The crowd had not yet made up their minds about where to go next—whether to wait by the docks a little longer, hoping what they had witnessed was some kind of prank, or to turn around and go home. The night grew colder, and the decision became clearer for those who had families. The rest lingered, distracting themselves by taking pictures with friends. Certain groups marched off, heading in the direction of the firefly that had carried Jacqolin away. As the common people dispersed, so too did the councilmen and members of the Primus, who could not wait to escape Schemel’s presence.

  Fireflies hovered above the ground as Green Officers lent their hands to help people on board. The Gaverians and their ascender families climbed in as well. Demettle bid her goodnight, while his son, Sirios, continued to chew his tongue. Tenrad stopped beside Schemel and asked if he could meet her at the hospital later.

  Another aircraft had come for Schemel and her family. Jenne got on board and offered a hand to Ashey. She attempted to climb but changed her mind at the last second, reaching for her mother’s hands instead.

  “Mom, mommy, look at me,” Ashey said. “Aunt Terry is coming home this December. She’s coming along with Tori and Neva. She told me not to tell you yet, but I have to. This is going to be the best Christmas we’ve had in a long time because you’re all going to be home. It’s just been me and grandma for a while, and it’s not the same without you.” Ashey tightened her grip. “Please don’t ruin it. Don’t do any bad stuff like overthrowing the government or something. I don’t want you to fight another war.”

  Schemel smiled—a lot, though rarely for the right reasons. The smile on her face caught her by surprise. She could tell it came from her heart, or somewhere deeper. Ashey sensed it too, encouraging her to embrace her mother. It felt nice. Placing both hands at the sides of her daughter’s head, Schemel bent and kissed the top of it.

  “I won’t overthrow the government,” Schemel promised. “I doubt I’d make a good politician.”

  The fireflies took to the sky, soaring in silence above the city. Schemel waited until they were out of sight before turning to see what lay before her: a group of weary soldiers coming home to cold shoulders. No Jacqolin, no hype. Earthen and Grem workers heaved sacks of grain, carried crates, and rolled barrels off the ship and onto the docks, where forklifts took over. Some pushed down vehicles while others loitered on the dock, bending at the waist as they admired the Henrikian evening sky.

  Schemel wrinkled her nose. Beyond the stench of travellers and the sharp bite of a minty smell, there was a faint trace of sweet roses lingering. Swaying magic. She pulled a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and pressed it to her nose. Floren? It couldn’t be. She hurried to the nearest soldier and asked through the cloth, “Where is your captain? I would like to speak with him.”

  “Captain Gunner is still on board, Solis,” the soldier said. “Would you like to wait here while I fetch him?”

  She was already on her way. She apologised through her handkerchief as she bumped into a worker carrying goods down the ramp. Past him, a thick semi-giant of a Grem blocked her path, two sacks of grain balanced on his shoulders.

  “Can you please get out of my way?” Schemel said. The brute did not budge. A pistol cracked and the large man lurched past her, rushing down the ramp.

  “Apologies on behalf of the savage, Solis,” an officer said from the waterfront. “The Grem aren’t very bright.”

  She thanked the soldier and moved on, entering the belly of the war machine. Inside, the workers made even more noise as they dragged and shoved items from their resting places. Everything reeked—foreign spices crammed in crates, sweat-stained uniforms, the stink of overworked brutes. She clung to the faint trace of ascension, certain it had something to do with Jacqolin’s situation.

  Asking around, she was directed to the captain. Captain of the Last Alangre. The man they called Gunner sat slumped on a crate, crying. Perhaps she was mistaken, but her ears told her otherwise. The straps and the badge on his chest proved he was captain. A man in a red robe stood beside him, murmuring comforts—the Alangre priest.

  “Where is he?” Boots pounded the deck. Archer was among them, with about ten other men. Three of them, besides Archer, wore the badge of captain. “Gunner, I pray the sea takes you.” Archer stormed past Schemel, slipping between his men to seize Gunner by the collar. In an instant, the others were on him, but he fought them off and raised a fist to strike his comrade. It took three men to hold him back, yet Archer’s fury did not cool. He spat and screamed curses in Gunner’s face while the other captains shouted in his.

  This brought her back to the start of the Midder-Lands conflict, when every soldier was a new face. She had not bothered to learn their names, except for the Seconder of the Red Corps, called Savage. Sadly, she would give the same treatment to the Goldies. Learning names was hard.

  “Ren Gunner,” she said. “Would you mind cleaning your eyes with my handkerchief?”

  Gunner’s eyes opened for the first time since she had arrived, and he swelled at the sight of Schemel. “Solis,” he muttered, rising to his feet. He and the priest saluted. She waved the handkerchief before his face, which he took and dabbed at his eyes, before staggering backwards onto his crate. He forced himself to stop sobbing, then blew his nose into her handkerchief.

  Schemel clapped once and the captains turned to her. She flashed them a smile and asked the only question there was to ask: what in Rheina’s name was going on? She begged the heavens to keep her from laughing as Gunner explained everything from the beginning.

  Jacqolin, it seemed, had been a regular at a certain whorehouse in Jamerson City. He preferred the slender, soft-bodied women there to the rigid savages on the Grem. Recently, however, Gunner had noticed something was wrong with him. Jacqolin was sweating and reacting more slowly to the simplest tasks. That was when the priest advised him to stop visiting Jamerson—the prostitutes were dangerous, some of them swayers, trying to infiltrate his mind. But Jacqolin boasted of his mental fortitude and ignored the warnings. In time, he began waking an hour later than usual, and after some years, two hours late. Jacqolin and Gunner agreed to keep his condition secret from the soldiers while they tried to break the curses on him. They turned to herbs and incantations from local witch doctors until Jacqolin began to improve—or so it seemed.

  She would join Tenrad to visit him while he was ill. Jacqolin would have done the same were their positions reversed. As she climbed down the ramp, Archer caught up with her, eager to accompany when he learnt of her plans for the evening.

  Love for Jacqolin kept the night alive. The small groups of admirers had grown into movements. As Archer drove past them, they listened to the people singing. If only they knew of his stupidity, Schemel thought, they’d all be in bed by now. The crowd pressed on toward Mortal Ascenders, gathering beneath Jacqolin’s hospital window, their voices rising even louder.

  Security was tight. Goldies stood guard at the hospital entrance, pistols at their sides and rifles within easy reach. Reporters lingered at a careful distance, well aware it was unwise to provoke the men in uniform.

  Archer carved a path through the singing throng, clearing the way for Schemel. When people recognised her, they parted at once. But as she approached the news correspondents, their composure broke. Questions erupted, cameras turned, and microphones lunged in her direction. Schemel kept walking.

  The Goldies on the stairs shifted uneasily, their rifles rising into view.

  “No one gets in,” one barked. His gaze locked on her. “Especially not you.”

  Tenrad was not inside. She could smell Jacqolin—and likely Jay—but no other ascenders were present.

  “I understand how this looks,” she said, lifting her hands in surrender. “I lost my post, and the man hired to replace me lies on his sick bed. I’m not here to kill him.”

  The reporters surged further forward, urging their cameramen to capture every word.

  “No one gets in,” the soldier repeated, his tone calmer now. “Please turn around and go home. We won’t ask again.”

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  “Archer,” she said, not taking her eyes off the guards, “tell them to move.”

  “They’re not mine, Solis,” Archer replied. “These are Gunner’s men.”

  Gunner’s men. Interesting. Their loyalty was admirable, but it was quite an inconvenience for her. The soldier who had spoken so harshly had one hand resting on his holster. If given the chance, he would shoot a Sorel.

  Schemel turned to see the city beyond the crowd: building after building, skyscraper after skyscraper—and an empty space between two of them. Why was there an empty space? Because she had called the sun and burned the whole thing to the ground. Wiseman died, and so did two hundred others: residents, staff, mothers and children, and a whole lot of perverts. “I could blow up this hospital, you know,” she said, unaware of who had heard. “It is easy.” The singing stopped. Now that she had everyone’s attention, she felt a touch of shyness. “A lot of people think us Sorels are only powerful by day and cowards by night. We summon our power from the sun to destroy. Like that building over there, when I levelled it by burning Wiseman to ash.” The crowd glanced over their shoulders and then back at her. “I can show you now if you want. Let’s see if the rumours are true about us. Can we truly not call down the sun at night?”

  “Solis, what are you doing?” Archer whispered in her ear.

  “Get your men to start a search,” she whispered back. “I have names, and I want them found before morning.”

  “Name them.”

  She did. Schemel faced the people again and, with an open hand, gestured to the Goldies before her. “I came because I am worried about a dear friend who is on the brink of dying,” she said. “These men think I’m petty enough to have come here to kill him.” The crowd gasped. “If I wanted Jacqolin dead, do you think an earthen with a toy would stop me?”

  “Earthen?” a few murmured.

  “Yes!” Schemel exclaimed. “That man is earthen, a Sodenite. He joined the army on merit, so he thinks he eats and drinks at the same table as us Henrikians. And you saw the way he spoke to me!”

  The crowd erupted. They dared the soldier to speak to Schemel again, and his stone-like composure cracked as they pressed forward. He climbed down the stairs and lifted his hands. “I am not earthen,” he said aloud. “Look at my eyes.”

  “Who can’t fake those!” a man growled. “Get that shirt off his back! Utter disgrace!”

  “I was born in Messen,” the soldier shouted. He leapt back when a phone spun through the air, shot past his ear, and smashed against the window. He glowered and fired his pistol into the air. “I shall not hesitate to open fire!”

  “SODENITE!” a woman at the front roared. “SODENITE WANTS TO SHOOT US!”

  The Goldies behind him backed down, retreating into the hospital. One grabbed the arm of the alleged Sodenite, dragging him inside as well. Schemel climbed the stairs and raised both hands to calm the storm. “I understand your frustration at foreigners thinking they have any authority over us,” she said. “I am glad you showed fire—the spirit of true Henrikians who refuse to bow.”

  “Yes!” The crowd whistled and applauded.

  “I will take care of this man personally and expose him for the fraud he is,” she said. “I do not want any of you to go against the law tonight. Thank you for this. My heart is warm from your love.”

  “Son Solvia!” they cheered, and soon it became a chant.

  Schemel walked into the hospital. Gunner’s men wore faces as cold as stone, but none were in any place to stir up another conflict. She glanced around the empty lobby and followed her nose. Taking the elevator, she pressed a random button, feeling lucky. As the elevator music played, she leaned against the wall, pressing her backside against her freezing fingers. Schemel bopped her head from side to side. The tune was delightful.

  Buzz. Her phone. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “Archer,” the voice said. “I’m speaking from Savage’s residence.”

  “And?”

  “He packed up and left a few days ago.”

  “How about his family?” she asked. “Does he even have a family?”

  “Most likely, but none of them are here.”

  “Find him before the trail goes cold.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  She hung up and kept bopping. Then came a ding.

  And a whole lot of guns cocked and aimed at her. About a hundred Goldies crammed the hallway, ready to tear her to pieces. At the far end was a door, and from it came the smell of an ascender who had lost his grip. “You must also be Gunner’s men,” she said.

  “We don’t know what you think you’re doing, Solis, but we won’t hesitate to end you,” another faceless man said. “Jacqolin is High Commander, whether you agree to the terms or not.”

  “What do I want to be High Commander for?” she asked. “Shaphet’s Law binds me. There is no reason why I would waste my days serving greedy old men who never appreciate me for my hard work.”

  “Complain on television. We are not interested.”

  “Let her through.” Jay. He was here, after all. The Goldies bristled. Those on one knee with their guns raised kept their posture; those standing stayed where they were. “Let her through before I throw the lot of you out the window.” Their pride broke and they lowered their guns. Schemel walked through with a smirk she made sure they saw.

  The doors swung open. There was Jacqolin—on an operating table, grimacing and grunting, sweating like a pig. Seeing him in person after ten years made it clear he was not the same man. This Jacqolin was meatier, more muscular, broader across the chest. Locks of black locks lay scattered on the table. She wanted to pry his eyelids open just to see how blue they had become. His presence was a constant reminder of his immense power. Soft rumblings emanated from him—a war between his mind and the swayer’s poison. What a waste of magic. If she had been born with power like that, Grandfather would never have spoken a harsh word to her face.

  Priests and doctors clustered around him, trying to figure out how to lift the curse. Empty vials lay sprawled on the floor; scrawls and hexes were strewn across the operating table and the wall. One priest passed a holy book over his head in slow circles, praying to Wilihay to free Jacqolin’s soul. Knowing Jacqolin, she thought, he would seduce and bed the goddess if she made the mistake of helping him free. This had nothing to do with the gods. Someone had plotted this. A skilled swayer had woven their way into his bed and done it. The Western lands, including Henrikia, had little experience with swayers, faeries, and the like. Unless Jacqolin recovered on his own, they would need an expert from Solvaria.

  Jay stood still. At a touch, however, he would explode. It was hard to remember, amid the flashy cars, girls, and loud parties, that there was a boy who missed his father. Truth be told, Jacqolin wasn’t much of a father. The public pressed Jay to be as mighty as the Great Jac Arson, and Jacqolin never shielded him from it. He let the people feed his ego at the expense of his child’s development.

  “I’m surprised you care this much,” she said to Jay. “I thought seeing your father like this would give you the slightest satisfaction.”

  “I don’t care about Jac,” he said. “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Oh…”

  “The year’s not over and they’ve taken three of us already. First Votress, then Firios, and now Jac.”

  “Who are ‘they’, Jay?”

  “Those greedy morons at the Assembly. When we win, they get a nice fat bonus. When we lose, they shift the blame onto us, and we pay the price with death. I don’t understand why the most powerful beings in the Living World must serve a politician.”

  “If anyone understands, it’s me. We didn’t lose the Midder-Lands because Sexton was stronger than us, or because Yuna intervened. We lost because of the Assembly. Once the war became unprofitable, they turned their backs on me. And when I still wouldn’t back down, they attacked my family.”

  “I know what you’re thinking and I’m all for it. You want the Midder-Lands. I’ll help you on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “When we’re good to go, we go direct. We attack. We kill. We win. No long talk,” he said. “And I get to kill Calimer.”

  “Yes, but there are certain people I need to take care of first.”

  “The Primus.”

  “Who knows I am coming, but does not know how fast.”

  “Done.” He readied to sprint when she put a hand on his chest.

  “You won’t apprehend the Primus alone,” she said. “Jenne will go with you.”

  “What?”

  “Listen,” she insisted. “I want him to be part of this. He needs to gain some experience.”

  “You just want to keep an eye on him,” he said. “Don’t worry. He’s still at the Home of Heroes.”

  To smell him all the way from here was ridiculous.

  “He’s going with you,” she insisted. “There are six members of the Primus. I don’t want any to slip away. Jenne will help you detain them faster.”

  Jay’s frown deepened. He took her hand and pressed it back to her chest. “I don’t babysit,” he said. “He’d better hold his own.”

  “Meet me at the House of Sentry within an hour.”

  Jay bolted off, thunder clapping as lightning spread through the hall. The Goldies leaned against the walls as they watched him go. Schemel placed her hands on her hips and turned to the doctors and priests. “Keep him dreaming,” she said, and they nodded.

  Schemel took a taxi towards the nearest Ring. Lights glowed across the city; many people were watching the news. Her phone buzzed. Archer.

  “We found the lady you asked for. She was packing her bags when we got here. Would you like to speak to her?”

  There was a disturbance. “Renna, please, please, I didn’t mean to—it was Erisa! She made me do it, I swear! They said they’d kill me if I didn’t.”

  “Marissa, listen to my voice. Calm down. I’m not going to kill you. Just tell my friend everything Erisa told you and we’ll let you go. I’m sorry for disturbing your night.”

  The taxi driver smiled faintly when the call ended. “Son Solvia,” he said, raising a small fist in the air. “Get them, Solis. Get them all.”

  She slammed the door shut and waved him goodbye. The Ring was a few blocks away, but there was something she had to do first.

  She stopped at a dress shop—the one with pretty mannequins posing behind the window. Genne Gets Glamour, read the neon sign. She walked in, greeted by a pretty young lady. When the girl recognised the amber hair and green eyes, she covered her mouth and fainted. While the attendants rushed to her, the manager approached Schemel, eyes shining with awe.

  “I’d like to try on a dress, please,” Schemel said. “My sister is coming home soon. We’ll be going out to parties and I don’t want to be the only one who shows up in a sweatshirt.”

  What she said wasn’t particularly funny, yet they laughed until their throats could take no more.

  She chose a velvet dress with a slit down the leg. It revealed much of her thigh, but she wanted it anyway. The attendants led her to the changing room. When she stepped out again, they showered her with praise—an angel, perfection, a goddess.

  They loved her.