The sun bared down on Lord Aren’s shoulders, beams cast from skylights cut into the ceiling of this highest level of the military compound. Shields were scattered across the walls in this reach, each calling to a different nation. His gaze flicked from one to the other of them as he made his transit over a river of granite. He lingered longer on those of most consequence, those who had given Shadovane trouble at one time or another, waged wars against her, or made attempts at her ruler’s life.

  Here were the silverfish of Morgrotten, a beacon of resistance for the elves of Shadovane were not accustomed to marine battles, and the city had won out in the end. Here was the sun and rays of Lazul, wiped away by the combined might of Zankal and Ozos, and that only recently. Their first skirmish with the Sun Empire had proven disastrous for both sides, not least because the then queen Alice had been no general, had nonetheless inserted herself into the affairs of her soldiery, undermining their leaders. Lessons in humility and humiliation lingered in those shields, and while certainly Shadovane’s forces had proven victorious over many more states than they had lost battles to, in each loss was a lesson to be learned. Something new to be gleaned from settled conflict, which might prove useful in the future.

  Here, the lynx of Gourum. The nations sophistication in the art of enchanting proved time and again their savior. In all of known history, the wall there had never been broken, their armies never defeated. A curiosity, for their ruler was, as tradition demanded, a child. And there was Kore’s coiled serpent, its sinuous body following the edge of a round shield, forged into the bronze. Kore’s sign was alone among those representing the Ten Kingdoms, those terrible nds in the east. It was there, not because Shadovane had waged conflict with that nation, but as a reminder of all of the bloodshed and chaos their empire had endured at the hands of God’s Legion, those who traced their service to the imprisoned Sky Lord himself. He hoped never to see the day that conflict was renewed. Too much would be lost if war broke out between the Sun Empire and the Ten Kingdoms. It had almost happened once, just more than a decade ago, when a citizen of empire brought his wrath to the border of Gorozoan. Had been put to rest by his most cherished friend, so the intelligence said. For that, Lord Aren was grateful.

  A st shield stuck out to him. It was there, just next to the door he needed, and he paused before it, thinking for the details behind its capture. A sickle moon loomed against the center of the kite shield. That and nothing more. It was all that was needed to remind those who served on the Council of Liam of their greatest and longest standing enemy, the one who had nearly done the empire in.

  Lun, ruled by the emperor’s own daughter, had been a jewel carved out of the Empire, a pce of peace and prosperity. Those who ruled were so often jealous guardians of their nds, and when the territory sought independence, when they decred their sovereignty, war soon followed. The pce once called Lun was sacked by the daughter’s father and his concubine, the entire region cursed and burned to cinders. The Shadow of Lies, Rakhna, took over then, and the nds, now desote, were turned into a prison for the empire’s most dangerous criminals. Where Lun once stood, the Ring of Fire arose, and what peace it had known was shattered.

  He moved past it, and halted at a door fnked by two Bloodless in full armor, the Raven and Thorns bold across their chests, reflected in the design of yet another shield to the right of one soldier’s shoulder. Another—the metal cast with a pearl-like finish, the raised hand of Mirrhvale embzoned in burnt orange across its face—rested against a bracket opposite it.

  The Bloodless saluted, eyes forward, as he passed into the waiting chamber.

  The room was barely rger than the oblong table which occupied it. Six, wing-backed chairs with bck, velvet cushions were situated around it. Three of them were occupied.

  Atop the table was painted a map of the world, with silver figurines in different shapes scattered across it, reflecting the real-world movements of enemies and allies throughout Etherel. Too many of those pieces were clustered along the border between the Free Lands and the Ten Kingdoms. Omari’s headhunters were moving into the mountains of northwest Jarra. Baris’s Grimwok were amassing near Darkridge, a handful of days’ journey from the free territory of Haru.

  But they were just posturing. The Ten Kings wanted an end to their truce with the Empire as much as the Empire wanted to viote that truce itself. One would not move into the Free Lands before the other, as it had been for the two millennia, since their compact was ratified.

  More problematic was the series of cross-like figurines which had moved away from their home in Aranor and spread into the Free Lands around Ozos and Nimrodel. Those represented a criminal enterprise which had been a thorn in the side of the Empire for nearly two decades. It had been their former leader who nearly dragged the empire into war with the Ten Kingdoms; their current leader, who had stopped him. And yet, this new one defied comprehension. His pns had become erratic of te, and there was that matter so many years past, a genocide in Lazul Lord Aren strongly suspected he had been involved in.

  They had performed necromancy that night. To what end, he could not cim to know. It was a dark mark on the empire’s reputation, one of those few they had not earned themselves.

  “You seem troubled, today, Lord Aren.”

  He looked to the source of that high, cold voice.

  Lord Cree observed him over a long, pointed nose. His dark hair flowed down his back, gray only just creeping in at his temples. He wore a bored expression, but Lord Aren knew better than to trust in what Lord Cree dispyed outwardly. Though he had never been traced directly to any crime, rumors swirled around the general, suggesting—but never outright prociming—that he had murdered his way into his position through a combination of hidden knives and poisonings. Matters which Lord Aren had turned a blind eye to upon his counterpart’s ascension to the council. Whether he was responsible or not, Lord Cree’s enemies, those who had offended him, did have a habit of dying under mysterious circumstances.

  “There is much to find troubling of recent.” Lord Aren said to him, matching his even tone. “That is why we are here, is it not?”

  “But surely you are not so concerned with the death of one nobleman. In particur not Haman Bran. Asshole that he was.” Lord Cree gestured toward the cross figurines. “These are the matters which concern me. Movements among our enemies. Happenings in the bordernds which threaten our control of them. Truly, what is Lord Bran to any of us?”

  “I do not fear their posturing, Lord Cree. Any more than I fear what may come of the Cross’s intervention in the Free Lands. Their leader does not intend to revisit what his predecessor did.”

  He took his seat at the table, next to Lord Tarkenta, who studied the map with a vacant expression.

  The st of those gathered here was Lord Elise, who sat with Lord Cree on the table’s other side, just as nature intended. Though sometimes misguided, Lord Tarkenta had something which resembled a proper moral code. Lord Elise was more a monster than any of the other Councilmen, and Lord Cree behind him only because he possessed the restraint and intellect Lord Elise cked.

  “Have you any thoughts on the servants?” Lord Tarkenta asked. His gaze flickered over the map, taking it all in. Of all of them, he would have the most reason to worry over Shadovane’s recent problems. The Wraiths were his charges. It was with him responsibility for the apprehension and training of the servants y, at least in part. And he did care deeply for them, in his way, though Lord Aren disagreed with him on the nature of his work.

  What Lord Tarkenta called a mercy, he saw as a means to an end. Servants must always be a part of the fabric of Shadovane’s culture, lest the nobility begin to cannibalize each other, but they could not be taken from the ranks of common folk, whose resentment for the upper css burned with a slow intensity. Lord Tarkenta had not been born among them, and could not understand the way common men thought. Lord Aren had escaped his poverty, his disease-ridden hovel, and had done at great cost. He had no desire to go back to that life, but that did not mean he could not empathize somewhat with what y behind this rebellion in the lowest caste of Shadovani society. Were his own involvement discovered, he would surely be immoted. Subtlety must always be his priority, even if it meant he must occasionally perform acts that weighed on his conscience.

  “I do.” He said. “I will, however, hold my tongue until the others arrive.”

  “They do like to make us wait, don’t they?” Lord Tarkenta chuckled. His crooked smile looked wrong on his stony face, out of pce.

  “Have you been well of te?” Lord Aren asked.

  “Better.”

  Lord Elise sneered. “The missus is putting out again, then?”

  Lord Tarkenta gred at him.

  “Of course it’s all over the pace. The rumors are—”

  “Quiet, Elise.” Lord Cree snapped.

  The door opened, admitting a rather feminine man who walked with his back so straight one might think a rod had been rammed up his backside. His cocky grin was a permanent feature, as was the swagger in his step.

  Lord Bertram seldom appeared to treat anything with the gravity it deserved, but he was discerning, and thoughtful, and good with both the sword and the knife. A few of those who offended him had found one or the other of his bdes sheathed between their ribs. Less than half of those deserved it. Following short behind him was Lord Giram, who helmed the council. His hair was as white as Lord Aren’s, but cut almost to the scalp. He was short, and broad-shouldered, with a barrel chest and the scar from an old burn white against his neck, which he refused to have properly healed.

  “Everyone is here?” he panned over the other five from his seat across from Lord Aren’s. Lord Bertram sat to Lord Tarkenta’s other side, his hands folded together, resting against the edge of the table.

  Lord Giram drummed his fingers against its surface, his eyes on Lord Aren. “Well?”

  “Queen Meredith will not be in attendance, then?” Lord Bertram raised his eyebrows, his lips a thin line.

  “You really are as bad as Lord Elise, you know that?” Lord Giram said.

  “Oh, not quite, I think.” Lord Bertram replied. “Perhaps if my appetites for things best left on the shelf were stronger.”

  Lord Elise snickered.

  The queen had long shown the lord over the Bloodless an unusual degree of favorability, but Lord Aren suspected his counterpart was little more than a set piece in her life. He would not be surprised if Lord Elise felt the same for her. Certainly, no true love could exist from one monster to another.

  “We did not come here to trade insults.” Lord Giram said in an icy tone. “We came here because the queen ordered it.”

  “Ever the one to reserve judgment, aren’t you?” Lord Bertram mumbled, earning him gres from Lords Giram and Tarkenta.

  “What do you have, Sis?” Lord Giram asked Lord Aren.

  “As of right now, very little, though my Thorns are working tirelessly to gather more information. What we know is that a grimoire of death magic was found under a servant’s bed. That servant frequented the Teacher’s Tower, mostly for the purpose of meeting up with other women.”

  Lord Elise snorted.

  He pressed on. “My men took her into custody several days prior to the emperor’s arrival. They made the oversight of pcing her in proximity to Aldeirel, vioting my orders, and at some time thereafter, she escaped. I do not know how.”

  “Even with a command of death magic, there is no means by which a servant could escape those cells.” Lord Cree mumbled. “The bars are lined with cadmium and silver. She would not have been able to hear well enough to draw on the Cosmic Orchestra.”

  “Which implies she had help from outside.” Lord Tarkenta said. “But my Wraiths have yet to uncover anything that would preclude the involvement of those rebels in the city.”

  “It may not be them.” Lord Aren set his gaze on the cross figurines.

  “Oh, you can’t be serious.” Lord Bertram turned his nose up at the prospect. “How could they even know of us. Our predecessors did their due diligence wiping records of our existence away. They believe their rulers to be human in the eleventh ward. What possible—“

  “It is only a suggestion. The one who calls himself Headsman is known to be religious. It is possible he believes the stories so many others call myths.”

  “Then why Lord Bran?”

  “I do not know.”

  “He’s a pain in the ass, but he is not—“

  “Important, yes.” Lord Giram cut in. “No, if this is an outside job, it would be one of hers. I do not think it has anything to do with those Crossmen." His gaze shifted from the map to Lord Aren. “Her proximity to Aldeirel is troubling.” To Lord Tarkenta. “Keep on those rebels. Sooner or ter, they’ll let something slip.”

  “In the meantime.” Lord Elise said. “What do we do about her? The queen feels—“

  “I think we are all quite aware of what and how the queen feels.” Lord Giram cut in. “Unless you pn to undress her for us.”

  He opened his mouth to speak. Lord Giram pressed on, ignoring him. “So, we know next to nothing and we haven’t found her hiding pce. What we do is what we were already doing, then. The Thorns and Wraiths will need to work together in these matters until we have uncovered her. Set them to search everything the shadow touches.

  “In the meantime, Lord Aren. I would like to question Aldeirel. If she was positioned in ear shot of him, he may have gotten into her head. It would not be the first time. Lord Bran may have been a significant target for him, even if the rationale behind taking him down does not make sense to us.”

  “He will resist.” Lord Aren said.

  “Then we will use force.” Lord Giram supplied, spreading his hands.

  Another complication. Lord Aren thought, but he nodded. “I will see to him myself, then. He will be in interrogation room D when you want him.”

  “Good.” Lord Giram said. “This is over, then.”

  He negotiated himself free of his seat, and lumbered out of the room.

  “It must be so hard torturing an old friend.” Lord Elise said.

  “No harder than pretending to love your meal ticket.” Lord Aren replied.

  Lord Bertram cackled. “That is just the bit of comedy I needed. With that, I think I will leave you to it. Unless you intend to fight?” He looked hopefully from one to the other of them. Both men wore stony expressions. “No? Just as well. Toodle-oo.”

  He waved goodbye, and marched out of the room. Lord Aren rose with Lord Tarkenta, and they left after him. Lord Cree and Lord Elise were not far behind.

  “You don’t think it’s revenge, do you?” Lord Tarkenta asked as they marched down the hall outside. “She is a servant.”

  “Yes, and it may well be that. But she would have to remember something of her former life for a revenge plot to make sense. Even then, she chose a weak target. Someone who was likely mean to her. I do not think her targets include anyone of consequence. Not yet.”

  “If she is speaking to Aldeirel, it is only a matter of time before bigger targets fall into her p.”

  “You have Wraiths stationed outside his cell?”

  “Would you be offended if I did?”

  Lord Aren patted his shoulder. “Not at all, old friend. If she meets with him again, we will know. Won’t we?”

  Lord Tarkenta nodded. “Yes, I think that is best.”

  They parted ways at the end of the hall, and Lord Aren navigated back to his chambers. He would go to his office ter. For now, he needed seclusion, a little time to think.