. Before, hundreds of merchant stands had created a maze that channeled the shouts of wares and sales. Today the square was well-ordered and nearly empty. Lorien guessed that only a fourth of the merchant stands remained—maybe fifty in total. They formed neat lines that occupied a small corner of the square. That corner was quiet, with a few dozen shoppers milling around. It was as if trade had forgotten to awake from its winter hibernation.

Lorien rode toward the white tree, remembering its fabled history. Ten generations ago the prince of Valemidas controlled the entire continent but yearned for more conquest. He had sailed with his greatest knights to Sunan, the nation across the sea to the east—a land renowned for its fierce desert and fiercer warriors. In those days the Sunans had less wealth and less strength, but their men were more disciplined and unified. The opposing forces had been an equal match. Neither had been willing to surrender, not until both had suffered enormous losses. 

In an offer of peace, the Sunan ruler had offered a large white seed as the seal of a promise to allow the Valemidans to retreat safely. In return, the prince had promised to never attack again, and he had sent his only son to Sunan as his guarantee. 

For many years, a small ship would arrive in Valemidas each spring from the Sunan lands, bearing a note of peace and a letter for the prince from his son. The prince would send a message in return, stating that the tree was strong, as was the peace. 

The ships and messages had stopped years ago. Now it was just a story that grandparents passed down. Even trade between the nations had trickled to nothing, as Valemidas had borrowed more and more gold from the Sunans without repayment. Some doomsayers warned that it meant war was nigh.

Whatever the truth of that story, the Valemidans loved the great tree. It was at least twice the height of any other tree around Valemidas. The smooth white bark seemed to match the surrounding buildings of the city, and particularly the slender towers of the palace. Each spring, the tree would bear luscious green leaves, which turned fire red and fell in the fall. Lorien thought that the tree was most beautiful in the winter, when its bare limbs sliced through the sky. The people always yearned to see the leaves grow again after the snows melted. But for two years, no leaf had sprouted. Many feared what the barrenness might mean.

Lorien’s musings about the tree’s past were cut short by her closer view of its trunk. The tree had been desecrated, with scars carved into the bark. Lorien took them in with shock as she rode around the tree. They were lists of laws, burned black into the white. Each letter was as large as Lorien’s hand. 

Engraved largely at the top were the words: “Commands of the Prince.” Every declaration hit Lorien like a punch to the gut. 

“1. All boys between seven and twelve years old, and every firstborn son who reaches seven in the future, must be enlisted for life in the Lycurgus.”

“2. Everyone who enters Valemidas must be assigned an identification number, and at all times must carry a card with the number and the Prince’s seal.”

“3. All merchants, tradesmen, innkeepers, sailors, and other workers of the city must register their businesses with the Prince, who has the discretion to deny the license for such work.”

“4. All citizens of Valemidas must record, report, and pay a tax of one-third of their annual income, with avoidance punished—”

Lorien quit, not even half way down the list. She tore away from the tree, feeling disgusted. The laws of Valemidas had always been simple baselines. Do not murder. Do not steal. Do not do other bad things that directly hurt people. This was an unprecedented intrusion by the prince. No wonder so many merchants were gone today. 

Lorien rode Juniper hard out of the square. She held tight to the mare’s neck, and her legs clutched to its sides. Adrenalin rushed as her muscles were drawn tight and wind whipped past her. She felt alive, like she could fight this. It had been only a few months. Her brother could not have broken the will of the people already. She would fight on their behalf.

Lorien was approaching the main city gate when she slowed and noticed another oddity. Only half of the Path of Princes was being used—the right side. She was alone on the left side of the road, except for the guards following her. The road’s other side was crammed with people inching forward, held in tightly by soldiers who lined the road’s median. Everyone was moving in the same direction—towards the gate. Many of them stared at her, with tired and confused looks on their faces.

She rode gently into the masses, summoning a smile. Seeing the people thawed some of the coldness that had been growing in her while hidden away in a tower. Her smile seemed to be contagious. It made her feel like a beacon, but she was drawing her energy from those around her. They fed off of each other.

Some of the people began to shout. “The Princess returns!” “Talk sense to your brother!” “Help us!” The voices clashed into each other. A few people shoved to get closer to her. The situation started to spiral out of control. 

Lorien raised her arms and scanned the faces around her. They were not angry, but they were afraid, and tense. That did not bode well with her so-called protective guards approaching. She turned to see them forcing their way through the crowd. She felt sure they would try to push the people away from her, in the name of safety. She had to prevent the conflict. 

She waved her goodbye to the people and nudged Juniper to turn back. But then she paused. A familiar face glanced out of the shadows of a hood. 

It was Jon. He had been a friend of Andor’s—an honest and strong man, through and through, Andor had once said. 

Without a word, Jon reached up and grabbed Lorien’s hand. He ducked away an instant later, disappearing into the crowd.

The guards noticed the exchange. 

“Stop that man!” One of them yelled as they closed the distance to Lorien, formed a ring around her, and sent off two pursuers. She forced herself to stay calm and give no hint of the carefully folded letter that Jon had placed in her hand. 

Her mind raced as she pushed Juniper into a quick canter towards the palace. Why would Jon give her a letter? Had he been waiting for her? Why had he been so furtive? 

Lorien tried to quiet her thoughts as she rode up the stairs and leapt from the horse outside the stable. She walked as quickly as a dignified princess could towards her chamber.

Once there, she slammed the door behind her and ripped open the delicate parchment.

Her heart melted at the script. Andor’s meticulous writing was unmistakable.

Lorien,

I live, as this writing attests. Your love sustained me in a place worse than death. I have returned and found sanctuary. In time, Yeats tells me, I will recover. He and others are helping me, but it will be a long road back.

As much as it pains me, we cannot see each other now. Your brother watches you too closely. If he were to discover my return before I gather strength, he would kill me, and maybe even you. I cannot put you at that risk. We have enough risk ahead of us.

It will all be worth it when we are together again. You have my all, as you always did. My next movements will be against Tryst, but you must know that I act for you and for Valemidas. Contact Selia once Tryst departs the city. She has my trust.

Burn this note but hold fast to these words of promise. When we next meet, I will ask you to marry me. I will be yours, and I will never be pulled from your arms again. If for nothing else, I believe I have been brought back from death because our love is too great a thing to die.

Andor

Lorien read the letter again. And again. She read it more times than she could count. Night fell outside her window before she beckoned a servant to request food and a roaring fire.

It took great willpower to place the letter, the tangible proof of Andor’s life, into the blaze. But long after the embers burned through the paper, Lorien could see his words. 

Chapter 9

RETREAT TO THE FOREST

“Deliver me from a city built on the site of a more ancient city, whose materials are ruins, whose gardens cemeteries. The soil is blanched and accursed there, and before that becomes necessary the earth itself will be destroyed. With such reminiscences I repeopled the woods.”

It was the perfect day to hunt a prince. The spring morning boasted a pristine blue sky dotted with dustings of clouds. Between the brisk wind and the warmth of the sun, my skin felt more alive than I could remember. This was my first daylight since the Gloaming. 

Jon and Wren had convinced me that I needed the bulk of a long overcoat to look better-fed. They had also been emphatic that I cover myself head to toe in garb befitting their bodyguard. They had been all the more demanding of disguise after Wren’s encounter with Ravien and Jon’s narrow escape after delivering my note to Lorien. The thought of her made me smile, despite the fear of what Tryst would do to her if he learned about me. 

I ran my hand along my cheek and felt the pretentious scar that Selia had painted there, as if anyone would see it through the dented helm the brothers had given me. Instead of a sword, I carried a simple club. I followed behind the brothers and their horses on foot, dragging along their saddle-bagged mule, Yorst. To complete the part, I thought of what I had become in the Gloaming—that would make me look like a man not to be messed with.

Everyone had taken to the streets to enjoy the weather, and at least in the trade district, Jon and Wren seemed to have become local celebrities. Little kids were running up to say hello, and their parents were never far behind. The brothers were loving it, seemingly oblivious to the danger. What had the brothers done to deserve this fanfare? Maybe they had accumulated more wealth than I had guessed since we had lost touch. I could not ask without drawing attention, so I just trailed them and looked mean.

We reached the Path of Princes, the broad road that leads out of Valemidas. The straight street—the only one to be found in the city—was elegant with its huge paving stones and oaks lining the center. We were nobodies to the hundreds of travelers. Few locals used the main thoroughfare. They kept to their own neighborhoods and alleys, leaving flamboyance and treachery for the largest vein of the city.

We had just caught our first sight of the main gate when I realized something was wrong. Almost all the people were packed into the left side of the road, heading into the city. The right side—our side—was nearly empty. It was as if no one was leaving the city today, no one but us. The brothers might have noticed, but they kept on trotting forward, whistling as if everything were fine. 

The crowd on the other side of the road grew more chaotic as we approached the gate. Carriages crashed into each other, horses tangled, and people shouted. Maybe some new law limited when one side of the road could be used. Why else would these people not simply move to the empty side of the road? 

I did not like going against the grain, at least not now. I could hide behind conformity, but the attention made me start to sweat. Standing out meant death. Yet here I was dependent on two childhood friends, now merchants, who might as well have had targets painted on their chests. I yearned to turn back, but we were already too far along.

We drew closer to the gate while I tried to look for danger in all directions at once. The breeze had stopped and the sun was beginning to bear down on me, a cave dweller. The cumbersome coat and helm intensified the stale heat. As I pushed myself forward, step by heavy step, sweat began to pour.   

I glanced ahead to the faces of the guards beneath the wall. They were grim and their eyes seemed locked onto us, in complete contempt of the hordes on the other side of the road. It was like walking into a trap. Then, as my frantic gaze shifted to those hordes, I saw someone I had never wanted to see again. 

Ramzi.

I would have recognized him anywhere, with his shaved head and thick beard. He was standing in the oak-lined median, staring at the travelers who entered Valemidas. A troop of five men in heavy dark armor surrounded him. He wore a purple robe and leaned on a gnarled, black staff a head taller than he was. If he was trying to look like some sorcerer to terrify the people, he was sure to succeed. His sinister glare and the tattoo of tiny stars by his eye made sure of that. 

Anger rushed back into my mind. He was the true source of this evil, the one who had corrupted Tryst from the beginning. He deserved to die a painful death. But to fight him now, even if we won, would mean losing the battle against Tryst. I needed more time to heal, to prepare, to gather my supporters. 

I forced my eyes to stare at the ground. Ramzi’s attention was on the other side of the road, so perhaps we could slip by without notice. As we plodded forward, the pounding of my heart was joined by the pounding of horses galloping from behind us. 

I looked back. Four riders approached quickly. I glanced forward and saw Ramzi’s gaze turn to the riders, and then to us. He began striding in our direction.

In that moment, my enemies were closing on us just as the men had closed on Lucian and me. The sun was blazing, and the bucket on my head was getting smaller. My honed survival sense screamed. I could not go down like this. I had to do something.

As the riders drew even to us, I turned and swung my club at the front legs of one of the horses. It tumbled forward and the rider spilled to the ground. 

The air filled with dust and screaming. 

I glimpsed the brothers’ surprised faces as I leapt onto the mule and charged towards the gate, as fast as the mule could go. I swerved past Ramzi and his guards, while hurling my club at dark man. It cracked into his shoulder, and the pained but otherwise blank look on his face suggested that he had not recognized me.

I risked a look back and saw the brothers riding out of the cloud of dust. Jon had blood on his sword, and no riders followed. 

Two guards were charging towards us on foot, spears lifted to block our advance, while others rushed to close the city gate. The crowd to my left was still, the faces astonished. 

Moments later Jon and Wren rode past me and pulled ahead. They were going to hit the two running gate guards at almost full speed. Their cloaks were flying. As Jon raised his sword overhead, in perfect form, the two guards chose life over courage and dove to the side. Yorst and I rode through the gap before the guards were back on their feet. 

Other guards were frantically cranking the wheel that closed the city’s gate. It had been lowered two-thirds of the way down and was ten feet from the ground. I thought of giving up on Yorst and sprinting on my own legs, but it seemed too late. 

A host of guards stood between me and freedom. It was not going to end well if they stopped me—the former, decrowned prince, returned from death and trying to flee the city on a mule.

The brothers suddenly halted before the guards. In the moment of pause before anyone attacked, with travelers forming a stunned circle around the action, Wren reached into a bag at his side and pulled out a handful of glimmering gold coins. Each one could feed a person for a month. He held the riches high for all to see and flung them at the guards. 

The crowd—guards and travelers alike—dove to the ground. While all heads followed the gold, Jon began flinging daggers at the few guards who still tried to crank the gate down. 

Between the gold and the daggers, the gate slowed enough and everyone lost track of me. Still moving at Yorst’s pace, I trotted around the scrambling pile and out of the city. 

The brothers caught up with me just outside. They looked shocked.  

“What was that?” Jon asked. 

“What were you thinking?” Wren demanded. “That was three versus twenty, or more.” 

“Ramzi was there,” I said, gripping the reins tight. “I could not risk him seeing me.” It was true, but I had panicked like a man still in the Gloaming. 

Jon glanced back, then met Wren’s eyes. “Archers. On the wall. Guards pursuing.” 

Wren nodded. “We’ll distract them.” He turned to me. “Ride to the forest, my prince.” He and Jon turned and rode back into the danger. 

I spurred my mule on, away from the wall. A stretch of open fields separated us from the dark forest of the Hibernia Glade. It was my only hope. I needed a labyrinth, where I was trained to survive.

Yorst reached his quickest pace yet, but it was not fast enough. The archers started letting arrows fly. The brothers had fanned out, splitting to either side behind me. I glanced up and saw arrows darken the sky above. I knew these archers had spent years of practice hitting marks just as small as me from just that range. 

My next move was all reaction, instinct taking over. I shed my coat, slipped off of Yorst’s back, and tried to yank him to a stop. He charged on, dragging me on the ground below him. 

Then the arrows struck. 

The mule screamed. A dozen arrows stabbed the ground around me. None were far off, and several had met Yorst before the ground. I jerked to my feet as the poor mule collapsed. 

Looking up, I saw another salvo released from the ramparts. Without pause I ran with everything I had, varying my path to lose the arrows.

The archers were good, but they could not predict my movements. I did not look back and did not slow in the slightest when an arrow sliced the air just above my head. The next thing I knew, I was crashing to the ground from a blow to the right side of my head, and my left leg was screaming in pain. At least a dozen arrows stuck out of the ground behind me. 

I staggered to my feet and slid off my helm. It had deflected an arrow and saved me, leaving ringing in my ears. My thigh was bleeding, but I sprinted all the same. 

I risked a glance over my shoulder and saw another flying set of arrows and a small group of soldiers charging towards me on horseback. Jon was riding in pace with them, fighting to slow their advance, and Wren was further ahead. It seemed that I had become the most important target.

Hope surged as the forest drew closer and the next set of arrows came up short. I was out of range. The riders were closing on me, but I knew I could beat them to the front line of trees. My body was quick and my feet light, fueled by the escape. 

Entering the forest felt like entering a cave. My pursuers would have no chance in here. I ran fast through the ancient and dense woods. Some of the trees were almost ten feet across. They reached up for what seemed like a mile. Along the forest ground were velvet beds of moss, interrupted by roots that reached out of the dirt for air. A few plants dotted the gaps between the trees and caught the dappled light that cascaded down from the canopy above. I had dreamed about this kind of place while everything was dead around me in the Gloaming. 

The nobles had preserved the Glade for centuries as an elite hunting ground. Jon, Wren, and I had spent many days adventuring in the forest as youths—me by adopted right, them by coin. I headed towards the place where I thought they would most likely rendezvous. 

Each glance back showed quiet forest, but I could still hear the men far behind me. The best part of their noise was that there were no barks. They must not have had time to bring the city’s hounds. There would be no tracking me—at least, not yet. 

My body began to lose energy, and my leg needed attention. I slowed my run, careful to avoid making tracks. It was hard to do with my leg dripping blood, but the Gloaming had given me plenty of practice with leaving no trail. I pressed my hand over the wound and kept moving. Eventually the sounds around me died. My breathing was like a drum playing the rhythm to the ringing in my head. 

Every step brought more pain. My thoughts began to outpace my movements. Surely they would not send more guards. For all they knew, I was a petty thief. Of course Jon and Wren would know where to meet me, we had played this game before…the destination would not change just because the hiding was life-or-death serious this time. I thought again of the strange, regulated flow of people on the Path of Princes, and Ramzi’s oversight of it. Never had there been such regulation on the streets of Valemidas. A smile came to my face as I remembered my club slamming into Ramzi. Maybe that had given the people something to cheer about, that and the brothers’ gold.

I covered more ground and thoughts until I finally heard the River Tyne. It was narrowing here, but flowing at a languid pace as I reached its north bank. I followed alongside it, heading upriver and enjoying the sound of the rolling water amidst the forest. Perhaps a hundred miles away, it sprang out of rocky cliffs and thundered down from the mountains. Yet here, just before Valemidas, it began opening into a bay that was often as flat as glass. It was a picture of serenity beside the bustling city, and of turmoil among the desolate and calm mountains. 

The wound in my leg had forced me to a limping walk when I finally glimpsed my destination. Ahead was a massive tree trunk lying on its side. The brothers and I had been so excited when we first discovered this place as boys. The tree was old and covered in mushrooms as big as a man’s shield. It was nothing out of the ordinary for a forest like this. But at its upturned roots there was a small crater, and the bottom of the crater had a tiny hole, a few feet across and sealed by a rotting wooden door. 

It was just as I remembered it. The door was nearly invisible to anyone walking by without seeking it. We had hidden it years ago with large pieces of bark, and moss had since grown to obscure it completely. I slid down into the crater and began to feel around the door. I felt an edge and lifted gently, making sure the moss stayed in place, and then lowered myself into the earthen cavern.

It was almost pitch black inside, but all I had to do was follow the right wall. I blindly hobbled about twenty feet, guided by my hand sliding over the damp earth. I then slid down to sit on the cool, soft ground. My leg was relieved, almost numb from how I had pushed it. My head still throbbed, but I thanked that helmet for keeping me alive, or at least for letting me keep my right ear. Yorst deserved credit too, may he rest in peace.

I tried to focus my thoughts on the brothers. This was the most obvious and safe place for us to meet. They had been on horseback, so they were sure to arrive soon. They could handle those guards. Our escape was just a beginning, a taste of the threats ahead. I had made it alive. I had survived the Gloaming. The brothers would find me. My leg was on fire. My mind was restless. I drifted to dreams in the darkness.

The dreams brought a vision of dim shapes. I was hanging, and my arms were aching. Hands were grabbing at my legs as I clutched some thin bar above me. I knew I would die if I fell. The hands would kill me, I saw nothing but hands. 

Out of the sea of hands a face appeared. It was a noble face, reminding me of myself, but more severe. It was sharp and dark, full of remorse and sorrow. Ignoring the surrounding hands, fighting through them, I reached down to rescue the face, the person with the face, but it was too far away. 

A hand caught hold of mine and jerked me down. I swung at it wildly and connected with something solid. The impact to my fist sent shivers up my arm, but I was free. 

The face was lost.

I awoke to the sound of groaning. 

“Nice punch!” Wren smirked above me, lit by a small flame in the burrow. Jon was a step back, holding his face. 

“We came to rescue you,” Jon stammered. 

Looking down at my hand, I realized what I had done. “My apologies, Jon. I was dreaming…about knocking something away.” 

“You hit me right in the face, and hard.” Jon offered a small grin. He would be fine, except maybe a black eye. 

I smiled back, trying to hide my concern about the dream. “What took you two so long? You were on horseback.” I rose to my feet. My leg did not seem to be bleeding, but it ached badly. The room spun at the effort, so I kept my hand pressed onto the wall. 

Wren slid under my arm to support me. “Where is your mule? And what happened to your leg? It looks awful.” 

“Yorst saved me, shielding the arrows. I had to leave him behind. I think that helmet saved me too.”

“You made quite the scene back there,” Wren said, as Jon began to pull out bandages from his bags. “Valemidas is not like it was before. There are more rules, and there is a lot less tolerance for breaking them. It was risky to be the only ones leaving the city, if that even would have been allowed. But you broke all order.”

Jon knelt down to my leg and peeled away the stained cloth of my trousers around the wound. It looked like the arrow had sliced deep into my thigh. He began cleaning the cut. “We were lucky to escape without more damage,” he said. “Wren and I confused them enough by splitting up, and our horses are as fast as they come.”

“I am glad you made it.”

Jon kept at his work. “I look forward to hearing your ballad about it when this is all done—two merchant brothers galloping on their steeds, outracing hordes of guards, and saving the day.” He tied off a bandage and looked up. “You owe us.”

I nodded. “My debt to you grows with my gratefulness. Perhaps I can pay it back someday by helping heal our city. I imagine that rule about the Path of Princes is just the beginning. Ramzi found his perfect tyrant in Tryst.”

“There’s nothing perfect about him,” Wren said. “There is a law for everything now. The city is strict and regimented, much like Tryst’s new army. Maybe the soldiers and knights in the Lycurgus need to be that way, but not the civilians. Tryst uses this war as an excuse to do whatever he wants. Sometimes I wonder if he invented the enemy. If we win this battle, then he’ll have an army ready for the next conquest—it might as well become perpetual war.”

Jon finished wrapping another layer of bandages. “Your leg will hurt,” he said, “but it will heal. We have time to rest here now.”

“Thank you, Jon.”

“Please tell us more,” he said. “Other than mentioning this Gloaming place, you still have not told us what happened all that time you were gone. We can see that it weighs heavily on you. And we would like to know more about your plans. We want to help you.”

They both stared at me. I did owe them more of an explanation. “I imagine it is dusk out there now?” 

They nodded. 

“Then we stay here tonight. You tied the horses far enough away?”

“Yes,” Wren said, “the horses are tied by a steep bank on the Tyne. We lost the men following us, but we think they will send more. Like I said, there is little tolerance for disorder. Even a suggestion of disruption is stamped out, and we caused quite the uproar. Ramzi will not let this rest, even if he did not recognize you.”

“But we should have some time,” Jon added. “Ramzi is leading a festival at the Cathedral tonight. His group of zealots will join him. Maybe that will be more of a priority than searching for us. Ramzi uses these gatherings to steal the faithful from Father Yeats and make bold promises to those who swear loyal to the prince and to him. It is an unprecedented intrusion of the prince’s interests in the Cathedral—the one place where the prince’s power does not reach in Valemidas. You can see why Ramzi and Yeats have growing differences.” 

My words came out harsh. “I will make Ramzi suffer for what he has done. But not yet. We can rest here for a few hours. It is safe enough, but we will leave before dawn.” 

They nodded in agreement, and I leaned back, resting against the wall. “Jon, let’s have some of that food your mother packed. Wren, do you remember when we first found this place? It feels a little like home to be here now.”

We talked more of old memories. The snacks of cheese and flatbreads were as good as I had remembered them. Wren lifted up an aged bag of wine with a smile, and I took it gratefully. The decadent and spicy flavor danced over my tongue. Wren had always had impeccable taste, and now it seemed he had the fortune to indulge it. The small feast and conversation helped relax me enough to ease out some of my painful memories.

I did not tell them about my murders, or my escape. Instead, I shared more about what the Gloaming was, as I had told Lucian just days before. Then I found myself explaining one of my earliest experiences there. 

“I tried to organize the men,” I said. “The needs of the place were obvious. Men starve, and they kill each other for food. I asked a few men to help me establish some order. I tried to set up a system for collecting the food and distributing it evenly. More of us would survive that way, I promised them.”

The brothers studied me quietly. 

“It worked for a short time, but then the droppings of food became all the more scarce. My followers had grown to ten men, but suddenly there was not enough food to sustain even us working together. Starvation set everyone on edge; a fight broke out between two of my men, and I stepped in to pull them apart. There was no kinship, but only terror between us. More men jumped into the fight, and it was all I could do to escape with my life.” 

“Many men died then, simply because I had called them together. I later tried smaller gatherings, too, but those had the same result. The failures showed me the limits of the Gloaming. Hunger and fear and darkness allowed no one to trust. Order cannot last when there are not enough resources to survive. Starving men cannot be controlled, unless you suppress them with the constant threat of immediate death. That kind of forced order is not right for men. Eventually I pushed away the hope of joining with others. Staying alive became my all.” 

Wren and Jon had leaned closer, with an eager but frightened look in their eyes. I worried about what my face had added to my story. I was not prepared to hide the despair I had faced in the Gloaming, or the pain I felt from the sins that it had led me to commit.

I decided that was enough talk for the night. “It has been a long day, and there will be more time for catching up. We need sleep now.”

The brothers did not object. Jon took the assignment of watching the burrow, and I fell into a fitful sleep. I slipped in and out of dreams, none of them pleasant. Each time I awoke to the thought that tomorrow we would march to join a war, except that the war was a mere skirmish before I faced Tryst. I was afraid to think of what I would do if I stood over him with my sword at his neck. 

Chapter 10

A WOMAN'S TOUCH

“Therefore let anyone who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall. No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man.”

It was pouring when we woke up. I crawled out of the damp burrow, before the sun had reached the horizon, and watched the heavy drops soak the ground. I had missed rain in the Gloaming. 

The brothers and I made slow, wet progress to the bank of the Tyne, where they said the horses were hidden. We reached a small gully by the river. Three horses waited there, not two.

I looked at Jon and Wren, their faces beaming with pride. “Well done!” 

The third horse was an impressive black steed. I greeted him calmly. He looked built for the battlefield, but there was a shadowed look to him, as if hollowed by some dark experience. 

“He has good form,” I said. “How did you find him between the city and here?”

Wren pointed at his brother. “Jon rode into the shade of arrows and ripped one of the guards off his saddle. He grabbed the reins of this horse and managed to get away.” 

Jon shrugged. “I figured we would need another horse.” A grin spread over his face. “It was tempting, of course, to let this steed go free, just so we could watch Wren try to keep up with us on foot.” 

“Impressive, Jon, yet again.” I gripped his shoulder in genuine thanks. “I would rather have you and Wren on my side than all of Tryst’s knights.” 

I turned from the brothers and looked upriver. “We ride west and north today, towards the town of Albemarle. The army will make its first stop there on the journey from Valemidas. With all of us riding, we should arrive in under two days, maybe before Tryst’s scouts.”

We mounted the horses and trotted along the right side of the river. The black steed followed my lead naturally, and the river bank made for easy riding—flat silt dotted with willows. Beads of rain dripped from my hair to the water’s edge below me. I needed to appear as steady as this rolling river if I was to lead again. 

The brothers rode behind me in silence for a long while. Eventually Jon sparked casual conversation, about light topics like the forest and the brothers’ burgeoning mushroom trade. The ride was a pleasure. The discussion, the horses, the forest, the river, the adventure, the freedom—it was all restorative. 

The rain did not relent once during the day. At times, the downpour became so heavy that it isolated each of us in a gray wall. We made only a few brief stops to rest and feed the horses. That night we set up camp in a tight copse of trees out of sight from the river. I slept deeply after the long, wet day on horseback.

When the morning came, we veered north from the river. The rain gave way and the clouds began to break. Around midday we reached the edge of the forest and saw the Prince’s Road far to the north. While always crowded in Valemidas, where it was called the Path of Princes, the Road was often empty in the countryside. We rode parallel to it, along the edge of the forest, and saw only an occasional farmer in the distance. 

The sun was low in the sky when we saw the first hints of Albemarle. The simple town hung like a bead on the Prince’s Road, as the first settlement on the long path from Valemidas to the mountains. There was no wall around the town—a sign of its dependence on the great city to its east. 

As we rode out of the trees, with the day’s light fading, I delighted in the view before us. The rolling hills looked like they had been painted with the bright green hues of early spring, glistening after the heavy rain. To the east, there was an ominous chain of clouds that had been the source of the rain. I hoped that it was drenching Tryst and his army now. We had seen no sign of the Lycurgus, but I suspected the scouts had already reached this far. They could have outpaced us, thanks to the road and our slowed progress in the rain. 

I pulled on a wide-brimmed hat and kept my head low as we rode into Albemarle like three typical merchants. On a normal day, three merchants might have been noticed. The town survived on the business of travelers. But this evening we scarcely drew a second glance. 

The town was buzzing in preparation. Tomorrow these people would have the honor of hosting the greatest knights in the land. Most importantly for them, they would see their famed new prince. That meant making everything look its best. Men were placing cobblestones on the muddy street. Children were running errands with bundles of goods in their arms. Others were washing windows and scrubbing walls, giving everything a luster of cleanliness that was probably rare to this place. 

It was good to see the people’s industriousness. The pompous, easy life of Valemidas had not spread this far. Our city could always count on the rural towns to be a storehouse of lost values. That included respecting the prince, no matter what. It was the prince’s duty to return that respect, to enable and inspire the people to achieve their best. Tryst had never been willing to offer them respect. He was too caught up in the scrum of nobles and in his own image.

My mind drifted to the night he had betrayed me. Tryst, Ramzi, and six of their men had shown up in my royal chambers in the dark. My eyes opened to see Tryst, my own knight, holding my own sword Zarathus at my throat. 

His voice had been a sinister whisper. “You have great gifts, Andor, but not the will to power. Men like us must break the shackles of the weak people around us. You will learn this where you are going. It is a tragedy to lose you, but the world’s progress depends on me. I might come for you after I conquer, and once you are ready to beg to me as your superior. Think on that, Andor.” His blue eyes had been ablaze as he slammed the hilt of the sword into my temple. I had woken up in the hanging cage.

I shuddered at the memory. My desire for revenge burned, but I had to control it. Father Yeats’ words upon my return to Valemidas came to me. If I became like Tryst in order to depose him, then he would be the victor. I had to win on my terms, without losing more of myself in the process. 

That was why people like these in Albemarle were so important. They reminded me of the prince’s solemn duty to put the people before himself. I had to find a way to prevail over Tryst within the customs of Valemidas. 

These thoughts settled into the back of my mind as we advanced through the town. We rode slowly and deliberately. I tried to keep my head down. My occasional glances up revealed the opening to the central square a few hundred feet ahead. That was our destination for the night.

We passed a large blacksmiths’ yard on our right. Four men with huge arms and grim faces were hammering away at red-hot swords and horseshoes. The hissing and banging of their blows reminded me of war. This would be their chance to tout their arms to the prince’s knights. A giant of a man walked from one blacksmith to the other, checking on their work. His bare chest and shaved head were gleaming in the light of the fires. He was barking orders at man and steel alike, and it seemed that neither disobeyed.

He glanced up and his fiery eyes passed over mine. I looked down and rode ahead. I would never forget those eyes. Granville. He had been the head of the Prince’s Yard under my reign. 

We had almost reached the town square when I dared another look back. It was definitely him and, if he had recognized me, he was not showing any sign of it. No one else had noticed the fleeting exchange, and Granville’s commands continued to fill the air. 

I expected that most of my sworn followers had not survived my fall. Father Yeats had confirmed that the knights closest to me had found quick deaths or simply disappeared. Some outside my court had lived, but of those, only a few were certain to remain loyal to me. I could count them on my hands—including Jon and Wren, but not Granville. He had reason to support me, but this was not the time to take any risks, for his sake or mine. The reward from Tryst and Ramzi to anyone who reported on my return would be immense.

I turned to the brothers. “We need to find an inn…now.” 

“Just ahead.” Wren pointed to the far corner of the main square. “That is the Scarlett’s Embrace.” His eyes hinted at a smile. He pulled his hood tighter. “I know the tavern well and trust its owner. A few might recognize me there, but they are good people.”

We rode the final stretch through the square in silence. Each side of the square was about two hundred feet long, lined by wealthy homes and dozens of shops and taverns. In the center of the square was a raised stone platform. A fifty-foot statue rose out of it.

The huge centerpiece loomed over Albemarle and told its history. It was an exquisite sculpture of a man, Prince Jonas. The stone was dark and smooth, almost black, and carved into a god-like body with the prince’s harsh visage. He had been prince almost two hundred years ago—a renowned conqueror. History told that he had claimed all the free lands surrounding Valemidas under his domain. Statues never seemed to commemorate peaceful men. 

Before Jonas, the continent had many independent city-states, which quarreled amongst themselves over the reach of their farmland and the marrying of their daughters. They were pillaged almost yearly by raiding tribes from the mountains to the west. Rulers of Valemidas, the strongest city-state, had long been content to leave the other cities to that fate. It had little effect on what happened within the city’s huge walls. 

Jonas changed that. Unlike most princes, he was born outside Valemidas, in Albemarle. He traveled to Valemidas at age seventeen and rose by his own strength to prince by age twenty-seven. Men rallied to him because of his prowess and promises of glory, not because they loved him. His background and disposition had showed him two things: how much trade and influence Valemidas would gain by conquering towns like Albemarle, and how easy it would be for him to conquer them. 

His method of attack was the same for every city-state. He led overwhelming numbers to each one, leaving little doubt that his force would win. Yet some of the independent cities had strong fighters who did not make it easy. So Jonas first offered surrender. He then offered a duel to settle the affair, between the greatest of the city and the greatest of his knights. That happened more than a few times. He always picked himself for the duel, and he always won. He fought with a great spear and the prince’s legendary sword, Zarathus. 

He never found an equal. To this day, boys in training pretended to be Jonas. I could not recall a single time that Tryst had pretended to be anyone else.

This statue was here in the square because Albemarle, Jonas’s birthplace, had been the first city, and the only city, that had rejected Jonas’s offers—both of surrender and of a duel. At that time it was one of the largest independent cities, with strong defenses, and it had elected to fight. The city’s council had voted on the decision, and had believed that the fortune of war was more impartial than a fortune depending on a single man. They voted for action, despite their weaker numbers, because they believed that submission would lead to despair, while action preserved for its people a hope that they might stand and achieve greatness. 

But they did not.

Jonas had obliterated Albemarle, burning it to the ground and sparing only the young women and children. If nothing else, he was a man of his word. He redesigned the city with his statue in the middle. 

Before the city’s destruction, when the leader of the Albemarle council met with Prince Jonas to reject the offers, he begged to know why the prince would wage war against the city of his birth. Jonas’s message was simple, and it was repeated on the huge flag that flew from his spear in the statue: “The strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must.” 

A cold wind now blew the flag and its message to the east, towards Tryst, Valemidas, and the foreign lands beyond the sea. I pulled my thoughts back to the square as stable boys took our horses. The brothers and I dismounted and walked through a broad oak door and into the tavern. 

The room was clean and subdued, under the spell of a pretty young woman playing the lute in the corner. The guests were all so intent on her that they paid little attention to us. Fires were blazing inside huge stone fireplaces in three corners of the room. 

Of the ten round tables spread across the dark wooden floor, seven were being used. About forty people were in the room; mostly soft-looking men, dressed in fine silks. The room reached up two stories, and along the thick beams above there were dozens of hanging flags, probably from travelers who frequented the place. It looked like the most prominent merchants fancied themselves nobility here. They even had their own symbols designed for them. Money and power were always jealous of one another. 

I kept my hood up and headed to the back corner of the room. It was the farthest table from the lute player, the other patrons, the windows, and the doors. Anyone who might have pulled his eyes away from the lady plucking the strings would have seen just another merchant looking for a roof and a drink. I sat with my back to the blazing fire and savored the warmth.

The brothers had followed me closely. Their hoods were pulled back and their faces were confident. This was their domain, because every inn and town square was a catalyst for trade. Wren, in particular, always tried to bend these institutions to fit his will. I asked him about the flags once they sat at the table.

“You like the pennants?” Wren leaned back casually. “I think they are an excellent addition here. It was my idea to have one designed for our growing trade. You see,” he pointed up like a proud father, “it is the one with a sky blue background and a black dragon. We picked the dragon as our emblem long ago, because we attack life with intensity. Jon thought it looked best with black on the light blue. Our mother wove it.”

I studied the pennant hanging front and center over the room. The dragon’s shape was a simple, sinuous black, with flecks of silver at its eyes and along its back. It looked more restful and honorable than fearsome, which might have been their mother’s intention. “I like the design,” I said, “but we are in danger here if someone heralds your arrival and draws attention.” 

“The risk is small,” Wren said. “We have been here only twice, and I have not seen a familiar face yet. We have these flags hanging in dozens of inns around the countryside. It is a small fee for publicity.”

Jon looked more wary as he gazed across the room. “There is some danger here.” He turned to me, his voice lowered. “We cannot avoid it if you walk straight into Tryst’s path. Why not escape for a while to a nice estate in the country? Marry Lorien and start a family. We have a few parcels of land that would serve well.” 

Jon had suggested such an escape once while we traveled the day before, and I admitted it was tempting. My mind drifted to Lorien. Her face had been one of the last hopeful visions that had sustained me in the Gloaming. I had overcome my desperate desire to see her before departing on this journey. We would be reunited soon enough, if all went according to plan.

“You know I cannot do that,” I said. “I must stay on the narrow path between danger and hiding.”

Jon nodded. “I understand. We will stay with you.”

Wren’s eyes suddenly tightened. “Here she comes.” 

A woman approached us. Jon began to stand. My hand went instinctively to the dagger concealed in my cloak. 

“Dragon brothers!” the woman announced. “Welcome again to Scarlett’s Embrace! You were here for too short a time on your last visit, and you have been away too long.” She planted her hands on the table and stared playfully at the brothers. “Will I have to send for the Emerald twins again? They said you left without proper goodbyes on your last visit. We can fix that. I will have your usual suite prepared—third floor, front right corner of my inn.” Her eyes shifted to me. “And who is your friend here?” 

“My name is Walt, my lady.”

“Walt,” she mused. “You are a fine looking traveler, though you look like you could use a good meal. I will not hold your company against you.” She laughed and sat down close beside me. “Perhaps I could show you a proper welcome to Valemidas?” 

The woman was shameless, and gorgeous—with wild red hair, green eyes, and bronze skin. She looked a little older, like a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it. I inched away from her.

“Scarlett,” Wren said, drawing her attention. “It is good to see you again, very good. Our last stay was a pleasure, and we would not have missed an opportunity to visit your Embrace again.”

“And you look lovely as always,” Jon added. “I am afraid this will be a short visit as well. We leave at first light tomorrow.” He nodded towards me. “Walt here is our cousin. He was visiting us in Valemidas, trying to learn the secrets of our success. Now his bride waits for him in their small town at the foot of the mountains. They are due to be married in days. We are traveling west with haste.” 

“No, no, no, dear Wren and Jon. You have your flag flying here—you must consider my Embrace home, for you and your cousin. I insist that you stay at least two nights. You must know that our prince will be arriving in Albemarle tomorrow?” 

The brothers nodded, and she continued, emphatic. “But did you know that he will be staying here, at my very own inn? I have added a room that he will use. It spans the entire top floor.” 

She leaned over the table between us, exposing skin and lowering her voice to a whisper. “A few of the men visiting tonight are new knights in the prince’s court. I am not sure why they would travel in advance of the army, and without their swords, but I cannot complain about their spending habits. They welcome pleasure, even if they are a placid lot. You of course know that there is usually more merriment here at the Embrace.” 

Scarlett smiled widely at the two brothers. She put her hand on my right shoulder and stared closely, too closely, into my eyes. I returned the stare with my greatest effort at calmness. 

“Have we met before?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“You look bone tired, but there is a golden fire in your eyes. Stay two nights here, and you will arrive in time to marry your bride.” She leaned closer, just inches from my ear. “My embrace is rejuvenating, and these are your last free days.”

I did not respond. I fought to keep my face calm. I had forgotten what it was like to be around the fairer sex. Everything in the Gloaming had been so cold, hard, and flat.

She brushed my cheek as she stepped back from the table. “Now, fine men, what will you be having tonight? We have roasted lamb and fine pork tenderloins. If I remember correctly, you will want some of the Embrace’s ale, no?” She did not wait for answer. “Wonderful, I will have three tankards delivered to you right away. Sionell will be serving you tonight.” 

She turned and sauntered across the room. Jon and Wren’s eyes followed her figure as she walked away, until their attention locked on another woman who approached. 

“I am Sionell.” She introduced herself like it was an invitation. She might have been Scarlett’s younger sister, but with darker hair and open eyes like a doe spotting a man in the forest. Her hand rested on Wren’s shoulder as she took our orders. The brothers asked for the tenderloin, and I did the same. 

Sionell flashed a siren’s smile and glided away. She returned with delicious food in short order. Warmth and energy returned to my body as I ate, but with that came restlessness. The room felt too small. The town felt too small. Tryst would be here tomorrow, and some of his men were already in this very inn. 

I surveyed the patrons again. Tryst had surrounded himself with sycophants. None of them would last a day in the Gloaming, and they posed no challenge to the throne. It was the nobles, not the soldiers, who held the key to unseating Tryst without a complete break in the political order. Even knowing that, I felt tempted to challenge him right here, when he arrived. I could put a blade through his chest. I could end this. 

“We can move to another inn,” Jon said, studying me with concern. “You look troubled. I know this is cutting it close. Scarlett is an inquisitive woman, and influential in this town. She has a talent for extracting answers.” 

“I am fine,” I said. “And this place will be fine tonight.”

“How can we help?” Wren asked.

“I just need to get out of this room. The lute, the ale, the dresses—it is too much. Our guard is down and we are in the enemy’s den. Come, let’s go.” 

I stood and headed to the stairs. Jon and Wren rose to follow, but Scarlett cut off their path. Her arms were folded and her posture was stubborn. They would have to answer her questions as well as they could. It would do no good for me to linger, so I retreated up the stairs to seek out the suite that Scarlett had mentioned. On the third floor I found what looked like the right door, and to my relief, it was unlocked. 

The suite was well-appointed for a town inn. It had a small antechamber with a fire crackling in the hearth. I pulled off my filthy tunic and stepped to the open window. I gazed out over the square. The night’s air was cold, a remnant of winter, chiseling my focus. 

I could almost feel Tryst approaching. I imagined that he was empty and afraid, behind his mask of confidence. He had never led this many men, and he had never fought in a battle of this scope. That did not mean he would lose—his gifts and his numbers would go a long way to securing victory. But it did mean he would be on edge, without the kind of focus he would need to uncover my plot. 

A sound behind me cut off the thought. I turned from the window and froze. 

Sionell stood in the room. Her posture was innocent, but her sheer silk robe was not. Auburn hair tumbled down her lightly freckled skin.

“Scarlett asked me to give you this.” She reached down to the garter on her right leg. 

The movement set off alarms in my mind, fearing a dagger or some other threat. Before she pulled out anything, I dashed to stop her. I grabbed her arms and pinned her down to the couch in the room, with my knee at her chest. She felt frail, and hardly resisted, but I could not take any chances. 

“Who do you think I am?” I regretted the question as soon as I asked it. 

She looked up at me, a blend of fear and curiosity in her eyes. I could not help but notice the smell of jasmine. “I think you are an honored guest of the Scarlett’s Embrace.” 

That was not an answer, so I waited for more. She paused and stared at me before continuing. “You must be honored, if Scarlett sent me to you, and especially if you are the recipient of the sealed note that you are crushing down there.” She smiled and looked down the length of her body.

I moved both of her wrists to my right hand and ran my left hand along her thigh. Her words were true. A crumpled piece of rolled paper was tucked into her garter. 

When I looked up again, she plunged her lips onto mine and pressed against me. I recoiled and stood, dizzy from the ale and the kiss. She hardly moved, except to appear more relaxed, her head resting on her bent arm.

“Do not do that again.” I bent down to pick up the note, keeping my eyes on her. “I have the note. You may go now.” 

“You have a beautiful way of speaking,” she said, “and I would rather stay. I offered you my company.” 

I had been through so much pain and suffering since anyone had looked at me like that. But the feeling was met by a greater discipline. I had saved myself before, and for Lorien. If I could not hold to that promise now, then what was the point of my prior patience? This was not the Gloaming, where instinct prevailed. A stronger force had brought me this far.

“I am promised to another. Goodnight.”

She rose slowly, seductively. “Very well, your wish is my desire. Whoever led you to deny me, she must be something special.” She pulled open the door, the light of the fire making her slim figure glow. She turned back and spoke in a whisper. “I will leave now, but give me at least one thing before I leave. Please tell me your real name.” 

“My name is Walt.”

She smiled knowingly, but did not press further. She bowed and pulled the door closed.

I breathed deeply, my blood still rushing. Only then did I glance at the note. I fell back on the couch upon seeing the seal—a stark, black letter “T”—Tryst’s seal. 

Terror clamped me like a vice. How could he know of me already? I pried it open and was surprised to see an unfamiliar, refined script.

A.,

Do not think you can keep this hidden for long. Some suspicions already circulate, but he does not yet believe them. His helpers will uncover the truth soon. Trust me, I see these things from his right hand.

We can find an agreement that gives you time and serves us both. I believe you can and should succeed, especially with my help and on my conditions. You must swear on your life and your love’s life that you will save him if you prevail. He has changed because of dark guidance. Bring him back and restore him. If you promise that, I will work for your interests. If not, you and the ones you hold dear will die. You are in no position to bargain. 

When you leave the inn tomorrow, paint a black T on your room’s window, and tell Scarlett, “Her word has touched me.” I will trust your pledge, as you will trust mine.

My sister cannot know, but her love for you is stronger than ever. 

R.

I read the note one more time, flung it into the fire, and sank into the couch. I was shocked, torn by Ravien’s request and excited about the prospect of help from so close to Tryst. I would need the help. Tomorrow I would join the prince’s army. 

Chapter 11

JOINING THE SOLDIERS

“But each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.”

A sense of dread felt like a knife at my throat when I awoke. I had not slept much, and my dreams had been fitful. The sky was showing its first light, which meant the prince and his army would be approaching today. 

That meant thousands of soldiers and hundreds of knights under Tryst’s command, just a few miles from me. My blood boiled at the thought of seeing him, of being this close to revenge. I envisioned his face. I imagined fighting him as bodies rained down in the Gloaming. He deserved to suffer as I had. 

I shook away the disturbing vision and stared out the open window. The air was heavy and carried with it a chill. Drawing in a deep breath, I stepped to the dead fire and pulled out a black coal. I used it to draw a “T” in the window before pulling it closed. I left the brothers sleeping and walked downstairs.

Several maids were working in the kitchen. There was something established and warm about it—a comfortable routine in the quiet of the morning. The smell of fresh bread filled the room. 

I caught one of the maid’s eyes and pointed at two loaves that had just been taken from the oven. She nodded and winked her consent. Grabbing the bread and a jar of fresh milk, I turned back into the hall. 

I had taken a few steps when a door popped open in front of me. Scarlett stood inside and beckoned to me with her hand. She was hardly awake and hardly clad. I took a reluctant step forward, and she pulled me the rest of the way in and closed the door. She stood close to me, craning her neck to look up at me with amusement. 

“My attire is your fault,” Scarlett said, perhaps noticing my attempt to avert my eyes. “You did not ask my permission for the bread, and you did not give me a chance to dress and bring it to you this morning. So here we are, you holding my bread and trying to avoid looking at me and the bed behind me.” 

“Here we are, and her word has touched me.” I watched for a reaction. 

She only smiled. “Is that all you have to say? Will you not stay?” She rose to her toes and whispered into my ear, “my prince.”

“If you know that,” I responded softly but firmly, “then you know I cannot stay.” After Ravien’s note, I figured Scarlett knew my identity. She could have already betrayed me if she had wanted. 

She stepped back and bowed. “Then I insist that you come again, once you are in your rightful position.”

“I may do that. Whether I am able to come again depends on you, and whatever part you play in this. I will trust the messenger.”

“As you wish,” she said with a smile. 

“Anything else I need to know?”

She put her hand on my shoulder and fingered the collar of my shirt, before she shook her head.

“Then I must go.”

She stepped back and curtsied. “I believe we will meet again. Farewell.”

I walked out without hesitation. I had delivered the message, and we were now free to leave this place. It would be a relief to be under the open sky again.

Jon and Wren were still asleep when I returned to the room. I woke them and then sat to enjoy the bread—my appetite had hardly diminished. The brothers rose unsteadily, probably because of the prior night’s ale. 

We packed our things with little conversation, and Wren left our payment on the mantle over the hearth. As we departed the warmth of the inn, the sun was just above the horizon. 

People were stirring in the central square of Albemarle. Where there had been excitement in preparations for the prince the night before, morning had brought an air of trepidation. Maybe it was the dampening effect of the weather, or maybe Albemarle sensed that it was about to receive another Prince Jonas. I doubted they wanted another statue. 

We mounted our horses and rode away from the square. I kept my eyes on every shadow around us. It took a while before I detected the person following us, and doing a good job of it. I had not been able to see the pursuer, but twice he made the mistake of letting his shadow fall onto the street from behind the corner of a building. 

I signaled this to Jon and Wren with a quick gesture behind us. As rich merchants, they would have been the targets of rogues before. They would know how to play this game well enough.

My plan was to ride north and to approach the prince’s army from the flank. Unlike the nicely manicured stretch along the Prince’s Road and the central square, the northern section of the town was filled with low, windowless warehouses lining alleys. It made for the perfect maze to trap our pursuer. 

As I continued my path straight out of town, I whispered to Jon and Wren to break off to either side. They would circle back and follow the tracker until I turned to face him. No one would notice a fight this early on these abandoned streets. The territory felt familiar to me, like the Gloaming except for the sky above. I had no doubt we could handle one man, but there might be trouble if he had unexpected company.

The steps of my horse were soft on the hard-packed dirt. There seemed to be no other sound. When I held my breath, though, I could still hear the muffled steps behind me. I eventually found myself in an alley that would have fit barely three men abreast, with two-story warehouses on both sides. The dark lane stretched forward a few hundred feet before there was another turn. 

When I was two-thirds of the way down the alley, I jumped from my horse and turned to face my pursuer. He was a few steps into the alley.

He paused and then feigned casualness as he walked forward with his hood up. He turned his head just as Jon and Wren closed off the alley behind him. He was alone, but strangely calm. 

I was at a full sprint in seconds, closing the gap between us. Even without a sword, I knew this would be over soon. I lowered into a crouch, tensed to strike. 

He yanked back his hood and fell to his knees. He held his palms up in surrender. 

I was not taking any chances. I slammed my knee into his chest and pinned him down. My dagger was at his neck when I first saw his face, and his fiery eyes. 

“Granville?”

“My prince.” He remained motionless under my weight. The brothers arrived at my side.

“Why were you following us?” I asked.

“I never expected to see you again, alive. Things have gotten very bad, my prince, in so little time. If you are here, then you must be doing something against Tryst. I want to help.”

Rising to my feet, I offered Granville my hand. “It is good to see you, and to know that you are with me.” I had to try to trust him. If not, I would hardly be better than Tryst. 

As he took my hand and stood, I told him that Jon and Wren and I would be joining the Lycurgus today. 

He smiled as his gaze shifted to my companions. “It looks like you are forging the opposition. And with these two, you will have the funds to support it.” 

“It is good to see you too,” Wren responded levelly. They held each other’s stares. 

A faint memory came to me of Wren and Granville having some bad deal in the past. They were combustible opposites: a fiery and loud blacksmith, versus a sly and savvy merchant. Disunity among our small numbers would be deadly. 

“We will be working together,” I said, drawing their eyes. “But in separate teams.” 

I began to explain enough to have Granville involved, but to avoid risking too much. He did not need to know all that I had told the brothers. That knowledge was dangerous.

“Jon and Wren will be joining first today. They are too well known to be with me. They will be merchants who want to serve their nation in war. No one doubts Jon’s prowess or Wren’s strategic mind. The army will welcome them, and I would be surprised if they do not reach a high rank immediately.” 

Jon grinned at the game of it. “I will be a knight.” 

Wren only scowled. He still did not like the idea of selling himself as a supporter of Tryst. But I needed someone to distract my enemy.

I continued with my idea for Granville. “I would have you join tomorrow, as a blacksmith. Are you up for that?”

Granville nodded. “What else?”

“You must know other smiths in the army, and they will welcome your help. You will make a sword and armor for me while the army travels. If anyone asks, explain that you are making them for Jonas Davosman, made at the request of his noble father, Sir Justus Davosman. No one will doubt that you need to spend time making glorious arms for him. You will keep hidden, of course, that these arms are actually fit for me.” 

“It will be an honor, my prince.”

The four of us set off after that. We made our way out of the city on foot, leading the three horses. Jon and Granville spoke of the latest news from the court. 

I absorbed some of their words, but my mind lingered on House Davosman. Mentioning Jonas had flooded my mind with memories. The young noble and I shared a father in many ways. Justus had rescued me from the orphanage, raised me like a son, and championed me to become the prince. He was the only noble I had sent a message to since my return. I am back, I had written. Gather those who are loyal, with great caution. Await my signal.

Much rested on his ability to rally support in Valemidas while Tryst was away. I trusted that he would champion me again when the time came. I could not say the same for Justus’s true son. As a boy, I had often chided Jonas for spending more time combing his long hair than polishing his sword. He had only grown softer, preferring the banter of court to the force of his father, preferring the friendship of Jacodin Talnor to brotherhood with me. No love was lost after Justus had supported me for the throne.

I pulled my thoughts back to our group as we reached the edge of Albemarle. I stopped, and the three men looked to me. “We part here,” I said. “Jon and Wren will ride east. Granville, you wait in Albemarle for the army.” 

“Where will you go?” Granville asked.

“I will be joining the infantrymen later today,” I said. “If any of you happen to see me, turn away. I will contact you if we need to speak. Most importantly, remember that I am not alive.” 

The men nodded to my words. 

The brothers and I embraced and said goodbyes. They mounted and rode away.

I turned to Granville, missing the brothers already. “Your task is critical. Stay focused on your special orders.”

Granville wiped away the sweat beading on his smooth head. “What specifications, my prince?”

“Make me the best sword and armor you can with the supplies the army has. The sword will be four feet long, simple and sharp. The armor will be complete but light, leather with thin strands of metal woven through the core spots.”

Granville kicked at the ground. “You sure, my prince? Leather?” He met my eyes. “You remember what I made you before—a masterpiece of full plate.”

I remembered. He was a genius with metal. “Some things changed while I was gone. It is more important that this armor be very light. I need full range of motion. As long as the armor keeps glancing arrows and slashes away, I will be fine.”

His eyes widened but he said simply, “I will do as you say, my prince. And the helm?” 

“No need for that.” 

The blacksmith’s shoulders slumped. 

I thought of Jonas Davosman. He would never commission armor without a helm. “On second thought, maybe you are right. Make me a helm, and make it huge, with a ridge of barbed metal rising out of the middle. Coat the whole thing with gold.” 

His brow raised. “Gold is weak.”

“Yes, but it shines.” I pressed a bag of coins into his hand. “The young Davosman loves things that shine.”

“It will be done.” He hesitated. “I have only one request.” 

“Yes?”

“Once you are back on the throne, let me craft you a proper suit of armor. Something to match the great blade, Zarathus.” 

“Deal,” I said. “Do this well, and someday soon you will return to your forge in Valemidas. For now, though, forget that I am here. Sir Davosman needs some armor and a sword for his son.”

Granville nodded and bowed. He turned back towards the town. I watched his huge frame until he was out of sight.

I mounted my steed and rode alone out of Albemarle. By the time I reached the hills stretching north from the town, dawn had given way to a bright midday sun. The hills were beautiful, with a light breeze blowing ripples over the fields of grain. 

I eventually turned east, parallel to Prince’s Road. I saw the first scout of the army an hour later. He was perched in one of the few trees on the open plains. He spotted me but did not move. A rider on his own was no threat. 

I continued riding east, passing more scouts along the way. Two of them arched back towards the camp, maybe to report they had seen me, maybe just for a break. When the sun was halfway through its descent to the horizon, I turned due south. The tail of the army had advanced past me an hour before. I would approach it from the back, riding hard from a mile to the east—like a straggler from Valemidas. No one important lingered at the back of a marching army. No one important enough to recognize me, at least. 

The timing worked as I had hoped. Just as I reached the lagging infantrymen, they were reaching Albemarle. The sun was level with our eyes. Many of the men held up hands to shadow the sun. They looked weary, and none of them paid me much attention as I posed casual questions. Where do I sign up? Who is in charge of this brigade? I finally caught up with you guys—wife held me back. Where are we staying in this little town?

I got my answers without trouble, and I liked them. This group, the Fourth Marchers, had about two hundred men and could use a lot more. A young knight named Keli Sullivan, who had recently been raised by Tryst for his skill with the pike, was in charge. Everyone called him Pikeli. If I wanted to sign up, I could talk to him or his squire, Laniel. They were both average height, with brown hair, brown eyes. I could find them under the red flag bearing the Fourth Marchers’ emblem, a black row of infantrymen with pikes raised.

Armed with that information, I made my way to Pikeli as the sun touched the ridge of mountains in the distance. His men were setting up camp. They would not stay in Albemarle—the town could hold only so many—and instead they had stopped beside the Prince’s Road. An old stone wall, held together by moss and inertia, marked the border of their encampment. 

I approached the corner of the camp closest to town. It looked like Pikeli’s base. Men were straining to raise a bright red tent, under the barking orders of a younger man. He was wire thin with a self-important posture, which marked him as the squire. He could not have been more than sixteen, and any of the men working under him could have been his father. All around the central tent, men were putting up smaller tents. There was good order to the process.

When I caught my first sight of Pikeli, I sat on the old stone wall and watched him. As I had suspected, I did not know him, which was a good start. The descriptions of him were correct. Where the infantrymen were ragged, if good-natured, Pikeli was more of a soldier. His armor had more metal in it, as any knight’s should. He was maybe twenty-five, with a lively face. His straight dark hair was unkempt, falling unnoticed on his forehead. 

He had set up an office a few feet from his tent. Men came with questions, and walked away satisfied. The young knight would look up from the map he was studying and fire off words in quick succession. I could not make the words out, but I could tell they had an air of feisty authority. Between these visits, he would resume his focus on the map spread over the stone wall. It seemed Tryst was at least picking out some talent. I had to be careful, even if this knight did not know me. 

With the day’s light fading, I walked calmly towards the main tent. Keeping my head low, and slouching, I approached Laniel, the squire. “Good sir, men tell me you are in charge of who joins this fine army.” 

He swelled with pride. “Well, yes, I am in charge of some things.” He glanced over his shoulder towards Pikeli, who was now watching us. “Do you want to join?”

I nodded and spoke slowly, meekly. “What do I need to do?” 

“Just have a little skill with the pike,” Pikeli answered as he approached. “Laniel, bring me the scroll. We train twice a day, first thing in the morning and early every evening. In between, we march hard. We stay here in Albemarle one day, and then we are heading north and west. The Icarians are deep in the western ridges of the Targhee Mountains. We are hoping to reach them by the end of the month. But under Tryst’s great command, I am betting we make it in three weeks.”

He cut off as quickly as he spoke. I smoothed my face, fearing what it might betray upon hearing such adoration of Tryst. 

Pikeli did not slow a beat. “What is your name, and where are you from?” 

“My name is Walt, sir, Walt Francone. I am catching up with your fine brigade from Valemidas. I was—” 

“We left Valemidas several days ago,” Pikeli interrupted. “Why did you not join us then? Are you loyal to our Prince? Here, sign this scroll if you want to join us.” 

He saved me from answering with his incessant talking. I scribbled my name on the paper. “Yes, my lord. I just want to serve and to help in the fight, my lord.” 

“Welcome!” He clapped me on the back. “Now I am no lord, Walt, but I am a knight. Tryst raised me last week. We will be the front line in the great battle, the very first part of the victory.”

“I am glad to hear that, sir.” I was relieved to learn that he was not from a noble house. That would make my rise in the Fourth Marchers easier, as would the position on the front line. Until that battle, I needed to be a simple soldier. 

“Laniel, get Walt here suited up in some armor, and give him a training pike. Then spread the word about tonight’s training.” Pikeli turned to face the men standing around him and raised his voice. “We start our evening session soon. It will be a free-for-all among small teams. The team left standing wins. And remember, I do not want to see anyone hurt badly. The real battle comes soon enough.”

Pikeli hurried away towards the middle of the camp. I followed Laniel, and a few minutes later, I found myself standing outside a large open circle surrounded by torches. The sun was nearly touching the horizon, and the torches cast a glow on the ground. It felt strangely like the Gloaming. 

I had a long pike with its blade removed and replaced by a cushioned tip. My armor was a loose leather smock and an atrocious leather cap. 

Pikeli walked to the middle of the circle and yelled out. “Okay men! This is our third night of melee. We train for Tryst, we train to protect Valemidas. What do we do when the horses ride?” 

Everyone around me moved into position as they chanted out rhythmically: “Down on a knee, raise the steel pike, forty-five degrees, and roll right at the strike.” 

“Good, good,” Pikeli responded. “And then we fight, staying in tight groups of four. We practice it again tonight. Now, choose your teams.”

With that, a murmur spread around the circle of men. They began to group themselves with their surrounding friends. A group of three beside me was looking for a fourth. All it took was a nod and we were together for the fight. Like most of these infantrymen, they looked like simple and wholesome young men. Their weathered faces and hands marked them as farmers or the like—not warriors. On the front line, they would have the honor of being the first deaths.

We had only a moment for introductions before everyone moved into the circle. It was a simple melee, my teammates explained hurriedly. Fifty teams of four would fight until one remained standing. If one man in a team went down, the team was out. None of these men had won in the prior nights, they admitted, but it was rumored that the winning team would be able to join the feast with Tryst in Albemarle later tonight.

“Get ready and…go!” I heard the shout and saw another team charging us. 

My adrenalin surged. My thoughts channeled into the moment, into the fight. I reacted fast and planted myself between my team and the others. “Stand still and watch my back.” 

The approaching team was spread in a line, running hard. Only one man had to fall, but more could. My eyes focused on the closest attacker. I lunged forward with dulled pike aimed at his chest. It struck, and he went down.

Just as their two center men spread out, I ducked and swung the pike hard, knocking the legs out from under the man on the left. 

I spun the other end of my pike as a staff, sending a second man to his back. My next swing caught the back heel of the fourth man, who was charging my team. He tripped and slid to stop in front of them, their pikes held forward languidly. 

I heard more men behind me. I thrust my pike back and felt it slam into something hard. Spinning again, I missed another man by inches. He turned and ran out of the circle.

Others were closing on me, trapping me. I charged at the closest foes. They faced out in every direction, their backs pressed together. I leapt up and brought the pike down at the man in the center. He was pinned by his teammates and could do nothing more than crouch and lift his arm over his head. 

I heard a bone crack as his wrist blocked the blow. He collapsed and yelled out in pain. His companions fled. 

I took a defensive stance, spinning my pike around me in a blur. I lunged forward and the softened tip of the pike hit a flat-footed man in the face. He fell and more men ran. 

Someone approached from behind me, to the left. It was getting too dark to see. I swung the pike toward him but caught nothing. I came to a balanced crouch an instant before a pike came right at my face. I ducked the blow and seized the attacker’s staff under my left arm. I began to swing the butt of my pike at his head. 

“Stop! No!” The yells around me came into focus just as Pikeli’s face did. 

I jerked back, slowing my attack enough that my pike bounced softly off Pikeli’s brow. It took only an instant, then, to realize my mistake. 

No one around me was fighting. Men huddled around a few bodies sprawled on the ground. I shuddered at what I had done. I had lost it, as if I had been in the Gloaming. 

I went to a knee and looked up earnestly at the young knight. “Sir, this was a good fight, good training, and a strong attack by you. My team had able men.” I glanced back and saw the three of them staring me with a look of fear.

Pikeli’s eyes narrowed, settling into something like a scowl, but he replied calmly—far more calmly than I expected from him. “You fought well, Walt, and your team has won tonight’s melee.” He motioned for me to stand. “You are invited to join the feast tonight in Albemarle. Tryst will be impressed to learn of your skill with the pike. You fought like your life depended on it. Where did you learn those moves? You will have to take it a little easier in future melees. Actually, I think you can be on the outside next time, teaching rather than breaking the bones of our Fourth Marchers.” 

I bowed lower and then stood, ignoring Pikeli’s question. “Thank you, sir. You are kind to invite me to join you tonight.” 

Pikeli looked past me at my teammates, and at the other infantrymen who had gathered around. “Time to clean up and set camp, men.” He turned to me again. “Meet me at my tent in an hour. We will walk to town together. I look forward to learning more about you.” An odd eagerness lit his face.

“Yes, sir.” I walked away, afraid of what I had done. If a game of melee set me back to who I had been in the Gloaming, the game of politics and the high court could also spell trouble. The pace of everything was rising. 

Survival would have to mean silence and humility tonight. Around Tryst, that would be like restraining my very breath. A cold bath would be a good start to the evening. 

Chapter 12

THE TRAVELING COURT

“But since he is the prince of the world: let his nobility remain in’s court. I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: Some that humble themselves may; but the many will be too chill and tender, and they’ll be for the flowery way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire.”

“Yes, as you say, my lord.” Wren almost retched as the words left his mouth. He could hardly bear another absurd line from the noble’s son. It was necessary civility, and Wren was in for an evening full of it. 

Jacodin Talnor had been waxing on to Wren and Jon about how grand the prince’s feast would be. The weather was perfect, the evening air crisp with a hint of spring’s warmth. The lighting was perfect, with hundreds of candles strung above the Albemarle square, casting a soft glow on the traveling court and its guests. 

“All fitting for the resplendent Prince Tryst,” Jacodin explained. He told the brothers about how Tryst would win over the people of Albemarle and convince their best young men to join the Lycurgus. He told them how he would convince one of the town’s most beautiful young women to join him, for he was a prize catch for a merchant’s daughter. This was a rare night for those daughters, and for all the people of the town. Those privileged enough to attend—Tryst had told the town’s council to select one hundred forty-four, no more and no less—would be seeing the prince himself. 

Jacodin lived for these affairs. He thrived in the court. He had inherited habitual political maneuvering, if not physical prowess, from his father, Ryn Talnor. The Talnor legend had only grown after Ryn had rallied the support that Tryst needed to gain the throne.

“Jon, Wren, look at this!” Jacodin pointed to a round table near the center of the square. “We will be sitting here, quite close to Tryst.” He pranced around the table, one of about thirty in the square. It had ten seats. “It will be the three of us and seven fine citizens of Albemarle. Care to guess how many are prospects?” 

Jon could not help but laugh a little. He took the noble less seriously than Wren. “What kind of prospects are we talking about, Jacodin? Soldiers?” 

Jacodin smiled. “Damsels, I’m thinking. I will name them and let you figure it out. We will be joined by Lucinda Brink, Katyn Ghent, Dar Silverton, and Mailyn Glen. There are three other local chaps, but I am beside Mailyn and that is good enough for me.” He clasped Jon on the shoulder, and spoke in faux sincerity, “But I cannot get ahead of myself, can I? Look, my fellow high knights are coming now. I have political skirmishes to win before I can claim any spoils.” He spun away, shifting to a different prey.

Wren wore his best look of disgust, and Jon tried to coax him out of his foul mood. “Give Jacodin a break. He is just trying to enjoy the evening.” 

Wren was having none of it. “He could ruin everything. He is a pathetic excuse for a noble, earning none of the honor owed to him. And he might recognize you know who. Things are risky enough with Tryst knowing we have joined the army.”

“It is going as planned, right?” Jon asked. “He will name us knights.”

“It seems too sudden. Why would he do it without even talking to us, much less tonight? You know he never liked me. He must know something, and either way, now we will be under his watchful eye. The position of honor also means we have to put up with Tryst’s biggest fans, like Jacodin Talnor.” 

Jon pulled out a chair and motioned for Wren to sit. He needed to help his brother stay composed. Wren had long harbored distaste for those who inherited more influence than he had earned. Jealousy bled easily into hatred, and hatred clouded judgment. “Whatever you think of Jacodin, we need him on our side,” Jon said calmly. “Tryst has questions about us, and the best way to provide answers is through the positive words of Jacodin.”

“You think Tryst cares about Jacodin?”

“He might. Tryst has protected him before, along with his friend Jonas Davosman.”

“Just to win the favor of their fathers.”

Jon shrugged. “Remember how Jacodin and Jonas would always come begging Tryst for help in melee training? Jacodin was like a helpless puppy as a boy.”

“He still is.” Wren smiled. “Come on, let’s find the ale. I need to wash down the noble’s stench.” The brothers walked towards a bar at the east wall of the square. 

The citizens of Albemarle had begun streaming into the square, giddy with excitement. Some of the older men, perhaps of the town council, seemed more controlled. They had a tense awareness about them. Their unease looked awkward against the merriment of the other townspeople. Just as Jacodin had predicted, many beautiful young women joined the gathering, dressed in their finest. A few young men of the town also entered. They held their heads high, perhaps hoping to earn some station in the army. Or maybe they just wanted to show that they could match the smugness of the prince’s court. 

The knights and leaders of Valemidas arrived later than the Albemarle folk, gliding in at their own pace. Much like Jacodin, they were mostly an over-important group. They sat close to the Prince’s table, forming a ring of protection. Many from noble houses attended, but it seemed no patriarchs had joined this march. They tended to prefer the safety and comfort of their estates in Valemidas.

The table for Tryst was different from the rest. Shaped like the letter V, the point of the table sat under the square’s huge statue. Tryst would be seated at the center. The table was also elevated on a platform above the rest of the square, and anyone entreating the prince would have to step into the middle of the V, looking up at Tryst and flanked by his highest knights.

The brothers enjoyed their drinks as the crowd grew anxious. Everyone was waiting for Tryst’s arrival. 

“How many new soldiers do you think will enlist tonight?” Jon asked. 

“A handful. Hardly worth the cost of this feast.” Wren sipped his ale. “What a pompous parade. This army is not marching for war. It is a pageant.” 

Jon nodded towards a young lady seeking a refill of wine. “Look, see the one holding her chalice like she owns the place.” She would have stood out anywhere, stunning in a bright yellow dress and red shoes. She was tall, and her hair was cut short above her shoulders, unlike any style they were used to. 

The sound of bells announced the beginning of the feast, even though Tryst was still nowhere to be seen. The lady took the cue to stride towards her seat. The brothers followed, conveniently, to the same table that held their name cards. 

Wren bowed to her. “It is a delight to see that we will dine together tonight.” He kissed her hand. “I am Wren.”

She smiled, curtsied, and sat in the seat assigned to Mailyn. Wren did not hesitate in grabbing Jacodin’s chair to her right. Jon’s spot was to her left. 

Their table soon filled with the rest of the party. As Jacodin had guessed, four were women of the town, young and unmarried. The three men were young and enthusiastic about joining the army. Jacodin came to the table last, filling the role of knight of the table. He failed to notice that Wren had taken his original seat, the one beside the most attractive woman at the table, or that her eyes lingered more on Jon than anyone else.

The feast began as servants delivered the food. The table’s conversation shifted from the pending battle to life in Valemidas to dreams for the future, and of course, to Tryst. Jacodin toasted to their good fortune just before the royal trumpets sounded. 

Two columns of Tryst’s knights lined the path before him. They wore bright red, with white and black bands along their arms. As the only armed guests of the feast, they made a powerful show. 

But Tryst stood out above all. He wore his typical suit of luxurious and fitted black cloth, and his gleaming relics—the crown and the sword—left no doubt that he reigned. 

The prince took in the crowd with an approving look. Every eye stayed glued to him. As he strode towards his seat, his knights called out several guests to follow the retinue. Two were picked from Jacodin’s table—Jon and Wren. 

Tryst, without breaking stride, jumped onto the platform elevating his table. Silence fell on the square like a dense blanket. 

“Welcome my dear friends of Albemarle!” Tryst announced. “It is an honor to have you join me tonight. Your city has long been loyal to Valemidas. We feast beneath this statue, the symbol of your allegiance. We celebrate our people’s power under my lead, renewing our bond and building our ranks. Between today and tomorrow, over a hundred of Albemarle’s best men will have earned their way into my army. And tonight I have the honor of raising seven new knights.” Tryst held out his arms. “Come forward now.”

A murmur spread through the crowd. Only five men, including Wren and Jon, had been called to stand before the prince. At one table not far from the center, a town elder stood and pointed to a young man at his side. The man stood and approached. He was huge, and wore a dumbfounded look.

“Your city’s elders have chosen you,” Tryst declared, with a fanatic look in his eyes. “There is another, chosen by merit alone,” Tryst said grandly. “Each day our infantry engages in fierce melee. We are training and growing strong for battle. The best are welcomed to my ranks as knights. I am pleased to announce that the winning unit for tonight is the Fourth Marcher’s. Today’s melee champion shall approach.” 

The guests peered around eagerly. After a long moment, a man stood in the far corner of the square. He was wholly unsuited for the event and the honor—dressed in a simple brown tunic, unshaven, and with disheveled, flaxen hair. His first steps seemed oddly sharp for his attire, and he appeared too poised as he moved forward. 

The brothers’ breath froze. It was Andor. 

They glanced at Tryst, but the prince had already looked away from Andor. 

“We have our seven,” Tryst continued. “Congratulations to you all.” He leapt from the platform and landed in front of the men, with Zarathus already gleaming above his head. No one had seen him draw the blade. The crowd erupted in cheers at the show.

The prince motioned for the men to form a line, and he began the knighting ceremony. The historic blade dropped onto each shoulder of the first man, as the ancient words of fealty were said. Jon and Wren were second and third in line. Andor was last. 

Wren studied the ground at his feet to avoid attention. He questioned why he had left his merchant’s life and wondered how long it would be before he would be a trader again, if ever. He feared that he would not get out of the square alive. A glimmer of light crossed the dull stone ground and dragged Wren’s eyes upward. The first new knight held his sword high, bowed again before Tryst, and moved to the side. 

Jon stepped forward. 

“Jon!” Tryst exclaimed, in a rare break of formality. “It is about time you join our ranks, and it is my honor to raise you as my knight. I would have chosen you among the first, had you been willing. Your prowess on the battlefield is a thing of legend.” He smiled. “Kneel, Jon, and say the words.” 

Wren felt a shadow hit him as Tryst cast a quick, dark glance over Jon’s shoulder at Wren. Tryst had always blamed Wren for not letting his brother continue on a military path.

“I swear by my faith and on my life,” Jon began steadily, “to serve, protect, and obey the prince until my death, for the sake of Valemidas and our people.”

“Before these high knights and witnesses and under my graces, I raise you, Jon Sterling, to be a Knight of the Lycurgus.” Tryst dropped his blade to tap Jon’s shoulders in effortless precision. 

Jon rose and turned back towards Wren with a look of relief. Wren walked forward and stood face-to-face with Tryst. 

He hesitated before kneeling. Tryst stared coldly at him. The moment froze in the air, before the hundreds in attendance. This was not the first time they had held each other in disdain, in unspoken challenge. They shared respect, like the respect two roosters have for each other before they fight to the death. 

Wren knew Tryst found it hard to believe that Wren would join him. Jon was one thing, given his warmer spirit and skill at battle. Wren was neither warm nor particularly skilled, and he was known to have spoken against Tryst. Raising suspicions was bad enough, but now it could equal disaster this close to Andor. 

Keeping his eyes on Tryst’s, Wren slowly bent and went to his knees. He forced the words out of his mouth. “I swear by my faith and on my life to serve, protect, and obey the prince until my death, for the sake of Valemidas and our people.” The oath could be said, Wren assured himself, because the only true prince was Andor, standing just behind him. 

Tryst spoke formally. “Brother of Jon, you have always been loyal to Valemidas and you now will be loyal to me. I raise you, Wren Sterling, to be a Knight of the Lycurgus.” 

Wren felt the famous blade snap down on his left shoulder, then his right, stopping a second too late and pricking his skin. A drop of blood spotted his white tunic. He staggered to his feet and stepped aside, furious. 

Tryst moved on without pause. 

Breathing heavily, Wren watched the next few knightings. He was surprised that Tryst would draw blood, but also slightly relieved. He had the sense of standing in the mouth of a dragon, but the dragon had only gotten a taste before opening its jaws and letting its dinner go. Despite their mutual antagonism, maybe Tryst was calculating enough to know he would gain more from Wren’s display of fealty than from his death.

Wren glanced at Jon, who returned a satisfied nod. Wren’s mind flashed back to his first fight with Tryst years ago. Both had been twelve. The boys of that age who had wealth or a noble’s support trained regularly under knights on the palace grounds. Twelve was when they began sparring with each other officially. Jon had been only eleven, but his abilities allowed for a rare exception. One of the first days, Jon and Tryst had fought long and hard with light wooden swords.

Tryst had won the fight that day. After taking Jon down, he stood over him jeering and taunting the other boys. Wren had snapped, charging at Tryst with all the force his twelve-year-old body could muster. It did not end well for either of them. Tryst had a black eye; Wren had a broken wrist. Tryst hated Wren for not accepting his primacy; Wren hated Tryst for being better and knowing it. For the years of training that followed, Jon and Tryst always vied to be the second-best—after Andor.

Now Wren watched the sixth man knighted, the local man from Albemarle. Tryst’s furtive eyes suggested that his thoughts had already moved on from this segment of the evening. The crowd had grown louder. No one else seemed to care about the last soldier garbed in brown.

Andor stepped up. He knelt down before Tryst without ever lifting his gaze from the ground. It was a proper measure of respect of a common soldier for his liege. 

Wren held his breath as Tryst lifted Zarathus overhead. Tryst asked for the man’s name. 

Andor muttered an answer that sounded like “Walt Franken.” Then he mumbled the oath, staring a Tryst’s feet. Wren’s heart pounded. This could work. It had to. 

Tryst dropped his glance to Andor’s bowed head with a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “I raise you Walt Francone, to be a Knight of the Lycurgus.” The sword dropped, but Tryst did not lift it. He scanned the faces around him. His eyes met Wren’s. 

Wren did not trust his own expression. Andor needed a distraction. Wren raised his fist and shouted, “For Valemidas!” 

The prince glared at him as the crowd echoed the chant. The knights standing around began to offer congratulations to the newcomers to their ranks. Amidst the movement, Andor rose and turned from Tryst, still keeping his head down. He slid into the pack of welcoming knights. 

The prince had not broken his gaze away from Wren. He took four swift steps, and in an instant they were face-to-face again. The other knights ducked aside, forming a small circle around them.

Before Wren could react, Tryst spun behind him and curved his arm around Wren’s throat. Clutching tightly, Tryst whispered into Wren’s ear. “I know you, Wren. Do not think that you keep anything from me.”

Jon stepped to Wren’s side. “My prince,” he said calmly, “we are honored to be your knights and look forward to fighting at your side. I vouch for my tricky brother, here.”

Tryst loosened his hold on Wren’s throat, but his voice snapped like a whip. “What are you hiding?”

“You overestimate me,” Wren coughed out.

Tryst squeezed harder. “I’m waiting.”

Wren relaxed his body and feigned defeat. “I am hiding that I do not always find your excellency worthy of your position.”

Tryst stepped in front of Wren, clenched his hand around his throat, and lifted him off his feet. “You speak treachery on your first night of service.” 

Wren gasped for breath. Sweat began to bead on his face. 

Tryst glanced at the surrounding knights. “How do we reward disloyalty?”

“Death,” they answered. Each one’s voice was timid; combined they were a weak echo of their prince’s passion.

“Death,” Tryst mused, “would be a waste with this one. He has strength only to utter disobedience, not to be disloyal. He is too weak for that.” He threw Wren’s body back as if tossing a bad apple. 

Wren landed with a thud, and Tryst pinned him to the ground with his right foot. He pointed his blade at Wren’s throat. “Your brother’s loyalty might serve for both of you. You will remain my knight, son of a merchant’s whore. You will valiantly lead our trash brigade. Clean up our filth, trail behind the Lycurgus, and leave glory to your betters. Do not forget yourself.” 

The prince turned to Jon with a smile. “Now Jon, I raise you to be a Knight of my Council, one of my highest protectors and executors. If your brother even smells disloyal, even whispers it in his sleep, I will give you the honor of taking off his head.”

Tryst sheathed his sword and began to walk away. But just as Wren had regained his feet, Tryst spun back and slammed his fist straight in Wren’s face. Wren collapsed into a bleeding heap. Tryst gave Jon a quick nod, then stormed away. 

Wren slowly stood with Jon’s help. He offered Jon a dazed smile. Saying a word would have been too dangerous, but this was a success. Andor had passed before Tryst unnoticed. 

As the two brothers receded into the crowd, Tryst stepped onto the raised platform, again standing below the immense statue, as if challenging its historic presence. He bowed low before the crowd, full of grace. 

“My lords, ladies, and good people of Albemarle—welcome the new knights!” Tryst shouted, and the crowd cheered. “We have the greatest power in the continent passing through your lovely city and we intend to celebrate it.” He grabbed a chalice from the table and lifted it high. “A toast to our knights and our coming victory!”

The crowd cheered again and drank deeply, perhaps relieved to feel tension dissipating. Wren could not understand how the people respected him—just because he eased the grip on their throats? 

Wren marveled that Tryst’s greatest threat had just passed so close to him. Part of him was surprised Andor had not tried to kill Tryst. Growing up, Tryst had always been in Andor’s shadow. Andor had taken Tryst under his wing and treated him like a brother. No wonder the fallen prince wanted revenge. Tryst had betrayed him from a lifelong position of loyalty. Wren spat at the thought of it, but it was blood that came from his mouth. He rubbed his jaw.

“Showing off your battle wounds already?” Jon asked. “We have barely engaged the enemy.” 

“I was just thinking of that last knighting. We are very lucky the only blood spilled was mine.” Wren glanced around the crowd. “Did you see where he went?” 

“No, but he went that way.” Jon pointed to the far corner of the square. 

“I wish we could go to him. That was a miracle. If Tryst had seen his eyes…” 

“Look who’s talking to the prince now.” Jon nodded to the prince’s dais.

“Jacodin,” Wren said. “He’s laughing—probably at his own joke.” 

The young noble pointed at the brothers’ table, but his eyes were not on Jon and Wren. He beckoned for the Albemarle ladies to join the prince and him. 

The women rose eagerly. Mailyn smiled goodbye to the brothers and took the lead in approaching the royal table. 

“I bet Tryst chooses the blonde,” Wren said. “He always has liked the strong ones. Mailyn would have been much better off with me.” 

The brothers watched her stride directly to Tryst, bend low, and plant a light kiss on his right hand. The other three ladies crowded behind, waiting for their shining moment, but the knights standing by readily engaged them. 

A moment later, the one named Lucinda was trying to pull away from a huge knight in chainmail. Wren recognized him. Sir Sigmund Crantz, a Knight of the Council, and lead executioner for the prince. It was rumored that Tryst tolerated the sinister man because he never shied from unsavory deeds. Everyone called him Sig. 

The knight had Lucinda pinned between his arms at the far end of the table. She leaned back as far as possible but could not escape. The brothers saw Sig murmur something towards her, and she responded with a yell. Shaking her head, she tensed and struck the knight with a slap to the face. He laughed in response and leaned closer.

Another figure darted from behind, and Sig froze. A blade was at his throat.

“Not good,” Jon said. “No one threatens a knight of the Council like that, especially not Sig.”

“Ravien does,” Wren whispered, stunned. “What is she doing here?” His throat was tight with emotion. 

Sig turned on Ravien slowly, not daring the sharp edge at his throat. He was twice her size. Suddenly a flurry of motion was followed by the sound of an awful snap. The dagger fell, and Ravien grabbed her wrist in pain. The huge knight pressed closely but paused, perhaps seeing who she was for the first time. 

Most knights would have stopped there, daring nothing that would offend the prince. But Sig had a history of distaste for the royals and nobles, and he had likely been drinking. He lifted Ravien with ease, and slammed her down onto a table. 

Wren surged forward without thought, but Jon grabbed him by the shoulder. He dragged his brother back.

Wren met his eyes. “She needs help!”

Jon shook his head and pointed. Tryst was charging. He slammed into Sig. 

The two went to the ground. The prince pinned Sig down and began to pound his fists at the knight’s face. Several blows connected in a blur before Tryst rose abruptly and walked away. He said not a word. 

A pool of blood spread around the head of the fallen Sig. Ravien was nowhere to be seen.

“Jon, Wren,” a voice said softly from behind, “follow me.” They turned and saw Andor crouched beside the table. They nodded and rose. They were far enough into the night that no one would miss the brothers. 

Andor led them to an alley a short way off the square. It was a quiet sanctuary, out of sight. Andor sat back against the cool wall and exhaled. The brothers kneeled beside him. 

“We risked much tonight,” Andor said. “Wren, you may have saved me with your shout for Valemidas. It looked like Tryst caught my eye for an instant as I stood. He could easily have seen through my crude disguise. We put the battle off another day, a day that will come soon enough.”

Wren nodded. “For a moment back there, I thought you might attack.”

“It was tempting.” Andor’s voice was distant. “But it is not time. I am not ready.” 

“I am glad you made it,” Jon said. “What’s next, my prince?” 

Andor studied Jon’s honest face. “You have won a close position to Tryst, even sooner than I had hoped. You must use that position to find out where his mind is. He may be thinking of the Lycurgus’ march or the enemy. He may be thinking of the nobles or other politics of Valemidas. It could be his thirst for love, which he tries to hide from everyone, including himself. He might seek to satisfy that thirst with one of his mistresses. Whatever he does, whatever he thinks, stay close to him and be yourself. Watch his every move and learn his vulnerabilities. Report on what you learn to Wren.”

Andor’s attention turned to the other brother. “Wren, I want you to be a knight, and a good one. You are suspected from the start. Befriend the other knights at your level. They will be valuable assets in our campaign. We need to know where they stand on Tryst and this upcoming battle. Learn these things, and seek dissidents.” He paused, a slight grin on his lips. “And watch out for Ravien. She can unravel even the strongest of men. I will find a way to meet you. Do not look for me, but expect me at any moment.”

Andor tilted his head back, and the moon cast his brow and cheekbones in a silver light. His words had filled the brothers with hope that their prince was on his way back. He was still different—more somber, more humble, but also more alive, more brilliant. 

A look of purpose showed in Andor’s eyes. “Remember our mission, my friends. We must put Valemidas back in its position of greatness, a free city to lead the others by influence, not by force. It cannot be restored as long as a tyrant sits on the throne. I will regain power, and then I will spread it for the good of all. So learn more as I rebuild my alliances. My plans are moving faster now.”

“We will wait for your next word,” Wren said. “Stay safe.” 

Andor smiled. “You do the same. Now go enjoy the evening, like normal knights. ” He rose to his feet and glided into the narrow alley’s shadows. 

Chapter 13

UNBRIDLED CONFIDENCE

“Because the sentence against an evil deed is not executed speedily, the heart of the children of man is fully set to do evil.”

As the Prince of Valemidas, I expected more from my men. It was a shame to spoil my morning coffee with reprimands, but I had picked this fight and would win it. My Lycurgus was covering only fifteen miles a day, along the Prince’s Road no less. There were plenty of excuses: rain, untrained men, few horses, heavy packs, camp followers. There were always excuses for failure, but excuses never helped. 

“We should have reached the mountains a week ago.” Not a single one of my men, my own Council, would look me in the face. “I want to conquer this city within the week. Tell me how we can do it.” 

The men stood around my map table in a half circle. Young faces and grizzled faces, they were nine knights and a priest. I did not miss Sir Sig.

Ulysses’s old eyes were the first to meet mine. “We can make it there in five days, “ he said, “marching hard. Our forces should overwhelm theirs, but the fact that they have not fled means they have something up their sleeve. I fear it will not be a pretty victory.”

“A victory is a victory, Ulysses, and we cannot win unless we actually get there. The people need to have confidence in the Lycurgus, and in me. I promised a quick victory, and this march has been less than inspiring. You do not need me to remind you of the numbers.” 

We had set out with twenty thousand infantrymen and two hundred knights. I had not believed the first reports. Men were deserting. Fine, I had said, bleed out the weak ones. We had lost at least fifty men a day over the past week. Our two stops in villages since Albemarle had brought in fresh recruits, but not enough to replace the losses. Besides, these were scrubs, farmers looking for a chance to fight by my side.

“My prince,” someone said. This time Ulysses was looking down. It was the priest talking again. “My prince?”

“Yes, Yeats, come out with it.” He had been pestering me every possible moment of my short reign about right and wrong, as he had my entire childhood. Debating was no use with the man, but I intended to teach him through actions that power mattered more than his lessons. Ramzi was right on that point.

“I have received more concerning reports from Valemidas,” the priest said. “The people are not doing well. Our harvest will be weak this year. There have been political changes, and the people’s faith is not what it used to be. My reports say crime is increasing and our churches cannot hold all the homeless. And this spring will soon be turning into a horribly hot summer—”

“Enough.” I studied his wrinkled face. “What do you want? Speak it straight, and quit babbling. The people of Valemidas have always been a mess. What they need is inspiration. They need something to believe in. That is what I am trying to give them. What are you trying to do, priest?” 

Father Yeats, as ever, remained calm. “My prince, you are right that the people need inspiration. All I want to suggest is, well, an alternative. It would be more direct if you were there, with the people. Let them see you, let them see that you share their concerns, that you are one of them, living, worshipping, and caring for others in Valemidas. That would inspire our people. The city is unbalanced without its accustomed figurehead.”

Figurehead? How little the man knew. How could he not understand that this was war? I had to be here for the battle.

“Or,” he continued, “if you cannot go to the people now, send orders to your administrators in Valemidas. Ramzi has laid too harsh a yoke on the people. They must obey twice as many laws as they did a year ago, and they do not understand the reasons. If these laws are born of a man’s pride, then they will never sit well, particularly when they reach into the privacy of one’s family and home.” 

I sat back in my chair and considered the priest’s words. He was a strange little fellow, but I had to admit I respected his spirit. He had thought of himself as some sort of father to Andor, and maybe even to me, before Ramzi came to my side. Perhaps Yeats was right about Ramzi going too far, especially in my absence. The dark man was savvy, but I had worried about the power going to his head. At least with Yeats, I did not have to worry about that. He would still be wearing his tattered brown robes even if he were the one sitting on the throne. 

I would send the priest back. Here, he was weakening my army with his constant teaching about humility. In Valemidas, he would be the perfect foil to Ramzi until my return. His efforts against Ramzi’s laws might not change much, but he would help pacify the people. The people needed to be harnessed if they were ever to achieve their highest purpose.

“I hear you, Yeats. The people of Valemidas need me. I will return to them, I assure you, but not yet. You will go in my place, taking a message from me to the people. Something from the heart, something about duty, about pushing through adversity and being strong. Include this: ‘only those who obey my law can be free.’ Bring me a draft of the speech before the sun falls. Make it good. You leave with tonight’s messengers.”

Father Yeats’ mouth was drawn tight. He tilted his head to look at me searchingly, obviously trying to read my intentions. Yes, he would be valuable in Valemidas. Let the people grovel in humility, believing in Yeats’ myths of a greater power and a greater meaning to their pathetic lives. I had subdued enough of the people by force. Now Yeats could tame them, distract them—an ideal figurehead for now, just as he suggested. 

By the time I returned to Valemidas with the continent under my rule, and with the heads of our enemies, the people would be fed up with both Yeats and Ramzi. They would be fed up with humility and with obedience. They would be hungry for greatness. They would praise me, and I would move the world into the next era of history, unshackled by nobles and empty traditions. 

I looked up to see the priest still studying me silently. “You may go now, Yeats.” 

He bowed low. “Yes, my prince. But remember, victory in this battle brings you closer to death if you believe only in your own power.” 

Another priestly riddle. He walked out, and I stood to study the map on the table again. 

“Ulysses.” He came to my side. “You said we could make it in five days. Make it happen.”

“My prince, I said that we could, but our reports about the Icarians concern me. They are huddled in a defensive fortress. It will not be an open-field battle, so our men and our knights will be at a great disadvantage. With patience, a quarter of our number could lay siege to—”

“No, this will not be a siege. This is war, and we will lose men, but for now we have to get our forces moving. Maybe we lose a hundred soldiers every day. The Lycurgus should not hold such weakness anyway. The reports all say the same thing. The Icarians have no more than two thousand men. Thanks to your ingenious bridges, we will storm their stone fortress and defeat them in a single day. But first, we march to the mountains’ edge within two days, and then we hike for three. The bridges must arrive safely. You are a leader of men, Ulysses. Make it happen.”

“As you wish, my prince.” He spoke crisply as he bowed. He turned and walked from my tent, the consummate knight. He served well as the second-commander of my army. The men loved him, perhaps even more than me. That would change, and Ulysses could be trusted far enough. He had served the past two princes, and he seemed to be capable of nothing short of duty.

With Yeats and Ulysses gone, I was left with sycophants. Well, seven sycophants, and Jon. “Sir Jon, has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” I watched the coffee swirl in my cup. 

“Why yes, my prince,” another knight answered. “Jon is a strong addition.” The words flowed out of Jonas Davosman, who looked at Jon nervously, then smiled towards me. I hated to keep Jonas so close, but I had promised as much to win his father’s support in Valemidas. Too bad for House Davosman that proximity to me was the surest way to find death in this war.

“Jonas, if Jon is a strong addition, what does that make you?” I kept my eyes on Jon.

“Um, my prince, I am not quite sure what you mean. I am your servant as always, and a knight, and—”

“All your knights are equal under you, my prince.” Like a blast of fresh air, Jon’s voice spread through the tent. 

He was looking at me expectantly. Jonas was kicking at the rug at his feet. The other five knights were pushed back against the wall of the tent, close to the opening and ready to flee. My female servants blended against the walls, but the girl from Albemarle stood out, Mailyn. She wore a snug black bodice and eyed me almost casually. No one seemed to look at me like that anymore.

“Jon, Jon,” I began to pace, “have you ever been less than brave and true? Jonas is right. You are a strong addition.” Other than Jonas, the knights on my Council were loyal men who could handle the sword. But Jon could be the best. “Thank you all for your counsel. Ulysses probably has the men packing camp now. Gather up your squires and prepare for the road.” 

The knights did not waste a second in leaving. 

“Jon, please, stay a moment. I have another matter I would like to discuss with you.” He paused at the door, looking back at me. It was a hesitance I was not used to seeing from him. But this was his first morning in my tent. There was plenty to put him in awe. “Mailyn, prepare my bath now. We will have a hard ride today.”

She strode across the thick carpets and came to my side. Her lips grazed my ear, pressing close as she set a silver tray and coffee pot on the table. Then she was gone as soon as she had come. She had a gift of service, that much was certain. 

“We enter the mountains tomorrow, probably in the evening.” My finger traced the Prince’s Road, the broad line on the map. Jon’s eyes followed. “And three more days through the mountains, before we reach the Icarians.” 

Once off the road, the going would be treacherous. As we drew closer to the enemy, there was only one path, and it fit only five men abreast. My finger settled on the little dot of Icaria. These mountain men were insignificant, but powerful enough to rouse the Lycurgus for glory. 

“Tell me, what do you think of our plan?”

“Why do you ask me, my prince? You have heard from your more experienced knights. I am a merchant first, and my fighting muscles are still dormant.”

I smiled at him. “You beat me on the field. None of these other knights can say that.”

“That was a long time ago, my prince. We were just boys.”

“And now we are the same, grown into larger bodies. I asked for your opinion.”

“I think we endanger a lot of men with this plan.”

“Yes, and do you think it worth that cost?”

“I do not know the mountains or the Icarians, but I do fear their position.” Jon paused, thoughtful. “If you strip a talented merchant of everything but a turnip, what will he do?”

“Eat it?” 

Jon laughed. It was good to see his smile. Everyone’s seriousness had been wearing on me. 

“My prince, you are no merchant if you would eat the turnip. A true merchant would cut the turnip into pieces, and sell those pieces at higher prices. He might even steal another turnip. Then he trades for more turnips, and then he trades turnips for coins. Next thing you know, that desperate merchant has a wagon full of turnips, pulled by two nice looking horses.”

“Okay, so some merchant wins some turnips.” This sounded too much like Wren. His brother’s motives were suspect, and maybe that meant Jon’s were too. “Even the best merchant will meet his match, maybe his superior. He will lose out to more powerful men in the end.”

“My prince, you asked my opinion. The Icarians will be fighting like that merchant—with nothing to lose. You have everything to lose, so lead the battle from a safe place, not on the front line.”

“You are thinking of the boy you knew. Things have changed, and one of them is that I no longer lose, ever.”

“As you say, my prince.” 

I stared at him, letting silence build, maybe letting him feel some fear. It would help keep him honest, and it might trickle down to his brother. Wren had to be up to something, and my fear was that it had to do with more than just gold. I had Sebastian and his men watching them, but perhaps I could find the truth myself by keeping Jon close.

“We will win, Jon. You are one of my highest knights now, and that means you join my morning meetings, you dine at my table, and you give me your guidance. Your position requires it, but I chose you because of our past. These other knights do not share what we share.”

“Thank you, my prince, it is an honor. I will serve you well.”

“I know you will.” I reached out and clasped his arm. Whatever his motives, compared to knights like Jonas, he would be a force at my side in battle. “Observe the knights and the infantry these next days. We will be marching hard, and once we enter the mountains, I need to know what my men are thinking. They must bear the discipline of the Lycurgus. Otherwise, the Icarians are going to fill their wagons with our turnips, picking us off in the mountain passes, before I get a chance to break their gate and crush them.”

“Yes, my prince. Farewell.” He smiled and ducked out of the tent. Something about the jovial boy I remembered was missing, but it was hard not to like the man. 

Mailyn approached after Jon left. “Do you need anything, my prince?”

“I assume the bath is ready?”

She nodded.

“The water is always warmer with you in it.”

She blushed and whispered, “I would say the same of you, my prince.” 

I thought of the statue in Albemarle as I moved towards the back rooms of my tent. That statue was a good precedent, even if it honored the wrong prince. My victory against the Icarians would be the right start to putting the right prince in the center of every town square of the continent. Pawns we might lose, but the real men of the Lycurgus would be rewarded.

Chapter 14

DISCIPLINE AND CALLING

“Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility.”

Father Yeats felt troubled as he walked from the prince’s lavish tent. His deepest concern was Ramzi, and the dark forces he summoned from the Gloaming. Yeats believed the light would prevail over the darkness in the end, but no one could say when the end would come. Sometimes Yeats felt that his prayers collided into Ramzi’s and that the fate of the world depended on the invisible battle between them. But sometimes he just thought Ramzi was crazy. 

Yeats pulled his cloak closer. It was good wool, but old, and the holes allowed too much of a draft this close to the mountains. Striding toward his small tent, he tried to channel his frustrated and fearful energy into something good.

He still had hope for Tryst, but the man had proven over and over again his ruinous pride. There was no greater impediment to living in the light. For those filled with anger, Yeats could show them love and peace. For those with sloth, greed, and promiscuity, Yeats could help identify the weakness and help in restoration. But overcoming pride was another matter entirely. 

His mentor, Father Clive, had spent his life exposing the evil of pride. He had taught that pride was the complete anti-god state of mind. Pride led to enmity, to separation from the light, and ultimately to death. Yeats himself had struggled with the great vice as he had risen to the top of the priesthood, which held its own allure of power. To fight against it, he kept his focus on the needs of others, and especially those whose souls were crumbling, like Tryst’s. 

Yeats had run out of ways to confront Tryst. He had tried for the prince’s entire life. The man had oozed with arrogance since his childhood. He had to beat everyone at everything. As soon as the young Tryst won a competition, he would find another bout in which to assert his superiority. He could not abide others’ successes, unless they somehow made him look better. That led early on to his rivalry with Andor. As prince, Tryst seemed more focused on himself than ever. Now he had sent Yeats away. 

There’s no use dwelling on this failure. 

The thought sprang into Yeats’ mind. Yes, Yeats prayed, please show me an opportunity. Valemidas needed help—anything to counteract Ramzi’s idolatry and terror. 

But the most important person is still here—Andor. Yeats seized the insight, feeling divinely inspired. He had been avoiding Andor, at the man’s own command. Yet it was Andor who needed him most. Tryst remained a puzzle that could not be broken. Andor had long been similarly closed, with his own complicated past, but he had recently been broken. He was now a promising shell, aware of his former pride and capable of re-orienting his life. If Yeats could help refill that shell with light, then there could soon be a righteous prince. 

And if Andor could be healed, then who better to confront Tryst?

Yeats turned a different direction with a bounce in his step. Packing could wait. 

The priest had always loved to walk fast, and this was as good a time as any. Despite his many years, his legs found a warm rhythm as he crested a rolling foothill. Andor was camped on the far south side of camp, which was more than a mile from Tryst’s headquarters. That separation was a blessing now, Yeats thought, as he neared the pace of a jog. His loose coat was flapping in the wind, and Yeats laughed at what he must look like. An old priest speeding through camp—on an urgent errand from God!

As he passed another group of infantrymen, Yeats had to admire the discipline. Men were training in all regiments, and every tent was aligned precisely. For all his faults, Tryst ran a tight operation. If only the man would release his pride, he had talents that could make him a good leader. 

A closer look at the soldiers hinted at the ill effects of Tryst’s command. Yeats saw fear in their faces, even though the battle was days away. Their movements seemed forced and rigid, lacking in the harnessed liberty that made for greatness. 

Yeats reached the Fourth Marchers and found an energetic young knight organizing his pikemen into ranks, barking orders excitedly. The men formed clean lines, practicing their lunges. On the far side, Andor was walking along the columns of men, stopping every few steps to show a soldier how to keep his balance when leaning, or where to grip the pike at its pivot point. It was good to see Andor teaching these men—a sign of his continuing recovery.

The Gloaming had changed the man. He had been born great, as only Yeats and Justus Davosman knew. Not even Andor knew his true ancestry and destiny. One year the ritual vessel from the Sunan people had carried Andor on it, when he was only a small boy. That had been the last year the vessel arrived, and the abandoned boy had gone to the Cathedral with the other orphans. 

Yates’s suspicion that this was no ordinary boy had been confirmed as he witnessed the child grow with a unique force and charisma, despite being one of many abandoned children there. And so Yeats had convinced Justus to raise him as a son. It would be safer in a noble’s house, Yeats knew, because of the boy’s suspected lineage. Justus had been sworn to secrecy, but even then, Yeats had not trusted him enough to reveal his full beliefs about the role the boy might someday play in the world.

Yeats had always tried to guide Andor towards the light, and the callings of love and humility. Andor had come closer than Tryst, even though he had grown accustomed to decadence and success in the Davosman house. Yeats often wondered whether Davosman’s care for Andor had fueled Tryst’s ambition and envy. Tryst had many of the same talents as Andor, but lacked a father who supported him. 

Yeats had begun to see the same negative changes in Andor as he now saw in Tryst, once they each rose to prince. The corrupting force of power was inescapable without some greater intervening force. Very few things had greater force than the prince’s crown.

That was why Yeats was, in a strange way, thankful for the Gloaming. When Andor came to Yeats a few weeks ago, he looked like he had climbed out of a grave. He was skinny, pale as the tenant of a tomb, with a maniacal glint in his eyes. His face had lost its fullness, and with it the last of his youthfulness. Andor was haunted by what he had done to stay alive. A shadow hung over him.

Yeats had given Andor a change of clothes and a warm meal in a small alcove of the Cathedral. Time had brought some life back to the man, and Yeats had detected a new and deep yearning in him. Andor was broken, but the pieces of greatness were still there. It was like someone had shattered a huge stained glass window that depicted a prince, but the shards of glass could be reassembled into something even better. Yeats found no richer joy than identifying the most excellent vessels for the light. Unfortunately, those were the same vessels that tended to carry the deepest taint of pride.

Watching him now, Yeats could see Andor’s progress. He was winning the devotion of these pikemen. Still, the shadow hid the glory that Andor had once worn, so much so that not even Tryst had recognized Andor as he knelt before him. But now the shadow was fading. Perhaps the seeds of healing were planted properly, Yeats thought, and now it was time to water them again.

It would have been too suspicious to call Andor out from the training. A small pile of pikes rested between Yeats and the soldiers. Out of two hundred men, Yeats figured no one would pay much attention to an old man with a pike sliding into the back line. Well, Andor would notice, particularly since Yeats had no business holding a pike.

The old priest tried to walk like a soldier toward the lines of practicing men, but he stumbled after picking up the pike. The weight of it surprised Yeats. He was used to carrying books, not wooden poles taller than he was. He hauled the pike twenty feet to the line of men. A few of the soldiers eyed him quizzically, and he simply offered a smile in return. Better not to speak, he thought, because no explanation would make much sense, and none of the soldiers were likely to try to stop an old priest.

Stepping into the line, Yeats did his best to mimic the men around him. He would take two steps back, holding the pike at his waist. On Pikeli’s command, he would join the men in lunging forward in one huge step. Yeats found a rich sort of rhythm to the practice. It was too much for him to keep up, but the effort felt good. He had worked up a sweat by the time Andor found him.

“Soldier,” Andor mocked, “you are holding that pike like it is a wet fish. Grip it tighter.” 

A few men nearby laughed at Andor’s taunt. He leaned closer to Yeats and gave another command, keeping his voice loud enough for the men to hear. “You have to turn the grip of your right hand thirty degrees to the left. Like this.”

Yeats smiled as he followed the instruction. The men did another lunge.

“That is better, yes, your lead hand should be closer to the top of the pole. You do not want to lose that grip when a horse charges you down.” 

Another lunge.

“Come now. Plant that front foot firmly.” Andor sighed. “Enough distracting, old man, over here!”

Before Yeats could say a word, Andor had taken him by the shoulder and pulled him away from the line—far enough away to avoid being overheard. He turned his back to his men, with a lecturing posture, and grinned at Yeats.

“If this is your idea of disguise, you need some lessons. For a priest, though, you are not half bad with a pike.”

“And you are not a half bad instructor,” Yeats said. “You seem to have earned the respect of these men.” 

Andor nodded. 

“But remember,” Yeats said, “you are no better than they are. Certainly, you were born with great gifts. Those gifts are responsibilities. You have a duty to use your talents well. If you do, you will be blessed. If you do not, your fate will be worse than the Gloaming.”

A dark look passed over Andor’s face at the mention of the underground city. “I do not want to talk about that place. Just let me be.”

“If I let you be, you would know that I did not care about you and your recovery.”

The fallen prince’s face softened. “I know you care. You are not even supposed to come near me. Yet here you are.” 

“Tryst has ordered me to leave for Valemidas tonight.” Yeats paused, searching for the right words. “He has become more flippant and angry on this march. I think he senses the men have no love for him. He has their allegiance only by fear. He claims that is enough, but deep down it hurts him.” 

“What did you do to earn banishment?” Andor asked. “Does Tryst suspect anything about me?”

“No, but I upset him,” Yeats said. “I made him confront a weakness.” 

“What weakness?”

Yeats mulled the answer. “Come, let us walk.” He led Andor away from the training men and toward the mountains looming to the west. 

“I have observed the way Tryst is running this army.” Andor’s voice held an odd balance of animus and praise. “He is proficient, focused, even if he disregards much tradition and cares only for himself. The authority should be mine, but as I knew when I raised him to my Knight’s Council, Tryst is gifted as a commander. The weakness must be that he has no right to my throne?”

Yeats shook his head. “Pride.” He let the word linger. “It is pride, Andor. That is often the greatest flaw of a leader. It is a flaw in most men, but it festers the worst in a man with power. It eats away at a man until he is nothing but a desire to beat other men and earn their praise. Then he has no morality, no force of his own; he becomes dependent on the opinions of the very men he claims to have bested.”

“But men do not become leaders without pride,” Andor challenged. “It fuels their ambition.” The subject was a familiar one between the priest and the prince.

“Greatness is possible without pride. The light can be a purer source of ambition.”

“If that were true, the world would have seen some of your godly leaders. Instead, the world has witnessed only leaders who trust in their own capacities. Men can control themselves, so they can also control their destiny.”

“But where does that capacity come from?” Yeats asked. “It is a blessing, a responsibility, instilled from your very birth. If a man gives up his will and devotes himself to living for the light, all of that man’s capacity and more will be harnessed for the good.”

Andor was quiet for a while as they walked on. “How can this be?” he eventually asked. “I have never seen such a man.” 

Yeats stopped and held Andor’s gaze. The sun was shining on the former prince’s face. The paleness had begun to retreat, replaced by his prior glowing hue. The priest had little time before he had to return home. He opted for directness.

“My prayer, Andor, is that you will be such a man—that you will be a prince who finds motivation in the light, and not from other men. You have always had that potential, yet you held your power through confidence in yourself. Tryst is worse, but even he has some potential. Every man does, because the light is offered to all.”

Andor looked away. “I am not who I once was.”

“I know you lost hope in the Gloaming,” Yeats said. “It broke something about you. You have the same gifts and abilities now, but I think you understand your need to be full of light from outside yourself. If I am right, then you may be the greatest prince we have ever had, because your greatness will be beyond any man alone. Valemidas will need that greatness in the months to come, because threats loom that are darker than what most people fear. This battle is a skirmish compared to what is to come. Only you, Andor, can save our people.”

“I would like to believe you,” Andor said, “but I have seen the pit of humanity, in the Gloaming, in Tryst—” He paused and gazed at the ground. “And in myself. You paint a beautiful picture, but I doubt man can be what you claim. Sometimes I just want to retreat. I want to find a place where men are unconcerned with the greatness that you believe in. Your vision of greatness is too much, too exhausting, and I have been broken. You said so yourself.”

“Andor, you are healing. Give yourself time.” Yeats hesitated. “It is no sin to appreciate the beauty of a quiet, hidden place. I imagine there is such a place where men devote themselves to perfecting all that is within their horizon. For some men, that means mastering the art of herding sheep. It can be a joyous existence, but it depends on stability in the surrounding world and on the great men who enable others to live in peace.”

Yeats clasped Andor’s shoulder. “You cannot run from your gifts. You cannot flee your desires. They combine to form your calling. Although only you know where the light is guiding you, I must say you have always taken to leadership. The men around you love you, and not because you want them to. Look at these pikemen. They love you because of the man you are, because you were born with the talent of inspiring others. Escapism in the face of such a calling would be a tragedy.” 

Andor nodded. His face looked tired. “I need to return to my men now,” he said. “We should part here, but I appreciate your counsel, as always. You were never one for easy messages.”

“Just think on these things, Andor, as you continue on this journey. Let the light guide you. We will have an opportunity to speak again. I look forward to it.”

Andor reached out and clasped the priest’s hand. “Farewell, Father Yeats.”

“Farewell, my prince.” The priest turned and walked away. He prayed, God, forbid that such a man go to waste.

Chapter 15

THE MUCK AND THE MIRE

“The murkier the muck, the purer the lotus.”

Wren was up to his neck in it. The Lycurgus had been on a brutal march in recent days. Now he faced a wall of looming mountains. 

The sun was rising behind him. As it touched the tips of the sharp, snow-capped peaks above, Wren felt a sense of awe at the beauty. He loved these mountains and had not seen them in a long time. Yet, just like every swell of goodness in recent days, it was soon dampened. As the sun continued to rise, its rays touched a smaller, gross mountain before him on the Prince’s Road. 

A few weeks ago, Wren would not have believed that this much waste had ever been gathered in one heaping pile. But so it had, day after day. He supposed it was a necessary consequence of thousands of soldiers and camp followers, along with several hundred horses, marching together. What he still could not come to grips with was how this necessary consequence had become his problem.

Tryst. It all went back to him, and Wren’s hate for the man had only intensified with each day of dealing with his army’s residue. The miserable prince had relegated him to this post, and the true prince had ordered him to do the job well. He had always believed that, if a job had to be done, there was no substitute for striving for perfection. This task strained that belief. Still, he had sworn to Andor that he would do whatever was necessary to overthrow Tryst. 

And so Wren had resigned himself to this. He managed his team of waste managers to prompt, efficient, and sanitary disposition of the Lycurgus’s waste. Work is work, Wren would say, and we have the noble task of keeping this fine countryside clean. At least, that was his euphemistic spin for the thirty men under his charge. 

The men, like Wren, were outcasts from other parts of the Lycurgus. Some had picked fights with their own leading knights; a handful were complete slackers, fat and slow; and about half were just weak, whiny fellows with no aptitude for battle. 

The stench of the work could hardly be stomached, but it forced an odd bond upon his men. Only two had deserted the group since Wren took over. He kept their mood light with crude quips that sold the virtues of the job. Because their work was done by the late morning, he gave the men afternoons off. He also gave them freedom to do whatever they wanted with their nights, which made them a popular center of dicing and other cavorting for infantrymen. 

It helped that Wren had been carrying rich spices for trade before he joined the army, so he had fine-smelling scarves fashioned for the men. They were bright yellow, distinguishable. The scarves had earned a name for Wren’s group around the Lycurgus—the Yellow Rags. 

This morning’s work was not too different from the mornings before, except that it was rushed—the last morning before the Lycurgus hiked into the mountains. Wren had his men working the same strict and precise routine. He sent them out before dawn to collect the prior night’s waste. They shoveled it onto carts, each dragged by two mules. The pre-dawn collectors would return to the rear of the camp, where the pile building would commence. 

Now the heap stood before Wren, easily twice his height. It rested on a platform of logs that the men were lighting. It would burn through once, and then the men would bury it all in a large hole dug to the side of the road. Wren had insisted that they find an evergreen tree to replant on the spot at each camp. When the Lycurgus marched on, it would leave as little trace as possible, except a few new trees along the road. Wren almost felt proud of his work, though he would never admit it. 

When the flames began to engulf the pile, Wren walked to the tent he shared with four other lowly knights who held equally unsavory positions. They were responsible for the cooking, the mules, and the supplies. Every position required grueling amounts of work in exchange for little to no recognition. The four men were older, quiet, and resolved to their positions. They mostly ignored Wren, and he returned the favor. It was tough to do in their cramped space, so Wren often found himself roaming through camp.

As tight as the quarters had been, Wren knew it was not going to improve in the mountains. The Lycurgus would be leaving the tents behind and marching even harder. This morning Wren saw a different kind of strain among the infantrymen. They were tired from recent days of pushing hard, with meager food and no stops in towns. The weather should have lifted their spirits, but rumors about the Icarians and their strength in the mountains weighed on them. 

The mountains built on the fear. Most of these men had come from Valemidas and the villages near it. They had seen nothing like the Targhees. These were old mountains, sheer masses of rock rising suddenly out of the soft green foothills. Trees had no place in the Targhees, except in rare valley floors. Snow always clung to the peaks. The mountains were frigid and sliced by brisk winds; a rare summer day meant it would be merely cold instead of freezing. 

About twenty miles away to the west, the mountains abruptly dropped into the sea. Storms always hammered that coast, and the Targhees absorbed the punishment. They protected everything to the east, huge filters that allowed only nourishing rains to pass. 

Somewhere amidst the dense ranges stood the city of Icaria. Wren had to admit, any people that survived in the Targhees must be strong. The Icarians would be well-acquainted with harsh realities, which would probably suit them well for battle. 

The Lycurgus, by contrast, was full of novices from the lowlands. These men were not warriors. Maybe one in two actually knew how to use their weapons. Even a few dozen of the knights were entirely new to war, like Jacodin Talnor and Jonas Davosman, raised by Tryst for some political reason. 

Wren decided to seek fresher air. He walked far south of Tryst’s tent and after a short while came upon a few knights in morning exercises. Four of them had set up a melee, and some infantrymen had gathered around to watch. Wren knew that, being this far from the prince, the knights would be far from the Lycurgus’s best, but it would be entertaining enough to join the spectators. He squeezed between a couple infantrymen to lean against a lone oak overhanging the impromptu practice field. 

The knights began to dash in at each other, clumsily waving their wooden swords. A particularly plump one tripped over his own feet before he even reached the others. Of the three remaining, one sought valor with a grandiose swing of his sword at the helmed-head of the smallest knight. The little man barely had to duck to avoid the blow, and the assailant was sent spinning by the force of his own swing. The third knight had enough sense to swipe at the out-of-control knight, and a glancing blow landed him on the ground with a thud. 

The two remaining knights began to circle each other, with no semblance of footwork. The tiny one looked like a ten-year-old; the other was built well enough, but he held his sword like it was a sheepherder’s staff. 

This was no way to set an example for the other soldiers, Wren thought. But what he heard himself say aloud was, “it is no melee with only two players.” 

He stepped towards the mess of men and picked up the wooden sword of the fat, fallen knight. As he joined the two circling men, he thought with a broad smile that practice against amateurs might help build confidence. 

In mock encouragement, he taunted them, “See men, when circling right, your left foot may cross in front of your right, like so.” The two knights tripped up as they looked down at their feet. Some onlookers laughed nervously. 

“Ah! Now it will not be much of a contest if only one knows the steps.” Wren continued circling, amused, as the other two knights picked up the basic footwork. He began to juggle his wooden weapon from hand to hand, bouncing lightly on his feet. A few of the surrounding infantrymen began clapping, enjoying the show.

“Aye, and even three men with training steps makes a weak show.” The words came from behind Wren. He did not need to look back to know who was approaching. The laughter and clapping fell silent.

Ravien stepped into the circle, holding a long, thin wooden pole in her left hand. Her right hand wore a splint. “Now, with a woman joining the dance,” she smiled at the onlookers, “we’ll be sure to entertain.” 

Wren knew this would not be pretty. The other two men were in a precarious position—either fight against the prince’s sister, lose a fight to a woman, or pull out. They faltered even more in their steps.

“Do not dare consider abandoning our play,” Ravien said loudly. “We will be facing real enemies soon. Learn to fight anything that threatens you, that threatens our prince and our nation.” Her left foot crossed in front her right, her right crossed behind her left. The circling continued as her words hung in the air.

The tiny man then began to open his mouth, tentatively, as if to sound a retreat. 

“My lady, I don’t—”

Before another sound left his lips, Ravien sprang towards the man. She brought her wooden pole down hard at his head. He lifted his stick in time to block the full force and take a glancing blow off the shoulder. But Ravien’s momentum knocked him to the ground, and she kicked the wooden blade from his hand. 

The other knight tackled Ravien from behind. The two rolled along the ground, dust and cursing rising from their struggle. The downed man crawled away to the ring of spectators. 

Wren approached the fray. He told himself that it was only right that he defend the prince’s sister.

The man had managed to end up on top of Ravien, pinning her to the dirt. She roiled beneath him and then slammed her fist into the man’s face. Just as he reached up to block the next punch, Wren landed a hard blow to the back of the man’s head. He fell over limply. 

Ravien was on her feet before Wren could make another move. Instinct made him duck as she swung at his head. She predicted his move and delivered a swift knee to his groin. 

As he crumpled, she shoved him to the ground. “Learn well, my friends,” she declared. “Soon, we fight Icarians!”

She knelt down beside Wren and she spoke softly. “My bird, I am starting to enjoy your flights, from wealthy trader to trash knight. Take care to bathe well. I would not take a man who smells.” Her voice dropped lower. “And tell your prince to be more careful to avoid being seen with men like the priest.” 

She sprang up and was gone without another word.

Wren sat still, stunned. He watched as the soldiers dispersed in small groups. There were more men than when the fight had started. 

A familiar laugh from behind Wren announced his brother’s arrival. “That was a fine show, Wren. Ravien seemed to enjoy herself.” Jon smiled down and offered him a hand. 

Wren groaned and accepted the help as he rose to his feet. “Shouldn’t you be with the prince?” Wren asked. “This practice field is awfully close to the rear of our camp, where we do not often see high knights like you.”

Jon grinned. “I like to spend time with the people.”

“It has been, what, five days since you visited? You should come visit my waste station. The pile should be almost done burning by now.”

Jon shook his head and plugged his nose. “I’ll pass. I have come from a meeting in our prince’s tent.” He motioned to a small copse of trees to the south. 

The brothers walked towards it, just two aimless knights talking before they broke camp. “It seems our armed campaign is not going completely to the prince’s liking,” Jon said.

Wren shrugged. “Tryst is hard to please. What is not to like? We move into the mountains within the day, and we will be meeting these Icarians soon enough.”

“Our march has been too slow, and we have been losing deserters, lots of them. Tryst is thirsty for battle.”

“Why the rush? Have you heard from Andor lately?”

“No, have you?” 

Wren shook his head.

“He has been visiting me every few days,” Jon said, “even though I feel certain that we are being watched. I’m worried that he has not come lately. His training of the pikemen draws attention. His men, the Fourth Marchers, are building a reputation of skill—unusual for farmers. At least the leader of his group, a young knight named Pikeli, is keeping the secret if he suspects anything. But I fear Tryst will learn soon. The prince’s spies are at work.”

Wren sighed. “It was only a matter of time. But if Tryst missed Andor when he passed right under his nose, why would he pay any attention to him now?”

“The pikemen under his command love him. His charisma is returning quickly. Warmth is returning to his face, and you know as well as I do that he cannot stay hidden long once he returns to his old form. Everyone notices him. Meanwhile, all around us, morale is crumbling. The contrast is clear. Tryst will not like it when he learns how much adoration is growing for this new hedge knight.”

“What of it?” Wren said. “Andor must declare himself at some point. He has been connecting with other supporters. We have only a few days until battle, and it will be hard to hide Andor then.”

“I know…”

“Just do your best to keep Tryst distracted until Icaria. There are plenty of challenges to keep him occupied in the mountains.”

Jon nodded. “You are right, and if Tryst has any spare time, I will fill it with stories of young knights wrestling his dear sister to the ground in melee.”

“You will not.” Wren could not hide the flush in his cheeks.

“Oh, I might. You know how much he loves hearing of your waste-disposing exploits.”

“Enough,” Wren said, smiling. “I think we have been away from camp for too long. We do not want the prince to be missing his most trusted new knight. Remember, distract him, however you can. These next days will be hard.”

“I will find you before the battle, unless Ravien gets to you first. Next time you two are wrestling, it would be helpful if you figured out whose side she is really on.” 

“I wish I knew,” Wren mused. “I am not sure how much I like being her target. I will find out what I can.” 

The brothers departed in different directions. Jon wished that he could believe his brother. While he loved to see the excitement in Wren’s eyes, he feared what Tryst would do if he learned about the spark between Wren and Ravien. 

Wren thought of how he had grown stronger as the leader of such a messy enterprise, but he was struggling with his weakness to the princess. His usual defenses seemed hopeless. She had caught him off guard and mocked him again, which just left him wanting her more.

Chapter 16

THE PATH TO BATTLE

“Order marches with weighty and measured strides. Disorder is always in a hurry.”

The Icarian watchman was sweating despite the frigid air. He sat on the crest of a ridge, peering over the other side. The ravine floor was several thousand feet below. Between that floor and the Icarian, a seemingly endless line of men was inching along the slender path that wound through the mountains. 

Huge, dark clouds loomed to the west. The marching men might reach Icaria’s walls before the storm hit, but the timing was going to be close. 

Either way, the watchman would do his duty. Not all of the marching men would make it that far. After several hours of scrambling pursuit, he had found the next detonation spot. It would be his third attack of the day.

On cue, the watchman’s partner rose from behind a boulder a hundred feet below, half way down to the soldiers. He lifted his hand to signal that the explosives were ready. 

The watchman studied the line of men again to confirm that the attack would have enough impact. He could make out a few of their faces. They pressed tightly together. They would fall together.

The watchman crossed his arms above his head. In response, his partner knelt, lit a fuse, and began scrambling up the steep rock face. 

The army had learned by now to watch the cliffs above them, and they sounded an alarm as soon as they saw the climber. The watchman then stood straight up on the ridge and yelled at the top of his lungs. 

All eyes below turned to him. That shift in focus caused all the pause that was needed. The explosion erupted ahead, sending the massive boulder and a spray of stones hurtling down the mountain. The men below the avalanche turned just as the rocks crashed down on them. 

There was no time to survey the damage. The watchman ducked to the safe side of the ridge and hurried down the slope. He raced away until he came to a tiny opening in the mountainside. If the army sent pursuers, odds were they would never see this little cave. And if they did find it, they would have two trapped and well-trained Icarians to deal with. 

“How many do you think we got?” his partner asked. The man had lit a small torch. He was smiling and breathing heavily.

“At least a dozen,” the watchman said, “and that slide should block the path for a while.” 

“I bet we took out fifty. Those men were right in the boulders’ path. We’ve taken out hundreds these past two days. If the other rangers have done half as well, we could win this fight.”

The watchman studied his partner’s face. The face wore the beginnings of a beard, no scars, and unmistakable over-eagerness. The watchman sat back and took a drink of the dark liquid in his flask. “We will not win this fight, nor will they. Everyone loses.” 

The watchman offered the flask to his comrade, who drank too deeply and coughed. He tried to hide the cough with a laugh. “Someone must win, and they will be crushed at our gates. We have more of our firepower there. But I must say, their march has been impressive…for lowlanders. It will take them only three days to reach Icaria.”

“No, not impressive. It has been vain, and reckless. A large force whittled down by several thousand men—the weak flecks chipped off by our mountains and our rangers. This prince wants glory more than victory.” 

“It’s amazing that their leader can push his men so. The strong ones remain to fight us, but they have never even seen power like ours.”

The watchman nodded. Optimism could serve the young ranger well, so he dropped the topic. “We have another hour before dusk. There may be enough time to set up a night attack. They enter the valley below our city soon, and I think this storm will, too. Come, let’s meet the other rangers at the next hideaway.” 

The younger man was on his feet in an instant. “For Icaria!” 

The watchman followed him out of the cave and summoned the last of his waning energy to race after his spry comrade. The darkening sky warned that the storm would hit soon. The watchman thought again of how his people had gotten into this conflict. It seemed unavoidable that a people with power would fall—sooner if driven by pride, later if lulled into contentment. Icarians always favored the sooner. 

Perhaps we are not so different from this prince, the old ranger mused.

* * *

I faced my Council of Knights. I had given them their instructions. I needed to remind them of the stakes. “Tell your men, we fight today for Valemidas and its people. Remind them that I will be by their sides in the heat of the battle. Remind them that glory awaits those who prove their honor. If any of your men look weak or afraid, give them a nip of whiskey, a cup of coffee, and a slap in the face. We will win this battle today. We attack within the hour. You know the plan, now you will know greatness. For Valemidas!”

“For Valemidas!” they answered. 

As the knights left my tent, I tried to have some faith in them. Some merited it—like wise Ulysses and strong Jon. They had all obeyed me and made this march. They had accepted that we would lose men to get to this point. Today they could prove their loyalty. 

I had another hour before the sun rose. Most of the Lycurgus was exhausted and asleep. I had not slept a blink, and instead had spent the night studying maps and strategy. The days were blurring together, like the continuous assaults that had rained down from the mountains. 

I had expected the ambushes and the defections. We had made it to the valley below Icaria with plenty of men. 

But I had not expected the storm. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. The blizzard had struck at dusk, when about half of the Lycurgus had entered the valley. Icy, howling winds had whipped through the camp and left two feet of snow in their wake. The storm had lasted that first night and all of the next day. 

I could not afford to let the men dwell on the cold and the losses during the march. The snow had at least forced them to rest from the march for a day in their tents. Today, perhaps they would have pent up aggression from being stuck inside. Today, the sun would shine and we would conquer Icaria. 

I stared into the low fire in the brazier and forced my mind to the next matter. My best knights understood their tasks. I began cycling through the other assignments and meetings to complete before dawn, and then I remembered Ravien. My sister had made a rare request to see me. 

“Mailyn, send Ravien in.” 

She moved to obey. My admiration of the woman’s figure was interrupted by my sister’s sharp words.

“You left me waiting too long, brother.” Ravien glared at me as she strode in, part anger and part amusement.

“It is good to see you, too.” I tried to look disinterested. She was always full of surprises. Had she been born a man, she would probably be prince and I would not be alive. 

Looking at her now, I saw a beautiful, sharp face and unwavering eyes. Her hair fell at various angles, and the dark circles under her eyes showed that she had not been sleeping either. 

She was dead serious now, arms crossed. “Wouldn’t you like to know why I’m here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I used a playful tone. “You have come to wish the prince well, on the morning of his first great victory as the leader of your nation.”

“Why yes, dear little brother, you know me too well.” Her smile was full of dark sarcasm. I loved it. She always kept me entertained. Her purposes were the most difficult to detect. “I had a few other thoughts about today’s battle,” she said, “if the prince would be so generous as to take suggestions from a woman.”

“No, Ravien, I will not take tips on war from a woman. For you, however, my ears are wide open.”

“Good.” She bit her lip. I enjoyed watching her restrain herself. “I know you have little time, so I will present my points quickly. First, you will not be on the front line. The men on this list will be.” She handed me a carefully folded paper.

Opening it, I glanced over the names written in Ravien’s elegant script—twenty or so total. I knew half of the men listed and had no particular concern about them surviving the day. I could concede whatever already fit with my plans. 

I nodded to her, without any attempt to hide the curiosity in my eyes. “Your next point?”

“You will not enter the fight until our men have broken the first gate. When you do enter, you will wear armor. It will not do to have our glorious prince picked off by a stray arrow from the ramparts.”

The timing fit my strategy, but not the attire. “I will wait for the gate to be broken, and I won’t be touched by an arrow or anything else.”

She gave me a knowing, big-sister look. “You don’t choose where the arrows fly. You will wear armor.” 

“I will have my own protection, and I will dress myself. Haven’t I told you that a prince works best in comfort and style?” I glanced back, then turned to Ravien with a grin. “Just ask Mailyn.” My sister tolerated much, but not my love interests. 

She paused only a moment before responding, her glare hard. “Fine. Wear your delicate black cloth into the fortress of your enemies. Before you do, please draw up a will naming me as your successor.” She did not wait for a retort. “Third point. I am leading a dozen men to a hidden entry to the city. We leave within the hour, and we will help prepare the way to the inner keep for you.”

This was a surprise. “Tell me more, if you want me to allow this.” 

I did not mention that my scouts had been circling the city for two days and had not seen any openings, aside from a few grates far up on the wall. Icaria was like an island rising on its isolated peak. Its wall was low, but it grew up from the steep cliffs dropping below it. The only way in was through the front gate. And the only way to the gate was across a ravine. My men had fireproof bridges for the task. Ravien did not. 

She eyed me, as if reading my thoughts. “You know a city cannot survive with only one entrance and exit, no matter how small. The front gate is your army’s access point. I am going in another way.”

Inquisition rarely went far with Ravien. She was perhaps the only person who harbored not an ounce of fear of me. I had always made my love for her clear, maybe too clear. “This is taking too much time, Ravien.” 

Light was beginning to seep into my tent. The sun would be rising soon. “Tell me how you are getting in,” I demanded. “I will not win this battle with my forces divided and outside my control. And I will not lose you.”

“Cut the lecture. Fools hungry for glory walk through the front gate wearing cloth instead of steel.” Ravien’s eyes narrowed. “Sometimes secrets are not hidden. They are standing right in front of you, nearly naked.” Her gaze drifted past me, perhaps to Mailyn. 

“So what am I missing?”

“The Icarians’ own secret. Our scouts, as you know, discovered some of this magic substance they have been using to rain boulders down on us. It is immensely destructive. I learned a way to reconstruct their devices. With this, I am going to blow open the steel grates high up on the wall. I cannot go over it, so I am going through it.”

I shook my head. “That does not sound like a quiet entrance. Each Icarian will be like a wolverine in a cave. They are a strong people. I have learned from the discipline of their scouts—lessons that will be ingrained in my Lycurgus. My forces will be needed to make them bend the knee.”

She stepped closer. “Just say it, Tryst. They are men. I am a woman. That is why, for you dear brother, I promise to skulk rather than fight my way through the city. I’ll leave the battle glory to you.”

“Dare I ask why you need this adventure?”

“I have my reasons.” She took my face in her hands, leaned forward, and kissed my forehead. “You know you can trust me. Let me have some fun.” 

Then she stood straight with her hand on her hip. She was devious and hidden about her ways, but she was right. She had always been loyal. This kind of troublemaking was nothing out of the ordinary, and it did not threaten my plans.

“Fine.” I smiled. “Have your fun. Now, as you seem to be aware, the battle begins soon. A prince has plenty to do at a time like this.” 

As she turned to go, I remembered that she had mentioned a group joining her. “Take whomever you like for your group, as long as it is no more than a dozen infrantrymen.” 

She surprised me again by freezing in her steps. So that was her game—something about someone who would be in her little troop. She breathed in deeply, and an instant later she was composed again. Too casually, she turned and said, “I had a couple low knights in mind. If I take any of them, you won’t notice that they are missing.”

She walked out of the tent without waiting for a response. I sat in silence and wondered about her intentions.

“Sebastian, you heard her.”

He slid out from behind a fold in the tent’s wall. As always, he looked like a shadow and acted like a ghost. He drifted towards me lightly and bowed at my feet. 

I tolerated Sebastian’s strange foreign customs because he spied and managed spies better than anyone. If rumors of his Sunan people gathering an army had any truth, he would also be a valuable asset in the months ahead.

The whites of his dark eyes shone out from his hooded face. “Low knights, my prince, yes. Do you have any particular wishes for this task?”

Sebastian never made me say what was necessary, unless I was in the mood. “This time, yes. I want you to follow her yourself. Identify anyone of importance. If this pikeman you have been monitoring is one of her group, send a report to me immediately. And you know Ravien’s talents, so take extra care today.” 

He cringed and blinked, probably because of his pride in his skills. Let him take offense; Ravien warranted it. 

“Oh,” I remembered, “and send your spiders out to make sure these men are in the front line.” I handed him the piece of paper from Ravien. “Spare no resources, but you must stick with your battle assignments today. I want a report tonight after the victory.” 

“Understood and done, my prince.” He rose to his feet. In the few instances when he stood straight, Sebastian grabbed my attention. He was very nearly my size. Eye to eye, apparently pound for pound, he was a bronze-skinned version of myself. He bowed deeply and slid out of the tent.

I thought more of his mission and of Ravien’s. One was family and the other a foreign brother. They were like alternative versions of me, waging miniature versions of my war. I had no reason to question their love of me, but I shuddered at my increasing dependence on them. What would become of me without the few I trusted?

Chapter 17

EXPLOSIVE STRAWMEN

“Men think highly of those who rise rapidly in the world; whereas nothing rises quicker than dust, straw, and feathers.”

The Summit stood high above the front gate of his city. The army gathered below him was larger than any that had ever faced Icaria. If the reports were accurate, it was almost sixteen thousand men strong. The countless glowing fires of last night seemed to overwhelm the reports. 

As the leader of Icaria, the Summit tried to hold his composure and consider what he knew of the enemy. The bright morning and the crisp air helped; the eight-to-one numbers did not. 

The finest of Icaria’s rangers, two hundred total, had harassed this massive force at every step of its advance through the mountains. They had used Icaria’s explosives, they had rained arrows down on them, and had even engaged them directly in the narrowest mountain passes. One hundred twenty rangers had returned. Their efforts had been more effective than Icaria’s most optimistic guesses. Hundreds if not thousands of their enemies had fallen under the rangers’ assault. 

But this army marched on. The Summit marveled at their willingness to take staggering losses and continue. He had believed that only people of these mountains could survive the trek while under attack. These opponents had quickly responded to the guerilla tactics by sending out scouts out-numbering the rangers. The scouts barely knew the mountains and had far less skill, but there were enough of them to slow the pace of slaughter. 

Even the mountains’ own defenses had not stopped the army’s advance. As if beckoned by the Icarians, a brutal winter storm had swept in from the ocean to the west, clouds carrying dense snow driven by gusting winds and blasting thunder. The city’s walls had shaken at the force of it. The mountains were left under a serene blanket of snow by the time the storm passed. 

The rangers reported that the army had not stopped its march as it was pummeled by the storm. Men with plows were set at the front of the train of men, pushing snow off the thin trail and over the cliff to the chasm below. The rangers estimated that over a hundred men had fallen to their deaths during the weather’s assault. A ripping push of wind, a loose stone under foot, or the cold itself had claimed many soldiers. 

The army had barely slowed, and now it had arrived. Their camp filled the entire valley that sat below the city. Most of the men were armed and in tight formations stretching out from the edge of the ravine that separated them from the city’s gate. Clerics wisped ceremonious smoke among the soldiers, likely saying the final blessings that many of the men would hear. 

The famed prince emerged from the center of the army’s long front line. Even from a few hundred feet, the Summit could see that the leader stood apart. His blade and crown gleamed brightly, reflecting the snow. The prince turned his back to the city and roared words to his men. It looked as if he was wearing no armor. Just mere cloth, and it was all black.

The Summit decided to change his plans. Arrows could be risked for this chance. The reckless prince asked for it. 

He whispered commands to the archers around him on the wall. He raised his hand, and the bows went up with it. 

The bowstrings snapped. The Summit’s heart raced as he followed the arrows through the sky. There were at least twelve soaring towards their target. 

The prince turned. He glanced up at the arrows but did not run. Just before they landed, the prince became a blur of motion, steel glimmering. A handful of arrows pinned into the ground around his feet. The prince raised his sword and roared at the city. The men behind him echoed the shout. Two knights came to the prince’s sides, huge shields now at the ready. 

The Summit shook his head, confused. He had not expected the arrows to hit, but a few had been on target. It almost looked like the prince had dodged them. But no one could move that fast. Perhaps some of this prince’s brashness is deserved. Is it sorcery at work? 

The Summit shifted his focus to the army hauling forward a bridge. The Icarians still had the high ground and impregnable walls. The plan was to litter any bridges with bombs and watch them fall to the bottom of the deep ravine. 

“Icarians!” the Summit shouted, turning to the men around him. Some were surviving rangers with grim faces, others were younger, looking shaken. “Let’s see how his army holds against our bombs. They come in through our front gate or not at all.”

Several of the men nodded and glanced down at the piles of explosives. It was those weapons that had gotten the Icarians into this fight, and they were the only hope of getting them out of it alive. The Summit grabbed a round bomb the size of an apple. He lit the fuse and hurled the ball over the wall. It was near the middle of the ravine when it exploded. The sound, like a thunderclap, grabbed the attention of soldiers on both sides. 

The prince below lifted his arms. A long bridge began to rise up from the army, drawn with ropes anchored to pulleys. It rotated up slowly and steadily. When it was perpendicular to the ground, the bridge looked like a thin tower far overhead. It was several times the height of the Icarian wall. In the morning light, it cast a slender shadow over the full length of the valley. 

The shadow rotated as the massive structure began its fall. It seemed frozen at first, let out of control of the ropes. Then the bridge gained momentum, racing down towards the city. 

The Summit’s breath froze. The bridge was not aimed at the city’s gate. It was falling right at him. He dove and rolled along the wall. This was not a bridge to the gate; it crashed hard over the wall. 

Two men had misjudged the bridge’s landing and were crushed beneath it. The day had its first deaths, and now the long plank extended over the wall by maybe twenty feet, hanging above the city below. 

“Bombs! Now!” the Summit shouted. 

The sky filled with dark shapes flying at the bridge. The lowlanders had already scrambled onto it and were sprinting to the city. Two or three ran abreast. 

The first onslaught of bombs exploded. Men plummeted to their deaths. But many more raced ahead. Icarian arrows began to hit their marks. Dozens of lowlanders were dead in less than a minute. The bombs and arrows were wreaking havoc, but still the men came. They Icarians would run out of ammunition too soon at this pace. Even worse, the bridge held fast. In moments the men would reach the wall. 

The Summit studied the bridge, which seemed to be dark wood covered with a hard gray substance. The lowlanders had brought their own competing science. Each bomb could weaken the bridge’s joints, but it seemed too weak to break it. 

The Summit made his way to the place where bridge met wall. His Icarians were fending off the first attackers. They came at intervals that left his men enough time to brace for the next small wave. 

He ran the numbers in his head. Maybe they had powder for five hundred small bombs. His thousand men could hold off two thousand at this pace. Icaria might survive another two hours, but it would not make it many more. But so my people have chosen. We stay and fight. We go down with our home. 

The Summit had an idea. “Nalin and Therron, fall back and bring a powder keg here. Now!” 

The battle frenzy was in the two rangers’ eyes, but they obeyed without hesitating. As they sheathed their swords and sprinted away along the wall, two other Icarians took their spot on the front line. 

More lowlanders ran onto the wall, only to find an Icarian spear sticking through their bellies and out their backs. The sound of bombs exploding drowned out the screams. Bombs, arrows, and lost balance claimed hundreds on the dangerous run across the bridge. Only a few dozen men had actually engaged in face-to-face fighting by the time the two rangers showed up again at the Summit’s side. 

They had a powder keg. It was one of the last the Icarians had in storage. The Summit pointed to the bridge. The fight was growing more intense, but this had to be tried. 

The Summit charged into the melee with the two men following. His spear took out one man in his path. He grabbed the keg and helped Nalin roll it to the crux of the bridge’s hold on the wall. Without hesitation, he pulled a fuse from his waste, connected it to the keg, lit it with a small match, and ran. 

As he fled, the Summit yelled, “Run now! Turn and run!” The rangers and the rest of the nearby Icarians followed on the Summit’s heels. 

The lowlanders flooded into the spot like a river breaking free of a dam. They had expected confrontation but were met with the fleeing backs of their foes. It caused a short-lived pause and moment of strange silence, as if the sound and all of Icaria’s hope was sucked into that one burning fuse. 

The blast shattered into the air. Stone and shards shot out and showered down. The Summit had been knocked flat on his back. He could hear nothing but ringing. As he stood, he looked to where the keg had blown. The explosion left a hole in the wall wide enough for five horses. But the bridge was gone, too. The Summit peered down the ravine and saw its remnants far below.

Another roaring sound rose around him. Combined with the ringing, it was an exhilarating rush of noise. His men rallied into small groups behind his captains, his best rangers. They were down a hundred men and had one keg of powder left, but the lowlanders were down two thousand. The crashing bridge must have taken two hundred more, he guessed. 

The optimism died fast, as two more towering bridges began to rise from the army below. The Summit had guessed that there would be more, but he did not have enough powder left to destroy them. He issued orders to his leaders to form lines where the two next bridges would fall. One was aimed at the hole in the wall. It would be a straight road into the city. They would hold the gap as long as they could, but then would have to fall back. 

The Summit turned back towards Icaria’s grand hall. It was time to lead this battle from within the city. He had only one surprise left, but it was out of his power now. He hoped the Icarians could buy enough time for his old friend. He hoped he could trust the coded message he had received. If not—if this was his people’s final stand—then he would do all in his power to make the price of Icaria be the life of the Valemidas prince. 

Chapter 18

GLORY CANNOT HIDE

“It is not enough to conquer; one must learn to seduce.”

Wren woke up with a face one inch from his. A hand covered his mouth and he felt lips against his ear. Ravien’s voice commanded him to rise and follow her, ready for war. 

From that moment the day raced out of his control. He hurried after Ravien while she skirted from camp to camp, gathering men who also seemed to have no clue what the prince’s sister was doing. She left a sealed note where each man had slept, presumably authorizing whatever excuse she had for taking them. She stonewalled every question with commands of silence. Because she knew about Andor, and remembering her words on the rooftop in Valemidas, Wren resigned himself to do as she said. 

The fourth man Ravien recruited was Granville. That gave Wren some concern that she was picking off Andor’s supporters, but other reasons could explain it. The second man, like Wren, was a merchant-turned-soldier, except that his trade had been limited to fine spices. Ravien had demanded that he bring two of his finest spice boxes, into which she placed ten odd spheres as if they were as delicate as black dragon eggs. Since the spheres were metallic, Wren figured that having around a blacksmith like Granville could prove useful. The third man was renowned as a healer, with a specialty in ointments to soothe severe burns. Wren did not know the next two men, but they had stern faces and scars suggesting they were no foreigners to war. 

Then came Ravien’s last recruit—Andor. When he stepped out of his tent, Andor nodded calmly at the other men. He did not spare attention for Wren. He did not question Ravien. It was closer to the opposite—he clasped her shoulder, then bowed low in respect. That gave Wren some comfort, as he pieced together Andor’s hints of allies close to power with Ravien’s veiled messages. But he still did not like it. Wren had suspected that Ravien would act on her knowledge, but not this boldly. 

Ravien demanded silence as she led her little band away from the awakening camp. A few scouts eyed them but none tried to stop them. The group followed the edge of the ravine encircling Icaria until the city stood between them and the army. The ravine was narrower there than on the other side of the city. Where the other side opened into a valley, this side had a steep mountain face rising high behind it. 

Ravien stopped and whispered instructions to one of the men. He loaded the large crossbow that he had been wearing on his back. The bolt had a strange point, like an inverted claw, and a thick rope tied to it. 

The man steadied himself and shot the bolt across the ravine. It fired through a small metal grate on the other side, and it seemed to catch. The man then wedged the crossbow behind a huge boulder and hammered in a stake to hold it in place. He tugged the rope firmly and nodded at Ravien. 

She waved the group to follow as she grabbed the rope with both hands, swung one hand past the other, and slid off the edge of the cliff. 

Wren watched as Ravien and the other men made their way across the gap, hanging onto the rope as their feet dangled above the chasm. No one had asked him whether he was willing to do this, and he did not like the idea. They had left him with little choice. 

I wanted action. Here it is. 

He took a deep breath and clenched the rope. It held strong as he swung his hand forward and proceeded over the ravine. He tried to keep his eyes on the rope, and he dared not look down.

Upon reaching the other side, he saw Andor offering his hand with a smile. Wren took it and gave thanks when he felt the solid ground beneath his feet. The peak of Icaria loomed high over them. What had looked like man-made wall was actually a rocky cliff for nearly a hundred feet up. From there, the cliff turned into a stone wall for another fifty feet. It seemed to reach to the highest point in Icaria. Only the surrounding mountains stood higher.

Ravien pointed above. “Up.” 

Without another word, she began climbing up the cliff face. Andor was the first man to tackle the wall after her. His hands seemed to have glue on them, as every grip locked onto tiny ledges and crevices in the stone. He quickly came to an even spot with Ravien. The other men followed more slowly.

Ravien and Andor were already fifty feet up, and the other men were well on their way, when Wren began his climb. He grabbed a small hold of stone jutting out from the wall and pulled himself up. He tried to wedge his shoes into any crevice that he could find. Where Andor was a spider, Wren felt like he was a goat bouncing upwards. When he was about half way up, he risked a look down. His head dizzied at the distance between him and the ground. He would die if he fell. 

Wren resumed his climb, sweat dripping down his brow. Just as he pulled up to another small ledge, nearing the top of the cliff, an explosion above shattered his focus. Stones crashed down to his side, and a cloud of dust enveloped him. 

Wren shuddered at the temporary blindness, clenching even harder with his exhausted hands. He could hold on to this thin ledge for only so long before his grip would give. He wondered if Jon was faring any better than he was, fighting at Tryst’s side.

He thought he heard shouting somewhere above when a hand reached down through the dust and clasped his forearm like a vice. It pulled him up and then grabbed him around the waist. 

“Hold tight to me. They will pull us up.” Andor lowered his voice. “And you can trust her, for the most part.” 

“Trust her with what?” Wren asked. “Where is she leading us?”

“What makes you think she is leading?” Andor yanked the rope tied around him. “We are going to win the battle for Valemidas while saving the Icarian people. I have sent a message to their leader. He awaits us and will help ensure Tryst returns home in defeat.” 

“Then why—” Wren started, but suddenly they were hoisted up. The rough wall ended in a ledge after they had been lifted a few more feet.

“Only their leader, the Summit, knows of this plan.” Andor nudged Wren forward. “We must sneak in as enemies for it to work.”

Torch light flooded a small room where Ravien and the other men waited. There was a bed of straw tucked into one corner. The wall to his back was gone, open to the chasm below. Wren took a step away from the emptiness. 

Ravien eyed him. “Not a fan of heights?” 

Granville grunted agreement. “Even a big blacksmith like me climbs faster than you, merchant.” 

“Someone had to be ready to catch you if you fell,” Wren said. “What now?”

“We are in the Icarian prison,” Andor replied, taking on an air of command. “Their grand hall is not far from here.”

“Antony,” Ravien cut in, “you guard this room. The rest of you follow me.” A rigid glance passed between Ravien and Andor. 

She ran out of the room. Wren and the others followed close on her heels. She led them upwards through a winding series of cave-like tunnels and tight stone stairwells. In two places, when they met locked doors, Ravien halted the group and retrieved one of the small devices. She would light the fuse and dash off. She returned as an explosion blew. The door would no longer stand in their way. 

They saw not a soul as they left the prison and stepped into an alley that opened to the clear, midday sky above. Ravien led them to the end and peered around the corner. She waved for Andor and Wren to come. 

Wren saw that they had made it to a plaza before Icaria’s main hall. The hall was a huge, smooth stone building, rising from the peak of the city. The plaza had been carved into the stone itself. It had two ancient, twisted pines framing the entrance to the hall. Wren counted six guards surrounding the square, with two of them by the sides of the door. He heard the battle raging somewhere within the city, but it had not reached this far. 

Ravien pulled Wren back from the corner. She issued orders to the six men. “Two of the guards are rangers, which means the Summit has left the walls and is inside. It sounds like most of the Icarian soldiers are still near the wall. We must make this quick and quiet.” She glanced to Andor. “You ready?”

He nodded, his face focused.

Ravien beckoned the man who had fired the bolt across the ravine. He pulled out small crossbows from his bag. 

“We each get one shot,” Ravien said, “on my count of three, step out and fire. Wren, take the far left guard. Granville, the one to his right. Hal, the next to the right, and Andor, the one after that. Aim for the neck, and immediately charge your target. Put on his helmet and take his spear.” She paused. “One.” 

The men moved into position. 

“Two.” 

Wren steadied himself, crouching and eyeing his target.

“Three.”

Wren fired the crossbow. The guard’s hands went to his neck as he collapsed. Wren dashed forward to seize the fallen man’s helm and spear. The Icarian had a long beard peppered with gray. The helm had thick wool puffing out of the base, an open face and a soft leather shell. Wren guessed that it protected more from the cold than from battle. The spear was sturdy wood with a small blade at the end. 

Wren joined the others by the door. He tried to push down the sense of wrongness that accompanied his new arms. The other guards were all down, motionless. The Icarian helmets were some disguise, but they could not so quickly replicate those beards. 

Ravien motioned to Granville, who pulled out another explosive sphere from his pack. This sphere was larger, with a longer fuse. Ravien hurried away with it, around the corner of the main hall and out of sight. She returned a moment later, breathing heavily.

As Wren knelt in silence alongside the others, he fought a sudden urge to both laugh and cry. Ravien seemed drawn to danger, and that made him all the more drawn to her. This morning he had expected nothing of the day but the worst kind of cleanup, mired in the grotesque decay of a finished battlefield. Instead, Ravien had come, and now he had killed a man under her command. So, here he was, maintaining a façade of calm, because showing fear was no way to tempt a temptress. 

He studied her as she gazed out over the Icarian plaza. Aside from the few drops of sweat that beaded at her temple, she looked composed enough for the royal court. And yet, while her brother’s full army tried to ram its way to this exact spot, Ravien had beaten them to it. It seemed her force of will could have taken down the city on its own. 

She turned to Wren and caught him watching her. A smile crossed her face. “Not bad, Wren. You did better than I thought.” 

He was trying to find the right response when the explosion ripped through the air, far more intense than those before. Ravien led the men the way she had gone before. A cloud of dust and debris rose from a small hole blown open in the side of the great hall. 

Ravien nodded to Andor, with her hand held out as if she were merely an escort. 

Andor ducked in first. Wren and the others followed him closely, still in their crude Icarian disguises. 

A flurry of activity met them inside the cavernous hall. Dozens of men stood with spears at the ready, and hundreds of women and children hunkered behind them. There was terror and tenacity in the air. 

Wren remembered enough of Icarian politics to know that taking out the Summit would leave the city paralyzed, and that these people would do anything to defend him. 

“I demand the Summit!” Andor shouted. He stepped forward and kneeled, resting his sword on his palms, parallel to the ground. 

The Icarians seemed shocked for an instant before they all lurched forward and surrounded Andor and his small band. So much for the disguises, Wren thought. They were at the Icarians’ mercy now. 

Andor lifted his head and shouted again. “I demand the Summit!” 

Wren followed Andor’s gaze to a small cliff ledge far above them. Ancient runes were carved into the surrounding stone. The hall was eerily quiet, as if weighing its answer to Andor’s demand.

“You have the Summit.” One of the men lifted his spear and stepped forward. He moved with elegance as he pulled off his helm. Gray-silver hair fell to his shoulders. Unlike the Icarian soldiers around him, he had no beard and seemed to exude calm, rather than fury. 

“You call upon an old Icarian law.” The man reached out a hand to Andor. “He who demands the Summit must know the Summit’s calling.”

Andor clasped his hand and stood. His sword hung ready in his left hand. The two men met each other on an equal plane, and the room seemed to hold its breath.

“The Summit commands the mountains, “ Andor said, “for he leads the Icarians. But now Icaria face destruction. Give up your life to me, and I will save Icaria’s ways.” 

“You have the Summit.” The man turned to face the Icarians behind him. “You have heard the call and the answer, Icarians. Now I put the full vote to you. Do you give the summit to the man who demands it? Kneel to him now to answer aye.” 

No one moved. 

The Summit faced Andor again. He stood still and silent, and Wren could see a mix of sadness and satisfaction in his face. 

Behind him, the women began to kneel. The Icarian soldiers looked back over the hall, all of them still standing. One of the older men approached the Summit, clasped his shoulder, and nodded before going to a knee. The other soldiers began to drop their weapons as they knelt. It was like they were saying goodbye to their leader.

Once all around him were kneeling, the Summit handed his long blade to Andor. He spoke as if this were part of a ceremony. “You have the Summit, and you are the Summit, my life to give.” 

With those words he fell to knees and bowed before Andor. The leader pulled his long hair away to reveal the bare back of his neck. Wren heard a woman begin to cry within the hall. He could not believe it. Somehow they had gone from surrounded by enemies to Andor standing in control over the crowd.

Andor lifted the leader’s sword high and brought it down swiftly, stopping just above the man’s neck. He raised it again, the blade reflecting the candlelight that filled the hall. He looked poised to take the leader’s head off.

“I call for a vote,” Andor announced to the hall. Men and women alike gasped at his words. They rose to their feet, and murmuring spread through the crowd like wildfire. Wren heard fragments of their words. This is not the custom. He cannot be Summit until he takes his life.

“Silence,” Andor demanded. He dropped the blade and placed his hand on the back of the older man. “Your Summit rules until he gives his life, which he has done because his life is now mine to take. An army stands ready to put you all to the sword. It is too great a sacrifice to lose what remains inside these walls. As your Summit, I may call a vote, and I trust that you will elect the right destiny.”

Andor knelt and whispered something into the leader’s ear. The Summit stood and spoke to the hall. “Icarians, it is unbearable to see the fighting men of Icaria disarmed. It is equally unbearable that others who have rendered me devoted service should now die. The time has come to bear the unbearable. Swallow your tears and keep your lives. You must vote now as your Summit demands.” He looked to Andor.

“I call for a vote,” Andor repeated. “Kneel again if you wish to live, to keep me as your Summit, to keep the old laws within these mountains, to give up all your weapons, and to give up sovereignty to the Prince of Valemidas. Or, stand if you refuse surrender and want to die at the hand of the Prince of Valemidas. If you stand, I will begin by taking this man’s life.” Andor pointed at the former Summit at his side.

This time the soldiers knelt first, followed soon by the women and children behind them. Wren marveled at the unity of these people. 

The former Summit clasped Andor’s hand and lifted it high. “For the Prince of Valemidas and Icaria!” 

“For the Prince of Valemidas and Icaria,” the crowd chanted back.

“For the Prince of—”

A loud bash slammed against the main door of the hall. Another bash followed, and the door crashed open. The few Icarians between Andor’s group and the door retreated further back into the hall.

Tryst strode in with his blood-drenched sword, Zarathus, at the ready. A company of knights followed him, and Wren was relieved to see Jon among them. 

Shock swept over Tryst’s face as he locked eyes with Andor. “So it is you,” he growled. Then he charged.

“Stay back,” Andor ordered, as he stepped forward with the Summit’s long blade. Those between the two men parted. The surrounding fighters of Icaria and Valemidas watched in confused surprise. 

The princes sprang into a lethal dance. Tryst attacked with relentless fury, slamming Zarathus down at Andor. Andor managed to deflect the blows and maintain his position. He ducked under one of Tryst’s violent swings at his head, and then lunged at Tryst. The two men tumbled onto the ground, both with blades still in hand. 

Andor landed a knee into Tryst’s head and managed to pin down his sword arm. He pointed his blade at Tryst’s neck and stood slowly. 

Andor seemed frozen in place, while Tryst writhed on the ground. 

A dark figure dashed at them—Ravien. She spun behind Andor and pressed a dagger to his throat. “Let him go,” she demanded.

Andor did not react. His eyes stayed fixed on Tryst, who glared up at him. “Icarians,” Andor said calmly, “your prince lies before you. He is your conqueror. As your Summit, I submit our city to him.” 

Andor moved the point of the sword away from Tryst—slowly, reluctantly. 

Tryst surged up and slashed at Andor. Ravien jumped between them, dagger raised. The sword sparked against Ravien’s blade. The force of the blow knocked both her and Andor to the ground. 

Others sprang into action. Icarians charged towards the fight. 

“No one move!” the former Summit shouted. Icarian men had surrounded Tryst, Andor, and Ravien with spears facing out. “Foreigners’ blood may not be spilled in this hall. The city is yours my prince and my Summit.” The man dropped his spear and knelt before Tryst. “Tell me how the Icarians can serve you.” 

Tryst glared at him. “Very well, Icaria is mine.” He turned to his men. “Knights, disarm these Icarians and tie—”

An explosion went off beside the prince. A huge cloud of smoke billowed up through the hall. Wren heard people rushing, blades clanging. When the smoke cleared, Andor and Ravien were nowhere to be seen. 

Tryst stood unharmed and furious. “Close off the city,” he shouted. “Now!” He looked around frantically. “Find them!” 

In the confusion that followed, Wren rushed out through the hole they had blown through the wall before. He glimpsed Andor and Ravien darting away, the same hidden way they had come. 

Chapter 19

A FINE GRAPEVINE

“Wine can of their wits the wise beguile, make the sage frolic, and the serious smile.”

Lorien’s desire for information was deeper than hunger. She had been fighting for Andor’s cause in every way she could, coordinating pieces of his network under many guises. It made her feel closer to him, and it became the consuming passion that awakened her each morning. 

Living in the palace made her work easier. Any other betrothed of a former, deposed prince would be gone and probably dead by now, but Lorien was the half-sister of Tryst. He had demanded that she stay in her quarters while he was gone—for her safety, of course. Even locked away there, she had royal privileges and needs that required a wide variety of visitors. No one suspected anything amiss when a noble lady, a priest, or a physician came to wait upon the princess.

Still, the trickle of meaningful information had slowed recently. Her last news of Andor, delivered by Father Yeats in the ruse of a private prayer, had been only an assurance that Andor lived and recovered, and that he planned to move against Tryst soon. But this morning her maids had told her that Tryst had returned victorious, and that he wanted to see her soon. She shivered at the thought, despite the summer air. It was hard to see how he could return in victory, unless Andor had been caught. 

She had to know more, and so she had called on the best storehouse of knowledge, Selia. The mother of Wren and Jon knew everything about the city and could be trusted. Lorien had called on her only twice since Tryst had left, to avoid rousing too much suspicion. Selia’s expertise in dresses was popular among many noble ladies, so her presence in the palace would surprise no one—as long as it did not become too frequent. 

Lorien had called for the Prince’s finest summer wine to be brought from the cellars. It was a dry, crisp white wine, from the foothills of the mountains. Sipping slowly, Lorien took in the view. Her quarters had three rooms—an anteroom, a washroom, and a bedroom—and one of the palace’s rare balconies. High in the tower, the balcony afforded a view of almost the entire city and the river stretching below its southern wall to the sea.

Lorien was thinking of where Andor might hide in the city when her serving maid knocked on the door. Five knocks meant that Selia was here and her arrival had gone smoothly. Lorien took another sip of wine and braced herself for any news. 

“Send her in,” she said to her maid as she rose to her feet.

Selia swept in with a flurry. “Lorien my dear! It is an honor and a pleasure to see you, as always.” Her dark hair had gray streaks and spunk. Her eyes wore light wrinkles and cheerfulness. As much as Lorien may have doubted her subtlety, she always found herself warmed by the woman’s presence. She wore her passion like she wore her bright red flowing dress.

Lorien greeted her and offered wine. Selia accepted it with a smile. “My Princess, you know me too well.”

The two of them sat across from each other on the balcony. A maid poured Selia’s wine and stood ready to serve them. Lorien focused on learning as much as possible, while revealing as little as possible. She had seen enough signs to know that everything spoken above a whisper in her quarters made its way to Ramzi.

“That is a beautiful dress, Selia. Who is the designer?”

“Thank you!” Selia beamed. “This is by a Valemidas local known as Guillermo. You really must meet him. Lady Talnor has given him a position in her House. She snaps up all the best young designers. In fact, I think he is having a show there just this week. Won’t you consider joining me? The Talnor House always throws the grandest parties. Or maybe I could convince him to hold a special show for you?”

“That is quite thoughtful, Selia. I will think on it.” Even if Lorien could have left the tower freely, she would not be spending any time in the Talnor House. They had been among Tryst’s strongest supporters. “Tell me, what makes you like his style so much?”

Selia rattled on in cheerful monologue, discussing the ins and outs of styles and designers. Lorien prodded the discussion along. The maid poured more wine for both of them.

Selia took a long sip. “This is delicious.” 

“It is from the prince’s vineyard near the mountains.”

“Oh,” Selia smiled, “I do love the mountains. Speaking of, I know a wonderful designer from Icaria.” 

Lorien nodded, detecting the transition. 

“It is nothing fancy,” Selia continued, “but delightfully solid and warm for the winter. Just a week ago, I might have doubted whether she would be designing anything this year. Now I’m confident that she will be, since Icaria has surrendered to Valemidas. An Icarian designer would be honored to fashion a dress for the prince’s sister. What color did you have in mind? A lot of the mountain styles are in gray and other neutrals.”

“I was hoping for something more celebratory, maybe white or red? Anything dark would be out of place, wouldn’t it?”

“Why yes, something celebratory might well be suitable. Certainly no black dresses will be called for.” Selia let the words sink in.

Lorien understood, and breathed easier. Andor lived, and he still had a chance of success. “You mentioned something about Icaria’s surrender?” 

Selia nodded. “I’ll admit, I had started to grow worried since your brother and his Lycurgus had been gone for so long. I figured they would have little trouble with a mountain village. But I hear we lost many good men. I hate war, I really do. It leaves mothers like me helpless at home, in constant fear for our boys. Can you imagine my relief when I learned that my sons were alive and on their way home? Those boys are always up to trouble. I mean, I wasn’t worried. There’s no use in worrying, you know. I was concerned, that’s all. I had faith that they would come back safe.”

“It is encouraging to hear of your faith,” Lorien said. “Have your sons made it back home yet?” 

“Yes, thank God. They returned with the prince last night, and Wren spoke with me briefly before tending to his many duties. As I told you before, they were both knighted. Well, it seems Jon was even invited to join the prince’s Council of Knights. His new position kept him from coming to see me.” 

Selia sat back in her chair and took another sip of wine. She tapped the glass, and the maid poured more. “Do you plan to see your brother soon?” Selia asked.

“Yes, he plans to visit me.” Lorien leaned forward, hoping that Selia would detect her urgency. “That is a great honor for Jon. Does that mean he fought in Icaria?”

“It sure does. In fact, the craziest part of Wren’s story was how they took the city. It seems that Jon was with the prince the whole time. Once they got over the walls, the prince and his men marched right in. By all accounts, Wren said, your brother was a force during the battle. He killed dozens of men as they took over the gate to the city. Can you imagine that? A prince in the thick of the fight? Anyway, it sounds like they waltzed through the city untouched after taking the gate. The prince went straight to the main hall of the city, ready to declare victory. Only, when they arrived and battered down the door, the Icarians were kneeling throughout the hall, with their weapons down.” 

“How odd,” Lorien mused.

“You won’t believe what Wren told me next. The prince charged at a man who was a master swordsman much like himself. The other man was taller, with golden eyes, light hair and a beard.”

Lorien’s heart pounded. She looked down at her hands to avoid betraying her emotions. Andor faced Tryst. Did Andor let him live? 

“The two men fought fast and hard,” Selia continued, “and next thing you know the other man ends up on top of the prince with a sword pointed at him. Then, of all things, your sister appeared and somehow stopped this other man and saved your brother. I don’t know the details, but it seems an Icarian leader arranged for a peaceful hand over—a surrender. The prince declared victory, but Wren told me your brother still seemed unhappy. By that time, your sister and the other man had disappeared.” 

Lorien stood and began to pace. “Is he well now?” Lorien asked, emphasizing “he” in a way that meant Andor but sounded like her brother.

“I think so,” Selia answered. “The rumors have been all over the place. You can’t trust half of them.”

“You certainly can’t trust the rumors,” Lorien said. “What happened next?” 

“Wren heard from Jon that later that night Prince Tryst got heavy into some wine. As you know, he’s not one to indulge in drink, so it had quite the effect. Apparently he kept saying the name of that other man and demanding that anyone in Valemidas or anywhere else who supported him be rooted out. He put Jon in charge of the search. The next morning, Tryst set the Lycurgus off on a brutal march, even faster than their trek into the mountains. Would you believe it if I told you they left the mountains just a couple weeks ago?”

“What happened with Jon’s search?”

“Jon and his men have not found anything yet. It is said that many soldiers and knights have begun declaring their loyalty to this challenger, but do not worry about your brother. There has been no attempt at a coup.” Selia’s voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “Even here in Valemidas, people are whispering that the other man could be our last prince returned, and that he should have the throne. Now, that is treason in my book, but it sounds like maybe the nobles have forgotten that. They are supposed to be the stable force in this city, but lately they seem as fickle as everyone else. The streets are bustling with an energy I haven’t seen in a long time. Surely that is because your brother has returned, right?”

“Surely it is,” Lorien said. “But I am concerned about this threat. How can we help Jon’s search?” She glanced at her maid, who stood still as a statue. 

“I think Jon has enlisted good helpers,” Selia said. “Like Ulysses and Father Yeats.” 

Men loyal to Andor. 

“Do not fear, my Princess. They will find this threat. But maybe you can help by talking to the prince about it. You know he can trust Jon, so encourage him to give Jon as much authority as he can.” 

“Yes, I will consider that.” Lorien breathed in deeply. Andor would take back what was rightfully his. She exhaled. She put every air of formality into her next words. “Thank you, Selia. You have been helpful. I do look forward to seeing the Icarian dresses when we next meet.” 

Selia stood. “If I may be so bold,” she said, “there is one more thing I must mention.”

Lorien motioned for her to continue.

“It’s a message that Wren wanted me to pass along. He said you’d know it, something an old bard once said about young love. ‘My bounty’—wait, let me make sure I get the cadence right.” Selia continued in a measured voice, “The message is,

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

The more I have, for both are infinite.”

“Thank you,” Lorien said, fighting back a wave of emotion.

“Farewell, my dear lady.” Selia bowed and walked out. 

When she could no longer hear Selia’s steps, Lorien fled to her bedroom and closed the door behind her, shutting out the maids. She let go of the joyous tears she had held back. Andor was alive, and his message meant he would return and they would marry. Her Icarian dress would not be ready in time. 

Chapter 20

FEAR MONGERING

“The essential vice, the utmost evil, is pride. It is the complete anti-God state of mind.”

Ramzi dreaded Tryst’s visit. The prince would be in a foul mood, returning to Valemidas without the head of the Icarian leader. He would not have set off to conquer the insignificant city if conquering meant only another subservient outpost. And, if Ramzi’s reports were right, a leader had sprung up against Tryst’s will. A leader rumored to look like Andor. 

Ramzi still did not believe it. It was impossible to escape the Gloaming. But what if the deposed prince had? 

Ramzi and his followers would find Andor and assassinate him. His god had answered his prayers before, and he would do so again. More sacrifices to the Gloaming would be needed. No more leaving anything to chance. 

Tryst’s journey had also brought successes. He had won his victory over Icaria, and there was no question that the city served him. The only question now was how obedient it would be. Those were the perfect ingredients for exporting a noble patriarch to deal with the frozen place. And Tryst had won Albemarle, too. That town was a plump treasure—much finer than Icaria—and Tryst could perhaps even satisfy Sir Talnor by giving him control there. Tryst could steamroll a few other villages to clear out more nobles. 

Yes, Ramzi assured himself, we will dismantle the nobles and eliminate the limits they impose on the prince. That was the only sure way to his victory. When Tryst gained complete control, then Ramzi’s god would give him control over Tryst. Control must reside in the ultimate source of power. Divine power. 

The time would then be right for Ramzi’s people, the Sunans, to invade. Ramzi would make Tryst swear fealty or die. Ramzi and his god would be the master of this city. He who ruled Valemidas led the world.

But Ramzi’s plan still had a problem—the weak loyalty and faith of the Valemidans. They bristled at Ramzi’s command, shunning the laws designed to make their lives better. These were little things. Why can’t they obey? If they signed up for identification numbers, then the city would have a full registry of inhabitants. If he had a full registry, then Ramzi could ensure that everyone cooperated with giving first sons to the Lycurgus. The Lycurgus would be faithful to Tryst and to him, which would ensure unity and discipline and peace. It was the people’s own good. Surely they would see that in time.

Ramzi considered again the ways he might phrase his report to Tryst. He would explain that the people were coming around. All of his new laws made sense. He would tell Tryst about yesterday’s change. He had ordered that the older children of Valemidas be schooled in the virtues of the new system. They would be taught a more orderly life, because it would be a safer life. If they couldn’t learn that themselves, Ramzi would make them. The right changes had begun.

A knock pounded on the door. “You may enter,” Ramzi said, expecting one of this clerks with a report.

“Ramzi, good evening!” Jacodin Talnor sauntered through the door, smelling of ale. “You don’t look happy to see me. Were you expecting your dear prince?” 

Ramzi stared down the pompous young noble, who took a seat in the lone chair of the chamber—without asking. As much as Ramzi would like to belittle the noble’s son, he could not risk a fight. He leaned against the window, facing the young man. “Jacodin, I always liked you half as much as a noble’s son, and now it seems you are a knight. Did you kill any Icarians?”

“Well, no,” Jacodin stammered, “or not directly anyway. I mean, I was there for the battle. You should have seen the men of Valemidas storm the walls. We crushed them!”

“No doubt,” Ramzi said. “But now you interrupt your celebrations to visit me. Why do I deserve such an honor?”

“Never up for fun, are you Ramzi? This is my first night back in Valemidas and the Prince is throwing the first feast for the nobles in honor of the victory. I was heading out for it when my father gave me a message. He insisted that I deliver it to you in person.” The noble pretended to be solemn. “Hear now the words of Sir Ryn Talnor. It was something about—” The boy belched.

“Out with it.” Ramzi did not have time for this imbecile.

Jacodin nodded. “The gathering will be called tomorrow. House Talnor stays with you, my father says, but others are drifting. Beware of House Davosman. Much is at risk.” Jacodin stood and stretched like a rooster about to crow. “That’s the message. He didn’t tell me anything else. If that’s all…?”

“If there’s nothing else, then you may leave.” Ramzi’s mind was dicing through the implications of the message, and why the noble would have used his son as his messenger.

“I know I may leave,” Jacodin said. “For a puppet of the Prince, you sure do think you’re important. Don’t forget your place.”

Ramzi glared at him. He was just the kind of man who needed stronger shackles. “Enjoy your evening…while you can.”

Jacodin’s brow raised, but he shrugged the comment off. “You should join the festivities tonight. You look like you could use a drink.” 

As the young knight left, Ramzi focused on the message. Others are drifting—he pieced the words together again. They could only mean that Tryst was losing the nobles’ support. That could not be happening already. Ramzi’s efforts had been nothing short of groveling for the nobles. Surely they had seen his increased taxes on the people. Ramzi had not applied his laws to the nobles’ traditions, taxes, or politics. They had served their purpose in putting Tryst in power. It was not yet time to end their positions once and for all. 

No, the people must fear the prince more. Only then will the nobles be ripe for destruction. 

Ramzi began to pace, thinking again of how he would present this to Tryst. It was bad enough to start with the prince’s foul mood. Then came the setbacks in Valemidas. Ramzi resolved not to mention the Talnor message, not tonight anyway. 

He sat in the chair that Jacodin had occupied and stared into the fire. It was burning low and needed wood. He rubbed his hands together to keep away a growing chill. Where were his clerks, anyway? Tryst must have returned to his chambers by now. He decided to put on another log himself. 

As he rose to his feet, he felt cold hands clamp down on his shoulders and shove him back to the seat. 

“Don’t move.” It was Sebastian’s voice. “No noises, either. I hope you can keep your cool better than you did with that knight. You need to tell me a few things.”

The tall man walked around Ramzi’s chair. He was wearing all black as usual. Ramzi’s stomach roiled. This was not the first time the spy had appeared unannounced in his room. Why did the man always have to show up at his back, catching him off guard? Being around him was like sitting in a tub of cold water, under Tryst’s shadow. Ramzi had no chance against him alone.

Sebastian casually picked up a round log resting by the fireplace and poked at the dwindling flames. “You see,” Sebastian said, “if you leave a fire alone, it goes out peacefully. The coals slowly burn away, leaving only a pile of ash. You can then toss out the ash and make ready for your next fire.” He tossed the log into the fire and crouched to watch it burn. The flames licked the edges of the dry wood and ignited it, refueling the blaze. 

Sebastian stood, took two steps closer to Ramzi, and crouched to one knee. “But if you add more logs to the fire, it just keeps burning. The fire gets bigger, and then it’s not so easy to put out. There’s nothing peaceful about it.”

Ramzi could not keep his patience any longer. “You are wasting my time, Sebastian. Quit hiding behind riddles. If you have no official business here, then I will be going. The prince will want to see me tonight.”

“Are you so blind? The prince certainly does not want to see you tonight. You have failed miserably as his Minister. This city is boiling with discontent.”

“I did only as the prince and I had agreed,” Ramzi said. “The changes I made are minor, designed to improve the lives of the people. The prince will understand, even if you can’t.”

“Oh?”

“You lurk in the darkness. I am bringing justice—law and order as revealed by my faith, the faith you’ve abandoned. The people’s excesses that must be restrained. Fighting, drinking, the public show of women’s skin, disorderly streets, loud voices, disobedient children—these vices are a plague on the people. You must know this, we share it.” Ramzi touched the tattooed stars by his eye, hoping to remind Sebastian of his own Sunan symbol and what it meant.

“We share nothing but the city of our birth,” Sebastian snapped. “You are a plague on freedom, and you have left a stain on the prince’s reputation. I did not come here to listen to your defenses. I want answers. First, what did that message from Talnor mean? Why beware of Davosman?”

Ramzi hesitated. “That message was for me and the prince. You have no right to it. You have no privileged position with him, compared to me.”

“You know my authority is from the prince.” Sebastian leaned towards Ramzi. “But tonight you will answer my questions because I will kill you if you do not.” He raised a curved blade, which glinted in the fire’s light. “And if you do not answer my questions well enough, I will pull the answers out of you.” He stepped back and leaned against the mantle. He began whittling a piece of firewood. “I will ask one more time. What did that message mean?”

Ramzi did not resist. He stammered out the rough outline of his thoughts. He said without lying that he did not know exactly what the message meant.

Sebastian sat quietly for a while before speaking again. “My second question is about Ravien. What do you know about her relationships?”

Ramzi could not suppress a laugh. “You are the spy here. I know hardly a thing about the prince’s sister, or her relationships. Why would I care?”

“What do you know?”

“Almost nothing. I know that she wants me to know nothing.” Ramzi paused. “I will admit this, because I think many have the same story. Long ago she rejected my interest in her. No man can ignore the woman, but she operates as if men don’t exist…except for her brother. Why do you ask?”

Sebastian shook his head. “Tell me what you know about a merchant named Wren.”

“Less than I would like. I know that he was part of the opposition to Tryst, before he became prince. I haven’t heard a thing about him in a long time. Again, you are the spy. Why are you asking me these questions?” 

Sebastian stared at him flatly. Ramzi wondered whether there was some connection between Ravien and Wren. He doubted it. She would never stoop for a merchant, particularly a greedy one opposed to her brother. Ramzi was more intrigued by Sebastian’s questions—signs of weakness. Maybe this was all bluffing by the spy. He should know better than to seek answers from the Prince’s advisor. The advisor analyzed information and guided the prince. It was Sebastian’s job to provide the information in the first place.

“One last question,” Sebastian said. “What do you make of these rumors that Andor showed up in Icaria?”

Ramzi rose to his feet. “Andor is gone. He is in the Gloaming, and Tryst is our prince. Even if Andor came back, he would have no power, because my god, our Sunan god, would personally see to it that he dies. His Excellency in Sunan commanded it!” 

Sebastian’s eyes burned with excitement. “Thank you. We are finished here. Tryst is not going to be pleased.”

Sebastian stepped forward. Ramzi began to back away. He raised his arms too late as Sebastian sprang at him. The spy slammed the hilt of his blade into Ramzi’s head, knocking him unconscious. 

Sebastian left the fallen advisor alone on the floor. He moved on to his next mission—kidnapping the prince’s sister.

Chapter 21

BECOMING ONE

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.”

Lorien was alone when Sebastian appeared in her bedroom soon after dusk. He said nothing as he seized her, tied her up, and rappelled out of the tower with her in his arms. She left the city hooded and bound on the back of his horse.

Panic flooded her mind at first. Then fear. Then resignation. But confusion replaced those feelings when Sebastian removed the hood. She faced an isolated stone cottage outside the city’s walls. Ravien waited in the door. She welcomed Lorien in and told her the news: this was the night she would marry Andor.

Lorien’s mind was reeling as she dressed. How is this possible? She had envisioned months to prepare for a wedding—with thousands crammed into the Valemidas Cathedral. The people would have craned their necks to see her in this gown. It was structured at the top and freeform at the bottom, with infinite layers of silk spilling to the ground from the bodice. A diamond pendant plunged down from her bare neck, and a silver diadem framed her hair.

She ran her hands along the white fabric. Looking into a mirror, she thought that her mother would have looked a lot like this on her wedding night, with the same long curls framing her face. It was a pleasant memory until her thoughts bounced from her mother to her father to her half-brother. I will not let Tryst spoil this night. 

“What ill thought just swept over your face?” Ravien asked. 

 Lorien kept her eyes on the mirror, but glanced at the other face reflected there. It was sharper, darker, but with the same mouth and the same eyes. 

“The thought was of our brother,” Lorien said. “It came, and it is gone. I will not be thinking of him again tonight.”

“Tryst will recover.” Ravien began to tie the delicate ribbons that stretched from Lorien’s back to her waist. “He shares more of my blood than yours, and I believe he holds to truth in his core. But you are right, no more thoughts of him. Tonight is about you and Andor.” 

Lorien sighed. “I wish I knew more about his past months. Father Yeats and Selia hinted that he has changed.” She turned to face her sister. “Can you tell me more?” 

Ravien smiled. “He loves you more than ever. I do not want to say things that he should tell you himself.”

“Will he be ready to face Tryst?”

Ravien lifted her brow. “Maybe, but they are more than enemies. I believe our brother will help Andor in the end. We need both of them. Remember what our father said on his death bed?”

Lorien nodded, her mind drifting. Her father had looked so weak. Covered in a light sheet, his body half its normal size, pale and fragile. Where a huge, powerful man had once laid, a shriveled body had rasped out its last breaths, under the weight of poison from an unknown source. He had called his two daughters forward before he said his last words to his son. The words to his daughters had shaken Lorien then, and they still did. 

I leave Tryst in your keeping. He needs your protection, not from those outside, but from what’s inside. Love him, and make sure Andor stays close to him. Andor would be the better prince. My son should never have the throne.

“I remember,” Lorien said. “Is that what’s been driving you all these years?”

“I think father was right. He always did have a talent for prediction.”

Lorien looked into the mirror. “He predicted this night.” 

“Truly?” Her sister’s voice held a rare hint of surprise. “You were so young, and Andor was five years older than you. What did father say?”

“He told me that I must be kind to Andor. I asked father why. He wore that wry old smile that stretched over his entire face. He knelt down to me and whispered, ‘Lorien, you will marry Andor. I have seen it in both of your eyes.’ I told him that a potential prince would never marry me. Father laughed at that and scooped me up into a great bear hug. Despite what I said then, I took his words to heart.”

“So you did,” Ravien said. “I wish father were here to see you tonight. He would be proud.”

“Proud of both of us.” Lorien grinned at her sister. “But I think he might be confused to see you wearing black.”

Ravien shrugged her bare shoulders. “At least it is a dress, rather than leather. And—”

A knock on the door interrupted them.

“Come in,” Ravien said. 

Wren stepped inside and bowed low to Lorien. “Thank you, my lady. You look beautiful.” His gaze turned to Ravien. “And you look ravishing.” 

Lorien’s breath caught as he took her sister’s hand—and she did not resist, only smiling in return. 

“All is prepared,” Wren said. “Are you ready?”

The sisters nodded, and Wren led them out into the summer night. A chorus of insects and frogs heralded their approach to a small barn on the bank of the River Tyne. The barn was built of river stones, covered in ivy, and hardly big enough to hold a dozen horses. 

Father Yeats waited at the entrance, leaning against the worn wooden doorway. As usual, he wore a plain brown robe and a smile. “The wedding party has arrived!” He bowed and made way for them to enter. Ravien and Wren slid through the cracked door.

Yeats stopped Lorien. “If I may have a word?”

“What is it, Father?” Lorien tried to sound calm. She still had many questions. 

“All is well,” Yeats said. “Andor is doing as well as we could hope, but he will have great need for you in the days to come. I believe no other man could have survived what he did.” 

“What exactly did he survive?” Lorien asked. 

“That is not for me to say. Andor wanted me to assure you that he will tell you everything, and that his love for you is as strong as it ever was. It is important to have the ceremony now, while you can, before more dangers come. Is this what you want?” 

Lorien nodded. She did not like knowing so little, but she would not cower at the uncertainty. She would trust Andor.

“Come,” Yeats held out his arm, “I will escort you in.”

As they walked through the door, the brightness and the faces overwhelmed Lorien. The tiny building was packed. It was lit by candles glimmering along the walls and the ancient wooden rafters above. The soft light danced on the people’s faces. Many were friends she had not seen in months, all of them loyal to Andor. 

Andor stood at the far end of the room. Wren was at his side. Once Lorien’s eyes met his, everything else melted away. His presence was commanding, like that of a god among men in the golden light of the room. 

She walked down the makeshift aisle to him. He reached out his hands as she stepped to his side. He looked at her with the same intensity she remembered. He swept her into his arms and held tight, as if he would never let go. Tears swelled in her eyes.

He stepped back and knelt before her. “Lorien, will you marry me?” 

She took a deep breath to steady herself. A smile spread across her tear-streaked face. “Yes.” 

The guests cheered as they embraced again. Father Yeats raised his arms to commence the ceremony. 

He began to recite the rite of marriage. Lorien and Andor said their vows, sealing themselves together. As Yeats declared them man and wife, Andor pulled her close and touched his lips to hers. 

The crowd erupted in cheers again. Andor squeezed her hand, and the two of them turned to face the room. Andor raised his hand, holding it high until the room was still again.

“Thank you, friends. We would not be here without you. Lorien and I owe you our deepest gratitude. There is a steep road ahead, but let’s take this time to recognize what you all have done to bring us to this special night.”

The room was quiet. All eyes were fixed on his. 

“We give thanks to Scarlett and the women from her inns. They hid Ravien and me as we made our escape from the mountains to Valemidas.” In the back of the room, three beautiful women bowed deeply. 

“We give thanks to Ulysses, Tel, and their knights,” Andor continued, “who helped keep Valemidas safe. They held back Ramzi without inciting a rebellion before it was ready.” 

Ulysses, Tel, and the men around them beamed in response. Lorien recognized some of their faces as the men who had escorted her visitors to the tower in recent weeks.

“We give thanks to Pikeli and Laniel,” Andor said. “You learned who I was and kept the secret.” 

A slight, average-looking man hopped up in the middle of the room. “You hide like a giant in a room of ants!” 

The crowd laughed until Andor held his hand up again.

“We give thanks to Sebastian. He remained loyal to me, without my enemy ever knowing it. He misdirected the prince. He handled Ramzi and brought my bride to me, earning the first part of his reward. You have my word, Sebastian, that I will deliver on my promise.” Andor’s grip on her hand tightened. 

The foreign man nodded grimly. Lorien felt a shiver run down her spine—she was thankful for his help, but she still not trust him. He was a dangerous man, a Sunan, and she had no idea what the first, much less second, part of his reward would be.

“We give thanks to Selia, who hosted me and then helped Lorien build my support here in Valemidas—all without detection. The wives of many men have been whispering in their ears of my imminent return.” 

The bright woman curtsied in the first row. “Anything to stop these laws about head-to-toe clothes.” She laughed and spun. Her yellow and orange dress swirled around her.

“We give thanks to Father Yeats,” Andor continued. “He is a rock of truth in this world. He nourished me when I was at my lowest. I would not be here, if not for him.” 

The old priest smiled. “The light shines through you, Prince Andor. You have faced despair and felt the touch of light. Continue to seek it, and you will grow. If you grow, we will all be ruled in justice and righteousness.”

Andor nodded, then turned to Wren. “Last, and far from least, we give thanks to Wren and Jon. They have been my friends for many years, and they stayed loyal when many fell away. They risked everything they had earned to accompany me on the journey. They served their roles like mighty men. Words cannot do justice to their feats. Even now, Jon stays close to Tryst but remains loyal to me. I wish he were here now, but his absence is one of our greatest securities, and a key to our victory.”

Andor bowed and stepped aside. “And now to began repaying, I give the stage to Wren and Ravien.” 

Lorien saw puzzled looks on the guest’s faces, much like her own. The confused murmur in the crowd turned into applause as Father Yeats stepped forward again. 

Ravien came to Lorien’s side. Her face wore a rare, sheepish grin. “I wanted to tell you. I promise! I did not want to distract you before your own wedding.”

“Tell me what?” Lorien asked.

“Wren proposed yesterday.”

Lorien gasped. “How did—? I don’t understand.”

Wren took Ravien’s hand and beamed proudly. “We found a common cause weeks ago. It brought out something your sister did not expect.”

“Nor did I,” Lorien said. “But I am not surprised that my sister kept it hidden.”

“I’m not sure even I fully knew,” Ravien said, “until Andor and I talked on our journey back to Valemidas. The way he spoke of you helped me realize what I felt.”

“And why delay?” Wren asked. “We have no guarantee of what tomorrow will bring.”

“Wise words.” Father Yeats asked them several questions to confirm all was ready. He soon instructed them to take their places and began the second marriage ceremony. 

As he spoke the ritual words again, Lorien marveled at the pair. Ravien was the elusive princess. Wren was the sharp man of the world. She was the dark mystery. He was the trading savant. They were both like assassins, her in royal politics and him in trade. Perhaps their differences faded compared to what was underneath. Lorien still had questions, but she would not protest.

The ceremonies ended as they began, with cheers and joy. Father Yeats encouraged the guests to celebrate at the Morning Crest, an inn where neither knights nor nobles would be found. He then led the couples outside.

“My deepest congratulations to you four.” He touched each of their foreheads as a blessing, and then said his farewell. 

The couples parted and Andor took Lorien’s hand. He led her along the River Tyne, farther from Valemidas. The song of katydids filled the night, and fireflies hovered above the glistening river. Ahead a dark figure rested on a slender boat at the water’s edge.

“I see you, Andor,” said the man.

“You are hidden as always, Sebastian.” 

“Out of sight, out of mind. All is ready.”

They were quiet as they boarded and Sebastian rowed across the broad river. Once they were half way across, Lorien could see the lights of Valemidas far off, raised up like a torch in the midnight landscape. 

As they drew close to the south shore, Sebastian dragged the boat to land. Andor stepped out, and before she could protest, swept her up into his arms. They both laughed as he climbed up the bank. Sebastian stayed behind on guard.

“You know I can walk myself.” Lorien looked up into Andor’s eyes. 

He smiled. “Consider it a favor. I owe you much for waiting, for trusting me.”

“I’m still waiting.”

“Not much longer now.” Andor carried her uphill to the surface of a large stone looming twenty feet above the river below. 

A huge structure sat atop it. 

“How did you—?” Lorien gasped. 

Four posts rose from the structure’s corners, and stones had been stacked to form low walls. Candles burned in nooks along the sides. A feathered bed formed the floor, and the moon and stars provided the ceiling. 

Andor laid her down gently, then joined her. “Hope for this night preserved me while I was away.”

They had been apart for so long, but their bodies felt like home beside each other. She took hold of his arm and ran her fingers along the scars. “Tell me what happened. Yeats hinted at things, but he held back much.”

“The memories are painful.” Andor sighed uneasily. “I feel like I conquered death to get out of the Gloaming.”

She stared at him. “What is it?”

“A city underneath the palace’s dungeons. A prison. A hell.” He closed his eyes. “I was brought to nothing down there, resigned to die. Then a man named Lucian died to save me, and I glimpsed a divine light. Lucian’s sacrifice is what it took to make me understand.”

Lorien studied her new husband’s face, waiting for him to continue. His quiet and calm demeanor did not fit with his broken words. 

His eyes opened. “I will tell you more,” he said, “but my focus now is on prevailing in this first battle. What comes after that is harder.” 

“You mean restoring our city to what it once was? Why is that harder?”

“Restoration is always harder than destruction.” Andor’s voice was measured as he looked into Lorien’s eyes. “We must restore Tryst. I cannot let myself kill him. After we defeat him, we will cast him down to the Gloaming. I will tend to Valemidas in the following days, but soon after I must go down there for him, to try to bring him back.”

“Why?” Lorien could not suppress her surprise. “I feared that you would have grown more harsh. I did not expect you to soften towards the man who betrayed you.” 

“Our love for Tryst, the fallen man that he is, requires that we give him the same opportunity I had…in the Gloaming.”

“Love for Tryst?” Lorien asked flatly. “Whatever love he had from me is lost. You cannot love him after what he did to you.” She traced the outlines of his brow and cheekbones. “You cannot sacrifice yourself for him. He is not worth it. I will not have your life traded for his again.”

“He has been corrupted under Ramzi’s guidance, but I believe he can be brought back. He would not have rebelled against me if not for Ramzi’s poisonous words, his foul sorcery, seeping into his mind. It would be a shame to lose the great man who still lives deep inside Tryst.”

“I don’t care about what he once was. I care about what we are going to be. The risk will be too great if you go.”

“If I am to serve the light, then I must do this.” His face was patient, imploring. “I have come back once from the Gloaming, and I will come back again.”

Lorien shook her head. “It will be hard enough to depose him here in Valemidas. If we succeed in that, he will only hate you more. Meeting him in the Gloaming is a death wish.”

“He will be weakened down there. After a week of starvation, he will be ready to mend his ways. Ravien assures me that he is open to change. She would not have helped me if she did not believe that, and I would not be here if she had not helped me.”

“My sister put you up to this?”

“Your sister is responsible for me being here today, and her only condition was that I not cast away my prior love for her brother, and yours. If Tryst listens to me, I come back with him. If he does not, I come back alone. Either way, I will return to you.”

The words of Lorien’s father echoed in her mind. Love Tryst, and make sure Andor stays close to him. She could not disregard her father’s charge, nor Andor’s conviction. The weeks of plotting were ingrained on his face. 

She closed her eyes as the truth sank in. Despite the many words that had not yet passed between them, part of her understood Andor’s change, his commitment. Perhaps it was his way of revenge—absorbing the pain, instead of returning it. She would not stand in the way of this, but she would not lose him. She resolved to support Andor, come what may, and to live fully in this moment. 

“If you do not return,” she said, pressing her hand to his chest, “I will come after you. You are mine, and I will not allow you to be lost in a prison cave.”

“I will not be lost again.” Andor smiled up at her. “I have seen the light, and it has brought me to you.” He leaned closer, and the touch of their lips said more than their words ever could.

Chapter 22

THE SCALE TIPS

“The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time, with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.”

The sky was full of amorphous clouds, the kind that Jon loved to watch. He lay on the grass of the palace grounds, looking for shapes in the soft wonderland above. A breeze rustled leaves in the trees above and played on his skin. He glimpsed a large cloud splitting in two. The smaller piece of the cloud seemed to have ripped itself out, as if determined to find its own plot of sky for itself. 

Jon sat up, feeling anxious. He wished Wren were around. He had hardly seen his brother since their knighting in Albemarle, and not at all since leaving Icaria. Jon thought Wren would probably rather be in their store than lying in the grass. If he were in Jon’s position now, Wren would turn his ambition to forecasting every move that Tryst and all the other players might make. 

But that was Wren. Jon could not bring himself to overthink his task today. The weather was beautiful. Just as there were divisions in the sky, divisions would soon rip through Valemidas. Rather than worrying about the others, Jon tried to focus on his own duty. 

He stood and strolled through the grounds, towards the palace’s central keep looming above. He approached a sanctuary of ancient trees beside the stone walls. Something about the trees, and the soft grass underneath, helped ease Jon’s concerns. As much as the city churned, these grounds remained in balance year after year.

Jon stepped into the small amphitheater where the Prince and nobles would soon meet. Wedged between the palace grounds’ towering trees and the central keep, the meeting site had witnessed much of Valemidas’ political history. It was a small venue for such events, a snug fit for a hundred people. The flat ground gave way to steeply sloping stone benches carved into the earth. The bowl was cut in half by the keep’s walls rising almost a hundred feet above, forming the back of the amphitheater. The bottom of the bowl was perhaps ten paces across, and in its center rose a small platform, half as tall as a man. 

Everything about the design was simple, functional. Yet the spot gained grandeur from its setting. Stuck between the walls and the trees, the semi-circle felt hidden, submerged in the ground. And usually it was ignored, except when for the rare day when the nobles called upon the Prince. 

Jon watched as a few nobles began to gather and take their places on the lower benches. He made his way to the platform. Last night the nobles had joined Tryst for a feast to celebrate the victories over Icaria and the renewed allegiance of Albemarle. Jon had been there, and had tried to steady Tryst when he got heavy into the wine. 

The prince had been in a rage about his missing sister Lorien, but he had been too proud—or drunk—to announce that she was gone and start a search. Tryst had been keeping Jon too close for him to know what the others were planning. He trusted Andor and Wren would tell him what he needed to know. 

At the celebration, many of the nobles had complained about how Valemidas had changed, and for the worse, since Tryst became prince. Jon guessed that someone had sown discontent among them while Tryst was away. The rumors of Andor’s return had fueled that discontent. Some of the nobles had loved Andor and had been grieved upon his disappearance. They would support him now, if he were to return. The nobles filling the amphitheater talked among themselves in an eager, rebellious tone. Jon thought of a pack of hyenas, ready to attack a wounded lion.

The bells of the palace’s chapel began to sound midday. The last bell rang and left an echo in the air. Just as the echo faded, the sound of a trumpet boomed into the amphitheater. 

Tryst entered from the side. His head was lifted, proud, triumphant. He wore his usual black. Striding purposefully, he came to the front of the platform, without gifting anyone with eye contact. He stepped up and stood in front of the lone chair. It was a simple stone block, set in the middle of the platform, with the keep’s wall serving as its back. The seat afforded a view of everyone in the amphitheater.

Trailing behind Tryst was the rest of his Knight’s Council. Jon felt out of place as the nine other members of the Council, in full armor, approached in a formal line. They fanned out into positions along Tryst’s right and left. Jon went to join them as they fell into rank, with Jon furthest to Tryst’s left.

While Tryst took his seat, the knights remained standing, poised for action. The nobles settled into their seats with growing unease, casting furtive glances at each other. Silence lingered and the space seemed to shrink, with everyone enclosed within this normally peaceful nook of the palace grounds.

Tryst finally spoke. “This is your show, nobles. You called it, you run it. What do you want of me?” His voice dripped of contempt. His body did the same, as he lounged back, relaxing as if he had not the faintest concern. 

More time passed in silence. There were little movements and occasional whispers among the nobles, but nobody took action. Nobody said a word that could be heard on the platform. Jon began to feel rigid from the inaction and the quiet.

At long last the bells of the chapel rang again, followed by one last ring to announce the first hour of the afternoon. Tryst sprang to his feet, and the nobles jerked up as well. All were standing as the sound of the bell faded.

“You are due another hour here.” Tryst took a step forward. “Why are you wasting my time, the people’s time?” As he stepped to the edge of the platform, the nobles pressed back into their seats. “Answer me. Answer for yourselves.”

Silence again. Tryst pulled his sword out and motioned for his knights to advance. 

“You have never had an answer for the prince or the people. You are pompous leeches, sucking the life out of our great city. The people do not need you. I have heard their desires. They want order and meaning in their lives. They do not care for your histories and customs. We live for today and the future, not the past. You nobles are a dead people to them.” His voice continued to rise, in volume and in threat. “This will be the last day you call upon me, the last day you can claim to have power separate from the people. They elected me prince. You are no longer necessary. Kneel and give up your titles now, or you will not leave here alive—” 

“A prince may never threaten the nobles!” one of the men shouted. 

“Who said that?” The prince scanned the nobles. “Men of the Lycurgus!” he called out. 

Several nobles began to step forward. Justus Davosman stood in the front. Soldiers flooded into the amphitheater, charging from the grounds. Jon focused on his duty: to protect the prince. 

To his right, the prince’s knights broke into fighting among themselves. He saw Ulysses dive at the prince and send them tumbling off the platform.

He drew his sword and ran towards the fight. He leapt off the raised platform and landed in the middle of a group of soldiers. They were advancing in phalanx—their huge shields becoming a wall that encircled the prince. Outside the ring, Jon saw others fighting for their lives. One of Tryst’s knights had crossbow bolts pinned into his back. Around him lay the bodies of several men. 

Jon turned again and saw that Tryst had broken the line of men around him. Jon sprinted after him, up the stairs and out of the amphitheater. Jon reached him as two of Tryst’s other knights charged ahead at a wall of shielded men. Jon could no longer tell friend from foe. 

The first knight to reach the phalanx rolled below the wall’s protruding spears and slashed upward, throwing a few men back. Tryst and the other knight seized the instant and carved into the gap in the shields. They broke through the line, only to face a row of crossbowmen. 

The Prince’s black figure was everywhere, followed by the blur of his sword. Zarathus no longer shone—it was covered in blood. The prince darted away, but more and more men surrounded them. Tryst dodged attacks and sliced his way into the onslaught.

“I am the Prince!” The shout stopped Tryst cold. 

Jon turned to the voice and saw Andor standing below in the amphitheater, before the stone throne. Most of the fighting had ended.

“Stand down!” Andor commanded.

Jon knelt cautiously for his true prince, but kept his sword at the ready. The men around him had just been trying to kill him.

Tryst stood beside Jon, staring into the bowl at Andor. He turned and looked down into Jon’s eyes and clasped his shoulder. He then reached up slowly and slid off the crown. His black hair fell flat, moist from the fight and no longer framed in silver. Jon thought he saw a bittersweet light flicker across Tryst’s solemn face as he fell to his knees.

“A prince will never threaten the nobles.” Andor’s voice filled the amphitheater. He pointed at his betrayer. “You, Tryst, have violated their trust and your oath to serve. I have returned and stand ready to retake the throne that you stole.”

Jon scanned the crowd. The knights loyal to Tryst seemed to have all been cut down. The other soldiers seemed to be obeying Andor. Many nobles had fled. Perhaps a dozen stood confidently, gazing at Andor. A few nobles had been bound by soldiers.

* * *

Father Yeats stood beside Andor with a look of approval. He had counseled Andor that this should not be a revolution. It was important to preserve order and tradition. An uprising or a revolt would be too much. It left a taste in peoples’ mouths. Once people had that taste, they remembered it. They could dwell on the possibility of change, if only for change’s sake. 

Between change and tradition, Father Yeats had explained, tradition was the better course. He knew it was a hard lesson for a prince, but that made it all the more important. 

Andor had agreed without much debate. He seemed ready to agree with Father Yeats on many more things since his time in the Gloaming. The old priest had not hesitated in blessing this plan of Andor’s for returning to the throne. The hardest part was still to come. 

As he looked out into the amphitheater, Yeats was reminded again why tradition was so vital. There were too many dead bodies here today. Sometimes people would die for the greater good, but that truth did not make it any easier for him to see the losses. 

This change had followed custom as closely as it could. It was not a coup; Tryst had forced himself to stand down by his own choices. A prince cannot be prince without the nobles.

Father Yeats lifted his arms to announce Andor as prince, for the second time. 

Chapter 23

DESCENT INTO DARKNESS

“He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is detestable. And it has a fascination, too, which goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination. Imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.”

I was alone and naked except for tattered trousers, ropes tied to my arms, and honey and feathers layered over my body. It did not matter that familiar faces were staring at me. I ignored them as I stood before a gaping pit in the ground. The Gloaming.

A guard behind me whispered in my ear that he had loosened the ropes, but that I should wait to pull my arms free. He said he was following Andor’s orders and was passing along his message: Stay alive. I will come. 

Andor wanted to control everything, even my imprisonment. I should have known sooner that he had returned, but how could I when those I trusted turned against me? Once he showed up in Icaria, I knew my control over the Lycurgus was slipping. By then it was too late, but I still had not expected him to move so quickly. 

Many knights and soldiers must have felt the vestiges of fealty to him. Word of his return, and his survival against my blade, had fueled their disloyalty. The nobles should have stayed on my side, but Ramzi had ruined that. I had tried to act first, calling my knights to action against the nobles. Andor had set the trap.

Thoughts of what I could have done tormented me. I tried not to think of Ravien’s betrayal; it still hurt the worst. Instead, I focused on Wren, Sebastian, and the rest of them—they would die slow deaths at my hand. So would the nobles. They would pay for humiliating me, parading me around the main square covered in honey. The incited people threw feathers and whatever else at me. Ramzi had fared worse, as only his head on a pike was given the honor of a parade. 

Sycophants turned torturers, the nobles had confirmed that I was right to try to eliminate them. And I would comply with Andor’s suggestion of staying alive, but only so that I could kill him. If he had managed to escape this place, then I would too. 

The thoughts of revenge swirled as the guard pushed me into the pit. I slid down a pitch-black tube and landed in a metal box. The smell of death and decay hit me immediately. Then floor gave way and I crashed down onto a pile of rot and bones. 

I rose quickly, my eyes adjusting to the near-dark. Dozens of figures approached. An odd thought crossed my mind—a wish that the feathers on my back could take the form of wings. I was the fallen angel, awaiting the demons. 

A group of men began to circle me like feverish rats. Each one was gaunt and gray, with a ravenous look in his eyes and a wariness of everyone around him. 

The first few men came straight at me. I grabbed a bone from the pile. It was the length of my thigh and rivaled some of the others’ crude bludgeons. I picked up a second, shorter bone in my left hand, for good measure. 

Moving off the rotting mound, I spun away from the first assailant and swung the longer bone into the back of his head. It took guts to be the first to die.

Two more men closed on me. I rolled under their reckless attacks. A swiping blow to the back of one’s knees brought him down. I punched upward as I stood, smashing my weapon into the other man’s head. 

By the time I had caught a breath, an instinct of fear hit me for the first time. No matter how weak they were individually, this mob was large enough to swallow me. 

Danger came from every direction at once. More circling figures were closing in on me, rushing at me. At first, some of the men stood back until they saw a weakness. Now they charged. 

I moved into spinning attacks and landed many blows before anyone touched me. I swung at faces, legs, and arms. I found a flow within the dimness. If I moved fast enough, they were not moving. The onslaught continued and danced around the open square. 

Men kept coming, and I felt the first tinges of fatigue. It had been many hours since my last food and drink. Each man I fought drained strength, and they were relentless. I had taken out at least ten before they began to swarm over me. One man connected with a jab at my side, knocking me off balance. The next hit was a fist to the side of my head. Ears ringing, I tried to roll to the side, but was kicked down by another man. Before I could rise, they were diving onto me. I wrestled along the ground, fighting to get to my feet. 

Instead of attacking, they bit and licked at me. I realized they were starving, and I was still covered in honey. My desperation swelled. The men began ripping at each other. A disgusting face tried to gnaw at my arm, only to be kicked away by another man. As soon as that feeder was swept away, another would fight for the place. It felt like giant ants were crawling over my body. 

I writhed and twisted, but gained mere inches. My legs could not move. I could barely breathe, with the weight of the men crushing me into the ground. My failed movements converted into fury. My body weakened, but my soul blazed. 

How could this happen? This cannot be my end. I am the Prince. Mankind deserves to die. The rage and passion clouded my mind. I was lost to my body, my eyes closed, my fight fading. 

A clear, white light beamed before me. It was like a beacon that burned a hole through me. I felt broken. I felt helpless, which gave way to sorrow and an odd peace. 

In that moment my muscles eased. As if wrapped in a cocoon of man’s worst, my lips drew into a smile as the chaos stormed over and around me. This was not man’s worst. This was not man. Man is only man when he has that light. But I will be more than just a man. 

Suddenly I pulled in a large breath. My lungs had found a moment without pressure. I opened my eyes and saw gaps in the pile of men on top of me. 

They were still there, striking viciously at each other, but they were clearing themselves out. A few were biting at my skin, but they had cleaned off much of the honey. It gave me the opportunity I needed.

In a quick, fluid move, I summoned every muscle to action. It took only a couple swift kicks to clear my legs enough for me to rock backwards and bounce to my feet. The men looked up at me with surprise and terror. Perhaps they had thought me dead. 

I seized that moment to unsheathe another weapon—my voice. “You need me!” 

The sound of my shout sliced through the men and brought stillness. Yelling again, I gave my first command: “Obey me or die. Kneel now. Do not move. If you follow my orders, you will have better than this. I will be your light.”

I am not sure if I expected them to obey, but they did.

Chapter 24

RETURN TO THE GLOAMING

“Nothing makes a prince so much esteemed as to carry on great enterprises and to give rare examples of himself.”

I had learned there was no virtue in a man doing what he wants, but only in doing what he should. Father Yeats had intensified that simple lesson. He believed that doing what one should did not mean anything unless it was done for love of fellow man. 

As I was lowered down the pipe into the Gloaming, I could not think of a greater form of love than returning to this pit of despair. Yeats was the only one, other than Ravien, who had not tried to convince me that this was a terrible idea. Whatever the others said, I knew this had to be done. For Tryst, and for me. 

Besides, this time was different. I was not being dropped out of a cage, already broken. I was healed, fed, armed, and with backup ready to follow me. After much negotiating, Wren and Jon had consented to wait two days before they came with others to find me, but only after I agreed to let them be stationed in the box hanging above the Gloaming. It would be enough time. Tryst had already been down there a week.

The lights above began to dim and then darkened completely. I could see nothing in the pipe, and I felt the cool underground air closing around me. 

I breathed calmly, fighting the urge to panic. This time is different, I repeated to myself. I was not a conquered man. I was the conqueror, coming to declare my victory over this place. The thoughts did not stop me from breaking out into a cold sweat. 

After a long slide I landed in the box. The metal under my feet was smooth and thin, ready to give way. I tried not to think about the piles of men and trash that had sat in this very spot, ready to fall and die. The prison guards had assured me that they had sent men and food scraps down just hours ago. No one experienced in the Gloaming would expect another dropping this soon.

I began flexing my legs, practicing the landing. All I had to do was land on my feet and run. Then I would track down Tryst.

My confidence felt surreal, but I held fast to it. I had survived here before. I had to do it again, and better. I had to face Tryst, convince him to see the light, and get out in one piece. Survival was not the goal; it was simply a necessary step.

Standing straight, steeling myself with another deep breath—and nearly gagging on the air—I yanked hard on the rope three times. A moment later, the floor fell open.

The ground rushed up to meet me. I was shocked to see it cleared. The pile of bones was gone. Men encircled the landing area. 

I rolled as my feet hit the hard surface. Shouts filled the air around me. I counted six men, each armed and glaring at me. 

“Down on your face!” one of them yelled. “Hands out! Down now!” 

They stepped closer. 

“Who are you?” I asked, but they paid no attention. 

They continued shouting. I drew my sword, Zarathus, and they went quiet. I charged the man in front of me, who dove out of the way and opened a path out of the square. 

My legs pounded hard, each muscle tensing as I ran at a full sprint. I heard men chasing close behind. 

A huge man blocked my way out of the square. He held up a blunt club and braced for my impact. I reached his swinging range running at full speed. Just as he pulled his club back, I sprang up high to his right and stabbed my blade straight down through his shoulder. I landed behind him and did not turn back.

The streets were empty as I remembered them, and I sprinted on without hesitation. After several quick turns, I found the nearly pitch-black alley I was looking for. No noises followed, and I ducked into an open door. 

This had been my home once before. The two-story building was suited for hiding, because it had only the one door on the alley, and a tight staircase led to the small room upstairs. It would be hard for anyone to stumble into this place. If they did, I would hear them before they made it to the second floor. My quick survey revealed that I had the building to myself.

I leaned against the sole window in the upstairs room. It was almost my height, with no glass, open to the air and fifteen feet above the ground. The smooth stone around its edges was cool to the touch. 

The Gloaming had the same eerie quiet. In the silence, my heart relaxed its pounding, and my thoughts turned to those men in the square. They had the same viciousness I remembered, but not the same desperation. They looked beaten down as before, but their movements were ordered. They could not have attacked me like that unless they were united somehow.

It was impossible. I had lived in this place. I had weathered months that felt like eternity here. There were too many bodies, not enough food. Most men were murderers and thieves. Groups never held together. It was every man for himself. The Gloaming turned men into animals. It would take a devastating tyranny to hold men together in this dark city.

Then it hit me. Tryst.

I should have known. He could rule like that. He had to be behind this order. My rival had always harbored a devastating power inside him. He softened its edges as much as was necessary for him to rule in Valemidas, but a will to control had been in his nature since birth. He created the rules, and if someone broke them, he would mete out punishment. He never tolerated disobedience. 

I considered turning back now, if I even could. Why try to save the man? He had proven himself a threat to freedom. If his tyranny worked here, why not let it? Why subject the world above to the risk of him returning? How could he do here what I had failed to do? 

Familiar words came to my mind. Do not go if you are trying to set yourself above him…You know now that you need the light. You have to show Tryst that…bring him back. I could almost hear Father Yeats’ voice. 

Tryst was a challenger, a traitor, but he had once been like a brother. I would face him again and give him a chance of redemption. Maybe I could persuade him, if I could restrain him from killing me, and me from killing him. At the very least, he would hear my invitation to leave this place on my terms. I had been given Lucian, who showed me the light. I would do the same for Tryst. 

I dropped from the window to the empty street below. I began walking towards the heart of the Gloaming. Tryst would have picked a place near there to set up his rule. He was probably in the tallest building. He would want to look down on his surroundings.

As I drew closer, two men began to walk together at a distance behind me. They were silent, following me. The opening to the square came into view, guarded as before. Sensing the trap, I turned and faced the followers.

“Where is Tryst?” I demanded.

They stopped, unable to hide. I drew Zarathus and walked towards them. They stood their ground. 

“He’s been looking for you.” A ragged whisper came from beside me.

Turning, I saw the familiar shaved head and glaring eyes of Granville. He looked like a ghost of himself. His blacksmith muscles had thinned to nothing.

“What happened?” I asked. A glance back confirmed that the other men were keeping their distance as Granville crept closer to me. I held my blade at the ready.

“After Icaria,” he said, “I joined the march back to Valemidas. Many soldiers began to declare support for you. I helped spread the news. Tryst must have learned of it, because as soon as we reached Valemidas, he had me thrown into the dungeon in chains. A dark little man named Ramzi put me to the question.” 

The large blacksmith shivered. “He tortured me, over and over. The pain—well—it still hurts.” He bit his lip and looked down at his feet. “It probably always will. But still, I told him more than I should have—and, um, some of it was about you.”

“It is okay, Granville.” I clasped his shoulder. “We will get you out of here.” The man’s cowed look was a poor fit on his stern face and frame. It was like Ramzi had bottled up fear and forced the man to drink it. 

“Have you seen Tryst?” I asked gently.

“No, I would not dare let him catch me. He has set himself up like a king of the underworld. He’s a terror. Everyone is afraid. We call him the prince of death.” He wore a plea on his face. “He must know that you’re here by now, my prince. He’ll hurt you, and the world needs you up there. You’ve got to get out and take me with you. Please.”

“I will not leave here without you,” I said, “but I have to see Tryst first.”

Granville glanced down, then back up at me. “You’re wearing the armor I made.” A smile touched his face for the first time. “The light leather suit.” 

I nodded. “It is a masterful piece of work. It served me well in Icaria, and it may do so again today.” 

The blacksmith smiled wider, although his eyes still wore fatigue and despair. 

I took a step towards the central square. “Come, show me where Tryst is. If he knows I am here, there is no use hiding or escaping. I must see him.”

As we walked to the square, still being followed, Granville quietly explained more. It was said that Tryst had forced ten men to bend the knee when he landed in the Gloaming. He had taken an iron bar from one of them, and then sent the men in groups of two to search for more weapons…and obedient men. 

Tryst had waited in the central square for them to return, opening himself to anyone who would attack. Apparently some of the first ten men had never come back, either because they fled or died. But a handful did return, and they brought more men and crude arms. One man had found a rusted sword, and Tryst had struck him down and taken it on the spot. He let anyone challenge his rule by fighting to the death at any time. In the end, Tryst had formed an armed group of about twelve, which he kept in order by killing anyone who disobeyed, and feeding those who followed them. 

Granville confirmed that Tryst and his men controlled the tallest building—he called it the ladder—and they kept constant guard over the central square. The rest of the city remained in anarchy. Men could still make it out of the square with a crumb of food in the midst of the chaos that follows a falling. It seemed that even the greatest tyrant could have only limited power here, and I doubted that his rule would last long.

We approached the central square from the same street that I had escaped on. The guard I had leapt over lay in a pool of blood at the entrance. I kept Zarathus held high as I stepped into the square. 

Granville stopped at the entrance and pointed. “Up there, my prince.”

Following his arm, my eyes went to the building, which stood well above the other buildings of the square. Of course Tryst would claim this tower. Its walls gaped open from years of decay.

“Thank you, Granville. You have been a great help. Hide nearby and watch the central square. When you see me next, come quickly. We will leave together.”

Emotion flooded his face, bringing back more life than I had seen in him yet. I smiled at the hope of his fire returning, clasped his arm, and turned for the tower. 

Two men stood at the front door to the building. Confident that I was the only one with a sword, I strode through the huge doors without pause. The men did not try to stop me.

The ground floor was as I remembered it—dark, musty, and compressed under the weight of tower. Tryst had to be at the top. I walked to the central stairs. 

The first four floors were unremarkable, except for the restraint showed by the few men I saw along the way. They seemed starved and feverish, like men always did in the Gloaming. Yet they held back their aggression from each other and from me. They just stared around nervously. The whole place seemed to be teetering towards a breakdown. The unifying force was probably fear. 

As I climbed the stairs of the fifth floor, I heard three men talking at the base of the final flight of stairs. The talking ceased as I came to face them. They looked ready to attack, and to carry it off well.

The largest man stepped down from the stairs above, pulling out a pole that looked a lot like the one I had once wielded. He pointed it a few feet from my face. “You’re Andor.” 

I studied his scar-covered face. He had greasy close-cut hair and looked like he had been on the losing end of a glass-diving contest. I remembered him. Not from the Gloaming, but from before. He was the first man I had ever sentenced to life in the dungeons, for rape and murder. I had no idea how he had come to this place.

“The Lord wants to see you,” the man said, “so get on up there. This’ll probably be the end for you. Want any kind of last meal?” 

My legs and arms tensed. My hand clenched the pommel of Zarathus. “Out of my way.” 

The ogre laughed. “Pretty boy’s mad.” He took a small step to the side. “Better hurry. You’ve got a date with death.” 

I bridled my tongue and slipped past him. Their laughter followed me as I climbed the stairs to the room above. The Gloaming was beneath me now. It had to be. It, and all the sins carried with it. Being here seemed to summon back a dormant savagery, but I could not afford another outburst. Enough men had died by my hand, and I would not add Tryst to the tally.

I stepped through a hatch at the top of the stairs and shut it below me, cutting off the sounds of laughter. I stood silent in the cavernous top room. It had no walls on three sides, and bare wooden beams arched above. Six old iron chandeliers hung from the beams. They dipped down to just above my head. Without any candles, they seemed to put out darkness instead of light. The floor was an inky black. I began to walk slowly towards the far side of the room—the only side with a wall. Each step was difficult. 

I was half way across the room when I heard him move. He emerged from the darkness ten feet before me, wearing only black trousers and a sword. His face had the same sharp lines, the same blue eyes. But through the grime, he had a different look than I remembered. It was more sinister and open at the same time. 

We each held our ground, eyes locked, swords drawn, bodies coiled. It was the kind of moment that could have stretched on into eternity. 

Chapter 25

LIGHT ON THE FALLEN

“No one after lighting a lamp puts it in a cellar or under a basket, but on a stand, so that those who enter may see the light.”

Andor fought to stay calm. 

Tryst broke the silence. “I doubted you had it in you. You had me within reach before, but you were too weak to finish this. Now you come here to taste death by my hand? I’m pleased. Cowardice does not sit well on you.” He spread his arms in welcome. “So we will end it in the Gloaming.”

“I am not here to fight you.” Andor’s voice was soft but firm. “I came to bring you out.”

Tryst began to move slowly around Andor, like a vulture circling above its wounded prey. “If you will not fight, then you will die.” 

“And then what? You stay here, a fallen tyrant in the dark?” Andor tried to maintain his distance. “You were meant for more than this.”

“Eyes can adjust to the Gloaming,” Tryst said. “I am making something of this place, which apparently you never could. Order and obedience are replacing chaos’s reign. I will be god here.”

“You would depend on the waste of our city above?”

“Admit it, you failed here,” Tryst taunted, moving closer.

“Everyone fails here. Success is not measured against other men. It is judged by something greater. I escaped and changed. I’m here to give you the same opportunity.”

“Your vanity has always come up short, Andor. What you and I want is the same, but Yeats has made you think you do not crave the power that we cannot help but seek. Other men can never achieve the greatness we can. You let them hold you back. That is why I will be the only one left in this room alive.”

Andor shook his head. “I am not asking you to come because you deserve it.”

“You are here to try to prove yourself.” Tryst jabbed his sword at Andor, who deflected it and hopped back out of reach. The clash of their blades echoed through the room. Tryst was beginning to close Andor into a corner. 

“Listen to me. This is not a game, and it is not about me. We are all flawed inside. No man can rule absolutely over another. Men need something greater than a prince. If you can accept that as I have, then we can return to Valemidas together.”

“That sounds like a tired sermon from Yeats,” Tryst said. “Ramzi taught me better, despite his flaws. The priest’s drivel drags you down. The teaching of men like Yeats has stomped out the brightest souls for generations. I reject it.” 

Tryst slashed his blade down, and Andor parried it away. Their eyes locked. 

“I expected more from you,” Tryst said, “especially after you escaped this place and stole my throne.”

“I took back what was stolen from me.”

Tryst shrugged. “I would almost respect you for it, if not for your groveling. When great men like you cave to the philosophy of servitude, you become a threat to world-historical souls. You become a traitor to your own kind. Those born like us must push man’s spirit to new heights. You are no longer willing to see men sacrificed to develop a better world.”

Tryst pressed forward, forcing Andor to the edge of the room. Tryst’s lips curved into a smile. “Now you have run out of time, and we cannot coexist.” 

He thrust his blade at Andor’s stomach. Andor slid to the side. 

Tryst struck again, and faster, slashing his sword down at Andor’s head. Andor rolled away but caught a glancing blow to his left shoulder. It drew blood, but Granville’s armor had stopped the full force. 

Tryst closed on him with a flurry of blows. Andor parried most of them with Zarathus, but he took a few more grazes through the armor and a cut on his cheek. 

The men circled each other, metal ringing as they clashed. Tryst was relentless and strong, but Andor had the better sword and stamina. Both were breathing heavily.

Tryst charged faster. Their blades met, and Tryst surprised Andor with a punch to the face. He followed with a slash at Andor’s head. 

Andor raised his sword just in time to block. Tryst’s blade bounced off the blade, but the force knocked Zarathus to the ground. 

They both dove for the blade and grappled on the floor. Andor landed a knee into Tryst’s chest and managed to pin him down. In an instant he pulled a dagger from his boot and pressed it to Tryst’s throat. Zarathus was just out of reach. 

Sweat and blood dripped from Andor’s face onto Tryst’s. Their muscles quivered as Andor struggled to hold him down. One flick of his wrist and Tryst would die.

“This is your last chance,” Andor breathed out. “We are only human, not divine. Serve the light, not yourself.”

Tryst glared up at him. “I am the light. God is dead.”

“You are dead, if you do not come with me. There is no life here.”

Tryst’s body relaxed, but Andor kept the dagger at his neck. He fought every temptation to kill the man who had betrayed him and sent him to the Gloaming to rot. The man who showed no hope of redemption.

“Leave this place with me, Tryst. If change is what you want, I promise it will come. I will put an end to the Gloaming. No man should face this punishment. I will bury Zarathus here. It is a corrupt relic of a twisted past. I will change things in Valemidas, too.”

Tryst lay quiet and still, his face blank. Andor continued, hoping his words had some effect. “You and Ramzi were right about man’s depravity, but you were wrong to try to control it solely through the force of laws. We must empower the people to lead themselves, to take more responsibility and realize their potential. Men may join the Lycurgus, but it cannot be forced on mere boys. Valemidas has grown decadent and weak, it is true. Help me build the traditions that military requires, and raise up leaders. See the truth about yourself. We must be stripped and broken down, we must give up our pride. Only then can we be reborn. That is what happened to me, and it can happen to you.”

“Anything else?” Tryst asked casually, as if they were drinking in a tavern.

An ounce of tension faded from Andor’s hand holding the dagger. “You should know that I am not here just for myself,” he said. “More than anyone, Ravien insisted that I come for you. She loves you, Tryst, and she hopes for your return. She had grown to fear what you were becoming, and so had Lorien. But they would welcome you back.”

Tryst stared levelly at Andor. “I would rather be god of the Gloaming than your puppet.” 

Like a coiled snake striking, Tryst twisted out of Andor’s grip. He bashed his forehead into Andor’s face. As Andor reeled back, Tryst planted his free hand on the ground and thrust his sword at Andor’s chest. “You—”

Tryst’s words ended in a writhing scream. Andor, while rolling away from the attack, had stabbed his dagger through Tryst’s hand, pinning it into the wooden floor. 

Tryst reached frantically to pull out the blade. Andor slammed his boot into Tryst’s side and kicked away the dropped sword. 

He dashed to pick up Zarathus and then looked back. “You leave me no choice!” he shouted. “You will die here, but you could have been so much more.” 

Andor sprinted to the room’s edge and dropped to the floor below. From there he leapt to the nearest building’s roof. He raced down the stairs and out into the central square. 

Six men were standing under the black box. Before he reached them, Andor pulled a bag of round stones from his pocket. He threw three of them, one after the other, at the box. The sound of their thump against the metal was lost in the frenzy of men yelling on all sides, but Andor knew it was heard inside the box.

He charged ahead. This time the men in the square did not attempt to stop him. Their faces wore confusion and fear as they stepped back. 

The doors of the box dropped open and a rope fell from the dark space. Andor grabbed it and began to rise. He looked back and saw Granville running towards him. Three men blocked Granville’s path. 

He could not leave him.

Dropping the rope, Andor charged with Zarathus held high. Behind Granville, he saw Tryst and his group of men flooding out of the building. Time was running short. The three nearest men turned to stop Andor.

Andor stabbed his blade into the gut of one man, as he ducked under the swing of an iron pole. He pulled Zarathus out and spun, slashing. He severed the arm that had been holding the pole. The third man ran as the other two lay screaming on the ground. 

Granville reached for Andor but fell to his knees. The hilt of a crude dagger stuck out of his back. Tryst was holding another blade, ready to throw.

“Go!” Granville yelled, as Andor tried to lift him. “Leave me!” He screamed as the second dagger plunged into his back.

Andor looked up and saw Tryst pulling out another weapon. At least ten men were with him. Andor nodded farewell to Granville, turned away, and sprinted back to the rope.

He grabbed it just as a blade flew by, slashing his hand and knocking Zarathus loose. He held fast to the rope and tried to ignore the pain. 

He lifted quickly off the ground to the box above. He glanced up and clasped the hand reaching for him.

“Stop him! No!” Tryst’s voice shouted from below, furious. 

Sorrow and anger and relief swept over Andor as he watched Tryst pick up Zarathus and reach out towards him with his other, bleeding hand. 

Then the doors of the box slammed shut. A lantern’s light filled the small space, and Jon and Wren sat before him. 

They had followed his orders and stayed stationed in the box until the three stones struck it. The brothers wore harnesses tied to a rope leading to the dungeons above, which had allowed them to lift him up after the doors opened. 

“It is finished.” Andor winced as he spoke. He glanced down, thinking of the man lost below. 

“What happened?” Jon asked.

Andor studied his bleeding hand. “We fought. I think we both lost.” 

“Well,” Wren said, “you look better than the last time you left this place.”

Andor was quiet for a moment. “We lost Granville, too. It will take a long time for these wounds to heal.” He rose to his feet, and the brothers sprang up to help him when he staggered. 

“You will not be feeling better at all, if we do not get you mended soon.” Jon handed him the rope. “Can you keep a grip on it?”

Andor nodded and gave the rope two hard pulls. “Let’s go.”

After they were lifted to the dungeons above, Andor led them out to the palace grounds. He walked to the top of the stairs overlooking the city. He had promised Lorien he would go there first. 

She and Ravien were waiting. Lorien ran to Andor’s arms. 

Andor explained about the fight, and Tryst’s refusal. Then they were quiet, and he looked out over the city. The day’s light was fading.

“We have much to make right.” Andor turning back to Lorien, Ravien, Wren, and Jon. “Our city is wounded from what Ramzi and Tryst have done. The nobles are in disarray. These problems cannot be solved by a prince alone, especially not a prince with his own wounds. I am not who I was before the Gloaming.”

“We know,” Wren said. “You died and came back to us stronger, wiser. It seems the same is not to be for Tryst. He can live and reign in the underworld.” 

No one responded. Ravien’s countenance darkened. Andor’s gaze drifted from the group to the ocean and the storm clouds on the east horizon. 

“As long as Tryst is in the Gloaming,” Andor said, “a piece of me will be there too.” He squeezed Lorien’s hand. “But my place is here, with you, and I will walk in the light.” 

Chapter 26

EPILOGUE

“By its light will the nations walk, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it.”

Two men and a woman sat in the high tower of an old noble house. The candles in the room had nearly burned down, but the first morning light was shining on the parchment before them. 

They had negotiated over the words through the night. It had been mostly cordial, but a few threats and bribes had been necessary to find agreement on the stickier points. Now they were done, and each had applied their seals in blood.

Ravien stood with her hands planted on the table, staring down at the inked words. She had not wanted it to come to this. Andor was supposed to bring her brother back, but her brother was a proud man. He had been wrong to entrust Ramzi with power and wrong to try to dismantle the nobles. Still, Valemidas needed him to lead its army against the coming threat. This agreement was the best chance of bringing him back. He would come if he knew that Mailyn carried his child. 

Walking to the window, Ravien looked out over the ocean to the east of Valemidas. The view brought some peace, because it reminded her that she and Wren would be sailing away from this place for a while.

The old noble, Justus Davosman, paced around the table and the parchment. He had long feared that this day would come. The Lycurgus had been a step in the right direction, a return to the old ways of discipline and fortitude. Valemidas had grown too soft, and a city like that could never stand long against another people hungry for power. This agreement meant it would soon be time to spread the news that only the three in this room knew. If Andor had the courage, that news could save Valemidas. Davosman knew Andor’s true parents and their lineage, which gave him hope in the restored prince.

Sebastian leaned back in his chair with a smile. His people, the Sunans, could not lose with this agreement. Either they conquer or they walk away with chests full of this city’s treasures. The infighting of their princes had left them vulnerable, as had generations of peace before Tryst. If his people conquered, no one would be in a better position to be prince than he. This agreement saw to that.

AUTHOR PAGE

Want to know what happens to Tryst? And Sebastian’s plotting? You’ll learn that and much more in the next and final chapter of the story: Breaking the Gloaming. You can pick up your copy here. 

If you enjoyed Light in the Gloaming, please post a review on Amazon here. It can be just a few lines. Every review is as priceless as food in the Gloaming.

* * *

J.B. Simmons lives outside Washington, DC, with his wife and three little kids. He writes before dawn and runs all day. His secret fuel: coffee and leftover juice boxes. Learn more at www.jbsimmons.com.

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