KNITE:

  The land evened. A soft green shone up from the horizon, far in the distance. The clop of Qaniin’s hooves hushed, and her tread deepened as the ground grew softer, dry soil giving way to mud. Past the farms and fells of the capital’s outskirts, the tall peaks of the Leaves came into view, a sickly green like that of poison, or so it seemed to me nowadays.

  I carried house Yabiskus’ standard. The flag did more to distinguish Bainan’s House; his crest was large and central, and Yabiskus’s was small and pushed to the corner of the large blue square of alchemically treated silk. Merchants and other travelers moved out of my way. Guards bowed as I passed. Men, women, and children scattered out of sight as I cut through The Muds and The Roots. Those who remained, by choice or by delay, made their obeisances. All knew how close death was when a godling was near.

  A procession of Yabiskus’ children greeted me at the gates to his estate. At the front stood the prodigal son, Lugel. I did not appreciate them making a ceremony out of my return. Less so because, par for the course of wearing Yabiskus, I was expected to express the opposite.

  “Welcome home, Father.” Lugel stepped forward and bowed deep. Those lining the path towards the main house followed suit.

  “Are the members of the table present?” I asked, wanting to confirm that the ruling members were in attendance or, failing that, close at hand.

  “After news of Muraad’s defeat had reached us, Lilac is on her way to Durum to see what advantages we might reap there. Severson went to your brother’s estate in the city for much the same reason. The other two are present.” While Lugel spoke, Qaniin nipped at him, pulling hairs and tearing skin from his head and neck. The boy did not react.

  “Call them to the table,” I said. “We have matters to discuss.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  The table, as circular as the tower and room it was in, was on the floor below Yabiskus’ office. Before the staircase leading up sat the largest of the chairs and the only one to occupy its half of the room. It was not quite a throne, but it was far from ordinary, wrapped in blue velvet and stuffed with something too forgiving to be natural. I sat there. Across me, before the door to the rest of the Yabiskus estate and in a position marking him as the favorite, sat Lugel. The seats beside his were empty—Lilac’s and Severson’s. The last two seats were filled by the other two members of the table: Klisa, the Tripler I’d first seen in the Bainan-affiliated merchant’s estate, and Floreo, a gawky Seculor with a long face and the annoying habit of frequently and loudly chewing on seeds.

  “Congratulations, Father,” Lugel said. He was the only house member who dared speak without being spoken to. Yabiskus was fond of making his allowances known. He thought them another tool of motivation, though violence and indifference were far more to his liking.

  “For what?” I asked, wearing an expression that suggested I already knew the answer but wanted to hear it nonetheless. Playing at being Yabiskus took more effort than being Merkus. While Merkus was a living mask grown out of my soul using another’s as a means to change its signature, the Yabiskus mask was wholly disconnected from me, more a shell I’d inhabited than a mask I had grown, and as such, far more removed than the part of me that used to be Merkus.

  “Word has spread that you defeated Muraad, took his Named for yourself, and sent him scuttling back to the frontier with his tail between his legs.” Lugel smiled at me, pride in his eyes. “Grandfather will surely see your worth once he hears of your victory.”

  “He will or he won’t,” I said, once again letting my expression contradict my casual words. Muraad’s true fate helped sell the satisfaction I painted on my face. “In the meantime, tell me of the Taragats.”

  Klisa lowered her head before she spoke. “May I, Patriarch?”

  “You may.”

  “I went to visit Jivron—the head of their family. She reported several skirmishes between them and the Grifals.”

  I snorted. “Tell me news of import, girl.”

  Klisa shivered and lowered her head further. “Apologies, Patriarch. She had also reported that our venture into the lower churches has stagnated due to the interference of well-respected Barks and the agents of other houses who’ve seen through our ploy.” Yabiskus planned to sow a preference for House Bainan into the lower masses, further replicating their numerical advantage in the higher plateaus. This spelled troubles for House Lorail, who suffered the lowest population of followers.

  I waved Klisa on. She remained quiet.

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  “Yes, Patriarch.”

  I shook my head. “Tell me, Lugel, why did you elevate her to the table?”

  “I didn’t, Father.”

  “It was your seed she sprung from, was it not? She has your scent about her.”

  “Yes, Father, but I had not claimed her. Blint, who has been sharing his bed with her mother more recently, appointed her his avatar while he is off completing his mission.”

  “I shall have to speak to him about how poor of a choice he’s made once he returns.” I returned my gaze to Klisa. Despite being a Reaper, Klisa let her mind and soul shake her limbs and soak her skin in sweat—another reason for Yabiskus to find her wanting. “Disappointing. But still, I cannot blame you, Lugel. I find the winds of fate often blow a seed far from its origin. Your many brothers and sisters are a testament to that reality. Once we are done here, do as I have done and see to it she’s returned to whence she came. It is easier to snub disappointments when they are out of view.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “No!” Klisa jumped to her feet, the same fear that had locked her into a sweaty shiver pushing her into action. “Patriarch, please let me—”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I have a solution.”

  “Very well.” I nodded my approval.

  “Father said you wished to be more direct in your conflict with House Elur—”

  I held up a hand to forestall her. Moments ago, Floreo, whose silence made him easy to ignore, no longer was. He’d scooped a handful of sunflower seeds from a small bag, threw them into his mouth, licked the remnants from his palm, and was now gnashing them between his teeth loud as can be.

  I ripped off his lower jaw. Some of his neck and half his left ear came away, too. I tossed the bone and the flesh and skin dangling from it into the center of the table and returned to my seat. I had given him a look of warning in our last meeting. The news he’d brought me about Muraad and Halga had saved him from more. Pale-faced and chagrined, he’d put the bag of sunflower seeds away. That he even carried it on his person was a bad sign. An inauspicious sign. So much so that I wondered if he was aiming for my reaction. Given how Yabiskus had warped the minds of his children…

  “Continue,” I said to Klisa.

  “Uhm, I—”

  “Floreo,” I said, “do not heal yourself or dull the pain until I have given you permission to do so.” The jawless man did not answer me, but the surge of Reaper Arts around his injury faded away. Homeless, his tongue hung there, poised like a pink-skinned snake preparing to strike. I turned back to the Tripler. “Now, where were we?”

  A shivering Klisa stuttered for an answer.

  “Direct conflict with House Elur,” I prompted.

  “Uhm, yes,” she said, pealing her eyes from Floreo’s naked flesh. “I propose we make use of the recent strife in Halor.”

  “The slave revolt? Already considered.”

  “I was thinking of another possible ally.”

  “Aslian, Munis, Fralk, Ramla, and Trisel are all too weak to contest Elur,” Lugel explained. “As for the other two, Nikal is religiously independent, and Lira will not trust us. She and our patriarch share a history she’ll not soon forget.”

  “What of Polerma?” Klisa asked.

  She knows, I thought. Thankfully, my faint look of surprise came off as skepticism. But how? And of everyone, a lowly Tripler had figured it out. The girl is sharper than I gave her credit for. Young and clever—a dangerous combination.

  “Polerma?” Lugel asked. “I thought her dead. How do you imagine she’d help us with affairs in Halor anyhow?”

  “Polerma rules Snowliar.”

  Lugel stood erect. “Polerma is Stone? That is not good. Not good at all. Polerma is the mightiest Fiora House Grono has ever produced. Among all the Leaves, few could contend with her. Her alliance with Elur spells disaster.”

  Klisa shook her head. “Not an alliance.”

  “A bond? Even worse.”

  “You misunderstand, Father.”

  Lugel frowned. “Do not call me that.”

  Klisa ignored the disavowment. “Elur is not Lira—she lacks the skills to securely Tunnel someone as formidable as Polerma.”

  “Then how?”

  “From what I understand, Elur had partially blocked the connection between Polerma’s body and soul, thus enervating the Grononian Fiora.”

  “Had?” Lugel asked.

  “Polerma is free of Elur’s matrix,” Klisa said, smiling in victory. I knew where she was going with this. She was right to feel victorious.

  “Lira?” Lugel asked.

  “That, I do not know,” Klisa admitted. “But the recent decline in the Grifal’s slave trade suggests she rescued Polerma.”

  Lugel snorted. “That could just as well be the rebels.”

  “Word is, all the slaves sold in Halor are going through Lira. As you know, the Grifals are servants of house Elur, not House Lorail, and though the other Leaves bicker and compete with ours, none but Elur consider us outright enemies.”

  Lugel frowned. “Alright, ignoring your failure to inform me, say your reading of this is accurate. What then?”

  A flicker of tension passed her face, some emotion too perilous to let show. “I’d say Polerma has a vendetta against her once captor.”

  “A safe bet, but—”

  “She currently holds the greatest influence in Halor’s slave trade,” I said, answering the Lugel’s question. “With the city’s port no longer in Elur’s control, your daughter thinks we should help advance whatever duplicitous plans Polerma has in store for Elur.”

  “Are we certain she’s going after her, Father?” Lugel asked.

  “Why else would she remain in Snowliar, a minor free city of little worth besides its slave trade?” Klisa asked. “As you said, Polerma is a formidable Leaf, and with the full breadth of her powers restored, her place is in Partum or the capital.”

  “Granted, if the news regarding the slave trade in Halor is accurate, Snowliar has likely sided with Lira,” Lugal said, “but is there any evidence Polerma is planning to do more than shift allegiances?”

  “She was Elur’s slave. However,” I turned to Klisa, and her smile faltered under the weight of my attention, “that only removes one of many who stand against our plans, and it does not align with my intention to be more forceful with our efforts.”

  “Elur is our greatest opposition in the matter,” Klisa tried.

  “For now. I’m sure one of the others will take Elur’s place willingly enough. With our troubles in Durum and The Old Queen’s war still raging, we need more people, more funds, and more control. Whoever achieves this for our House will gain Bainan’s favor.”

  “House Grono and House Silas care little for the disposition of political power.”

  “But they do care about actual power. It is one thing to hold sway over governance. It is another to hold sway over those it governs.”

  Klisa bowed her head. “I concede to your wisdom, Patriarch.” The girl was clever. Modesty and flattery in but a few words, all tailored for the man I was pretending to be—too clever by a league. Almost as if…

  “Go and prepare,” I said. “You leave for Snowliar in the morning.”

  Klisa sighed in relief and excitement. “Yes, Patriarch.”

  The door closed behind her. I turned to Floreo. His bleary-eyed expression begged me to release him from his pain.

  “Heal yourself,” I said. “You have until I am done with Lugel.”

  The man scrambled onto the table, snatched up his jaw, and pressed it to his face, eyes closed as he concentrated on his Reaper Arts.

  “I have a task for you, Lugel,” I said.

  “I am at your service, Father.”

  “Are Velusni and Brittle still alive?” Of the five ruling branches of House Bainan, Yabiskus had little interest in these two. Muraad he kept a close eye on; his was the most prominent. Kalisa, too; she was ambitious and talented and ruthless enough to challenge him. The other two were less of a threat. Brittle’s house was a common refuge for the Fioras who fell off the path of leafdom and were disowned by their more immediate kin—the sweetness of victory does less than nothing for the victor’s urge to taste the blood of those who were once their fellow contenders. The Fioras who’d failed to ascend and no longer had the protection of their parents or benefactors were quick to swear allegiance to avoid death. They were competent, as anyone who was once a Leaf candidate was sure to be, but that very failure, by Bainan’s decree, barred them from having their own houses. And though they joined her house, they’d done so to protect each other, not to elevate Brittle herself, which was just as well, considering she had no political aspirations to speak of. All her attention was focused on The Academy and her research into the lost Art. Then there was Velusni, the last Fiora to hold the fourth seat. But that was over a hundred years ago. Yabiskus’ low estimations of the fellow told me he had likely been replaced.

  “No, Sir,” Lugel said. “The seats have remained the same for some time.”

  A knock came at the door. I ignored it.

  “Velusni lives?” I asked.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Interesting.”

  Another knock.

  “A little over eighty years ago,” Lugel explained, “he integrated the body of a fallen Kolokasian god. Even though the soul had passed, the merging of flesh gave him a degree of skill with poisons. None of the four newly titled Leaves who came to duel him for his seat since then have survived.”

  Another knock. Harder and louder. More insistent.

  “All remain in Durum?” I asked.

  “Except Brittle and Muraad.”

  The knocking grew frantic.

  “Enter,” I said, readying a nasty little Surgeon matrix for whoever appeared.

  Klisa, white as a sheet, entered. “Apologies, Patriarch, but you have a visitor.”

  “Who?”

  “She bade me not to announce her.”

  I got to my feet. Few had the power, authority, or influence to countermand orders I’d given to one of my godlings. And a woman. Only two came to mind. I gripped the Yabiskus shell and wrapped it tighter around my soul.

  Then she entered.

  Lorail barged past Klisa. The Tripler’s body collapsed, empty. Trailing Lorail was an opaque shadow reminiscent of the soulless body it was snatched from.

  “An impressive girl.” Lorail’s voice was how I remember it: high and lively, each word laced with seductive poison.

  “Put her back,” I said. My voice was the reverse: low and deathly cold, a blunt promise of violence.

  Lorail dragged Klisa’s soul closer. On bended knee, the tetherless Tripler found itself face-to-face with a god who gazed upon her with all-seeing eyes. “Crafty, this one.”

  “I know,” I said, surprising even myself. My hunger had never been so acute, so all-consuming. Here was Lorail, one of my greatest enemies, a being whose soul was head and shoulders above the most succulent I’d ever had the pleasure of consuming, yet I found enough in me to resist action.

  “One moment.” Lorail put her hand in the specter of Klisa’s soul. Out came a crystal marble the color of dawn—her core. I had not known Lorail could extract cores the way she’d just done. A new trick? I asked myself. An old one made known?

  I pointed behind her at Klisa’s body. “Unharmed, if you please.”

  Lorail kissed her teeth. “Too bad. I’d hoped she had some talent as an Auger. Alas…”

  “Have you come here to start a war? Your presence alone will—”

  “Gods, you’re as dramatic as your father.” Lorail returned Klisa’s core and threw her specter back without a care. Klisa’s phantom burst into smoke and seeped back into its vessel. “No, I’ve only a question. And, depending on your answer, a warning.”

  “Ask your question.”

  She smiled and twirled her hair with a finger. I almost attacked her there and then. A memory burned itself into my vision in an angry shade of blood:

  ***

  I swung from a rope, trussed up with hands and feet tied behind my back. The room was bathed in reds. As was I. My doing. Unwillingly, of course. Blood was rarely a thing someone freely gave. A year of torture had sprayed, slathered, and dripped far and long enough to paint the room in shades of red, purple, brown, and black.

  Lorail’s feet came into view. My head hung low. It had never felt so heavy. This was true for every new day I spent in my prison.

  “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” she said.

  “Release me,” I begged.

  “Why?”

  “Because I am your brother.”

  “In name only, and not even that anymore.”

  “Then because it is wrong not to.”

  “We are gods. Wrong and right are but what we have the strength to enforce.”

  “Did you know?” The words came weak. I was breathless. Tired. Oh, so very tired.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose telling you won’t change anything. Yes, I knew.”

  “Did you help?”

  “We all did.”

  “I’ll kill you.” My voice was hoarse. Like stone scraping on stone.

  Lorail giggled and grabbed my shoulders, halting the gentle sway of the rope. “Unlikely.”

  I raised my head. It took all I had, everything I was. My sensus was locked, my body verging on the edge of failure. A state Elonai worked hard to maintain. Pain was not yet a friend. Friendly, but not yet a friend; where it had once shackled my mind, screaming into my senses, it now only whispered to me.

  Lorail stood there, smiling and twirling her hair.

  “Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or a year from now,” I said. “Maybe not for a century, or even for millennia, but I promise you, you soul-sucking parasite of a woman, I… Will… Kill… You.”

  Lorail, a god of Evergreen, master of souls, and daughter of Merkusian, stepped back from a tied, tortured, imprisoned, weakened man. My pitiful laugh—a mixture of coughs and wheezes—did nothing to ease her concerns. I saw the intent to kill me flash in her eyes. I noticed a greater fear stay her hand.

  Spent, I let my head drop. My words came slurred, filled with bubbles of spit and blood. “Coward. Kill me if you dare. Make me a liar.”

  Lorail leaned in close, grabbed a handful of my hair, and pulled. She was cold now. Seemingly fearless. Her mask was back on. “No. Taking your life is easy for you and… troublesome for me. No, I’ll not take your life, but…”

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  I smiled weakly. “But what? There’s nothing but my life left to take. Everything else your mother has already exhausted.”

  Lorail leaned in closer, lips to my ear and a hand to my neck. “I’ll take from you the only thing you cherish—all your memories of joy and happiness, of contentment. I’ll take all but the emptiness the memories leave behind. And there, there I’ll place countless copies of this moment.”

  And she did. I did not forget Merkusian, or Manar, or the woman who’d nursed me as a babe, or Helena, or the few others I held dear. Instead, I forgot why I held them dear, the weight of the moments we shared, and the color of the memories on which our relationships were built.

  The door opened. Elonai strolled in, a new set of implements in tow. “Leave, Lorrie.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Lorail turned to me and, registering the shock of my sudden loss from my wide eyes, smiled and twirled her hair. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  ***

  “What have you done to your soul?” Lorail asked.

  The words shattered the memory, and I came back to myself. The shell I wore distended, struggling under the weight of my expanding soul. Concentrating, I compressed myself once more. Not yet, I told myself.

  “Is that your question?” I asked.

  Lorail’s lips curled into a smirk. “No.”

  “What is?”

  “Why did you kill one of my granddaughters?”

  I frowned. “Because I wanted to.”

  “Then consider this your warning. My agreement with your father prohibits the deaths of any godlings outside official challenges. We cannot afford a full-on conflict. However, understand that if you break this rule once more, your soul will be the price he pays. I doubt The Old Queen will allow him to refuse the exchange. Her war is too important to her to let our squabble thwart her plans.” Lorail watched me. I felt her sensus reach out and do the same. “Well, then, I believe my business here is done.”

  Lorail’s soul flared. Lugel and Floreo wore expressions of confusion. I fabricated one of my own. To them, she had disappeared. Only gods could see past Lorail’s skill to erase her presence. I watched her leave from the corner of my eye, skipping away without a care.

  I stood there for a moment, getting a handle on the deep ache left behind by my bloodlust. The urge to attack had been boundless. Almost more than I could bear.

  Thankfully, my goals—and thus my conviction—were greater. Just not so great as to leave my appetite entirely unsatiated.

  ***

  As expected, the breastpin had changed, altered beyond what I had intended, my soul mark erased, the drop of blood stored within lost. Elonai would not let a drop of his blood fall into another’s hands. Throw it away, I told myself. Why keep what is useless? If it were anything else, I’d have listened to my own council. But not this. Not his gift.

  Someone knocked on the door to the office. My office for now. I placed the breastpin inside my inner pocket, leaned back in my chair, and called my visitor in.

  Lugel entered and bowed. “Greetings, Father. There is a messenger here to see you. Elur’s, I believe.”

  “Who?”

  Lugel straightened. “A Seculor. One of her younger daughters. I am unsure of her name.”

  “Interesting. Has anything of note occurred that might explain the girl’s presence?” Sending a Named was standard practice; sending a godling, a Fiora, was a show of respect.

  “No, Father, but this gesture was likely at the behest of Lorail. She means to test you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Also…”

  I kissed my teeth and waved him on. “Hesitation, Lugel? You disappoint me.”

  Lugel stepped back and went to one knee. “Thank you for the praise, Father.” He did not apologize. Yabiskus—like Bainan—abhorred apologies. “Klisa has not called in. It has been nearly a fortnight.”

  “She is where I want her to be,” I said, and she was. Roche had visited ten days ago. By now, Klisa lay in a skeleton cage deep in Polerma’s dungeon, suffering as she ought to. “No other news?”

  “None, Father.”

  “Then bring me this messenger. I shall return Elur’s gesture and grant her daughter a personal audience.”

  Soon, a girl strode in with all the confidence of a young girl who believed her mother’s strength and reputation extended an unbreakable defense. I knew her. Well, ‘knew’ might be too strong a word; I’d seen her before. Once. She had been there the night I’d infiltrated Elur’s home, sleeping on a bug-infested cot tucked into the corner of a windowless room. A slip of a girl, she stood across my desk, back straight and head ever so slightly bowed. She was tall for her fifteen years and wore leathers of a blue so dark as to rival black. A warrior's attire. On a belt worn high on her waist hung a rapier, thin and sharp and near half her height.

  “Greeting, Sir Laf’le,” she said, using Yabiskus’ Title—Laf’le meant bone-clad in the ancient language.

  “Your name, child?” I asked.

  “Millence, Sir.”

  “Well, Millence, tell me why your mother has sent you to me.”

  The girl’s gray-blue eyes took me in, her cold gaze as unyielding as her mother had trained her to be. “As you wish, Sir Laf’le. Lady Elur bade me to invite you to a meeting in the great hall of the royal palace.”

  “When?”

  “At your leisure, Sir.”

  “She’s there now?”

  “As we speak.”

  “And Lorail?”

  “Forgive me, but I cannot say.”

  “Because you do not know?”

  “Even if I knew, it would not be for me to say.”

  I smiled despite myself. “You may leave, Millence.”

  The girl left without an escort, a gesture of good faith.

  “Father,” Lugel said as soon as the girl had left earshot. “Is meeting with her wise—” My hard stare fell on him. Lugel held a fist over his mouth and cleared his throat. “Uhm, would you like me to accompany you?”

  “To the great hall? You overestimate yourself.”

  He bowed. “Very well, Father. Then I shall take my leave?”

  I waved him off. Thinking is easier in private, and I had to decide my course of action before meeting Elur—and possibly Lorail. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that attending was the better choice.

  I stood from my seat and grabbed my cloak. It was the color of aged bone. Yabiskus preferred to keep the armor spread beneath his skin, just above his Telum armor—likely because it gave him an intimidating bulk without the effort of an active matrix. I’d fashioned the extraneous collection of bone and sinew into a heavy cloak to hang about my shoulders.

  The stairs ended. A golden door stood before me, an image of Yabiskus riding an evolved lion molded on the surface. I had not been past this point yet, knowing The Leaves lay beyond. My hand gripped and turned the handle. Matrixes recognized the soul I wore and let me. I pushed. Light stabbed my eyes and washed over me. Yabiskus’ bedroom had a window spanning an entire wall, the side facing the royal palace—seven spires made of pale, opaque crystal. Six surrounded the central seventh, a tall, spike-shaped building that soared into the sky, so tall as to have its peak hidden behind wispy clouds. Not it's light, though. Nothing could block its light. It shone like a second sun, bathing all it touched with a green sheen. The glow seemed a physical layer, hovering over everything as if to suffocate. The six towers surrounding what used to be Merkusian’s home were smaller by half, six moons to the green sun. I faced Bainan’s. To the right was Grono’s. The spire to the left, facing the sea, was dark. Dead. Mine. Once.

  Squinting, I made my way out of the room and through Yabiskus’ empty manor. None but Leaves or candidates were allowed to enter the central region of Evergreen. No slaves, no servants, no merchants. None but the most skilled and powerful survived being so close to the light.

  Outside was a picture of wealth. Like everything here, the roads were needlessly wide. An army could march through without complaint. The homes were large, too, even on the outskirts—Yabiskus was the only Leaf who lived so far from the spires, with the rest of the residents being candidates. Many of the buildings were the color you’d get when mixing water and milk. Long ago, in pursuit of replicating the crystal Merkusian had fashioned the spires from, Grono conjured a marble resembling mist given solid form.

  I walked on, traversing near-empty streets, past scenery plucked from dreams—perfect gardens curated to every leaf and blade of grass, gilded gates and fences surrounding homes of preternatural grandeur, and statues of giants imitating life, all of it shone on by a light that weighed on the soul. Those who crossed my path recognized me. Leaves in the capital—not candidates or the sons and daughters of Leaves, but Leaves—were few and never fewer than now, with many having joined The Old Queen’s war, fighting and competing over the new lands Evergreen sought to conquer.

  A tall wall of the same crystal spread outwards on either side of Bainan’s spire. No door blocked entry, for none but the most puissant of godlings could withstand the aura within.

  I walked under the large archway and into the depths of my enemies’ domain. My first step faltered, the husk of Yabiskus’ soul shuddering under the more concentrated aura of power. My second step came easier. As did my third. I crossed the empty circular base of Bainan’s tower and walked under another archway. My first step into the grand hall redoubled the pressure. I stood still, eyes closed, trying to acclimate, but the tension refused to abate.

  “Proof, if proof was ever needed.” Elur sat at the table in her mother’s chair. Her features were identical to Lira’s, yet they looked nothing alike. Where Lira’s features were rigid and pretension, a costume, Elur’s was easy and genuine, a picture of her confidence. She wore a scanty dress, the cleavage running down to her navel, thin shoulder straps leaving much of her back and sides bare, displaying more of her pale skin. A fashioned cut in her dress started mid-thigh, parting the blue silk to expose long, athletic legs.

  “Of what?” I asked.

  “Why, of our divinity, of course.”

  “Is that why you requested we meet here?” I asked as I walked over to the table. “To remind me of our relation? An odd tactic, given our family.”

  Elur waited for me to take Bainan’s seat before she answered. “Neither of us can work our matrixes here. People find it easier to trust me when I can’t bend the world to my will.”

  “So this meeting wasn’t Lorail’s doing?”

  Elur’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, fleeting though it may have been, she appeared uncertain. “What has my mother to do with this?”

  “She came to see me not long ago.”

  Elur ran two fingers along Merkusian’s ancient table, her feigned calmness worn like armor. “Why?”

  “If she saw fit not to tell you, I don’t see why I should.” Telling an enemy someone had dulled your claws made little sense. Not unless you did so to hide the sharpness of your fangs, in which case, the trick is to tell them without seeming to want to. “But I’m not averse to trading secrets.”

  “I’ll give you Ilinai.”

  “The priestess?”

  “You know capturing her will elevate your House’s prestige. The masses tend to put a great amount of stock in the game of church representatives.”

  “They do,” I agreed. A church’s power is often proportional to its popularity, and when one church foils another, it is afforded both.

  “So?”

  “So I already have her. Offering me what I already have is a bad start to our negotiations. As are lies.”

  Elur’s lips twitched into a momentary frown. “Who was he?”

  “Who was who?”

  “The man you sent in to break her and The Firewitch out of The Bridge?”

  I shrugged. “A man whose skill and discretion I trust implicitly.”

  “Enough to leave him with me for a time?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not one to reward competence with something as horrid as your company. Now, why have you called me here?”

  “Five years of no interference for Ilinai and the man who killed my daughter.”

  I smiled. “Do you think me a fool?”

  “Name your price?”

  “Is Lorail here?”

  “I’ll tell you… for a price.” Elur drew circles on the table with her finger as absentmindedly as she could pretend. “How about this—tell me why you want to know, and I’ll tell you if she’s here or not.”

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Unrestrict your aura,” she commanded. All godlings had sensight. All Leaves of House Lorail had some skill in reading auras, most reaching an uncanny proficiency.

  I did as she asked. “I agree to the terms of the exchange.”

  Elur unleashed her aura. “I agree to the terms of the exchange.”

  “You’ve grown,” I said.

  Elur raised an eyebrow.

  “When did you become strong enough to use your Art here?”

  A twitch. A half blink. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You just lied to me. Twice.”

  “My aura says otherwise.”

  “Your aura is one of your lies.”

  Elur smiled how I imagined a predatory feline might smile, all sharp and wide and hungry. “Saw that, did you? Seems you’ve not stagnated either. I mean, my Paintings aren’t nearly as effective here as they would be outside, but seeing through one is still more than a little impressive.”

  “So, is she here?”

  “In the city, you mean?”

  “If she is in the city, she is here.” Only the spires were powerful enough to block my souleyes. A few powers might hide themselves from me, but only he had the means to block me entirely.

  Elur frowned. “How would you know?”

  I sighed. “I’m growing tired of this game of questions, Elur. You brought me here to trick me. You’re ploy has failed. Shall we negotiate, or has your failure exhausted your willingness to try?”

  Slender arms folded under her ample bosom. “Very well. What do you suggest?”

  “Let us start small. Our first bargain?”

  Elur’s aura shifted, her Painting fading away. “Consider it struck.”

  “I do not want to come across your mother. Not now. Not here.”

  Elur stuck out her bottom lip, sulking. “I was expecting a less predictable answer.”

  “So?” I waved her on.

  “She’s gone back to Halor. It seems she’s done giving me more brothers and sisters for now.”

  I nodded and stood. “Alright. That’s all I needed to know.”

  “Wait!” Elur sprang to her feet. “What of my mother’s priestess, Ilinai, and your mysterious assassin? And what of the peace treaty?”

  My smile was feral, the grin of a hunter who’s found his moment to strike. “I did not come here to negotiate. I will keep what I have and take your life for free.”

  I unhooked the cloak from the two clasps on my chestpiece. It fell to the ground. More followed—vambraces, shoulder guards, reinforced gloves—until finally, I stood before her naked. The cloak by my feet turned liquid, flowing up my legs, torso, and arms until the armor had covered all but my head.

  Elur observed the archways, expecting an ambush. Her breathing grew quicker. Just a little, but enough for me to notice. “Explain yourself.”

  “You know,” I said, “if it weren’t for Aminy, you’d already be dead.”

  “You?” Elur growled. “You came for me that night yourself?”

  “I did.”

  “And deemed her life more valuable than mine?” She crept back and away from the table as she talked, creating distance between us.

  “She’s a friend. You’re not even an enemy. Well, not directly, anyhow.”

  “A friend?”

  “Now, shall we begin.”

  I dashed forward and leaped over the table. Elur let go of any semblance of calmness, turned, and ran to escape the great hall through the archway leading to her mother’s spire. I threw myself at her. My armored shoulder dug into the small of her back and brought her to the ground. She disappeared under me. Her figure materialized a few paces closer to the archway. The Meaning she’d employed was so good as to fool my souleyes for the fraction of time it took me to reach her. Damn Merkusian’s creations.

  I dashed at her again. A wall appeared to block my way. I crashed through to face yet another. This one, I leaped over. Three spears raced to pierce my chest. I slapped them aside without slowing. They crumbled into motes of light before disappearing altogether.

  Sensing her escape was about to fail, Elur turned to face me. White armor covered her instantly— an imitation of Merkusian’s armor.

  Bone hit metal.

  Bone won.

  Elur fell back a step, grunting. I threw a fist at her face. Merkusian’s armor did not include a helmet—the man often joked that his face was too handsome to cover up. Her armor changed, shifting and growing into a metal colossus. Suddenly, she was twice my height and many times my weight.

  My punch connected. Elur’s swift growth redirected the blow aimed at her nose onto her abdomen. A dent in the shape of my fist imprinted itself onto the plates protecting her midriff. She flew back and struck the wall beside Lorail’s archway, aided by the imaginary weight of her new armor. The crystal structure ignored her with ease.

  I rushed in once more. Elur got to her knees. Another punch. Her head snapped back, spine cracking. The construct that was her armor blew away into motes of light.

  Elur was on her hands and knees, coughing blood. She’d Painted her broken neck back into place but ignored her caved-in cheek. Her hair was disheveled. She looked up, drooling red-tinged spit.

  “You’re too strong,” she slurred through her broken face.

  “No such thing as too strong.”

  “You’re half my age. Not even Muraad wields your strength.”

  “I’m not as young as I appear.”

  “You can’t do this,” she said, trying something new.

  “And why not?” Slow steps carried me towards her.

  “Civil war.”

  “Exactly.”

  ***

  I took a bite of the venison and sighed in disappointment. The fire was smokeless—a clever application of Ignis Arts on my part. A naked Elur, hogtied, hung over the heat from a spit I’d made from my two swords, their tips meeting somewhere in her liver. I had plunged one down her throat and the other between her legs. It wasn’t long before the smell of her roasting flesh had made me hungry, hence the venison. To my disappointment, there were no boars to hunt for leagues around. Adding to my dismay, Elur’s groans of pain had lost their luster and no longer served to keep my attention. As had the succulence of her fear. While torture was one of my favorite pastimes, it is a rather dreary affair when practiced with strict moderation.

  My camp was at the epicenter of a dimple in the relatively flat land half a league outside the wild forest sitting south of the northern coast of the capital island. The vigilant residents of the city deep within the woods and the many patrols they’d sent to keep watch had hassled me away. And so I waited, contenting myself with a toy I forbade myself from breaking. I had resigned to the idea of another dull day of waiting when I sensed the approach.

  I dismissed the fire, kicked fresh dirt over the scorched earth, rescued my victim from her pain, though not her captivity, and dumped her over a temperate Qaniin who stood there gnawing contentedly on wildflowers. We circled northeast along the sparse trees outlining the forest's edge. My target came from the west, heading for the stronghold deep within the wild woods. And it was a stronghold. Not in the typical sense, for if anyone of import had found the place, they'd raze it to the ground effortlessly enough. No, it was a stronghold because almost no one could discover the place. The city took all pains to go unnoticed. They maintained the dense, year-round foliage that hid them from any who observed from above with meticulous care and expended great efforts to manipulate how and where the evolved and mundane beasts roamed under the natural canopy, setting a trap for the bandits and marauders and other such uninvited guests who dared venture too deep. Then there was the town itself, which melded with the forest so well that most potential infiltrators who survived the patrols of men and beasts would breach a good distance into the settlement before belatedly realizing their arrival. So extensive was their camouflage that when I first laid eyes upon the town, I thought Kolokasians had secretly invaded Evergreen, though closer inspection broke the illusion. While the homes carved into the trees, buildings covered in moss, green-painted roof tiles, and shrub-covered pathways had the look of nature about them, Kolokasian creations felt like nature personified had come to life and built herself a home indistinct from all her other more tranquil constructs.

  My target’s wagon broke the horizon, the orange of dusk burning behind it. Observing their direction and the terrain, I picked a clearing, trudged there beside my trotting horse and her passenger, and waited.

  Two rode in the front. The third—the person I’d come to see—sat in the back, hidden by the wagon's black, aged, sensus-treated wood. The driver and her seatmate noticed me quickly enough, the last rays of sun aiding them from their backs and illuminating all but the shadows the hood of my dark green shawl poured over my face. Qaniin, restless and annoyed, stood beside me, eyeing them with eager hostility—snarling neighs, gnashing teeth, and violent jerks of her head made it seem like she was living the fantasy of chopping and tearing them to pieces. The driver and her companion took little notice. A lone, dark stranger and his lively horse did not cause any great fear in them. The wagon continued, making no move to avoid us. They did, however, stop before they ran us over.

  The taller of the pair dropped the reigns and stood. “State your business.”

  I looked up, the shadows across my face pulling back a little. “I’ve brought a gift.”

  “For who?”

  “For trust.”

  The shorter of the two pulled her partner's sleeve until the gangly tripler leaned in. “He’s alone,” she whispered.

  “So?”

  “Think. Where are we?”

  “Close to the—”

  Fillo flicked Brifal's ear and hissed, “Think. We are in the wild.”

  “And he’s alone.” Brifal rubbed at her earlobe.

  I shook my head. “Jule! Come out, will you! Preferably before the idiocy of your guards drives me to violence!”

  The whispers ceased as Brifal and Fillo stared at one another. A ruffling sounded from the back of the cart, so faint as to require my unnatural hearing to be heard. A few more near-silent shuffles preceded the thud of the wagon's rear door dropping open. Another thud followed as Jule hopped off and landed on the forest floor. She came into view, her nakedness softened by the low light of a budding evening. A glance at Qaniin fetched her the knowledge of who I was.

  “You are fast becoming a thorn in my side,” she said.

  I leaned back as if offended. “A rather horrendous welcome, considering the richness of the gift I’ve brought.”

  Jule strode forward, twigs and leaves crunching beneath her naked feet. “Your gifts—for all that they are gifts—will be the end of me.” She stopped before me and nodded at the body slung over Qaniin. “What sort of cursed luck have you brought me this time.”

  “All in due time,” I said. “Before I present my gift in all its glory, I will take the trust I am already owed.”

  The captain’s gaze snapped back my way, the cold, dark hatred in them as deep as it was irrational. “Owed?”

  “Owed,” I repeated. “Regardless of my motives, my actions have benefitted you and yours in more ways than you know. Then there is all the trust I have put in you by opening the doors to Snowliar, exposing the faces of those who serve me, and letting you witness the assaults I levied upon the Lorail’s queendom. And let us not forget the crimes against me I have forgiven.”

  Jule lurched forward. Suddenly, the quivering snarl fell off her face, and the impending step followed suit, pulled back by the calmness of her emerging persona.

  “Even if I were to agree,” she said, pausing to smile, “it is unbecoming to give charity only to come and demand payment.”

  The smile I gave her was reminiscent of the type you might imagine on the face of a virgin boy the first time he loses himself to the throes of passion—that is to say, utterly insensible to how unflattering one appears. “As is accepting a favor and not offering your own in kind.”

  Jule shook her head in wry amusement. “I take it you expect us to escort you to the city?”

  “I am owed.”

  We ditched the wagon when the forest's vegetation grew too dense. Brifal took the lead, Qaniin and I trailed Jule, and Fillo brought up the rear, cursing and cussing all the way—Qaniin was decisively flatulent during our journey, and I let her have her small victories, mainly because I knew how vexing the terrain was for her. Wild, overgrown plants reached for our ankles, scratching at us with thorns and leaves ready with poison. Bulging roots and knotted twine snagged at our boots and hooves. Weeping trees and feral vines hung low, slapping into our faces and obscuring our mundane sight. Behind their swaying collective, hidden figures in the shape of men and beasts watched us. The beasts prowled ever closer, daring mundanes and wily evolved the closest of them. The men stayed back, their mandate more aligned with being that of an observer than that of a hunter.

  “Where nearly at the border,” Jule said after she caught me observing the creatures.

  “I know,” I said, and did. The matrix, while unfamiliar to me, blazed blue to my souleyes. “It is a rather clever solution.”

  “What do you know of our Arts?” Jule did not deign to look back when she asked the question. I did not need my souleyes to know she thought herself offended.

  “Besides what I can see, very little.”

  Jule turned but kept walking, her stride and balance unaffected. “You have the sight?”

  “I do.”

  “Not this useless thing they call sensight. I mean, the sight?”

  I shrugged. “I know little of your Arts—not much is written about your people in our books and histories. However, if you are asking whether or not I can see your working, I can.”

  “And what do you see?”

  “Without getting into the details,” I said, pointing at where the matrix began, “I see two multilayered functions. The first is bait, a tug on the beasts’ desires. I can also see it pull on both primal and higher-order desires, feeding hunger and greed as well as lust and the illusion of love, calling to beasts and men alike.” I waited a heartbeat, long enough for us to cross the invisible threshold. Suddenly, all the creatures who thought they were preying on us staggered to a stop. A mundane wolf shook his head, took a turn, and went on his way, oblivious. An evolved dog of some shaggy breed that stood tall and hid their nimble form with a craggy coat of hair froze in place. Slowly, it rose from its crouching stalk, its head shifting about, the look of confusion on its expression ironically indicative of its intelligence. “If I'm reading it right, the second half is the matrix protecting the city—a combination of illusions. One layer conceals the city, blocking sight and sound, and the other invades the minds of those who manage to stumble too close, subtly but surely guiding them away.”

  Jule’s stride stuttered, and she nearly lost her footing. Brifal was quick to offer a supporting hand, righting the half-naked Easterner.

  “That’s not sensight,” Jule said, stopping and facing me head-on.

  I shrugged. “Not exactly.”

  Jule watched me, waiting, hoping I’d elaborate. I offered her a smile. She knew me just about well enough to shiver at the sight. As if to hide from her fear, she turned to Brifal and gestured for her to lead the way once more.

  The structures at the outskirts of the city were better hidden, integrating seamlessly with inconspicuous fixtures of the forest—an outpost lay beneath a natural mound of grass-covered earth, another stood on a collection of thick branches, the limp twigs of the tree hiding its walls. Deeper in, the buildings were more recognizable, though the aesthetics remained obedient to the surroundings.

  Figures clad in dark greens and browns, smeared with dry mud, and caked in packed dirt slipped onto our path. Jule overtook Brifal and stood before them, a dam against the wave of their hostility.

  “He is not an enemy,” she said.

  “Maybe not, but he is worthy of the description,” said the central figure. A man. One I knew.

  I stepped forward. Brifal stepped into my path, face hard, expression determined. I walked on as if she were air, and like air, she flowed around me. Unlike air, however, she did so less gracefully, tripping and falling to the ground.

  “It appears,” I said, addressing the man, “that in the end, you didn’t have a choice in the matter. How goes it, Andol?” I reached out a hand.

  “Tell me he is not the man you spoke of,” Andol told Jule, ignoring my greeting. For a brief and frivolous instant, I wished I’d let him kill the boy in the Grifal estate so that I might reap his life and soul and fear at that moment.

  Jule’s head dropped. “I’m afraid I cannot.”

  “Do you know what type of man you’ve allied us with?” The man growled his question. Only he and I knew how little of his anger colored his tone.

  “Calm yourself, Andol.” I stepped closer and looped my arm around his shoulders so swiftly as to render his reaction to stop me too slow. “Much like you, she had little choice in the matter. Now, how about you invite me somewhere comfortable and let me reveal the magnificence of the present I’ve brought along.” With that, I let him go, knowing his inability to escape my hold had tempered his urge to react with aggression.

  With the severe comportment I’ve come to expect from him, Andol turned, waved for me to follow with a stiff wave of his hand, and said, “Follow.”

  A crowd appeared. They stared at us with fascination and a smidgen of fear. I was surprised to see as many women as men, and more so for all the children leaning out from behind their parents’ backs.

  The room was modest—a small, hollowed-out, oval space at the base of one of the larger trees. Four rough wooden chairs and one matrix lantern hanging from a vine-woven rope were all the decorations the room possessed. Andol, Jule, and I, along with a man unknown to me, sat facing each other. At my feet was my niece, gagged as much to avoid the screams the lance of pain I’d stuck in her soul caused as to stop her silver tongue from sparking havoc.

  “Talk,” Andol commanded. I was not too fond of his tone, but greater needs demanded I let the insult pass.

  “I’ve come to solidify our allyship.”

  “What allyship?”

  “We have a common enemy.”

  “The Lorail godlings could almost say the same about you, and I’d find it difficult to disagree. It does not make any of us allies. All it means is that we each face multiple enemies.”

  I took a deep breath—a show to convince him he was wearing on my patience. I looked over at Jule, exasperation marking my features. “Does he speak for all of you?”

  “I do,” said the stranger. He was an older man. A Fiora, or their equivalent—he did not have the smell of an Islander about him. I knew he was old because age had crept onto his features despite the density of his divinity: a slight sagging of his pale skin, the round rim of cloudy white surrounding his iris, the faint spots on the back of his hands. My best estimation had him on par with Polerma in terms of strength.

  I nodded a greeting at the old man. “And what is your opinion?”

  The man rubbed his hands over the cane he held before him. I saw the resemblance when he looked up and revealed more of his face.

  “I hold Andol in high regard,” he said.

  “And Jule?”

  “Moreso.”

  “Because she is your daughter?”

  “Partly.” The old man looked over at Jule. The pride in his eyes made me sick. “I hope my raising her has something to do with why I hold her in high regard, though I might be erring in the same way an absent parent might disown their undutiful child.” He turned his gaze back to me, the smile fading. “What do you wish to gain from the allyship you seek?”

  “More weapons with which to defeat my enemies.”

  “And what is it you offer?”

  “The same.” I pointed down at my prisoner. She squirmed in abject pain and terror. “She is a sign of what I can offer.”

  The man slid his cane forward and peered over its round handle. “And who might she be?”

  I looked the man in the eyes for a heavy and pregnant while.

  Then I told him.