《Ten Thousand Vendettas》


 River of Dreams

    Cato Rehm knew about seeing stars. He¡¯d had enough bad scrapes, beatings, and concussions in his short life to be very familiar with the faintness that accompanies a head injury.


    But these stars shone above him in an ethereal firmament more beautiful than he had ever imagined.


    They swirled dense and bright across the sky like a rolling wave. Each one twinkled brilliantly and seemed to say ¡®I am in my rightful place, and I exist only to shine for you in this moment.¡¯


    Even stranger, Cato¡¯s head didn¡¯t hurt. Nothing hurt. It was the first time in his eighteen years he could remember that nothing hurt; no twisted ankle or bruised rib to ache as he drifted asleep, no piercing stab in his lungs.


    He drifted for a time, enveloped in that peaceful sensation. Eventually, he came to notice he was drifting. The stars were ever fixed in place, but the dark clouds flowed across the sky, and soon blanketed it entirely.


    He was moving, bobbing gently backwards. His mind began to correlate these sensations.


    He wasn¡¯t dead. Why wasn¡¯t he dead? He had expected to see stars, just for a moment, before¡­ what?


    This peace wasn¡¯t just an absence of pain. It was an absence of any bodily sensation at all.


    But he wasn¡¯t dead yet. His mind was just out of sync with his body. It felt like he was in a deprivation tank, disconnected from all but his sight.


    Out in the darkness, something familiar beckoned. Without thinking, he reached out toward it.


    Pain.


    Yes, it was pain, that familiar companion from his earliest memories.


    Bodily sensation flooded over him. He wasn¡¯t dead, but not for a lack of trying. He was drenched and almost frozen, almost completely numb.


    But there was a spot of bright, hot pain in his lower abdomen. It centered him. Reminded him he wasn¡¯t dead.


    Why was he supposed to be dead?


    Searing headlights. A car horn from hell.


    With one vast impulse Cato burst from the water. Everything, from the numbness suffusing his body to the fiery agony in his midsection was transformed into an irresistible will to live.


    With the dumb, desperate motion of frozen limbs he scrambled and caught a stray rock in senseless hands. But he could see, and with monumental effort he could command those hands to close on the rock. Just a few more brute heaves lifted him out of the water and onto the rough, sharp sanctuary.


    But even that exertion exhausted him. Not only did his body refuse to move, he felt hazy, empty. It was like he had a second stomach, and it was screaming to be fed.


    He felt regular hunger as well. He was wet, cold, and tired. His thoughts danced with desires he couldn¡¯t recognize: foods he had never tasted, scents without object, impossible music. He longed for the luxurious feeling of a snow tiger fur coat against his bare skin on a wintry day. He remembered a sweet voice and a warm touch¡­ whose?


    These thoughts closed in around him like rising water. But this was a comfort. He just wanted to submerge himself beneath them¡­


    Stop


    His eyelids wavered.


    Wake up


    Cato bolted upright and-


    PAIN!


    He cried out and reached blindly. It was hard to tell in the dark, but there was something sticking out of his side, and the more he moved the more he screamed. Even touching it lightly sent a cold twinge through his whole body.


    Breathe


    He breathed.


    Cato didn¡¯t bother wondering where this voice was coming from. It wasn¡¯t the warm and musical tone from his strange memories. It was bright and clear, like a flash of insight, like spring water on a hot day.


    It, too, was strangely familiar, like an old friend hiding behind a mask. He felt that, if that mask slipped, he would say ¡®so it was you all along¡¯.


    But for now he just breathed.


    The pain pulsed and receded. By the time he came fully to his senses, Cato was breathing in a strange pattern.


    No, that wasn¡¯t quite right. His breathing was perfectly normal, in and out at regular intervals. It was as if the air he breathed in danced within his body, guided by the same invisible will that awoke him.


    By slow degrees, the second hunger in his body was fed. It wasn¡¯t sated, not by a long shot, but it wouldn¡¯t gnaw at him anymore. Strength returned to his limbs, and the river¡¯s chill abated. All that remained was the object in his side.


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    Under the waning starlight, he could now see that it was a dagger, long and slender, buried at least four inches deep in his left side. It had probably sliced right through his intestines, maybe his kidney as well.


    Cato had survived enough accidents to know exactly what kinds of injuries the human body could survive. Without urgent medical care, this was not one of them.


    But against all logic, his will to live was strong. Though that bright presence was no longer beside him, he kept breathing in the same way. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he took the dagger in hand and tugged.


    It was stuck fast, but he persisted. One breath after another, applying steady pressure, it began to slide out. And though a fierce agony followed, a feeling of overwhelming vigor filled the void and soothed it.


    When it pulled loose with a spurt of blood, Cato smiled through the pain. Despite everything he knew, he didn¡¯t fear bleeding out, and after a few more minutes of breathing, the flow stopped. Half an hour later, the wound was totally closed.


    When dawn broke, Cato sat up on the rock and saw there wasn¡¯t even a scar.


    It was the most beautiful and surreal sunrise of his life. A bright white sun climbed over the horizon, turning the world below into a pale and snowy dream. A golden sun followed, then crimson, and finally a cerulean one, each larger than the last, which bathed the land in gentle radiances. Psychedelic colors danced in the sky, and illuminated the wide river around him and the rolling verdant hills beyond the shore.


    And then the suns faded behind the clouds. Free of both pain and numbness, Cato looked around for the first time.


    They were not clouds, but a great blanket of smoke rolling in. The smoke rose from a light on the horizon, and he realized that it was a flame. It took him a few moments longer to realize the river flowed from that flame, and sourceless knowledge welled up in his mind.


    The Holy City.


    The Holy City was burning.


    And there was a twinge of¡­ satisfaction? That didn¡¯t seem right. It wasn¡¯t a feeling Cato Rehm would have ever felt at such a sight.


    He flopped onto his side and stared down into the flowing water. It was clear and glassy, and his reflection wavered on the surface.


    He was not, by this point, the least surprised that he was not looking at the face of Cato Rehm, and instead counted with a calm curiosity all the ways they were different.


    This face was older, in his late twenties he guessed, but finer and unblemished. The auburn hair that cascaded from the crown of his head reached his shoulders in a chaotic tangle, and what had been a well-groomed beard and mustache in an earlier age was knotted and matted with all manner of filth.


    The rest of his body was much the same. It was well-built, and under other circumstances it would have been enviable, but now it was haggard and bone-thin, with shrunken muscles and a half-starved look.


    Even his clothing was fine, better than anything he would have dreamed of wearing, but torn, burned and sliced.


    That brought his attention back to the dagger.


    In the waning half light of the smoke-clouded suns, he examined the weapon which had nearly claimed his life. It was a work of art all its own, gently tapering to an elegant point, the shining blade neither dented nor blemished by the abuse he had just put it through.


    It was sharp enough to scratch the stone beneath him and so sturdy it wasn¡¯t so much as scratched. Upon the hilt, it bore a coat of arms shaped into the dark metal: twin lions rampant, snarling at the viewer, and inscribed on the blade was a name in unfamiliar letting which Cato nevertheless read with ease.


    ¡°Gulphay¡±


    He supposed that was a name, but he could hardly guess anything more.


    Amid the rising warmth and light, Cato took stock of what he knew.


    He, an unfortunate and accident-prone boy from the flat center of America, had been swiftly crushed by an oncoming truck at night. Given how his life had gone up to that point, it was hardly an unexpected end.


    Yet instead of dying, he had awoken in the body of this fellow, who was quite possibly less fortunate than himself, floating downriver from a burning city with a very fancy knife sticking out of him.


    Whoever this body belonged to, he was doubtless rich, but it hadn¡¯t saved him from a gruesome end. He was sure that the Holy City was wealthy and powerful beyond measure, and this man may well have been a native, but someone had seen fit to murder him even as the city itself was burning. Whatever his identity was, chances are it would be more of a liability than an asset.


    So, as he tore off his ripped clothes and sunned himself on the wet rock, a simple goal formed.


    Survive.


    Get away from this damn place, with all its fire, blood and death, learn more about this strange world, and-


    It was odd. He hadn¡¯t the least idea of what to do beyond merely surviving. In his old life, he¡¯d been focused on much the same, living every day in dread, just trying to keep afloat.


    Now he was thrust into a much more dangerous situation, but no longer had a fragile body that broke under the slightest pressure. As best as he could tell, his old clumsiness and tendency towards accidents was gone as well.


    If he could survive the next few days and weeks, he might well have a chance at a better life, the sort that most people took for granted. He could live from day to day without the fear of pain and injury hanging over his head, free to walk down the street with confidence, able to look others in the eye without contempt.


    He could be normal.


    He could be more than normal. He could be excellent. With this second chance, he could become who he was destined to be, and surpass everyone who mocked him!


    ¡­ what a strange thought. It welled up from the same depths that gave him an incredible will to live. It saved his life, but it also filled his mind with dreams and temptations. For a boy who could only ever strive for normalcy, to be extraordinary was just a fantasy.


    But now he could do it. He was sure. More than he ever dreamed was within his grasp, if only he could reach out and take it.


    Then once again he felt that bright, cold hand at his side, thin as a whisper. Last time, it pulled him out of his fantasizing by force, but now it was just a gentle reminder.


    Cato fixed his eyes on the horizon. He had to do more than just survive. He had to learn what these strange influences were, why in the world he came to be reborn in this body, and how he knew memories and desires not his own.


    Grumble


    But first he had to eat. Looking down at his torn finery, he mentally added clothing to the list. The smoke gradually covering the sky turned his thoughts to shelter and light.


    Chasing the last of the chill from his body and gathering up the remains of his clothing under his arm, he leapt into the water and swam to the river shore. At once he delighted in the strength of his body, which despite its haggard appearance moved swiftly and surely, with power behind every motion, and didn¡¯t threaten to break apart with exertion.


    Curious eyes watched him over the hills.

 Ursula

    Many leagues away, across mountains and rivers, the city of Anthusa watched the smoke clouds rise.


    A young woman watched the sight from her balcony, jutting out from a high, spiraling tower, tallest of all the ninety-six spires from which the city¡¯s great families judged the masses below. She was draped all in finery; her robe was velvet and cloth of gold, and sapphires the size of quail eggs dangled from her ears.


    She swirled a fine wine in a diamond glass. It was a deep maroon color, with hints of burgundy. The grapes were harvested from the private vineyards of the Holy Son, planted in holy ground and drinking only sanctified water. The juices were pressed in the Meidin workshops and fermented in casks fashioned from the sacred rowanwood that grew in the lowlands of Tirol. Of this vintage, the Antigo Bonnel, only ten bottles were produced each year, with the remaining casks kept within the Sanctum Summum for the exclusive consumption of the Holy Son and his cardinals.


    These bottles were never sold, but only given as gifts to favored clients. To reach her lips, it had passed through the hands of a dozen nobles, each passing it upwards as a gift.


    Now that the Holy City was burning, there was nobody above her. She could enjoy the fruits of her labor in peace.


    And yet¡­ the Bonnel tasted sour and pitiful.


    How could this farce be called a victory? The Holy Son¡¯s vineyards burned to cinders, trampled under the hooves of foreign invaders. Her rivals died or fled for other planets, yet she did not grow any stronger for it.


    She sat at the peak of this world, but only because everything above her had been shorn away.


    She figured that the Sultan was laughing at her even now. To think, she had been so obsessed with destroying her rivals that she destroyed what they had instead of taking it for herself.


    More than that, she killed them with a borrowed knife, not by her own strength.


    The wine bubbled and boiled away as the glass in her hand cracked and vaporized. No, the sight of the Holy City in flames could bring her neither satisfaction nor relief. It was only one more stepping stone toward the top.


    ¡°Lady Ursula.¡±


    Her manservant stood behind her, unfazed, another diamond vessel and the bottle of Antigo Bonnel at the ready.


    ¡°Put it back, Michelotto. It doesn¡¯t suit the mood.¡±


    He bowed and retreated into the spiraling tower, leaving her alone with the wind and smoke. Now that she thought about it, this was a perfect new beginning. The Orczy and Kolonn families were weakened and sent running, the cardinals were in shambles, and the whole planet would be in turmoil for years to come.


    She could already sense the kings of faraway planets making their moves. Fleur would already be marshaling his soldiers to strike back against the sultan. Achae would be begging aid and hiding behind the Emperor¡¯s skirts, worrying they were next. They probably were.


    And then, when the dust settled, everyone would remember that they needed to control the Holy City.


    By then, Ursula Tor would have her roots in so deep that even the Emperor and the Sultan would have to seek her favor. From Anthusa, she would control the universe.


    She snapped her fingers, and Michelotto appeared as if from thin air.


    ¡°Paper.¡±


    A sheaf of fine, scented paper and a phoenix-feather quill were in front of her almost before she had spoken. A slow and gleeful smile spread across her face for the first time in many years.


    The whole world was a blank canvas for her ambitions now. Schemes and plots sprang to mind, eager to serve, but she stayed her hand.


    ¡°On second thought, call Archbishop Forna for lunch. Serve the Bonnel.¡±


    ? ? ?


    At first, Cato was afraid that a world with four multi-colored suns might be harsh or, at the very least hot.


    But it wasn''t. The grass beneath his feet was a strange variety he had never seen before, with jagged fronds and vins of gold and red amid the green, yet the scent of late spring was the same he once knew dimly and from afar, only now it was vivid and intense. Even through the cover of the dark smoke clouds, he could still feel the position of each sun. Their lights did not compound each other and create oppressive heat, but complemented each other, as if each one was nourishing a separate need in him.


    The riverbank was surrounded on all sides by rolling hills that narrowed his vision. If not for the immense size of both the Holy City and the smoke rising from it, he wouldn''t have known there was anything else in the region but water and wildflowers.


    Anything else like animals. Insects. Worms, even. The perfume of flowers surrounded him, but where were the bees that pollinated them? Where were the birds in the sky? Cato saw only a handful of bugs in the river, and all of them were heading downstream, not just following the current, but rushing as fast as they could.


    In the exact opposite direction from the smoke.


    He resolved to find other people, and soon.


    It was then, as Cato was wringing the water from what remained of his ragged clothes, that his hair stood on end.


    The first pulse started in his spine, rising from the pelvis up to the nape of his neck, and then exploded across his body. He felt the animal urge to flee.


    The watching eagle, the hypnotic serpent.


    The second pulse originated in his guts. That now-familiar surge of willpower suffused his body from the viscera out, and the paralyzing panic was replaced with a sense of control. Fight or flight. With this power propelling him forward, Cato instinctively chose to fight.


    The fear shrank, and became concrete. Cato felt a pair of eyes upon him, coming from behind, over the hill. He turned, and the ghostly image of two pupils hovered in front of him.


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    These were not quite real, not quite a hallucination. It was the same feeling of looking for something in a familiar place, where one did not need to even look, just move and feel. Though he couldn¡¯t see over the hill, Cato knew this spy lay a quarter mile southwest.


    His body was taut and full of energy. He was in control. The offending eyes were within his reach, as easy as just putting out his hand and grasping.


    Within a second of detection, he was on the move.


    ? ? ?


    Inna was bored. Bored out of her gourd, as her brother would say. She might roll her eyes, but at least his antics would alleviate her boredom.


    She kept expecting the ring of a bell or the bleating of a goat to pull her attention, but they never came. She was ready to give attention to some needy lamb that bumped against her leg, or to yell and pull apart a couple of kids locking their half-grown horns.


    But there were no lambs anymore. They¡¯d sold the whole flock. Myshkin was taking the last of them over to the butcher in Inillo. Silver went with him too, and she had been left to guard the bag of silver hidden in the ground along with the old book. A year ago, they¡¯d never dream of making so much money so quickly. But now it felt dirty, taking so much from such desperate people.


    Not that they were any less desperate. Actually, she and Myshkin had been a lot poorer than the villagers for a long time. But she couldn¡¯t bring herself to see crying children and hopeless farmers and feel smug. Especially now that they needed her help.


    So she sat on a mound of dirt like a chicken on an egg, and waited for her brother to rendezvous.


    She looked to the east. She looked to the west.


    There was nobody on the horizon. No surprise. Even sitting atop a hill, she didn¡¯t expect to see anyone. The moment the black smoke started filling up the sky, crops started to wilt and discolor. Even the birds were gone. Everyone who could manage was moving as far away as they could.


    ¡­ which meant there was nobody around to catch her using witchcraft.


    She wasn¡¯t a witch. Not really. But a witch used to live in a hut near where she and Myshkin led their flock, and she taught them a few tricks.


    Agatha said never to use these techniques where other people could see them unless there was no other option. The far-sight spell was mostly safe, but someone much more powerful could detect it, and would probably kill a poor shepherd for knowing even such a simple spell.


    But there was no way to know if there was someone nearby without using the spell, was there?


    Inna sat up straight, closed her eyes, and breathed. After a few minutes, she felt the energy of nature filling her body, and concentrated on her eyes. It took her weeks to really get the hang of it. A simple spell like this didn¡¯t need words, just a feeling, connecting the mind and body to magical power. Learning it for the first time was like learning to wiggle her ears.


    She could wiggle her ears, and Myshkin couldn¡¯t, a fact of which she was terribly proud.


    This movement was like opening her eyes even as they remained shut, like the half-state between waking and dreaming. With a few moments of focus, she pushed them open, and reveled in her second sight.


    She could see the dewdrops on each blade of greying grass and the mites that fed on the fleeing ants. She sent her vision soaring across the hills, rushing forward with the speed of a charging horse. Beyond a tall hill she saw the Fusirlo river, and kneeling beside that river, wringing out his clothes, was a man.


    She could see him front and back, from every angle. Though his face was turned away, she could count the hairs on his head, if she spent the time. He had a handsome look about him, though skinnier than he should have been, and more rugged.


    Inna didn¡¯t especially mind. Certainly, the dagger in his belt-loop and the fine cut of his wet clothes, even ripped as they were, made her wonder who this man was. Some lost princeling who would deck her in gold and gems in exchange for help? Maybe a priest wandering in disguise, who might break his vows and share a cold night with a lonely shepherd?


    These were just idle fancies, fairytale plots. She wasn¡¯t worried they would actually be true; after all, what prince wouldn¡¯t just fly home if he became lost? So she didn¡¯t think twice before trying out another spell.


    It was an extension of the far-sight spell, one that she''d never really gotten a hold of. Agatha said that every person had an aura around them, a cloud of invisible light. If you could see it, she said, you could learn how a person was feeling, what their personality was like, and maybe much more. Inna always wanted to feel like an enchantress out of fairy tales, who meets the heroine in a dark wood and knows everything with a single look.


    She fixed all her attention on the man and opened her phantasmal eye further. Just enough to get a peek into his aura.


    It was grand and golden, extending so far out that his body looked like the wick in a candle flame. But it was not a calm flame to guide someone in the dark. This was a proud, devouring fire, and Inna swore she could see shapes in it, heads and hands breaking the surface and then being pulled below again by the jaws of great lions. All of a sudden the color changed, a spurt of green filling it up like paint in water.


    Then he was gone. Like a wild animal, he had turned, faced her, and scampered off in the blink of an eye.


    Inna startled and fell back off the mound, her magical sight fading. She shivered. The spell had worked. She had gotten a glimpse, and his aura was thick with blood and cruelty.


    By the time she fully processed that, she was already bolting away in terror.


    This man was powerful enough to sense her gaze from a quarter mile away, and his aura betokened a wrathful and violent person, the sort who wouldn¡¯t think twice about murdering, or at least savagely beating, anyone who offended him.


    For example, an impudent shepherd with the audacity to peer into his aura with a spell she shouldn¡¯t be able to use.


    So she ran pell-mell over the hills without a second thought for the money and the book buried in the dirt mound. Only when she heard someone coming up behind her, heavy footfalls and breaths like a mountain lion in chase, did she realize she was leading this threat directly to the village.


    Right to Myshkin.


    She made a sudden turn and dove to the ground as her pursuer rushed directly past her. He was faster, larger, and armed, not to mention more magically potent. She stood no chance in a fight. Neither did anyone she knew, maybe not even the whole village together.


    But she might be able to draw him away from the others, and keep them from meeting the same fate.


    So for the first time she met her pursuer¡¯s eyes, and saw a vicious predator. Even as her heart thundered and her mind felt faint, she held his gaze.


    He didn¡¯t step forward.


    He didn¡¯t heave or sweat.


    Inna had no chance of escape here.


    She just took a few moments to catch her breath and prepare to run, uselessly, in the hopes it might protect her loved ones from harm.


    She backed away.


    He sprang forward.


    And the howl of a wolf split the air.


    Inna saw her pursuer dive to the side and come up on all fours, turning to regard the new threat.


    It was Myshkin, hefting his gnarled staff and filling the air with a palpable wrath and terror.


    This was another of Agatha¡¯s spells. While Inna had shown talent in far-sight, which Agatha taught them in order to more easily find lost sheep, Myshkin had a knack with a dweomer for scaring away wolves.


    The hackle-raising growl that emanated from her brother¡¯s form was accompanied by shifting phantasms. Wolves and serpents and wild cats crept behind bushes and swirled in the shadows. Inna wasn¡¯t even the spell¡¯s intended target, and she still felt the terror it imposed.


    But her pursuer did not.


    A deep, inhuman roar burst out of him, and swept away the shepherd¡¯s shadows and wrath like leaves in a thunderstorm. For a moment, Inna was blinded; when her eyes fluttered open, she saw that the man in front of her was flanked on either side by shining eidolons.


    Two golden lions.


    The shepherd and her brother fell to the ground and knelt in abject terror.

 The Lonely Shepherd

    As Inna and Myshkin knelt with their foreheads in the dry earth, certain facts known to everyone from princes to paupers rushed through their minds.


    Magical power was a powerful and restricted tool, one which could only be lawfully and safely cultivated under the guidance of the church. First among the nobility¡¯s many duties was to hold their subjects to these laws and aid the church in stamping out heresy and witchcraft.


    At the same time, demons offered power to the weak-willed and ambitious in order to spread chaos, and those witches granted their power to others in exchange for fell prices.


    Agatha, the witch Inna and Myshkin learned from, hadn¡¯t made any fiendish bargains, at least not with them. Being rough, poor outcasts from society who could only earn their keep by herding on ever smaller lots of common land, they might not have even refused.


    But they must have expected a price would be exacted at some point, and now they would pay for heresy with their lives. Worse, the whole village of Inillo, almost everyone they had ever known, might perish with them.


    When Inna¡¯s spell was discovered, her first thought was to flee. When her pursuer proved too quick to escape, going down fighting and keeping Myshkin out of it was the best choice.


    But the twin lions were the symbols of the Holy Son and his faction: anyone who could conjure them was, at the very least, raised within the house of Gulphay and trained to uphold its hegemony, if not a vassal or relative of the Gulphay princes or the Holy Son himself.


    Any backwoods witch who defied someone of this stature wouldn¡¯t just be executed; they would seek out their families, their communities, anyone who so much as bought a lamb from them, and put them to the sword. Before such power, immediate submission was their only chance to placate his wrath and contain the bloodshed.


    So they knelt with their foreheads in the dry earth and waited. The agonizing moments stretched out and they trembled inside, though they dared not show it. After far too long, they saw the light of the golden lions dissipate, but did not raise their heads.


    ¡°Tell me,¡± intoned an imperious and threatening voice, ¡°where the hell am I?¡±


    ? ? ?


    Cato was completely at a loss.


    First, he found that the eyes watching him over the hills belonged to a peasant woman. Then, before he could even ask a question, she started running away from him like a bear was nipping at her heels. Right as Cato caught up, she stopped and for all Cato could tell tried to fight him, just before this other guy appeared out of nowhere, howling like a wolf.


    And now, just as he cleared his head, the two of them were kneeling down in front of him.


    Cato was dimly, distantly aware that he was, in fact, holding a dagger. But that was just because it would have fallen out of his belt loop otherwise. Surely, these two didn¡¯t think he was threatening them?


    And yes, maybe he got a little carried away testing out his body¡¯s abilities¡­ and maybe he was acting in an odd, animalistic way that made him nervous. So he could see how it might have given these two a fright.


    But to go from trying to pick a fight to kneeling just because-


    Cato jumped to the side and nearly fell over. A low roar rumbled through the air and made his insides jitter, and he found himself flanked to either side by a pair of golden lions made entirely out of light. He tensed for a moment, but neither paid him any attention, instead fixing their gazes on the kneeling pair. With their eyes fixed firmly on the ground, they hadn¡¯t noticed him jump.


    Cato slowly realized that the lions were emanating from him, and the same warm energy which healed his wounds earlier was flooding out of him, from two points on his back.


    It struck him that these two might not be the strange ones here.


    That powerful, reassuring will in his gut¡­ it didn¡¯t whisper to him. It just directed his attention to certain sensations and feelings. Even now he reveled in the exhilaration of movement and the subtle satisfaction at seeing people kneel in front of him.


    But Cato also knew that there was something perverse afoot here. Though the bright, cold presence he felt at the river tickled the edge of his consciousness, he didn¡¯t wait for it to act. With a deep breath he pushed back against the other will in his body; he only needed to brush against it, and it retreated to god-knows-where.


    A sense of clarity- no, that wasn¡¯t it. It was just a dark cloud which had been lifted from his thoughts. He had barely been thinking at all for the last few minutes. That incredible sense of mastery he¡¯d felt when the peasant¡¯s spell fell on him was an illusion. He hadn¡¯t been in control, he¡¯d just given control over to a much more powerful and coordinated force that knew exactly what it was doing¡­ and knew how to persuade him to give up control without even speaking a word.


    Cato needed to get some information of his own.


    He didn¡¯t have the faintest clue about what this world and its laws were like, but he could make some solid guesses based on the people in front of him. They were rugged and coarsely dressed, with dirt on their faces even before they pressed their heads to the ground. They smelled like goat¡ªCato wondered idly whether his sense of smell had gotten better or they just stank¡ªand unlike his present body, which clearly used to be in great shape but was abused recently, they looked a great deal more like how Cato remembered himself: sinewy and lean, the mark of a life spent not eating quite enough and working hard for very little. Also, his present body felt and smelled quite clean, even fragrant. Was it just bathing in the river that did it? A question for later.


    But most importantly, the moment they saw the golden lions the two had immediately thrown themselves down before him.


    Cato didn¡¯t know who he was. These two probably didn¡¯t know either, at least not the whole story.


    But they clearly thought he was a big deal.


    Frankly, if he had seen someone manifest golden lions in his past life, he would have agreed. Now, however, he needed to figure out exactly where he stood in this world. Literally, to start.


    ¡°Tell me, where the hell am I?¡±


    Cato felt the words tumble from his lips like fine wine into a deep and booming cask. He had fully expected his voice to be coarse and rough the first time he used it, having nearly drowned earlier that day. Instead, every syllable was coated with honey. He had an overwhelming urge to burst into song just to test it out.


    But the present moment demanded more delicacy. Some decorum, even.


    ¡°Your Gracious Eminence!¡± titles mixed together on the peasant woman¡¯s lips. ¡°We are a ways south of the Holy City, on the road to Anthusa. The people of this land are your humble servants, shepherds and farmers with no malice or evil in their hearts!¡±


    As soon as she was done, her brother chimed in. ¡°Oh Majestic Highness, please spare these people, who share no part in any crime against your honored person or the kingdom of heaven!¡±


    Cato wound up confused once again. Spare them? Were they begging for their lives? Were they begging for other people¡¯s lives? Whoever they thought he was either had a serious reputation for bloodshed or was way more important than he expected. He was suddenly very glad that these two weren¡¯t looking at his face, or else he might have given himself away immediately.


    ¡°Rest assured, peasant, your lives are not in danger. Show me the way to the nearest town and be on your way.¡±


    The shepherds were completely frozen. Did he address them incorrectly? Was he not haughty enough? Cato risked a pointed ahem in their direction.


    ¡°Please, Beatific Excellence, spare these people who have done wrong only unwittingly! We beg your divine mercy!¡±


    Damn, these two were more scared than he thought. This would take a little more showmanship. He lifted his chin and assumed the most contemptuous look he could muster.


    ¡°Raise your heads, peasants. In the name of Heaven, I, Cato, guarantee that no harm shall come to you or your people. Now, show me where I may rest my head and get a set of clean clothes.¡±


    Now that, Cato was sure, was the very best, most pompous pseudo-Shakespearean twaddle the Riverside Iowa School District could provide. Surely, that would be enough?


    Well, they had raised their heads. And their eyes were filled with tears.


    Cato was worried he had done something horribly wrong, but the two leapt forward and started kissing his boots¡ªno, they were kissing the ground in front of his boots¡ªand pointed east, over the rolling hills.


    ¡°In that direction, your Most Perfect Beneficence, is the village of Inillo. Please, allow these poor souls to accompany you and show you the way.¡±


    ¡°That will not be necessary. Go about your business.¡±


    Cato started walking. Now that they pointed it out, he thought he could hear a good deal more noise and bustle from that direction. Every step he took drove him across the soft earth with the excitement of a rollercoaster. Despite the smoke covering the sky and casting a gloom, the weather was gorgeous. As he rushed toward his destination, thoughts of food, clothes, and a bed filled him with a real optimism for the first time in many years.


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    Yet once again, Cato could not shake the feeling that he had made a huge mistake.


    ? ? ?


    Inna and Myshkin stood dumbfounded as the strange princeling bounded away across the hills.


    He had seen them, both of them, use magic with his own two eyes. If any of the villagers had seen the same, they would have run screaming and formed a mob. A prince belonging to the Holy Son¡¯s faction should have torn them apart on the spot.


    What a topsy-turvy world! The Holy City destroyed, shepherds casting spells, and the powerful showing mercy to the defenseless.


    For a time, they were too stunned to speak. Then, cautiously, as though the events of the last few minutes were fragile things that might break if mentioned aloud, they discussed what just occurred.


    Only then did the enormity of Cato¡¯s words hit them.


    Could he have really meant that?


    He swore an oath on Heaven. He must have!


    The shepherds stood up and rushed back toward their hidey-hole and dug it up. The bag of silver that seemed unbelievably large before now looked like much too small of an offering. But just beneath it, hidden for nearly two years in the dry earth, lay a great book bound in unblemished plates of dark, polished metal. They bound it up and ran towards Inillo with all their speed, eager to make a welcome gift to their new lord.


    ? ? ?


    Inillo was a clutter of homes and public buildings wrestling for space with farmland. In some of the denser clusters, small patches of pasture grew on the roofs, with the odd goat or pig chewing serenely, taking in the view.


    The village felt empty. Though there were dozens of people in every direction, nothing that Cato understood as ¡®normal life¡¯ was happening.


    The villagers moved about with desperation, rushing past Cato with carts and wheelbarrows, loading mules with everything they could get their hands on, sparing not a glance for the stranger in their midst.


    They were evacuating. Soon enough, Inillo really would be empty.


    Near the center of the village, where the homes and shops clustered most densely, stood a great villa. Unlike the other buildings, constructed of stone and plaster, it rose on high slabs of marble, with soaring pillars and cupolae all around.


    And the people of Inillo were looting it. They streamed in through one set of great double doors and emerged out the other with furniture covered with radiant silks, stout mahogany desks, barrels upon barrels of preserved food and drink. These they piled around the open plaza in front of the villa


    Unable to get anyone¡¯s attention long enough to ask a few questions, Cato searched about for whoever might be in charge. Then he found them: there in the corner of the plaza, two men, one in priestly robes and the other wearing a surcoat with the same green-and-gold pattern that fluttered on the villa walls, having a very loud argument.


    ? ? ?


    ¡°Master Remiro, I beg you to reconsider. Inillo will not survive this disaster without your cooperation.¡±


    Remiro d¡¯Cour pushed down his growing frustration with the priest.


    Father Andrea was a newcomer to the village, who had only served the handful of years since his ¡®uncle¡¯, Father d¡¯Cour, passed away and left Inillo without a priest.


    The young Andrea was godsent. Unlike his predecessors, who were mainly half-literate and preached with the aid of illustrated books, he was raised in a monastery and received an elite education in both religious and secular matters. Having such a learned man in their chapel was a great point of pride for the villagers and the baron alike, and Remiro could still scarcely understand how someone so talented got assigned to Inillo¡¯s parish at all.


    But in spite of that, the young priest was dangerously naive. As much as the people loved the idea of a literate priest, his ability to actually connect with them through sermons was limited, and he very often got on the baron¡¯s case about sins Father d¡¯Cour was much more understanding of.


    Baron Inillo was gone, and left Remiro in charge as the yeoman. He and his knights had gone to the Holy City laden with gifts, hoping that the stalemate in the conclave would break soon.


    Instead, the whole city went up in flames, with the Demon Sultan¡¯s Immortals swarming around it like flies. It hadn¡¯t even been a day, yet the smoke rising from it covered half the sky, the crops had already begun to wither, and all the wild animals had fled the area. Now, Remiro wasn¡¯t as educated as Father Andrea, but he damn well knew a sign when he saw one.


    ¡°Father, I have made my decision. Rest assured, you will be coming with the caravan, as will all your books.¡±


    ¡°My books? Master Remiro, there are thousands of people-¡±


    ¡°I know exactly how many people there are in Inillo, Father. Do me a favor and avoid lecturing me about my own village.¡±


    The young priest stood up straighter and his expression hardened.


    ¡°Then do me the favor of listening when I talk about my parish. The caravan can¡¯t carry everyone and the late Baron¡¯s furniture at the same time.¡±


    ¡°The caravan can¡¯t carry everyone anyway, Father.¡±


    ¡°So you admit it! You¡¯re planning to leave the villagers behind!¡±


    The hustle and bustle behind Remiro stilled for a moment. He turned his head, and the workers carried on, their eyes on the ground.


    Of course he was planning to leave people behind. Inillo numbered over four thousand, many of them very young or very old, some sick, or weak, or injured. Caring for them normally was not a problem. But this was a disaster. The lands around were already blighted, and produced nothing but food to begin with. With the baron dead without heirs, and all his subordinates but Remiro gone as well, there was nobody to maintain order here.


    Their best shot was to travel to the city of Anthusa, which was weeks away. The baron had creditors there, and Remiro might be able to set up a new life for some of the villagers there. The smith and tailor¡¯s families for sure, some of the wealthier and more experienced farmers, maybe the tanners and fishers. And he¡¯d certainly like to take their literate and intelligent priest as well. Those were a few hundred of the most productive villagers, the kind that the lords of the big city would be willing to take in, and then only if they provided the wealth stripped from the villa as a bribe.


    Without the baron to speak on their behalf, the rest of Inillo¡¯s population were extra mouths to feed. It would be crueler to march them, sick and hungry, across weeks of hilly terrain only to have them, all of them, be denied entry at the gates.


    ¡°Not everyone can make the journey, Father Andrea. You can, and I want you to come with us. You can give great comfort to the villagers-¡±


    ¡°I will not give up on my parish, Master Remiro.¡±


    ¡°What parish? Look at the sky! Look at the ground!¡±


    ¡°A parish is the people, not the land, Remiro!¡±


    ¡°Do the people live off the clouds?¡±


    ¡°They live off of faith as well.¡±


    ¡°So you would starve with them?¡±


    ¡°I will not let them starve, Remiro! Have faith, forget the furniture, and take care of the people you swore to protect.¡±


    ¡°Faith? Fine then.¡± Remiro raised his arms to the sky. ¡°Send me a sign, o Lord, if I should heed the words of this idiot priest!¡±


    Father Andrea flushed. ¡°Fool, thou shalt not test the-¡±


    ¡°Would you stop quoting scripture at me and listen you-¡±


    ¡°Ahem.¡±


    Both men were startled by the sound. A ragged man, just a bit younger than Remiro, with a naked dagger in his belt loop and the badly torn remains of fine clothing on his back approached them.


    Remiro did not know this man.


    ¡°Excuse me, sir, but would you be in charge of this village?¡±


    His voice was full and musical, with a lifetime of confidence behind it. A bastard from the Montebrillo household, perhaps?


    Under the present circumstances, Remiro had no desire to meet him. With a derisive snort, he turned back to Father Andrea.


    ¡°Excuse me! I asked you a question.¡±


    This boy¡¯s confidence now sharpened to arrogance. The gall!


    Whoever this stranger was, wandering into what was now, for all intents and purposes, Remiro¡¯s village, needed to be taken down a peg. He turned on his heel and stalked toward the man, his face just inches from the stranger¡¯s.


    ¡°What business have you with me, you lackadaisical lout? I am the yeoman here. Put a leash on that tongue before I whip you bloody!¡±


    The villagers around him harrumphed and chuckled. The looters dropped their work and began to congregate, forming a circle around the stranger.


    ¡°I was just asking a question, and-¡±


    ¡°Ah, I had no idea! Can any pig get up on two legs and demand a question from me?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Came the response from the crowd. ¡°Kick him out! Throw him in the river!¡±


    Father Andrea came up from behind and whispered into his ear.


    ¡°Master Remiro, be careful, he-¡±


    Remiro pushed him aside, and the priest fell to the ground.


    ¡°Get back to the chapel, Andrea. I will take care of this bastard.¡±


    The crowd stepped ever so slightly closer to the stranger. There was more than common derision in their expressions. They were defenseless and angry and afraid, uprooting their entire lives while the Holy City burned, and a perfect target for their frustrations had walked into the square. Even on a normal day, he might as well have volunteered for a beating, giving the yeoman lip like that.


    That was back when Remiro still had a patron whose mercy he had to represent. Today, with the whole village on edge, he might not be able to stop them from doing much worse, even if he wanted to.


    ? ? ?


    Cato got a cold feeling in his stomach. He¡¯d figured the same attitude that got him through talking with the shepherds would work on these villagers. Instead, this was just one sudden movement away from erupting into violence.


    His body was tougher than it had been in his previous life by far. Was it tough enough to escape being torn to pieces by a hundred pairs of hands?


    His heart thundered, and that will, that other thing inside him made itself known again. ¡®Would you like some help?¡¯ it may as well have asked. ¡®Hard to handle things by yourself, isn¡¯t it?¡¯


    Cato was ashamed to admit it, but he¡¯d put his foot in his mouth here, and needed a way out fast. Could he pull off the trick with the golden lions again?


    Not on purpose. Not by himself. Whatever solution was locked inside his body, he didn¡¯t know how to access it.


    He needed something else¡­


    ¡°Make way! Make way!¡±


    The crowd turned in confusion. Inna and Myshkin, the shepherds, were yelling at the tops of their lungs and trying to squeeze through the crush of people.


    The crowd, for their part, murmured and turned their attention to the pair. Strangers were bad news, and shepherds weren¡¯t much better.


    ¡°What now?¡± Remiro thundered, silencing the village and drawing attention back to himself. ¡°I already paid you two. State your business or get your stinking tails out of my village!¡±


    They barely registered the threat. They pressed through and reached Cato at the center of the crowd, once again putting their foreheads to the ground.


    ¡°We bring a gift of welcome to the new lord of Inillo!¡± Inna shouted, unwrapping a bundle of cloth to show Cato the metal-bound book inside.


    ¡°What are you lot waiting for?¡± Myshkin asked. ¡°Show some respect to the lord!¡±


    The crowd was struck dumb. Remiro expected this was all one huge, bad joke. One thought rang through Cato¡¯s head.


    I¡¯m the what?

 If I Lead

    ¡°Behold Cato, our new lord!¡± cried the shepherd. ¡°Bow before him and beg forgiveness, all you unfaithful villeins, lest you feel his wrath!¡±


    Over a hundred villagers had gathered in the square to watch this scene. The yeoman Remiro stood atop an empty pedestal, looking down on the proceedings like an ill-tempered judge. A pair of shepherds had their arms to the sky and raised their voices like preachers, demanding the people give their obedience to a new master.


    Nobody knew quite what to think, least of all their new lord, Cato Rehm.


    ¡°You moronic lout! If I don¡¯t whip you bloody, my name isn¡¯t Remiro d¡¯Cour!¡±


    Remiro stepped down from the pedestal, unwinding a loop of heavy, knotted rope tied around his waist.


    Inna shouted back ¡°Just try it you bastard, our lord is stronger than you could ever imagine!¡±


    No, no he wasn¡¯t, Cato thought. He desperately wished people would stop putting words in his mouth.


    Remiro waved the knotted rope through the air like a whip. Cato felt a thrum of power in the air, like the spells the shepherds had used earlier that day, but much more dense and focused. The whip arced through the air and slammed down on the ground with a deafening crack. The tiled stone shattered, the fractures stopping just shy of the shepherd¡¯s feet.


    ¡°Get on the ground and make amends for your offense,¡± Remiro spoke softly, ¡°and I¡¯ll let you walk out on your own two feet.¡±


    Myshkin took a step forward, his shoes crunching on the pulverized stone. He didn¡¯t even speak to Remiro. He just turned toward Cato with a wide smile.


    ¡°See, my lord? I won¡¯t let anyone dirty your good name.¡±


    He closed his eyes.


    Remiro raised the whip, trained on the shepherd¡¯s defenseless body.


    In a split instant, Cato was overwhelmed by emotions. Shock and confusion were chief among them, but so was¡­ love. Concern.


    In his old life, Cato used to take care of a stray cat in his neighborhood. It was always dirty, mangy, and refused to get too close to anyone. He put out food for it and watched it from around the corner. It ran away whenever it got close, but it slowly got more comfortable around him. By the end, it let him get within a few feet without running.


    The next day, Cato saw it get run over by a speeding car.


    For what it¡¯s worth, he loved that cat. He¡¯d wanted to protect it, and he¡¯d failed.


    Strange as it was, he felt the same emotions for a couple people he¡¯d just met a few hours earlier.


    So he stepped in front of the whip. Pain blossomed across his chest and right leg. He felt fractures spread across his ribs. But he didn¡¯t stop. With all the energy in his strong, new body he took Remiro by the wrist and squeezed.


    An audible grinding filled the square, and the same crowd that was salivating at the sight of a whipping recoiled in sympathetic pain. Remiro cried out pathetically and dropped the whip.


    And so did Cato.


    Agony much worse than the crack of the whip erupted in his left wrist, the same place he had hurt Remiro. It took all his willpower not to bend over and scream. He threw the yeoman back and pulled his dagger with his good hand.


    Remiro snarled, reached for the fallen whip¡­ and froze, pale. Like Inna and Myshkin earlier that day, he fell to the ground and begged forgiveness.


    The crowd broke into confused squabbling and murmuring. Then, some others noticed the same thing as Remiro.


    ¡°House Gulphay!¡±


    It was his dagger, bearing the twin lions on its crossguard, the same symbol which made Inna and Myshkin so obedient. The villagers pointed, gasped, and backed away. Most joined Remiro in bowing.


    Inna and Myshkin didn¡¯t.


    Inna clambered up to the pedestal and addressed the gathered villagers, arms high like a victorious athlete. ¡°The truth was in front of you, but you couldn¡¯t see! Our lord, who swore before Heaven itself, to protect us all and deliver us from harm, has rescued me from the oppressor¡¯s whip.¡±


    Myshkin took hold of Cato and lifted him up, showing his broken, purpling wrist. Inna gestured toward him, ¡°And yet, even this rotten bastard is one of us, and our lord took the same injury he dealt! He has sacrificed himself for the sake of one who would harm him, so how can you deny that he is our rightful lord?¡±


    Cato struggled to listen to all of this through the blinding pain. Bit by bit, he gathered energy in his body and concentrated it in his wrist and the line of flame across his torso. It soothed him, and eventually his mind was clear enough to think.


    He swore to protect them? That couldn¡¯t be right, he didn¡¯t remember doing any such thing. He didn''t know how to.


    Except¡­


    Cato cast his mind back to his conversation with the shepherds. What were his exact words?


    In the name of Heaven,


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    Oh, no.


    I, Cato, guarantee


    No, no, no


    that no harm shall come to you or your people.


    Those had been his exact words. An undeniable, intuitive truth rang in his mind.


    Whatever the source of his body¡¯s power, it was paying attention to what he said. It didn¡¯t matter that he hadn¡¯t meant it, didn¡¯t understand it, and only meant to calm down a pair of crazy shepherds.


    He had sworn before Heaven, whatever that meant, and it fully intended to hold him to his vow.


    Worse, he hadn¡¯t just made a promise, he had guaranteed it. If he broke his promise, he needed to pay a penalty.


    And he had nothing to pay with but his body.


    What he did to Remiro was done unto him. The whip marks had already closed up under his clothes, but his wrist had barely begun to heal.


    But maybe¡­


    Cato snapped himself out of his reverie. The pain was intense, but he could grit his teeth and press through, at least for now.


    The villagers were all crowded around him, close enough to touch, but too afraid to lay a hand on him while he still grasped the dagger. Leaning on Myshkin, he stood up and peered over the crush.


    ¡°Remiro d¡¯Cour, was it?¡±


    He lifted his chin toward the yeoman, still nursing his own injury. He now seemed so pale and small, practically a ghost.


    ¡°Y-y-yes, my lord. Please, show me mercy.¡±


    ¡°Come here.¡±


    He flinched. Cato spoke as gently as he could, given the pain, but even this command terrified the yeoman.


    It was the third time that day, the third time since arriving in a new world, that Cato saw someone be afraid of him.


    He was sick and tired of it already.


    He pushed off Myshkin and stumbled toward Remiro, then knelt down to eye level. The poor man trembled, but was resigned to whatever Cato would do.


    He gathered energy in his fingertips and pressed them gingerly to Remiro¡¯s wound. With a subtle push, it entered and mingled with the other man¡¯s energy.


    It felt¡­ simple. Right. It barely felt different from when Cato was healing his own injuries by the river.


    And though he wasn¡¯t concentrating there at all, his own wrist mended as well. Relief washed over Remiro¡¯s face, and after a few minutes of stunned silence, He stood and raised his arm, as whole and healthy as it had ever been.


    ¡°Healing hands!¡±


    ¡°The hands of a king!¡±


    The villagers broke out into a frenzied excitement. Only Remiro, Inna, and Myshkin¡¯s efforts kept them from mobbing and crushing him by pure accident.


    Instead, they lifted him up, and, passing him from person to person like a crowd surfer, brought him to a tall-backed cushioned chair precariously balanced on a pile of furniture at the edge of the square.


    Then they backed away to a respectable distance, and pushed Remiro to the front. To his credit, he regained his poise quite quickly, and settled into a well-practiced routine as intermediary between villagers and their lord.


    ¡°By my word and troth, I have witnessed this man protect the innocent and heal the injured. Who else had witnessed this?¡±


    A great and powerful ¡°Aye!¡± Erupted from the crowd, with Inna and Myshkin doing their utmost to be heard above the din.


    Remiro reached under his tunic and pulled out an amulet. It was a disk of bronze inscribed with astrological symbols upon a red thread, and the villagers gasped when it was brought out.


    ¡°In our time of need, God has delivered to Inillo a worker of miracles, a living saint who has twined his fortunes with our own. Upon the Oracle of Inillo, I swear this oath, to defend and obey my lord, Cato of Gulphay. Will you join me?¡±


    ¡°Aye! Aye! Aye!¡±


    ? ? ?


    ¡°Aye! Aye! Aye!¡±


    The cheer went up in the drinking hall of the Keeper of the Way, Light of the Faithful, Desolator of His Enemies, the Sultan of Abyssinia. Four long tables of polished marble bore a hearty victory feast, and his invincible force, the Four Thousand Immortals, ate and drank as they pleased.


    The sultan himself was more subdued in demeanor, content to watch his men enjoy their well-earned reward.


    To the sultan¡¯s left lounged his wife, the high priestess and astrologer Jullanar, immersed in the music of harps and flutes.


    To his left, steadfastly refusing the ever-increasing portions piled onto his plate, sat his prize captive, Prince Maximilian of Gulphay.


    ¡°Come now, my good prince,¡± the sultan purred in a luscious and molasses-dark voice, speaking fluent classical Achaean. ¡°Eat. Drink. Enjoy yourself. I have entertained many guests, but few have had the honor of being seated at my side.¡±


    He waved his hand, and servants brought another tray, this one covered with barbecued golden aurochs ribs. The sultan took a dainty portion and pushed the rest toward his guest.


    The prince muttered through gritted teeth. ¡°I thank you for your hospitality, your Puissance, but I¡¯m afraid I lost my appetite on the journey over.¡±


    The previous night he had seen his men butchered, his family kidnapped, his home and city burned, and he himself had been taken captive by an enemy ruler. Suffice to say, he was in no mood to enjoy the celebration of his own defeat.


    ¡°That is a shame.¡±


    The sultan stood and clapped once. Immediately, the Four Thousand paused their revelry and looked toward their master.


    Sayih, the first of the Immortals, came to the sultan¡¯s side. ¡°Keeper of the Way, what is your order?¡±


    ¡°To my great shame, our guest is not enjoying the festivities.¡±


    A murmur rumbled through the feasting hall, rolling like a wave in deep water.


    ¡°So long as our guest does not enjoy himself, neither shall any man here. Take to your spears and steeds-¡±


    The prince shot up and his fist hit the table with a small, impotent-sounding tap. ¡°What are you planning?¡±


    ¡°My good prince, my men and I have just returned home from the rigors of war and wanted to enjoy the fruits of peace. But it is impossible to relax when there is an unsatisfied guest in my house. If I cannot fill your days with enjoyment and relaxation, then I will punish myself with days of battle.¡±


    The sultan stood and produced from under his robes a key of shimmering adamant. Maximilian of Gulphay cursed himself. He knew the Abyssinians must have possessed some outrageous means of striking the Holy City without warning and returning to their planet in less than a day. He even suspected this was the work of an ancient artifact, but he had not been pessimistic enough to think the sultan possessed the Key of the Lucid Gate.


    Before his very eyes, the sultan turned the key in the air and a door opened. At first it was only as tall as a man, but it grew to the height and width of the feasting hall. Beyond, he saw the familiar red-and-blue globe, his home, the planet Fleur.


    The Four Thousand Immortals picked up their weapons without objection and servants rushed in carrying their armor and steeds. The fiery hooves of stallions formed from the most rarefied flame burned into the floor, winged lions flew in and hung from the walls, even a colossal war elephant squeezed in through the colossal doors and deftly navigated between tables.


    The sultan looked back at him with a pitying expression. The prince hung his head, sat back down, and started shoving the most delicious food of his life down his throat.

 The Serpent and the King

    The impromptu coronation ceremony took all the remaining afternoon. Cato hadn¡¯t expected every villager to personally come up and repeat Remiro¡¯s oath, touching the bronze disc as Cato held it. There were three thousand people in Inillo, including many dozens of infants and young children, whose parents made the oath for them as their tiny hands were pressed onto the disk.


    By the end, Remiro placed an iron band on Cato¡¯s head and asked for his first command. He asked for new clothes and a bath. If the yeoman thought this was an inauspicious start, he didn¡¯t show it.


    Cato¡¯s second command, while the bath was being drawn, was for the villagers to keep quiet about his identity. He told them about how he had been injured and escaped the destruction of the Holy City by floating down the river, and wanted to avoid the wrath of House Gulphay¡¯s enemies until he was in a stronger position.


    Not a word of it was wrong, as best he could tell, but it still felt like a lie. For all he knew, this body really did belong to someone from House Gulphay, who were, apparently, the closest servants of the Holy Son and one of the most powerful political and military forces on this planet.


    Yes, this planet, as Cato quickly learned that humanity inhabited several. Despite a burning curiosity, he held his tongue and resolved to learn as much as he could without giving away his own ignorance.


    Certain facts were so current he had no difficulty getting them out of people in unrelated conversations. The Holy City had been attacked by the Abyssinians, heretics from another world who struck like lightning and returned to their distant home with the use of dark magic. The smoke from the burning city still choked the upper air; it was an unholy curse that would spread across the land and blight the crops beneath it, so the people of Inillo, along with most other villages close to the Holy City, were taking everything that wasn¡¯t nailed down in order to start a new life away from its gloom.


    Whatever survivors were left of the massacre were scattered across the land, and there was still little concrete information about who exactly had made it, except that the heir of House Gulphay, Prince Maximilian, had been captured and spirited away by the Demon Sultan. The Holy Son, who was meant to be crowned that very day, was nowhere to be found, though he might just be in hiding in case the Abyssinians planned to attack again.


    Many of the most important rulers and clergy were missing in action, dead or missing, among them the Count of Inillo. The villagers already spoke of him in the past tense, since they all agreed he stood no chance against the Demon Sultan¡¯s Four Thousand Immortals, his invincible fell army.


    After all, if he wasn¡¯t dead, God wouldn¡¯t have sent Cato to take care of them, would He?


    The villagers were very confident about this. The girl who reverently scrubbed his body with a rough sponge and the middle-aged barber who saved every hair he trimmed from Cato¡¯s beard and the little old lady who took his measurements for new clothes already thought he was a living saint. In a world where immortal warriors flew across the void between stars, healing someone with a touch was somehow unusual enough to be a truly divine gift.


    Remiro had a slightly more sober explanation, though he was no less convinced of Cato¡¯s heavenly origin. By binding himself to the people of Inillo, he would be harmed if he harmed them, and healed of those injuries only if he healed them. The restorative breathing his body performed under a strange influence at the riverside was beyond almost everyone the villagers even knew, and using that method to heal another¡¯s wounds was like eating food and expecting someone else to be fed. But through his vow, Cato had made himself one in soul with the villagers, and so he was able to perform this miracle.


    When the bathing, and the dressing, and the village priest¡¯s weeping nighttime sermon were over, Cato settled into the most comfortable bed he had ever known.


    At this point, he allowed himself to freak out.


    Twenty-four hours earlier, he¡¯d been a nobody with no prospects and less to live for. Since then, he¡¯d woken up in a river after being stabbed, got into a fight with some innocent shepherds, took a whip to the face, and got pushed into divine rulership of a village which, he strongly suspected, he needed to protect on pain of injury or quite possibly death. All because of his stupid mouth.


    So he crawled out the window and ran.


    He sped down the cobbled streets and leapt onto rooftops, finding every foothold in the dark as if he¡¯d been born to it. He cleared the village walls and rushed over the hills, not caring where he went, not caring to go anywhere, just to run.


    So of course, his feet brought him right back to the riverbank. He shouldn¡¯t have expected he could escape.


    He collapsed at the riverbank, not out of exhaustion, but despairing that nothing he did could exhaust him. In his last life, a body with even a tenth of his current strength would have been a fantasy that fixed everything about his life. Now it was a source of complete frustration. He had enough strength to be responsible and not enough to accomplish anything.


    At least, not without the power that dwelt inside him. Though he had no knowledge of its real limits, it was far more than anything the villagers possessed. It was probably more than the former Count could call on, if the villager¡¯s gossip was to be trusted.


    But until now it had been totally reactive. He couldn¡¯t make any plans around it or make proactive use. So far, it had been enough.


    But this body¡¯s last owner had gotten killed, or as close as it mattered, despite presumably having full knowledge and control of it. If he really was a member of House Gulphay, it just meant he had plenty of people who wanted him dead and now had the means to pull it off. If the villagers were wrong and those golden lions didn¡¯t actually make him a member, masquerading as one would bring no end of trouble.


    His reflection in the glassy water was thin and wan, with only the subtle moonlight that shone through the screen of smoke.


    ¡°Quite the dilemma, isn¡¯t it.¡±


    Cato¡¯s reflection spoke to him. In some distant part of his mind, he recoiled in shock, but his body was held in place by a hypnotic force. He couldn¡¯t look away.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he whispered softly. ¡°Fuck me, right?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not giving up already? We¡¯ve just begun.¡±


    ¡°What¡­ what am I supposed to do?¡±


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t tell me you haven¡¯t been listening, after everything I¡¯ve been trying to teach you.¡±


    Teach him? Then this was-


    ¡°Attaboy! Get those gears turning. Yeah, I know what you¡¯re thinking, and yeah, I don¡¯t talk like that lot in the village. We¡¯re from the same place, you and I.¡±


    Iowa?


    ¡°A little colder, sport. Don¡¯t worry your pretty head over it.¡±


    That still didn¡¯t answer his ques-


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°I¡¯m getting to it, sheesh. Listen, this body of yours is in a bad way. I fixed up the holes for ya, but there¡¯s more than just physical injuries. This poor bastard got his soul ripped apart, and yours got stuck in the hole leftover.¡±


    But who would do that?


    ¡°Beats me kid. I¡¯m just telling you what I can see. Think of your soul like a heart transplant. You can¡¯t just shove it in even if it¡¯s a good fit, you gotta connect the wires.¡±


    It surely meant the-


    ¡°Yeah yeah, veins and arteries Mister B+ in biology. As far as you care, they¡¯re wires. The bits that let you move the body around and keep you from floating away are solid, but the rest of it¡¯s a crapshoot.¡±


    And this voice could fix it?


    ¡°Already fixed as much as I can. These wires are like bridges too. I¡¯ve been rebuilding them on my end, but you have to meet me halfway. The more we join back up, the more your body will remember.¡±


    Remember what?


    ¡°Everything. You shoulda seen this guy when he was alive. Those golden lions are just magic training wheels, nowhere near the real deal. I¡¯m talking flying, throwing thunderbolts, bringing armies to heel. He had a staring contest with a volcano and won¡±


    That makes no sense.


    ¡°What makes no sense is you thinking you¡¯re any judge of that. Now simmer down and listen. You gotta reconnect your soul with this body. That means doing what he did in life.¡±


    What did he do?


    ¡°Fighting, drinking, and fucking, that¡¯s what. Don¡¯t worry about the specifics, the point is you need to enjoy yourself. When your body says it wants something, indulge. Now that you¡¯re a tin-pot king, that shouldn¡¯t be too hard.¡±


    That¡¯s it?


    ¡°That¡¯s the gist of it. Some of these bridges are a bit fiddlier than the others, but these methods should get us most of the way. Lucky for you, we¡¯re only restoring something that was already built. It took this sorry bastard fifty years to get where he was. You¡¯ll be up and at¡¯em in less than ten.¡±


    Fifty years? He had no idea his body was that old.


    ¡°Wrong again, he¡¯s over 160.¡±


    What the hell?


    ¡°Hey, language. I was just telling you about flying and thunderbolts, his lifespan is what¡¯s getting you? If he¡¯d been more disciplined he could still look half as old at 1000. You¡¯ll probably start looking younger as we get this thing working again.¡±


    Cato suddenly remembered why he ran off to begin with.


    ¡°Ah, I see we¡¯re cleaning out the cobwebs up there.¡±


    Stop interrupting me every time I-


    ¡°Fine, fine I¡¯ll give you some space to think, your most perfect beneficence.¡±


    ¡­


    ¡­


    Cato¡¯s thoughts turned back to the vow he¡¯d accidentally sworn, the one which made him wonder whether he could even survive the next decade. There had to be a way to break it, or failing that, get around its worst aspects.


    ¡°Not really. You made one stinker of a vow, and there¡¯s not much way around it. Worse, you swore to protect their people, and I have a gut feeling that it¡¯s going to include all their kids going forward too.¡±


    Now even his gut feeling was having gut feelings. Cato wondered if he was going crazy.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get too down on this. We can¡¯t kill them or let them get killed, but there¡¯s still a lot of options on the table. Stop them from having kids, for a start.¡±


    That seemed¡­ weirdly invasive.


    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t even be hard! Tell them to be celibate monks and we¡¯ll be out of the woods in three score and ten, tops. Plus, that whole ¡®people¡¯ business has some loopholes in it. I bet if you get the village to banish them they won¡¯t count anymore.¡±


    That¡¯s even worse!


    ¡°Do you want to be responsible for three thousand peasants who¡¯d blow over from a stiff breeze? We gotta get this down to a manageable number. Again, not hard, tell them only, like, twenty of them are worthy to be your followers, let them vote each other off the island. We can do a trial run with the shepherds and make sure it works first.¡±


    Inna and Myshkin gave him directions when he was lost and stepped up for him when he was alone. That was the most ungrateful, cruel-


    ¡°Oh sweet suffering succotash, you learned their names. You¡¯re like a kid who wants to keep a stupid puppy.¡±


    It was a cat.


    ¡°What was a what now?¡±


    It was a¡­


    Wait a minute. This voice knew everything else about his old life, how did it not know about this?


    ¡°I can barely hear you kid. Hello? Is this thing working?¡±


    Deceiver


    ¡°Shut up.¡±


    Wait, what was-


    ¡°Interference on the line, don¡¯t listen to it.¡±


    False


    It was the presence from before, bright and cold, like springwater on a-


    ¡°No, no, we are not doing this, this kid is mine.¡±


    Wrong


    ¡°Shove off, you monosyllabic twat!¡±


    GET


    OUT


    OF


    MY


    HEAD


    ¡­


    ¡­


    ¡­


    Cato smashed his fist through his reflection in the water. The position of the moon in the sky had moved. Just how long had he been sitting like that?


    He breathed. He calmed down. He closed his eyes and thought.


    How do I talk to that other guy?


    L ¡°Don¡¯t¡± O ¡°you¡± V ¡°dare¡± E ¡°hey-


    Love?


    Cato hadn¡¯t felt too much love growing up. Mom was out of the picture as long as he could remember. Dad said it was her fault he grew up with such a weak body. Sometimes said he wasn¡¯t even his real son. Eventually he put his money where his mouth was and just left.


    No siblings. No extended family that cared. There were some real warm people in the foster system, believe it or not, but Cato couldn¡¯t tell love from duty, not at that age, and he was too proud or damaged to return it.


    He¡¯d been infatuated, he¡¯d felt lust, but he¡¯d never been close to anyone else to say he¡¯d been in love.


    There was the cat though.


    That dirty, mangy tomcat that yowled at the raccoons and the garbage man.


    And it was the stupidest goddamn thing, he recognized it. But he put food out for it when he could, and tried to get close to it, and really, sincerely wanted it to get clean, and healthy, and for it to trust him.


    It was the silliest thing.


    But he really did love that poor, dumb cat.


    ? ? ?


    Cato felt like he was floating.


    The waters below him were deep and dark, and they wanted to drag him down. If he had been alone, he would have sunk like a stone.


    But there was something floating in the water with him, holding him.


    ¡°Can you talk too?¡±


    Yes


    ¡°Not as wordy as the other guy, huh?¡±


    Far away


    ¡°It¡¯s the bridges, right? Or wires. I need to build some with you too.¡±


    Yes


    ¡°How do I do that?¡±


    The space around him was empty. It was like the sea before a giant wave, drawing back before crashing onto him.


    Love


    That one word contained a lifetime. Ten lifetimes. It shot through Cato like a bullet, and he understood almost none of it.


    But there was still so much.


    A baby in its mother¡¯s arms and a child on its father¡¯s shoulders and siblings playing in the mud and friends laughing and lovers kissing and the sun shining and the stars waiting and all of it was one, gigantic, whole.


    Cato washed his face in the river and walked back to Inillo. It was dawn when he arrived back. The villagers were confused to see him up so early, but there was something new in the air today. They didn¡¯t rush forward or bow to him, but they brightened.


    Distantly, Cato realized he was smiling. He looked at his reflection in a bucket of water, and his expression there was positively beatific.


    Was this what saints felt like? Really sure things were going to turn out alright?


    He thought about that until he reached his bed, and drifted off to sleep.

 Interlude: Sunset over the Empire

    The highest tower of the Cathedral Severe looked out upon the rooftops of Anthusa. It provided a stunning sight at any time, but today, the smoke spreading to the north made for a truly sublime picture.


    Lady Julia Forna took some small pleasure in knowing that almost nobody else would ever see the view from up here. Every single sunset, like clockwork, that Manzi fellow would crow about how he ought to get a painter up here to really capture how beautiful the city looked from the top.


    And again, like clockwork, Brother Tor would remark that there was no bribe large enough, even with the Manzi family¡¯s vast fortune all together, that could smuggle a painter into the tower.


    Brother Tor was presently schooling Leo Manzi in a game of chess. It was the same game the two had played every evening since they¡¯d been locked up here together. Sure, they switched colors, and yes, the moves were different each time, but they both played the same game. Manzi played aggressively, spreading his pieces in a wide net in order to crash upon the enemy king like a tidal wave at the crucial moment. Tor waited patiently, laying the shoals and bulwarks to disrupt the onslaught.


    Sometimes Manzi won, sometimes Tor won. Their endless variation entertained them both.


    But it drove Julia Forna into the very pits.


    In theory, there was no lack of entertainment in the tower. Any book, no matter how rare, would be sourced from the city¡¯s private collections or from abroad if a resident of the highest tower demanded it. Fine food was always available, and artisans would gladly donate jewelry and curios on request. The latest fashion often appeared here before it debuted in any ballroom. The open air theater in the Lords¡¯ Square immediately below the tower was visible by telescope on cloudless days, and though it usually presented coarse fare for the public, a word from any resident of the tower would move any show in the city over there. With the cultivation bases of its residents, they might even be able to hear the lines, if they didn¡¯t know them by heart already.


    Julia Forna knew them all by heart. So did her eight cellmates. They were six months into their two-year internment, and it was already so tremendously dull.


    The founders of Anthusa, being lovers of liberty and self-rule, sought to protect their city from conquest. They built high and sturdy walls to ward off attackers, constructed underground stores and reservoirs to hold out during a siege, and drew so much art, literature, architecture, and culture to the city that no intelligent enemy would risk destroying it with overwhelming force.


    But even so, Anthusa was nearly conquered, again and again, not by outsiders but by its own influential citizens. Anthusa¡¯s history was punctuated by periods of tyranny. Every time, the tyranny arrived slowly, almost peacefully, and was thrown out only with great and bloody convulsions.


    In response, their ancestors contrived the most impractical system of governance they could imagine, so that nobody would want to rule the city at all.


    Every two years they gathered together the city¡¯s elites, discarded those who were elderly, insane, indebted, pregnant, or mourning, and selected nine rulers by lot. These nine were, naturally, immediately imprisoned in the highest tower of the Cathedral Severe, because no free-willed person would ever go along with such a farce. The upper floors of the tower were a luxurious palace in miniature: incredible expense and no small number of space-expansion charms had gone into constructing a bathhouse and pool, a theater, a feasting hall, and even a full acre of gardens and greenhouses within a structure that poked, lonely, above the clouds.


    The catch, of course, was that there was nobody to enjoy such luxury but the nine prisoners themselves. All the servants were on the lower floors, and passed them food, letters, and supplies through an airtight chamber. Other than her eight involuntary roommates, there was absolutely nobody to speak to, to play music, to bathe with, to walk the gardens, to eat with. Nobody else to influence or threaten them. The tower was the single most heavily warded structure in the city, the garrison, vaults, and the homes of the great families very much included. Anything approaching by air was dissuaded by potent antipathy fields, and whatever made it through those got shot down by the patrols stationed along the tower. Anything approaching via subspace was eaten by a carefully maintained colony of phase spiders. All their letters took ten times as long to move, since they passed through a dozen hands on the lower floors and were read twice as often, so she couldn¡¯t even ask for or spread any really juicy gossip.


    Ten-thousand books, from plodding dramas to bodice-rippers, speculated on the steamy affairs that the rich and powerful led in their elevated seclusion. While such a thing must have happened once or twice, random draws rarely provided suitable candidates, and Julia wasn¡¯t that desperate for novelty, not by far.


    Nothing to do but watch the sunsets and play the same game of chess with the same eight other people for two years.


    Well, there was the tower¡¯s tenth prisoner, but the less said of her the better.


    So no, there was no bribe big enough to smuggle even a painter into the tower. More precisely: if such a fortune existed, the Manzi family would have already bought the city outright.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Plenty of people figured they already had, Julia among them.


    It irritated her to no end that the city was already virtually in the Manzi pocket, and yet she still had to stay up here for another eighteen godforsaken months.


    The process of actually governing Anthusa, once she got down to business, was simultaneously tedious and superfluous. Diplomatic traffic with other planets often failed to remember exactly when Anthusa changed its governors, and mostly sent letters to people who were no longer there, who may not have been there for years, half bluntly familiar demands and half sly innuendos with no recoverable context. With months to go before a reply could arrive, there was little one could do before the timer ran down.


    Their neighbors on the planet Vintal, meanwhile, sent in a flood of letters telling the new governors what their predecessors were up to, what deals they had struck, and, oh, would you please consider keeping things as they were? These details rarely matched up with the records left by their predecessors who, being both bored and trying to cover their asses, left an incredible quantity of utterly worthless documentation.


    On the third day of her internment, before she entirely gave up, Julia found a file filled with recipes. Abyssinian honey cake, dragon tongue picado, fennel soup. She was utterly convinced that it was a secret, encrypted record of Anthusa¡¯s international politics. Of course the stacks of deals and treaties and proposals and counterproposals were all meaningless. They were decoys! She had found the real deal, and spent an entire week deciphering it in secret.


    She was wrong. It really had been a cookbook, compiled eight years ago by a prisoner in the later stages of madness, and the manuscript was abandoned in a disused desk, just for Julia to find it.


    The other documents were real. Her job, one so sacred that nearly all flight was interdicted within city walls, so important that her every letter and package was searched by everyone from the scullery maid on up, so vital that she left her four year-old daughter one morning and wouldn¡¯t see her for two years, was utterly pointless.


    Not that she blamed the other powers and principalities for doing their real business with the Manzi family. It was a much more agreeable system, dealing with someone who would still be in charge two years later, with whom one could build an actual relationship. Julia Forna had grown up in the Holy City, thank you very much, and was accustomed to a political order that made a lick of sense.


    But for now she was stuck up here, and she had to get creative. Her latest hobby was composing a delicate mix of truth and misinformation in her letters, so that when she got out, the entire city would be apprised of a monumental scandal that never even happened.


    She was pondering the next twist in her saga as she gazed out into the dusk, the ominous black smoke lit in rainbow colors by the four suns.


    The nine prisoners had already been apprised of the events of the past week. Abyssinian invaders with the Sultan at the helm, the destruction of the Holy City, the Holy Son in hiding. On the one hand, she really shouldn¡¯t get such joy from watching her home and birthplace go up in smoke. It was a tragedy which would reshape the entire planet, maybe the whole universe.


    On the other hand¡­ it meant that bastard was dead. Everyone was already planning to kill him after the last Holy Son died, and he had only preserved his life then by taking refuge in the Sanctum Summum. But none of the other cardinals had any reason to keep protecting him once they took the throne, and with the Immortals descending on the city on top of that?


    He was dead, pure and simple.


    Checkmate.


    It was Manzi¡¯s victory. The game which had seemed to be going so well for Tor turned on him at the very last moment.


    It really was the most entertaining event of the last week, but Julia couldn¡¯t bring herself to care. She was just looking out at the fading suns, at a rising black cloud that carried all her troubles away. From up here it was private, ephemeral, something whose significance only she could ever even understand.


    They needn¡¯t send a painter, or a poet for that matter.


    ¡°What a delightful game, Manzi! I think this calls for a drink!¡±


    Brother Tor belted out a laugh from underneath his walrus-like mustache.


    ¡°To the victor go the spoils,¡± said the younger merchant, leaning back in his chair and awaiting his libation.


    ¡°I think I¡¯ll join you boys,¡± said Julia.


    ¡°Lady Forna? What a lovely surprise.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯ve ever joined us for a post-chess aperitif, my Lady.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t. Actually, I¡¯ve just received some good news.¡±


    ¡°Well don¡¯t keep us in suspense!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s private, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    The two men groaned. Chess was the best, but gossip was a close second.


    ¡°To make it up to you, today we drink on me. My darling brother just sent over half a bottle of Bonnel, courtesy of your sister, Brother Tor.¡±


    ¡°Just half? There¡¯s barely enough to wet my lips.¡±


    ¡°Well now, Manzi, don¡¯t reject it too quickly,¡± Tor interjected. ¡°The value of that bottle just doubled a few days ago, didn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Hmmm, quintupled, I¡¯d say. It¡¯ll be decades before they get the vineyards fruiting again.¡±


    ¡°So I take it that my offering isn¡¯t too poor for you distinguished gentlemen?¡±


    ¡°By no means, but¡­¡± began the merchant.


    ¡°To what do we toast?¡± finished the monk.


    Julia Forna poured out three draughts, and shook out the holy dregs for Manzi.


    ¡°How about¡­ to new beginnings.¡±


    Three gem-studded goblets clinked on the second-highest floor of the highest tower in Anthusa. Over the lip of the earth, not quite as far as any of those three might have guessed, new beginnings were indeed coming to pass.

 Interlude: Offering to the Void

    The Most Serene Abbey of the Holy Spirit hung like a barnacle from the planet Vintal¡¯s lone moon.


    To get to the abbey, once first needed to reach the moon itself. Some exceptionally powerful saints could jump directly into orbit, while the late Holy Son was so pure that he had to exert special effort to remain in contact with the ground, and visited the abbess often. But for everyone else, it is necessary to take a ship into sublunar orbit. Ships arrived at St. Zeno¡¯s Chasm, the largest settlement on Vintal¡¯s moon, built into a long and deep gash facing the planet.


    First-time visitors were encouraged to stay at St. Zeno¡¯s for several days to adjust. One¡¯s intuition dictated that one should be able to walk upon the moon like on the earth, and that the planet Vintal should be located up.


    This intuition is, of course, incorrect. When standing on a planet, one is held down by the force of sin and impurity of spirit, because Hell is located at the planetary core. That remains true when on the moon, such that, if one is standing on the side of the moon facing the planet, one must be standing on some other structure or fall to one¡¯s death.


    After some days adjusting to bouts of moonsickness and the fact that the moon remains up and Vintal remains down, pilgrims take a ship toward the sublunar town of Amity, located in the wide, smooth, and pale Crater of Beneficence. Unlike the vertically-oriented and heavily urban settlement at St. Zeno¡¯s, Amity is more sparse and horizontally spread out, with large common buildings bolted into the crater and hanging from it like chandeliers from a ceiling. The center of town is connected by walkways, but the outlying homes are most often reached by systems of hooks and hanging lines which never fail to scare newcomers out of their wits.


    Any pilgrim with the mettle to pass through Amity must truly commit themselves to God, for the Serene Abbey itself hangs from the center of the crater by a half-mile long chain. No ships fly to or from it. One must fly by one¡¯s own power, beyond the ability even of most pilgrims who get this far, or else simply fall and trust that the nuns will catch them.


    If they do not, one invariably burns up in Vintal¡¯s pyrosphere.


    Those pilgrims who do make it to the abbey find an austere wonderland, filled with pure, righteous, and warm-hearted nuns dedicated to the service of God. And the entire universe knows that the Serene Sisters are among the most favored and powerful servants of the Holy Son.


    Folk tales hold that the nuns of the Serene Abbey once dwelt on Vintal, but so holy were they and so disgusted by the sin and impurity surrounding them that the entire abbey floated to heaven. However, not being allowed to admit mortals bodily to the Great Beyond before the final horn sounded, the angels instead dragged the nuns back to sublunar orbit and chained the abbey to the moon, where it remains to this day.


    Rather less romantic tales merely state that the abbey was constructed shortly after first settlement of the moon in order to consecrate it and defend it against the Abyssinian menace, but the nuns nevertheless make a good show of how they simply float in the aether outside the abbey without falling to earth, so detached are they from mortal concerns.


    Quite few aside from the nuns know that it¡¯s little more than a show these days. By habit, they hang from near-invisible threads or, in the case of the wealthier senior nuns, wear flight charms underneath their habits. The Serene Abbey itself, over two thousand years since its construction, has faded to quite the same condition as earthbound monasteries elsewhere in the universe.


    Sister Aseneth first began to understand this fact at the age of twelve, when she heard the senior nuns haggling over how much they should be paid for killing a man.


    Born in Amity and given over to the abbey as an infant, she had known no other life. She earnestly believed that the abbey¡¯s separation from the mortal world served to focus the nuns on their spiritual cultivation, virtue, and the service of God. Yet she found that for all her superiors, right up to the abbess herself, the Serene Abbey was a guild of assassins and mercenaries. So far away from the planet, their fortress was almost impenetrable. Without ties to family or faction, they could take any job without personal concerns. The path to full understanding was a long and gentle one surrounded on all sides by subtle temptations. One by one, each of her sisters succumbed. They spilled blood for gold and spent their fortunes on their anonymous sojourns in the mortal world, engaging in every form of luxury and depravity.


    Sister Aseneth alone kept to the right path. As far as her sisters were concerned, she was focused on honing her martial abilities, and would engage in their bloody work once her cultivation met the abbess¡¯ high standards. When succession was discussed in whispers, Aseneth made the list despite her empty track record thanks to her unrelenting discipline, focus, and obedience.


    Aseneth thought she had everyone fooled. So long as she focused on her cultivation and sought a genuine relationship with God, she would gain power enough to surpass the abbess and show her sisters the true path. They might even make her the new abbess, and she could just order them to act properly. She just had to hold out until she was strong enough, and then everything would be right.


    How wrong she was. She was only really fooling herself.


    When the Holy Son passed away four months prior, the abbey recalled all the active nuns on Vintal and shut its doors. To the rest of the universe, they were mourning his Holiness and isolating themselves to pray for the selection of his successor. In reality, the Serene Sisters were engaged in the very same game as the cardinals of the Holy City, influencing the selection of the next Holy Son and affirming their internal pecking order, not least the position of Abbess-elect.


    Aseneth alone neglected to participate in these games. She really did pray for the soul of the late Holy Son, as futile as that might seem, and really did pray that his successor might be righteous and good.


    Because if he was righteous and good, he would surely float into orbit and fix everything wrong with the abbey.


    Four months the abbey isolated itself, and four months Aseneth locked herself in a cell, praying and cultivating with neither food nor sleep. A cultivator of her power didn¡¯t rely on those very much, but such a long period of waking and fasting left her enfeebled. At the end of those four months she emerged from her cell and headed straight for the abbess.


    She had puzzled over so many questions in her little hermitage. Why did God permit the sinful to gain power in his name? How did the abbey fall into sin? And why did the abbess, never mind the other nuns, do nothing to prevent it?


    But the abbess wasn¡¯t in her cell, or her quarters, or the library, or the dining hall. The other nuns were all whispering about something, but Aseneth didn¡¯t pay that any mind. She just asked where the abbess was, and they all pointed her down. Down to the very bottom of the abbey, to the observation deck, where the planet Vintal shone like a jewel beneath their feet.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Except today, the jewel had a great big blemish right where the Holy City ought to be.


    ¡°Mother Serene.¡± Aseneth bowed and held back her curiosity, focusing on her original task.


    ¡°Sister Aseneth. How good of you to rejoin us.¡± Her stern expression was compromised by¡­ pity? No, not pity. Concern, maybe, but it was a cold, lizardy expression that sent chills down Aseneth¡¯s spine.


    ¡°Oh, you poor dear. You look dreadful. Come with me, let¡¯s get some food in you.¡±


    Was she-


    ¡°I have a bowl of candy oranges in my office. Your favorite.¡±


    -she was. The same tone of voice, even the same little bribe she used to use when a much younger Aseneth started asking inconvenient questions, like why Sister Melia came back pregnant from her pilgrimage, or why Sister Bella had a shrunken human skull in her office. A fresh one.


    But Aseneth hadn¡¯t even asked anything yet, how could she know what she was going to ask? Mother Serene had many powers, but clairvoyance and mind reading were not among them.


    ¡°Mother Serene, what is happening down there?¡±


    The lizardy expression didn¡¯t even twitch.


    ¡°Haven¡¯t I told you not to concern yourself with the mortal world, Aseneth? Really, I thought you learned that lesson long ago. Come come!¡±


    Mother Serene took her by the sleeve, but Aseneth stood fast, immovable as a mountain upon the glass floor.


    ¡°Mother, I am not blind.What is happening in the Holy City?¡±


    A sigh. A maternal shake of the head.


    ¡°Ah, you foolish girl.¡±


    ¡°I AM NOT A CHILD!¡±


    The air shattered, shot through with crimson lightning. The abbess instinctively raised a golden barrier, but the lightning sliced through with a terrible scream, and only her split second decision to jump back saved her from being torn asunder.


    ¡°The Gift of Wrath,¡± she whispered under her breath.


    Tired, hungry, confused, and enraged, Aseneth had just broken through her limits and received a gift which the Serene Sisters had not wielded in generations. One which could not be trained, only granted by a much, much higher power.


    ¡°Sister Aseneth, calm yourself. You are undergoing a crucial transformation.¡±


    She was right, of course. An angel had reached down into her, transforming her body through her reflective soul. If she could control it, she would gain incredible power. But unless she could collect herself, calm her reflective soul, and hold off the incoming assault from her appetitive soul, it would rip her apart.


    That process would take weeks, maybe months.


    ¡°What is happening down there?¡±


    The other nuns were gathering at the observation deck now. None of them were willing to answer her question.


    ¡°DO I HAVE TO GO DOWN THERE MYSELF TO GET A STRAIGHT ANSWER!?¡±


    ¡°Sister Aseneth, your mind is clouded. Listen to my voice, come back to us.¡±


    ¡°No. No, I feel like I¡¯m thinking much more clearly than I have in a long time.¡±


    They were terrified of her. She could recognize that. And yet, the fact seemed so distant compared to the disrespect she was getting.


    ¡°S-sister,¡± one of the nuns began. ¡°The Holy City was attacked by the Abyssinians.¡±


    Her blood ran cold. ¡°Then why are we just standing here? We need to help!¡±


    ¡°Sister, the Abyssinians are already gone. They came and went like the lightning, and they spread a blight upon the land.¡±


    ¡°Then we must rescue-¡±


    ¡°We do not!¡± Mother Serene stood before the other nuns and reasserted control. ¡°The Serene Abbey moves only by the command of the Holy Son. The cardinals did not select a Holy Son, so we do not move. That is all, Sister Aseneth. Suppress your emotions and come with us, or else the Gift will destroy you.¡±


    The observation deck was silent. Far below, a black pestilence spread from the Holy City across the face of Vintal. The Serene Sisters would maintain their isolation from the world in the face of such a menace, but Aseneth would not.


    ¡°I refuse.¡±


    ¡°You do not have a choice-¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t talking to you, Mother.¡±


    A terrible peal of thunder roared through the room, throwing the sisters back and cracking the glass floor. Quicker than anyone else could think, the abbess wrought a wall of golden light and blocked off the crack. The air pressure within restabilized, and everyone was safely within the barrier.


    Except for Aseneth, who floated, bleeding, in the aether.


    The abbess scowled. ¡°Foolish girl! You could have become the greatest abbess in generations, and instead you cut yourself off? What a shame.¡±


    The nuns knew exactly what that meant. An angel had offered Aseneth immense power, and she refused. The retaliation left her body and soul in disarray, and might stop her from ever cultivating again unless she was stabilized soon.


    Aseneth knew it too. Yet there she was, floating with an idiot grin on her face.


    Floating, instead of falling.


    Even now, unlike everyone else in the abbey, she was holy enough that she couldn¡¯t even fall to earth.


    ¡°Mother.¡±


    The abbess extended the barrier and stretched out her hand. ¡°Yes, my child. Come back to me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not coming back, mother. There¡¯s somewhere else I need to be.¡±


    ¡°What.¡±


    She smiled through the blood and pain. ¡°I need to be down there mother. I need to help them.¡±


    ¡°Idiot! How are you going to do anything in your current state? Get back¡±


    Holy and injured, she couldn¡¯t fall to earth naturally and couldn¡¯t control her power well enough to fly down. She would just float there until something moved her or she suffocated.


    ¡°Sister Melia had some dirty poems in her room. I think I understand them better now.¡±


    ¡°What are you-¡±


    ¡°The fucking Lord is fucking grand


    He fucking walks the fucking land


    And fucking sees the fucking pain


    Of peasants threshing fucking grain.¡±


    The abbess flushed with shock. ¡°Blasphemy!¡±


    ¡°The fucking king is fucking mad


    The fucking queen is fucking sad


    Their fucking country fucking needs


    To cut them at the fucking knees.¡±


    It hit the abbess once Aseneth¡¯s body started moving.


    ¡°Stop at once!¡±


    ¡°The Holy Son is fucking you


    And fucking me and fucking who


    -soever says a fucking word


    About how he¡¯s a fucking turd.¡±


    Aseneth fell. The sense of levity which had accompanied her from her earliest memories fell away, and was replaced by an oppressive weight.


    She didn¡¯t mind, though. She had somewhere to be. So she kept whispering the verses¡­


    ¡°With fucking monks and fucking priests


    And fucking nuns like fucking these


    It¡¯s no surprise we¡¯re fucking down


    Here-¡±


    ¡­ until she passed out.


    Aseneth¡¯s limp body careened through the aether. As she fell to earth, through the fiery pyrosphere, she passed through without injury. A shooting star burned across the sky, and came to land many miles away from the Holy City.

 Interlude: Variations on a Cloud

    Chervin tinkered under the blasting heat of the crucible and silently cursed his master¡¯s indulgence.


    He was a journeyman of the Arjou jewelers guild, the most powerful and influential guild of its kind in the universe. He had proven himself repeatedly in contests against the other junior artisans, and received great acclaim. His master was the vice-chair of the whole guild, and called Chervin the most talented apprentice he had ever taught.


    The masterpiece of an Arjou guild artisan was already expected to be exceptional. But Chervin¡¯s needed to be truly extraordinary, something sublime. Something revolutionary.


    Chervin spent three years designing it and another four putting it together, even as he took on other contracts to meet guild regulations. It took him two of those years just to source and acquire all of the materials. But it was nearly done.


    His masterpiece fit in the palm of his hand. The base was a slab of hornblende, the bottom chased with stainless steel to avoid scratches. After shaping and polishing, he drilled one hundred and eight miniscule holes into the surface, each a sixteenth of an inch deep.


    He crafted one hundred and eight fixtures, with a malachite base imitating soil and chrysoberyl threads knitted at a near microscopic level to resemble blades of grass. Into thirty-six of those, he further added taller stalks woven from strands of emeralds, topped with leaves and petals made from chips of ruby, sapphire, topaz, and amber carved and inscribed with realistic plant textures. Each of these turf pieces was fitted individually into the base.


    Then came the difficult part. While the preceding steps were lengthy and taxing, they held no terror for a jeweler of Chervin¡¯s skill. It was just a matter of time. No, the real challenge was the centerpiece.


    Even finding the base matter had been so difficult that he had almost written off the entire project multiple times, but after two years of searching, with the entire guild¡¯s influence behind him, he finally located it.


    A single chunk of clear, glassy zoisite; valuable, but not uncommon in the guild. The size, approximately as long as his thumb and three-quarters as wide, made it rather smaller than many in the guild vaults. Even its rare night blue hue wasn¡¯t unheard of, and would normally make it the centerpiece of a crown, or especially valuable necklace.


    But this one was special. It had awakened a spirit.


    The human soul was composed of three parts: the appetitive, the reflective, and the transcendent. The animal soul was merely the appetitive portion. Other forms of life, except in unusual circumstances, possessed even less than that, only a miniscule scrap of spirit as fragile as a dandelion seed. The mineral soul was even less, no more than a spark of the primordial elements. But sometimes, rarely, oxen could reflect upon themselves. Sometimes trees moved with an animal purpose. And sometimes, so very rarely, a stone could perceive.


    Chervin was confident there was no other stone quite like this one anywhere in the universe. The fact that the guild even located it was a sign of incredible divine favor, and that he was permitted to use it in his masterpiece was a sign of even more incredible mortal favor.


    So he cut and polished it with more care than he had put into any piece before. He loved it more than the actual child he left back on Fleur. He whispered to it before going to bed at night. He kept it in a fitted felt-lined box when he wasn¡¯t working on it, right next to his heart.


    The final result was a prancing blue bunny rabbit, and you would never believe it wasn¡¯t alive. More than that, Chervin was convinced that its spirit had taken shape to match its form. The fragmentary spirit in the gem perceived the world as a rabbit would. He saw it prancing around in his dreams. If there was ever so magnificent, so excessive, so ostentatious a masterpiece in the history of the craft, Chervin could not imagine it.


    He could have been done with his masterpiece six months ago. His master approved it, and all that remained was the casing and setting. Such tasks were left to the goldsmiths, and the chief artisan of Arjou¡¯s sister goldsmithing guild had even volunteered his services personally.


    Chervin refused.


    This was his masterpiece, his baby, and he would do everything from start to finish. Nobody else would take even a lick of credit for it.


    After all, it was just goldsmithing.


    Both guilds erupted in controversy, but his master, his dear, permissive, sweet, and indulgent master, stood by his side. The very greatest jewelers have always resided in Fleur, he said, but the peak of goldsmithing has always been in Vintal. So Chervin packed up his bags and masterpiece with the utmost care and set out across the depths of space toward the planet Vintal, to the great and powerful city of Anthusa. There he resided with a renowned master goldsmith and would learn the craft to his satisfaction before completing the masterpiece.


    He had just finished shaping a mineral soul. How hard could it be?


    Very hard, as it turned out. Chervin had assumed working with a single material would be a piece of cake, but was quickly dazzled by the array of grades, colors, and qualities by which gold was classified. His goldsmithing grimoire, kindly loaned from the sister guild¡¯s chief artisan with helpful notes in the margins, mocked his presumption at every turn.


    But Chervin wasn¡¯t the bright future of the Arjou guild for nothing. He memorized the book, margins and all, while still en route to Vintal, and arrived at the home of his instructor in excellent spirits, ready to prove his worth.


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    Which was when he discovered that both his master and the chief artisan had played a cruel trick on him. Neither indulgent nor gracious, they had assigned him to learn under a hairy lout of a man whose tongue had crawled out of a midden.


    This fellow, Benicio Cecchini, was not the greatest goldsmith on Vintal, or even in Anthusa. He wasn¡¯t the chief of his guild. He was just a smith, whose day to day income came from contracts like Chervin¡¯s own, and had never taught an apprentice before. Supposedly, he had recently competed for a big commission from House Gulphay. Rather than losing the contest, Chervin thought the man never stood a chance of winning.


    Yet this barbarian worked him to the bone, standing him in front of the crucible until he developed actual godforsaken burns. Somehow it was supposed to build character.


    But worst of all, his unforgivable sin, was that he confiscated Chervin¡¯s masterpiece the moment he arrived, and toyed with it in front of him like it was a common trinket. Those brute hands with thick, clumsy fingers were practically groping his dearest masterpiece while he was forced to stand and watch gold melt.


    It was on just such a day, nearly two months since he arrived in Anthusa, that Chervin was standing at the crucible, stripped to the waist, with the edges of his finely oiled mustache halfway singed off, while Benicio played a most aggravating tune on the flute. It would have never occurred to him that those sausage fingers could play, but there it was, mocking him.


    Prompted by nothing Chervin could imagine, the music stopped. Benicio got up, walked over to the crucible, and gave Chervin a mighty smack on the head.


    He knew better than to ask why by now. The smith would spare no time in telling him.


    ¡°You are distracted.¡±


    ¡°Then perhaps you could leave off the blasted flute.¡±


    Another smack.


    ¡°If I do not play you forget I am here. Start slacking.¡±


    His command of the Fleur tongue was crude, but undeniably precise.


    ¡°Perhaps I would be better motivated if I knew what I was working towards, master. I¡¯ve hardly done anything but melt the material repeatedly. What, pray tell, am I supposed to be learning?¡±


    Benicio regarded him coolly. No smack. That was good progress.


    ¡°Fine. Melt, cool, and form. Inscribed sheet, sixteenth-inch thickness.¡±


    That was more than Chervin had been allowed to do since the day he¡¯d arrived. He took to the task with zeal, melting the gold to textbook consistency, letting it cool evenly, and drawing out a ladleful of the charge onto the forge table. Even as it was cooling, he worked with speed, using long draws of his sharp tools and sweeping motions of the ladle to create a repeating pattern, like a fern leaf. Textbook. Perfect.


    ¡°Garbage.¡±


    Chervin threw his tools to the ground.


    ¡°Then what the hell am I supposed to do? Show me!¡±


    No smack. Benicio didn¡¯t even move or twitch. He suddenly appeared a great deal scarier than before.


    But the smith just rolled back his sleeves and stepped toward the crucible.


    ¡°That thing,¡± he said, pointing to Chervin¡¯s masterpiece, ¡°is good. It has¡­ beauty. It reaches toward perfection.¡±


    Chervin was prepared to respond with a smug comment. Then Benicio stuck his whole hand in the molten gold.


    ¡°But your smithing does not. It is not ambitious. It is content with itself. Mediocre.¡±


    The master goldsmith took the glowing-hot metal in the cup of his hand and dribbled it onto the forge table. He spread it with those barbaric sausage fingers, and lightning arced across them and the churning metal. Not only was he not being burned, it was like the gold didn¡¯t want to burn him. He was applying spiritual energy directly, without tools as intermediaries, shaping the metal with his raw will.


    In a few moments it had cooled. The sheet was of an irregular shape, but the patterns inscribed upon it¡­ they were beautiful. Sublime, even, in a way that Chervin had never thought gold could be. It wasn¡¯t something he could fully explain, but his soul leapt upon seeing it.


    ¡°To elevate the soul. This is the purpose of our art.¡± He turned, wild-eyed. ¡°Whoever sees my greatest work shall ascend to heaven.¡±


    Chervin fell out of his reverie, trying to parse Benicio¡¯s words. Surely his skill with the Fleur language was just a bit rusty and he misspoke.


    But the look in those hard eyes told Chervin he hadn¡¯t misspoken, and wasn¡¯t speaking metaphorically either. Benicio Cecchino wanted to create art so beautiful that whoever saw it would immediately ascend to heaven. It was a ridiculous, possibly heretical goal. Yet hadn¡¯t his soul leapt on seeing even this simple, hasty performance? Next to this ambition, Chervin was just making a gaudier, more expensive tchotchke.


    ¡°Your master did not send you here to learn goldsmithing. I do not have apprentices. I do not teach. I would not teach you.¡±


    That last part hurt more than Chervin would ever care to admit, after seeing Benicio¡¯s true skill.


    ¡°He thinks you need to learn humility. He is wrong. You need to learn ambition.¡±


    That great, heavy hand came to rest on the young jeweler¡¯s shoulders, and he flinched, almost expecting them to burn him.


    ¡°I understand, master.¡±


    ¡°I trust that you do.¡±


    He fished the masterpiece from his coat pocket and tossed it to Chervin, who caught it with jittering fingers.


    ¡°Do not place so much value in small things. It is-¡±


    The bells of Anthusa rang out.


    It couldn¡¯t have been more than half an hour past six. They kept ringing. It was an alarm.


    The two men raced toward the balcony. The streets below were a muttering chaos as people filtered out of their homes and raced toward the nearest church. From above, Benicio spotted a familiar face and yelled out in quick Vintal.


    ¡°Andolini, what is happening?¡±


    The older laborer turned and doffed his cap, even as he was being jostled from all directions and moving with the crowd. Chervin could only make out some of the words above the tremendous din.


    ¡°Master Benicio, the Holy City! The demon sultan, great evil, prince Maximilian! A dark cloud, ill fortune!


    Benicio dove back into the house, and a few moments later returned with a heavy pack and several sacks tied to his belt. With a great heave, he leapt off the balcony and shot up two stories in a single bound. Chervin could clearly see that this man had cultivated his entire body, not merely his hands.


    ¡°Chervin! Stay inside my quarters, they are safe.¡±


    Before he could even ask what his master was doing, he was already out of sight, leaping across the rooftops of Anthusa.

 Interlude: Burn It Down

    It was a rare day when Benicio Cecchini was able to cut loose. Across his long and tumultuous life he had received many epiphanies, strengthened his body, ordered his soul, and developed his art to the point he could directly manipulate gold with his body¡¯s internal energy.


    Outside of the church or the aristocracy, he wagered there were fewer than a dozen people in the city more advanced in their cultivation.


    One of those few was Formoso Atrani.


    A great and renowned sculptor, painter, humanist, and polymath, Atrani had been a thorn in Benicio¡¯s side for decades. Benicio had been exiled from his native Anthusa four times, and twice it was thanks to Atrani¡¯s schemes, ruining his reputation and denying him the contracts he deserved.


    Worse, Atrani was exactly the mediocrity the jeweler¡¯s boy should never become: talented enough to be rich and famous, cowardly enough to spend his life making nothing more than pretty furnishings.


    It was Atrani who beat him for the Gulphay contract, using his contacts among the aristocracy to disgrace the good name of Cecchini. With the backing of that great house, he was virtually untouchable, and Benicio was long denied his revenge.


    But today, fortune favored a humble goldsmith.


    Anthusa had long since allied itself with House Gulphay, preferring service to a great foreign power to takeover by any of its neighbors. But despite that strong Gulphay following in the city¡ªor perhaps because of it¡ªthe local families fought neverending feuds into which their foreign masters were chary to involve themselves. Five hundred years earlier, the Vincosa and Lunolgi families started a fight over whether allegiance to House Gulphay should precede obedience of the Holy Son. The battles that followed split the city down the middle and piled bodies in the streets.


    That feud only ended when, aided by a traitor in their ranks, the Lunolgi family snuck into the Vincosa fortress and slaughtered their hated allies in the night. Afterwards, that fortress became the Palace of Sighs, a headquarters for pro-Gulphay partisans and their greatest defense against civil unrest. With high and thick walls, vast networks of wards, and round-the-clock guard patrols, it was counted alongside the Tower of the Cathedral Severe as one of the most secure locations in the city.


    On any other day, even Benicio Cecchini would have hesitated to break in. But today the city was in chaos. The common people were piling into the churches and the homes of their patrons for protection. They were afraid of the Abyssinians, sure, but they were more scared of each other. Nobody knew exactly who had died in the attack on the Holy City, but no small number of the city¡¯s families and factions, which rested in the shadow of the great and powerful cardinals, couldn¡¯t contact their most powerful patrons. It would take days to learn if they were hiding from the Abyssinians or dead. If you wanted to get away with tremendous and bloody violence, now was the time to go all in. People like Benicio understood that.


    So did the guards of the Palace of Sighs, who abandoned their posts en masse, trusting in the Palace¡¯s powerful wards to defend their charges in their absence.


    Indeed, that would have been an excellent decision¡­ but Benicio had performed repair work on the wards many years ago, before his second Atrani-linked exile and his professional relegation to the goldsmith¡¯s trade.


    Dodging the gazes of the few remaining guards, Benicio came to an unassuming brick on the outer wall of the castle. Finding four pits in the stone, spaced as wide as his fingers, he sent a pulse of energy through the wards there. The hole he left in their security network tore itself open, and Benicio wasted no time in smashing through the stone.


    That left him at least a few minutes before anyone found his entrance, hopefully longer. He rushed silently through the tight stone corridors under the unwavering light of enchanted stones, making way to the palace¡¯s center, where Atrani was most certainly staying.


    The halls there were done all in majestic polished teak, with thick rugs displaying the history of House Gulphay and chandeliers of wondrous colored glass filling the rooms with spellbinding hues. Benicio took a moment to admire the craft of the old masters whose work covered the walls.


    A projectile sped through the air toward Benicio¡¯s head. He dodged with a swift and instinctive twitch and heard the projectile lodge itself in the wall behind him, but still felt a bloody streak open from the corner of his lip, scoring a line of hot pain across his face and slicing off the top of his ear.


    Despite being caught off guard, he didn¡¯t cry out or panic. He turned to the source of the attack: Formosa Atrani in the flesh, foppish hat and all, emerging from behind a doorway.


    ¡°Little Benicio! I had a feeling you would be coming by.¡± He twirled his long mustache with a casual grin. ¡°Did you miss me that badly?¡±


    ¡°What gave me away, you whelp?¡±


    ¡°Nothing. You did the same thing to Francesco della Fevre in Tirol.¡±


    More specifically, he took advantage of a siege to catch that jackass poet without his bodyguards. Everyone knew it too, but he managed to avoid banishment then thanks to being halfway through a big contract for the Tor family. When did he get this predictable?


    ¡°So you¡¯ve been living in fear of me ever since you won the contract? Or longer?¡±


    ¡°Not fear. Preparation.¡±


    Both men drew their slender daggers and rushed at one another. Atrani kept swiping at Benicio¡¯s injured right cheek, while the goldsmith had his eyes set on his enemy¡¯s heart. He lunged, but held back as Atrani¡¯s blade swung back and cut the air where his wrist would have been.


    He looked off balance, but Benicio wasn¡¯t fooled. The sculptor¡¯s eyes flashed, and he dove back, hearing the same projectile whizz through the air and land back in Atrani¡¯s palm.


    A quill. Atrani had just tried to kill him with a quill, twice. The showoff.


    ¡°You can¡¯t beat me in a straight fight, my friend.¡± Atrani put all the condescension he could behind those last words. ¡°So just stay put here until the guards come around.¡±


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    ¡°Get fucked¡±


    Benicio reached into one of the bags at his belt and threw a handful of powder at the sculptor. With a snap of his fingers he ignited it in flight, filling the hall with the terrible, flaming stench of asafoetida.


    ¡°My clothes!¡± Atrani coughed. ¡°I¡¯ll wash them out with your blood!¡±


    He charged through the fetid cloud, but Benicio was already gone, running pell-mell down the corridor. He moved with great agility despite the bag on his back and sacks on his belt, but Atrani¡¯s quill kept flying at him. That little artifact had already tasted his blood, and it was all Benicio could do to limit the damage.


    He burst out into the central courtyard and made for the great oak tree at its center, dropping his bag by the roots.


    ¡°Do you think so little of my abilities, little Benicio?¡±


    A lithe, low branch struck the goldsmith full in the face, and another wrapped around his waist while he was stunned. Lifted high into the air, the sacks fell from his belt and scattered their powdered contents, perfumes and fetid ingredients, all around.


    Benicio took a deep breath and spat flames, setting the tree alight as well as much of the surrounding earth. His flames ate through its branches with a vicious hunger, and the tree dropped him directly into Atrani¡¯s fist. Benicio spun across the ground and crashed against the courtyard wall, blood dripping from his mouth, head, and a dozen small wounds across his body.


    ¡°How gauche. I don¡¯t suppose you can even afford to compensate my hosts for the damage you¡¯ve caused.¡±


    Benicio leaned back against the wall and spat blood onto the earth.


    ¡°What? Do you have nothing to say for yourself?¡±


    A long and slender dagger appeared in Atrani¡¯s hand as he stalked toward the goldsmith, pinching his nose at the stench of the burning powders.


    Benicio mumbled something under his breath.


    ¡°Speak up, you worthless lout! I¡¯ll have your last words before I cut your throat.¡±


    The goldsmith smiled. ¡°Look behind you.¡±


    Atrani rolled his eyes. ¡°Now that has to be the stupidest-¡±


    Then a wave of spine-chilling nausea rolled through him. He turned. Benicio¡¯s sack lay at the roots of the burning tree. Something was moving inside it. Growing. Rising. Tearing its way out.


    A thing of blasphemous horror, stinking fat and rotting tendons on white bones, ripped open the sack and stood tall beneath the burning tree.


    ¡°Necromancy! Cecchini, have you gone completely insane?!¡±


    The raising of the dead required five ingredients. First, the remains of, or at least some item very closely bound to, the dead. Second, powerful sensations to rouse the dead from their slumber. Any sense could work, but pungent smells worked fastest. Third, a fire. Fourth, the blood of the summoner. Fifth, words of welcome.


    ¡°Spare me. I don¡¯t take criticism from small-minded mediocrities.¡±


    Atrani responded with a hyena laugh. ¡°Whatever. Look at yourself. You can barely stand. I¡¯ll dispatch this monster of yours and have you flayed alive.¡±


    Of course, you would have to repeat that ritual individually for every shade you wanted to raise. Terrifying though they might be, they were rarely a threat to powerful cultivators without large numbers.


    There was an exception, however. It was the reason that necromancers sought out graveyards and ancient battlefields, rather than just taking the remains of the dead and raising them at home. Once one specter stepped through the veil between life and death, it became easier for more to do the same. And if the first being was closely connected to others that died in the same place, they would come rushing.


    It was in this very courtyard that the Lunolgi family gathered the Vincosa, from the elders to the infants, the men and the women, highborn and low, and put them to the sword as they looked upon the body of their patriarch, Sergio Vincosa, hanging from that very tree.


    The reconstituted skeleton of Sergio Vincosa screamed. The air darkened. The flames surrounding it cooled to embers, and dark shapes appeared in the courtyard. First one or two, then dozens, hundreds, filling the yard like a black mist.


    Atrani gibbered madly.


    ¡°You¡¯re insane. Insane!¡±


    ¡°So I am. Good luck, Atrani. I¡¯m counting on you.¡±


    ¡°What! Do you mean-¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. I can put down what I call up, but I only called up that one,¡± his limp arm pointed at the skeleton. ¡°I got nothing for the others.¡±


    The dark shapes multiplied, solidified, their agonized faces manifesting.


    ¡°They¡¯ll eat us all!¡±


    ¡°No, they¡¯ll eat you all. I¡¯m safe.¡±


    ¡°The city-¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s just a few hundred shades, and they¡¯re all old and weak. They¡¯ll gorge themselves on you and whatever guards are left in here. That¡¯ll get them good and lethargic, the church won¡¯t have any problem exorcizing them after that.¡±


    Atrani stood shocked at the unbelievable callousness in the goldsmith¡¯s voice. He realized entirely too late that the shades were already on top of him.


    Hands as cold as the grave dug into him, drawing out the warmth from his guts. He fled, but just ran into more shades, as thick around him as the castle walls.


    ¡°Mercy Cecchini, mercy!¡±


    ¡°Mercy, is it?¡± He got on his feet unsteadily and staggered over to his rival. ¡°I only have one kind, I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    Atrani knelt on the ground, growing paler by the second. Meek as a lamb, he stood still as the goldsmith wrapped a hand around his neck and wrenched. Formoso Atrani¡¯s well-coiffed head flew through the air and landed in the blazing pyre at the center of the courtyard. His body followed soon after.


    The shades searched around dumbly for more warmth, and the skeleton of Sergio Vincosa stepped toward its summoner.


    Benicio spat another handful of blood.


    ¡°What are you looking at me for, you stupid bastard? You¡¯re already dead.¡±


    With a wave of his hand and words of dismissal, Sergio Vincosa returned to the earth. Many of the shades went with him, though a handful lingered.


    Benicio stumbled toward the burning body, and pulled out an amulet from under his tunic, a sparkling green opal on an iron chain. Chervin would have doubtless scoffed at the workmanship, but with tools like these Benicio cared a great deal more about functionality than looks.


    ¡°Formoso Atrani, I call you!¡±


    A ripple in the spirit world. Reluctance. Hate.


    ¡°Formoso Atrani, I call you!¡±


    Refusal. Curses. A challenge.


    If he had to take the bastard¡¯s soul by force, he would do so gladly. Benicio daubed the amulet in blood and intoned a horrible incantation.


    Then he stopped, releasing his energy. He could hear yells outside the fortress. The crowd had found his entrance. They would be inside in a matter of minutes.


    This was no time for a lengthy and difficult binding.


    A laugh emitted from the spirit world. Delight.


    ¡°I¡¯m not through with you, Atrani. I¡¯ll see you in Hell yet.¡±


    The spirit world was ominously silent.


    Benicio hopped the high walls and stepped back onto Anthusa¡¯s crowded streets, wards be damned. That hadn¡¯t gone nearly as smoothly as he planned, and in his current state he had little chance of returning to his home without suspicion. He needed to get out of the city, and fast. It was fortunate he had long since prepared for his fifth bout of exile, and knew just the place to lay low and lick his wounds.


    It would be a productive exile. As the body of Formosa Atrani burned behind him, Benicio Cecchini finally had inspiration for his masterpiece.

 Charlatan

    The Inillo caravan marched forth under the ceaseless summer sun, staying well ahead of the pursuing smoke clouds. They had left behind their homes to escape the blight rising from the shell of the Holy City, and hoped to make new lives and find a new patron in the great and ancient city of Anthusa.


    Outside of the yeoman Remiro and the village priest Andrea, none of the villagers had ever made the weeks-long journey. Now everybody, young and old had to make it together. Just a few days into their journey, the villagers were already exhausted. They had passed numerous other villages on the road, but many of these were either already abandoned like Inillo or were uniformly hostile to the great mass of strangers a quarter mile long passing through their homes. It was a fortunate stop that could yield them a few loaves of bread or vegetables.


    Oxen, flocks of sheep and sounders of pigs trudged alongside wagons and wheelbarrows for mile after mile. Only at the front of the caravan did a handful of heads rise taller than the rest.


    Remiro and Andrea rode on the only horses Inillo had to offer, and while the priest preached endlessly to keep up the villagers¡¯ morale, Remiro rode ahead and watched for trouble.


    Also near the front of the caravan was a curious vehicle, cobbled together from the remains of an old wagon and a shed. No fewer than eight stout men carried it aloft on their shoulders with poles, like the world¡¯s most hastily constructed palanquin.


    Inna watched the great mass of humans and beasts from near the back, herding stragglers from the flock. Her elderly sheepdog Silver, who had more than a passing resemblance to a grouchy old man, kept the herds in line with enthusiastic and well-practiced technique. Just days earlier, it had felt like the world was ending. Or at least, Inna and Myshkin¡¯s world had been. They had never been all too welcome in the village, and less so anywhere else. Left to fend on their own from a young age, it had been Inna, her brother, and Silver against the world for years, selling wool and mutton for just enough to keep a rickety shed over their heads, patch their old clothes, and light the odd candle on feast days. It had been a tough life, to be sure, but in retrospect far from a terrible one. So close to the Holy City, the village had never suffered any serious shortages, and they had always been safe from banditry.


    Their safety, from the other villagers and from strangers, was built on the strength of their former lord, the eighteenth Baron Inillo. It wasn¡¯t that he was especially virtuous, or cared very much for them, but his land was his, and nobody caused a ruckus or endangered his people. He and a couple dozen armed and armored warriors, all advanced in their cultivation and capable of feats the villagers could never dream of, had carved a zone of peace and obedience around Inillo in which a pair of penniless shepherds could go about their days without all that much worry.


    With the destruction of the Holy City, that life went up in very literal smoke. The baron and his men, except for Remiro, were paying obeisance there when the Demon Sultan¡¯s immortal army fell upon it. He, and the many powerful lords and priests to whom he owed fealty and received protection in turn, had been exterminated in one night. As the black blight spread from the city¡¯s burning shell, everyone in the village had hoped against hope that he might return by some miracle. But he never did. Whoever survived the disaster had flown away and given no thought to a little village on the outskirts.


    But another miracle did come. He floated right down the river to arrive at their door. It was like all the wonder and magic from the Holy City had chosen to reveal itself to Inillo. In fact, Cato had first revealed himself to her. Though the villagers now saw Remiro and the priest Andrea as Cato¡¯s assistants and closest supporters, she and Myshkin had been the first. It was something she would brag about until her dying day: she had been the first to look upon Inillo¡¯s living saint.


    If not for him, the wealthier and stronger villagers would have left first. The yeoman, the smith, the tailor. The priest might have stuck around for a while longer. It would have emptied slowly, everything of value stripped away, and two young shepherds with a mangy old mutt wouldn¡¯t have been welcome in anyone¡¯s wagon.


    But two days after he appeared, the whole village set off together. Nobody was left behind: that was his demand.


    For the first time in years, people looked at her with something more than a vague contempt. Mothers didn¡¯t glare when their children came over to pet Silver, and the young men didn¡¯t turn up their noses when Myshkin asked for a stick of jerky.


    A leader who looked out for everyone and healed the injured with a touch. A living saint come down the river. He had changed all their lives in such a short time just by being there.


    The caravan came to a halt. Inna could hear the confusion ahead of her as the palanquin-bearers at the front laid down their charge and dashed off into the thick trees and brush off the road.


    Silver barked and rushed off in the same direction. Inna spared no time in chasing after the old hound, though her tunic got tangled and ripped in the thorns. Silver ran out of sight, but she could still hear his barking. What¡¯s more, she could now hear the screaming.


    It was over by the time she arrived, only a few moments ahead of the palanquin-bearers. A pair of children sat weeping at the edge of a brook amid the splinters of a broken pail. Across from them, dead at the foot of a great and sturdy oak, lay a colossal bear, over a thousand pounds at the least, covered in dark, foul pustules. Silver was growling at the corpse, as if daring it to come back to life.


    Between them stood Cato, the bear¡¯s dark blood soaking his hands. He washed them off in the brook and then took the children in his arms. Slowly, their crying stopped, and the cuts and scrapes on their arms and legs healed over.


    Cato gestured to the palanquin bearers. ¡°Get them back to Flora.¡± She blinked. It had been months since she¡¯d seen little Teo and Ana. She almost didn¡¯t recognize them.


    ¡°Inna, come here.¡± She leapt to his command.


    ¡°Yes, my lord.¡±


    ¡°Argo was with them, but ran off when they saw the bear. He¡¯s not injured, so I need your help to find him.¡±


    ¡°My lord, you know-¡±


    ¡°I know. I promise, nobody else has to know.¡±


    She gathered herself and closed her eyes. Cato knew that she practiced witchcraft. She had even tried to use it on him. Yet instead of casting her out or exposing her to the village, he had kept it secret. Now she could use it to help.


    Breathe, in and out. It was difficult, in a new place, with the stench of blood and Silver¡¯s yapping nearby. She reached out for the magic, but it eluded her grasp.


    ¡°Easy. Let me help.¡±


    She felt her lord¡¯s warm palm on her forehead, and energy flowed through her. The connection that felt like trying to grab at fog became solid and abundant. With a push, she opened her inner eye, and saw her surroundings.


    ¡°Good. Just relax and follow me.¡±


    It was the strangest sensation, to have her inner sight guided by someone else. She flew through the thorns and brambles, across rocks and ravines, and found the shape of a young boy curled up in a rocky nook, silently panicking.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°I found him!¡±


    Cato was already gone, rushing through the dark forest like a ghost.


    A few minutes later, the four of them rejoined the caravan. Argo was holding onto Silver like an oversized stuffed animal, and the old sheepdog was having the time of his life playing protector to the little boy.


    Inna would never forget his mother¡¯s cry of joy when she saw him, and the expression of pure thanks as she took her baby up in her arms again.


    What more was there to say?


    ? ? ?


    Cato sat in the dark silence of his palanquin as the caravan marched into the evening. At first he had considered the vehicle ridiculous. After a good night of rest and a few square meals, he was in better physical condition than any of the villagers. He wanted to walk alongside them, not be held above their heads like a king.


    The villagers had insisted. Remiro advised him to split the difference. Yet as the days went on, he wound up spending more and more time inside it.


    This was partly because of the book. The night after he arrived, Inna and Myshkin snuck into his room and gave him a grimoire, clasped and bound with blank metal plates. The shepherds were eager for him to know it wasn¡¯t theirs, not really. It had belonged to Agatha, the witch who used to live in a hut near Inillo, the same one that had taught the pair their magic tricks. When they found her hut abandoned, the only things left in it were this book and a note addressed to the two of them, instructing them to read it and continue practicing what she taught them.


    Though they hadn¡¯t said as much, it was clear that their abilities, and this book, landed somewhere between illegal and treasonous just to have, never mind use. They were desperate to hand it over, as if he¡¯d know better than them what to do with it.


    He¡¯d opened it up on a whim, and found that the contents were extremely familiar. From the moment he arrived in this world, which he gathered was named Vintal, and was just one of several inhabited planets¡ªCato was almost disappointed at how little impression that made on him now¡ªhe had been able to read and speak the local language without difficulty. It clearly wasn¡¯t English, or anything else he had ever heard of, but it came to him fluently. With a little introspection, it became clear to Cato that he wasn¡¯t even thinking in English anymore. It just became natural as soon as he woke up in the river.


    Even more curious, the shepherds associated him with House Gulphay because of the golden lions, and the other villagers did the same because the Gulphay crest was on the crossguard of his dagger.


    The one that someone had stabbed him with.


    But only Andrea, the village priest, was able to read the script on the blade which actually spelled out the name ¡®Gulphay.¡¯ It wasn¡¯t written in the common script that the people of Inillo used, but in an ancient and sophisticated tongue used by the church. This metal-bound book was written in the same script, and reading it gave Cato a severe sense of deja vu. As he read on, each word came more easily, until he was reciting it faster than he could read, like a song he knew by heart. Yet despite knowing every word, its meaning eluded him, as the text seemed to be written in pure metaphor and riddle.


    The previous day, Andrea had been resting in the palanquin with him, and caught Cato reciting it under his breath. Cato had panicked, but Andrea was delighted. It wasn¡¯t a book of witchcraft at all, but the Book of Zevon, an esoteric scripture describing the true nature of God. The priest had recognized it by its opening verse, and kept coming back begging Cato to recite it for him so he could learn.


    Once the caravan stopped somewhere more peaceful, Cato fully planned to run Andrea through it line by line and quiz him on the meaning of each one.


    Which just made him feel like more of a fraud.


    He had thousands of people relying on him now. They thought he was powerful, in control, many thought he was an actual saint. They thought he was wise and knowledgeable. But he wasn¡¯t any of those things. They thought he took care of each and every one of them because he was benevolent, when in reality he was only doing this to avoid suffering.


    The people of Inilo had placed their faith in him, and it was only a matter of time until he broke it.


    On top of that, he had underestimated how big a deal the shepherds thought he was. House Gulphay was far, far away from here, but they were closely linked with the Holy City, and their prince had been kidnapped by the Demon Sultan when the city burned. Nobody in the village had ever met any representatives of the house, nevermind actual members, but everybody knew their symbol and the fact that they were accompanied by golden lions. Their symbols and heraldry were recognized throughout the universe, and they meant the same thing on every planet: this person is too important to offend, period.


    Did this body belong to a member of House Gulphay? The golden lions certainly looked the part, but even Remiro knew that the technique was sometimes taught to the House¡¯s allies and those who cultivated with their elders. It might just mean he was trained by them.


    And as for the dagger¡­ what were the odds some other member of the House had tried to kill him?


    And that brought him back to the second reason he was spending more and more time in the palanquin, the reason that made his blood run cold.


    His pain was coming back.


    Ever since he was a child, he¡¯d lived with a constant background of pain. Sometimes it flared up and sometimes it went dormant, and it migrated throughout his body unpredictably. On the rare occasions he had been able to see a doctor, he¡¯d be diagnosed with a whole array of different conditions. Hormone imbalances, arthritis, fibromyalgia. Lyme disease kept coming up, though he¡¯d never been within a hundred miles of a deer tick. Sometimes it was just ¡®chronic pain,¡¯ the great medical shrug.


    When he had woken up in this body, it was gone. For the first time in his life, he knew the absence of constant, miserable pain.


    And now it was coming back. It was exactly the same, but now he knew what it was.


    He felt an ache in his knee when the old smith fell and scraped it. He felt a sting on his back when the baker¡¯s daughter got hit with a stray lash.


    And he felt a cold terror in his stomach when three children who split off from the caravan to fetch a pail of water were attacked by the bear. He¡¯d gotten lucky. They had injured themselves trying to escape, but the bear hadn¡¯t actually gotten to them before he arrived. It hadn¡¯t been trying to kill them. It hadn¡¯t even been defending its territory. The beast was out of its mind.


    It had gotten sick.


    It had gotten the kids sick too. In the hours since they returned to the caravan he had felt a tickling in his lungs. At first it was light, almost unnoticeable, but as evening fell it grew stronger. He had sent for the children, he¡¯d healed them, and he felt the pain dull, but it didn¡¯t go away.


    They had gotten others sick.


    Whatever disease the bear had, it was spreading through the caravan at high speed. Nobody even knew they had it yet, but Cato could feel the whole village in aggregate. Maybe a third had been infected already.


    ¡°My lord, we have reached the river.¡±


    That was why they had waited until now to stop for the night.


    The palanquin dropped to the ground and Cato stepped out. The faces of three thousand tired, haggard villagers stared back at him, not angry, not frustrated, but full of hope.


    Whatever the consequences for himself personally, he wasn¡¯t going to let that down, though it might very well kill him.


    He needed to heal everyone in the caravan, and fast. If he told them they were sick, they would panic. It would be harder. He didn¡¯t even know if this disease worked like a virus. Any advice he gave might be completely off the mark.


    So he would baptize them instead.


    Under Remiro¡¯s direction, a handful of men gathered wood and set up bonfires by the riverside. The rest of the village set their clothes downstream, where they would be washed. One by one, until well past nightfall, they came to him, washing themselves in the water, and he drew the illness from their bodies, the young and the old, large and small, from the shepherd to the yeoman and priest. They dried themselves and their clothes by the bonfire, and slept.


    When Cato felt the last of the pain leave his lungs, he breathed a sigh of relief. The people of Inillo wouldn¡¯t understand what he had just done. But they were welcome to misunderstand, if it made their lives any easier.


    Cato watched the stars until dawn, four varicolored suns lighting the sky. It hadn¡¯t been by his choice that he came to care for these people, and they might never understand him. But he would keep doing it anyway.


    Was that love?


    A clear and sparkling breath whispered in his ear, and he slept.


    ? ? ?


    Not so far away, at the center of a smoking crater, somebody new woke up to an unfamiliar sky.

 Interlude: Acolyte

    ¡°Lord Vicar, your attention, please.¡±


    Vicar Phaero had at last found a comfortable position. He had been raised as a scholar, the eighth son of a minor aristocratic family. His father used the larger part of the family treasury to buy the eldest son an officer¡¯s badge back in their home city of Meidin. The next largest part had gone toward buying a deaconship for the second eldest son.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, about the well.¡±


    Sons three through seven had been appointed to lower and lower positions in local bureaucracy, to better aid their elders.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, please pray to God on my son¡¯s behalf.¡±


    He, lowly son number eight, was born late enough that he didn¡¯t have a nice position lined up for him, and early enough that he didn¡¯t get spoiled with his elder brothers¡¯ considerable incomes.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, I am innocent!¡±


    So he was shunted off into the lower rung of academies, reading ancient texts in a dark and musty room where the spiders paid more attention in class than the students.


    But he was clever, oh yes he was.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, the total comes to eighty sheep, thirty bulls, ninety sows, forty-¡±


    Phaero knew there was always a place for someone like him: well-bred, elegant, knowledgeable, and willing to degrade himself for the rude rich. When the banker¡¯s son needed a tutor, he didn¡¯t just teach, he fawned and praised, and by the end of the term that dullard was convinced he had a nose for real scholarship.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, my crops are withering!¡±


    It was all too easy to draw money out of such people. After just a decade of hard work, he bought himself a priesthood out in a little village. And there again he found easy marks all too willing to exchange wealth and influence for a well-spoken lackey.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, I would be most honored if you would attend my son¡¯s communion.¡±


    When a baron¡¯s drunkard son needed to explain away his indiscretions to his lady mother, who came to his aid? Phaero did. When the local toughs needed their debtors to pay, who had a sermon about despising money at the ready? Phaero once again. He rose through the ranks, moving from place to place and reestablishing his real craft at higher and higher positions, until he bought himself a vicariate in the little walled city of Beroli.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, please cure my mother of the plague!¡±


    After decades, he finally found a level that was just right. Beroli was large and wealthy enough that when people came to mass they wore nice, clean clothes and put coins on the collection plate instead of dead birds. It was small and poor enough that the great powers conspiring in high towers extracted tribute from it and otherwise left it well alone. It was close enough to the grand city of Anthusa, on the road to the Holy City, that there was a never ending stream of pilgrims to bilk and starving artisans to shelter. It was far enough from either city that, when the odd civil war erupted, it was out of range of most fighting, and, best of all, it was located in an area of minimal strategic importance.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, about the plague.¡±


    It was good, easy living being second-in-command of Beroli. All the real responsibility floated up to the Count, who was experienced, well-liked, healthy, just corrupt enough, and conveniently middle-aged. The day he first sank into his new office chair, Vicar Phaero was already planning out the rest of his life. A few more decades of comfortable service to the church, then he¡¯d buy an abbott¡¯s seat in a relaxing monastery to live out his twilight years.


    ¡°Lord Vicar¡­¡±


    It was the perfect plan.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, please!¡±


    He raised his hand sagely, and the farmers in front of him quieted down, averting their gaze.


    It had been the perfect plan, until the Demon Sultan razed Vintal¡¯s most well-defended city while the Count had the bad judgment to be present. In a crisis of leadership, with the Beroli council so paralyzed by petty feuds that they couldn¡¯t decide who among could call a council meeting to order, he was spontaneously promoted to the resolutely made-up position of Lord Vicar and tasked with fixing everything.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, please. Our crops are withering where they stand, and none of the saints can avert it. Our livestock are afflicted by a black pox, and¡­ and-¡±


    The elderly farmer sobbed pathetically, then fully broke into tears.


    ¡°My daughter and her husband¡­ *sob*¡­ they died in their bed two days ago. It was horrible, Lord Vicar.¡±


    Ah, yes. The plague.


    Because it wasn¡¯t bad enough to be given all responsibility in the middle of the biggest political upheaval in living memory, there had to be a deadly, incurable blight killing everything from the worms on up.


    At first, he¡¯d been able to spin this as God¡¯s punishment for sin. There was more than enough of it to go around in Beroli, he¡¯d made sure of as much. But as the days turned into weeks with no sign of relief, the word on the street changed.


    They¡¯d already exiled the prostitutes and beaten the drunkards and executed the gangsters, and nothing had changed. So the problem must lie a little further up the chain.


    The people of Beroli had mutated into a frenzied mob, piggybacking on feuds and heresies both real and imagined to climb its way higher and higher up the hierarchy. Yesterday, they had beaten a priest, widely known to be a simoniac, in the streets, and attached charges of diabolism, false witness, and embezzlement to the pile. The church in Beroli stood united against this outrage¡­ right up until it became clear that Phaero wasn¡¯t intervening to defend one of his own.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    If he defied the mob now, to defend a known simoniac, they would turn on him in an instant. If he did nothing they would keep working up the chain, and when they reached the top, none of his subordinates would protect him. After all, he had seen to it that there was not a single virtuous priest in the city.


    He stood, and the farmers flinched back in the face of his towering height, courtesy of a raised platform beneath his desk. He calmed them with soothing words, told them to have faith and this trial would pass, that God had called His favored children to his embrace. He conducted them out on the street with blessings, and returned to his office to stew.


    There was no easy way out of this. There might not be any way out at all.


    What he needed¡­


    ¡°Lord Vicar!¡±


    ¡°What is it, sergeant?¡±


    ¡°We have a caravan of refugees at the north gate, coming from near the Holy City.¡±


    That wasn¡¯t new. The plague had started near the Holy City and spread outward, in no small part as refugees fled the blight and sought protection in Anthusa or smaller cities like Beroli.


    ¡°Figure out how many are infected among them and turn them away.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s just the issue, Lord Vicar. Not a single one of them is infected.¡±


    That was certainly unusual.


    ¡°How many are there?¡±


    ¡°They say three-thousand. With the number of wagons and animals they brought, I believe them.¡±


    That was even more unusual. Beroli had yet to see a caravan even half that size before. Phaero leaned back in his seat, inviting the sergeant to elaborate.


    ¡°They¡¯re from the village of Inillo, a few weeks toward the Holy City. Their baron died in the invasion, and they now follow his illegitimate son, Cato of Inillo.¡±


    The sergeant pulled out a gilded mirror whose reflection showed a man in his late twenties, well-dressed for a country boy, with full and handsome features.


    ¡°How many are armed?¡±


    ¡°The boy and the yeoman, Lord Vicar, and then only barely.¡±


    Nine times out of ten, that meant the rest of the villagers weren¡¯t cultivators. There might be as many as a few dozen warriors hidden among them, but there¡¯s only so much one can do to hide arms and armor, and if they had real strength and numbers they wouldn¡¯t be bothering to hide.


    ¡°Where are they going?¡±


    ¡°They said their original goal was to head through to Anthusa, but plenty of them want to stay in Beroli, at least for a while.¡±


    ¡°And not a single one is infected?¡±


    ¡°We checked and double checked, Lord Vicar. They offered themselves up openly for inspection, and said they were protected by their village¡¯s patron saint. They also claim to have not lost a single person on their journey over.¡±


    A young bastard with a few thousand followers, all mysteriously immune to the plague? That was a dangerous new ingredient.


    But also, potentially, everything he needed.


    ¡°Triple check every single one of them, and if they all pass, let them in. Have their little lord meet me for vespers.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Lord Vicar.¡±


    There were other, more credulous men who would have taken this to be a sign of divine favor. Others would have immediately gone to the north gate and asked the villagers who their patron saint was, and how to appease him. But Lord Vicar Phaero was no fool. Beroli had reams upon reams of saints, and they had exhausted every one of them with prayer and offerings. What patron saint would a rinky-dink village have that could cure the plague?


    No, there were only two possibilities:


    The first, they had started with a much larger group and cast away anyone who got sick. They had seen similar behavior in smaller groups, and while it would be unusual for so many people to enforce a lie like that and for such a crude trick to fool the sergeant, it wasn¡¯t totally implausible. The second, they were diabolists, devil-worshiping scum whose foul master hid them from God¡¯s wrath.


    Either way, they fit his needs. Lord Vicar Phaero wasn¡¯t expecting a cure, and didn¡¯t need one.


    What he needed was a scapegoat.


    ? ? ?


    His Holiness Prudence IV, the late Holy Son, died two years previously, surrounded by his loved ones and showered in glory. Later that day he awoke surrounded by his loved ones and showered with glory.


    That was just one of the post-transcendence perks of being the Holy Son. For anyone else, unless they were canonized as saints, some time in Purgatory was a must, but after centuries of preparation, imbuing his soul with the will of God and conversing with angels, it was a trivial matter to step directly into heaven.


    So, meeting his parents, grandparents, and his great-grandfather, the former Holy Son Immaculate XIII, His Holiness Prudence IV was conducted through the pearly gates and bathed in the flowing waters of heaven. What would have taken at least a few hundred years in Purgatory was done within just two subjective years there, and was much more comfortable to boot. Heaven did not have ¡®time¡¯ in a proper sense, but the sensation of it would accompany the newly transcended soul for a while as they got acquainted with Heaven, rather like a fresh sailor getting their sea legs.


    The next perk was that he jumped right up to the position of Holiness. Others, even accomplished saints, would start out as Perfections, or maybe as Judgments if they were really exceptional, but Holy Sons got to skip the line right into middle-management.


    Just as his three generations of fathers were escorting him up the Mountain of Heaven to make a proper introduction with the archangels, Prudence IV made an unsound remark.


    ¡°Tell me, how long did it take them to select my replacement down there? Or are they still going at it?¡±


    He laughed at his own joke. Heaven doesn¡¯t have time, after all. But his three generations of fathers were rather less amused.


    ¡°What? Don¡¯t tell me you lose your humor after an eternity?¡±


    His great-grandfather responded.


    ¡°I wanted to brief you on this matter when we reached the top, but I suppose we shouldn¡¯t delay.¡±


    He looked deadly serious. With a wave of his hand, Immaculate XIII pulled aside the omnipresent coruscating golden clouds of heaven and opened a window into the mortal world. Upon the planet of Vintal, right where the Holy City should have been, a vast dark cloud sprouted like a mole on the face of the world.


    ¡°Those fuckups! When is this?¡±


    ¡°Now.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, now?¡±


    ¡°I mean now, two years after your death. There was a rupture in time.¡±


    ¡­


    ¡°Your Holiness, you mean to say that Heaven is broken?¡±


    ¡°Not all of it. The archangels contained the damage, but we¡¯re scarce on details down here. Worse, the lower heavens are stuck in linear time now.¡±


    This was¡­ unthinkable.


    ¡°But how does that make any sense?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    Immaculate XIII zapped Prudence IV with heavenly lightning.


    ¡°I said I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s why I wanted to wait until we got to the top and have the archangels brief you. Uriel is better at explaining these things than I am.¡±


    He¡¯d have to wait. He¡¯d have to wait. This sense of time passing, of being trapped in a moment, wasn¡¯t the hallucination of a newly transcended soul experiencing eternity. It was real.


    ¡°How¡­ how long will that take?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    The Mountain of Heaven now seemed extremely high, and extremely steep.


    Prudence IV spat out a most unholy word.

 Burning Inside

    Cato descended into the humid and stinking dungeons beneath Castello Beroli. Remiro was in front, and Father Andrea behind him, conducted by Beroli guards.


    They had been in Beroli for just over a week now. The people of Inillo were desperate to rest after over a month on the road, but the gate guards had turned them away almost immediately. They were far from the first refugee group to come from the direction of the Holy City, and many of those had one member or another infected with the plague. Combined with the Inillo caravan¡¯s huge size, Cato wasn¡¯t surprised that the city lord was unwilling to let them in, even after proving that nobody in the caravan was infected.


    He was fully prepared to have the people rest for a few days outside the walls, buy and sell what they could from other refugees and the guards, and continue on their way. But lo and behold, the same evening they arrived, the gates opened and the guards conducted the people of Inillo, and them alone, into the city. They had even been personally welcomed by the city lord, and he permitted them to dwell in the city for as long as it pleased them. There were empty homes throughout the city, belonging to those who had fled further from the Holy City or died of the plague.


    It was grim, but Cato accepted. His baptisms and purifications had become part of the caravan¡¯s routine, as people continued to be infected and reinfected. They had passed by countless smaller settlements on the road crawling with plague victims, and seen firsthand how deadly and gruesome it was.


    Yet nobody from Inillo died. As far as they could tell, none of them were even touched by the infection, though Cato knew otherwise. It took a few days to incubate and pervade the body before rising all at once, as if without cause, with black buboes growing on the body and a horrible hacking cough filling the lungs. So long as he purified the people regularly, they would be safe. They would never even know.


    The people of Inillo made the connection anyway, and quite quickly at that. This only reinforced their belief that he was a living saint sent to protect them.


    Cato was quick to lay down the law: they could not call him a saint in front of outsiders, or otherwise credit him with their immunity to the plague. It was quite enough when Inillo identified him as a member of House Gulphay and made him their new leader. If he walked into a city and people thought he was a living saint, there was no telling what would happen. Father Andrea had made it abundantly clear that the church was filled with corrupt priests who might try to co-opt him to their own ends, or try to have him killed if they realized his true power. Beroli¡¯s Lord Vicar Phaero, wielding both holy and secular power, was almost certainly one of these.


    Instead, he was now Cato of Inillo, the illegitimate son of the late Baron Inillo, entrusted with the leadership of his father¡¯s subjects. Noble bastards were by no means unusual, and in the absence of other children nobody would look at him askance, especially with Remiro and Andrea standing by him.


    That was why the Beroli guards bowed and addressed him as ¡®your Lordship¡¯ while they led him to the cell where one of his subjects lay beaten and bloody.


    Cato felt the blows from far away earlier, repeated and brutal strikes with clubs on the back and sides. The guards were shocked when he appeared at the site of the beating just minutes later, but he was too late. Young Girolamo, a stout and headstrong boy of fifteen, was walking alone with a bag of silver after selling much of Inillo¡¯s remaining flocks and some of its luxuries to the merchants of Beroli. According to the guards, he had been drunk and picked a fight with some local boys. He didn¡¯t believe that for a second.


    Girolamo lay on his less injured front, his hands and feet manacled, on the wet and dirty dungeon floor. He stirred as Cato pulled the clanking cell door open, and wept pitifully as he looked upon his lord with a bruised and swollen face.


    ¡°Turn away.¡± he didn¡¯t even look at the guards, but his meaning could not have been more clear.


    ¡°With all respect, your Lordship, our duty requires us to-¡±


    They were struck silent by a rising power in the cell. Goosebumps spread across their flesh and their animal souls quivered in the face of what they suddenly saw as a vicious predator.


    They turned around without protest.


    Myshkin had learned that little spell to scare off wolves and bears that might hurt his flock. Cato had learned it from the shepherd over the course of a few days, and found it served his purpose just fine. He had even gotten enough practice to direct it towards certain targets instead of enveloping the entire space.


    Father Andrea pulled out a clean robe as Cato and Remiro stripped the bawling boy out of his clothes. His ragged tunic was stuck to his ruined back with crusted blood, and even with Cato taking away some of the pain, tearing the fabric off was agonizing.


    ¡°My lord¡­¡±


    ¡°Be quiet, Girolamo. You¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to fight.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°They called you a¡­ a¡­¡±


    The boy¡¯s words sank away behind tears. While the guards looked away, Cato washed the wounds and gave him water to drink. Slowly but surely, they closed, and Girolamo¡¯s breathing stabilized. He was fast asleep, and would wake up several hours later in a soft bed with his family. They wrapped him in the clean robe to hide his closed wounds, and Remiro carried the boy in his arms.


    ¡°Where are the bastards who did this?¡±


    The guards looked ready to give him more lip, but on meeting his eyes thought better of it.


    ¡°They were released a little while ago, your Lordship. Master Vanazzo demanded their release into his custody.¡±


    Cato had been at the dungeon entrance almost as soon as Girolamo was taken in, and was forced to wait for hours before the guard let him in. Nobody else had been taken in or released in that time.


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    ¡°And what kind of whoreson is this Vanazzo?¡±


    That really took them aback. Cato hadn¡¯t had much occasion to swear in the weeks since he arrived in this new world, but found that, even as the language came naturally to him, profanity was especially easy. The legacy of his body¡¯s old inhabitant, he was sure.


    ¡°Master Vanazzo is the chief architect of Beroli, and his patron, Lord Maleffi, sits on the council!¡±


    ¡°Your boy attacked a group of bricklayers who were taking a rest from the noonday sun. I expect Master Vanazzo took this as a personal offense on the part of your Lordship.¡±


    It was a load of utter horseshit. Cato could see it in their eyes. As if there was construction going on in a city halfway abandoned which had closed its gates to virtually all refugees. As if Girolamo had gotten drunk on the way home and picked a fight out of nowhere with older boys that outnumbered him six to one. As if those bricklayers had gotten arrested at all.


    ¡°My boy, as you call him, was carrying a bag of money. I¡¯ll have it back on his mother¡¯s behalf.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s not possible my lord. It was confiscated on-¡±


    ¡°ON WHOSE ORDERS, PRAY TELL?¡±


    He didn¡¯t yell those words. He hardly whispered them. But they filled the dungeon like a thunderclap, infused with Cato¡¯s inner power. The guards fell back as if struck and their hands went instinctively to the hilts of their swords.


    But they hesitated. These were men who had gone a long time without having to do more than threaten people to get their way. They weren¡¯t prepared to fight at a moment¡¯s notice.


    Whether it was really him, or the old habits inscribed in this body, or both, Cato was prepared, and with the waves of power cascading out of his body, thick as water, made sure they damn well knew it.


    ¡°O-on nobody¡¯s orders, your Lordship. It¡¯s s-standard procedure.¡±


    More bullshit.


    ¡°Then I¡¯m sure you gentlemen can do me the favor of letting procedure slide just this once. Or do I have to take this up with the Lord Vicar?¡±


    The guards bolted and had the silver in Cato¡¯s hand within the minute. He had learned how this world worked. Everyone spoke of justice and duty and honor and codes, but the people who actually stuck to those were rare as hen¡¯s teeth. It was all about who you knew, who you served, what they let you get away with, and who they would protect you from. There wasn¡¯t even a pretense of equal justice. If the guards offended him, Cato could have killed them and gotten away with a formal apology to the Lord Vicar. And they knew it too.


    To actually seek justice and hold duty above the interests of your faction and yourself? You¡¯d have to be a saint.


    Or you¡¯d have to be Cato, bound to his word by a force beyond his comprehension.


    He took one of the coins and threw it directly at a guard¡¯s forehead, where it left a burning red mark.


    ¡°Take this as thanks for your prompt service.¡±


    Walking away back into the sunlight, hearing the guard kneel down to pick it up off the ground, Cato felt very good, in a very, very bad way. A familiar way.


    Whoever used to inhabit this body was a real bastard, and it was starting to rub off on him.


    ? ? ?


    A ways from Beroli, the sounds of music and merriment emanated from the half-lit shell of a ruined castle at dusk.


    In the face of an incurable, deadly plague, no two people reacted in quite the same way. The threat of a sudden and gruesome death which might never come to pass was a test of the unpredictable and innate mettle of a man, like the hidden fault lines in a gemstone revealed only by taking a hammer to it.


    Most fled the source of the pestilence as quickly as possible. Some were cautious and tried to take their possessions with them, while others declared that material things were a weight upon the soul and fled at the first light.


    Some thought that the plague only killed those with sin in their hearts, and committed themselves to fasting and isolation in a hermitage. Alas, all the good hermitages were very suddenly full.


    Others thought that the living and the dead were predestined, and this was a sign of the end times. The only remaining commandment was to enjoy the fleeting pleasures of the earth before they were all too suddenly ripped away.


    Many dozens of this latter sort had gathered in the castle ruins outside Beroli. They had taken all their worldly luxuries, all the finest food and wine they could procure, and hid themselves away to enjoy life in each other¡¯s company. It goes without saying that these were the wealthy and the powerful, including the lesser baron on whose land the old fortress sat.


    ¡°And so it was that Ser Cipollini lived and died, and became known far and wide as a saint in the manner you have heard!¡±


    The assembled revelers, clad in their brightest and costliest clothes upon the naked ground, cheered on this most creative story of the murderer and fraud who became a saint. They were gathered around a great bonfire, with the music of harps and mandolins and hand drums echoing over the crumbling stone. Yet other revelers danced around the fire, and others wandered off into the darkness for their own amusements. But the chief of the revelers, her head covered in a crown of laurel leaves, sat on a block of stone covered in blankets and cushions. Each day the revelers appointed a monarch from among their number, selected by the previous ruler, whom all would obey and was tasked with directing the day¡¯s diversions.


    The queen tossed a glob of Abyssinian honey cake at the clever storyteller, who caught the sweetmeat in his mouth to the delight of the crowd and gave his monarch a mock bow.


    ¡°Your tale delights us, dear Ardo, and delights us more than any other we have heard tonight. I would like nothing more than to take you to my queenly chambers and heap many royal honors upon you.¡±


    The revelers hooted and hollered and whistled. Some, however, seemed distracted by some happening on the other side of the fire. Rude. This was her big moment. She stood tall upon the stone block and orated, hand over heart.


    ¡°However, night has come upon us, and I must pass on my throne to another worthy of its weighty responsibilities.¡±


    Cheers again, but quieter. What in the world was distracting them. She yelled out to get their attention.


    ¡°I wonder, who will I crown to be our new ruler?!¡±


    Then she saw it. Coming from out of the darkness on the other side of the fire came the figure of a nude woman, but not one she recognized. Her dark hair was long and wild, and she was covered all in soot and dirt.


    The revelers were quiet. Shameless though they all were, there was something about this newcomer¡¯s hard, blank stare that made them turn away their faces.


    ¡°Who are you?¡±


    She continued forward, right toward the queen.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    She did not answer, but she stepped directly into the burning bonfire. The revelers screamed but amidst the flames she continued forward.


    The queen saw that she was not hurt. The flames danced around her body and lit it gloriously, but did not burn. She was like a living storm. A god in the flesh.


    Still in the flames, just a step away from the queen, this newcomer held her gaze. More sure of anything she had done in her life, the former queen, whose name was Annetta, took the laurel leaves from atop her head and placed them on this newcomer. Her new queen, beautiful as the dawn, terrible as thunder. The laurel crowned her head and did not burn.


    The revelers came and bowed before their goddess.

 Youve Got Another Thing Coming

    ¡°Ashlachma morkolyo ehlnofai.¡±


    ¡°Ehlnofey,¡± Cato corrected.


    ¡°Ashlachma morkolyo ehlnofey.¡±


    ¡°And what is its meaning?¡±


    Shortly after they arrived in Beroli, Cato began tutoring Father Andrea in the Book of Zevon. At least, that¡¯s what Andrea thought was happening. Really, he was helping Cato remember what his body already knew; like the lyrics to an old song buried deep in his memory, needing to be jogged a bit before they could be strung properly back together.


    The words themselves and their pronunciation came back just from reading the tome. Their actual meaning took many repeated readings along with Andrea¡¯s prompting. But the Book of Zevon wasn¡¯t an esoteric tome for nothing. Its words were riddles that had to be interpreted in the context of thousands of years of philosophical, religious, and mystic traditions which overlapped to form modern church dogma. He had acquired as many of these other texts as he could from collections here in Beroli, mainly from the Lord Vicar¡¯s palace collection and the local chapels, but going through them was a slow process of recollection. Pretending to teach Father Andrea to poach his interpretations was faster.


    Cato suppressed the now-familiar feeling of fraudulence. He needed to know more about this world, and it would do him no good to reveal just how ignorant he was, even to one of his closest supporters. Maybe especially to his closest supporters.


    ¡°It means that the sinner seeks out the place called morkolyo.¡±


    ¡°Go deeper. What are the literal words on the page?¡±


    ¡°This¡­ the turned-away-face morkolyo¡­ looks-for. But it¡¯s a type of looking like trying to look over the horizon. It¡¯s impossible.¡±


    ¡°Impossible for an ordinary human, but possible by the grace of God.¡±


    ¡°Yes, exactly,¡± Andrea agreed. This was a well-worn rhetorical trick they had encountered dozens of times earlier in the book.


    ¡°What does ¡®morkolyo¡¯ break down into? What about the text makes you think it is a place?¡± Cato continued.


    ¡°Well, the construction-¡±


    ¡°The Book of Zevon breaks the norms of middle Achaean grammatical construction. We know this.¡±


    Cato immediately regretted snapping at Andrea. He was lucky to find anybody in the Inillo parish that could read Achaean at all, never mind translate and interpret esoteric mystic texts. The priest¡¯s book learning was excellent even by the standards of the Beroli church, and was totally out of place in a rural town of less than ten thousand. Though he hadn¡¯t asked Andrea why he had been assigned to such an out-of-the-way parish despite his talents, he suspected some conflict as an acolyte was to blame.


    ¡°Apologies, my lord.¡±


    But at the same time, Cato felt very strongly about this. Just hearing someone else recite the words made his fingers twitch. Sometimes, reading the text aloud, he could feel a phantom pain on his knuckles. At first he thought it was one of the villagers in danger, but he soon learned to distinguish between them. It was his body¡¯s memory again, warning him not to make the same mistake twice.


    Someone had done a real number on this guy.


    Cato took a deep breath.


    ¡°No, Andrea, I should apologize. I¡¯ve been driving you through the Book too quickly.¡±


    ¡°What? No, my lord, the error lies with me.¡± He was obviously desperate not to lose these moments. For a young priest cast out into a dead-end parish, the chance to study with someone he believed was a living saint was an opportunity he couldn¡¯t afford to miss. Cato was taking full advantage of that delusion.


    ¡°There is no error,¡± he lied. ¡°You need time to digest what you have learned. Tend to vespers tonight and take a rest. The Book will still be here tomorrow.¡±


    Andrea bowed and stood up, but stopped at the door to Cato¡¯s study.


    ¡°Morkolyo means a place of spiritual refuge. In the Triptochyte of Celadorn it refers to the inner sanctum of a temple, and is also used to refer to the heart of the highest Heaven. But its literal meaning relates to the root for sight, so we should understand it as the place which God observes most closely. For the Book of Zevon, that place is the human soul, not a physical location. So the sinner is looking for his own soul.¡±


    Cato was taken aback. It was a solid interpretation, perfectly in line with the rest of the Book.


    And it was wrong. Listening to Andrea speak those words was like hearing nails on a chalkboard. His tongue itched. The true interpretation was right there, closer than the veins in his forehead, but he just. Couldn¡¯t. Remember.


    Cato forced a smile.


    ¡°Go. We will continue tomorrow.¡±


    Andrea beamed and exited with a bow. Cato slumped back in his luxurious chair with a sigh.


    A cautious knock came at the door.


    ¡°Enter, Myshkin.¡±


    After a shave, new clothes that fit properly, and a lot of bathing, the shepherd cleaned up quite nicely. They had sold all the flocks soon after arriving in Beroli, leaving him and Inna, for the first time, with no work. Cato took them in as servants. The villagers had interpreted this as a show of great humility, permitting lowly shepherds to serve and live with him, but that couldn¡¯t be farther from the truth.


    On the one hand, he still felt bad for the horrible scare he¡¯d given them. They were the first people he¡¯d met after arriving in this world, and he had started out by chasing and terrifying them. Even so, they had stood up for him and were in large part responsible for the position he was in today, even if they didn¡¯t know it. Without their intervention, his arrival in Inillo could have turned badly violent.


    On the other hand, they knew witchcraft. Taking them into his household made it much easier to learn their spells without arousing suspicion.


    ¡°How is Girolamo doing?¡±


    ¡°Little Girolamo was awake when I visited, my lord, and his injuries were gone. But he was beaten badly, and it took him some time to speak properly.¡±


    No surprise there. Cato could take away the wounds and the pain, but he couldn¡¯t do very much about the shock and humiliation. The boy¡¯s family would have to help on that front.


    It was infuriating. He didn¡¯t need to hear Girolamo¡¯s testimony to know those wounds didn¡¯t come from a fight. He was thrown to the ground and beaten with clubs while he tried to protect his head and vitals, without so much as bruising or scuffing on his knuckles. Moreover, he hadn¡¯t been robbed: the guard confiscated the silver when they took him in.


    This was an ambush, one deliberately targeted at a young man walking alone. The implications were obvious. Somebody wanted the villagers from Inillo out of Beroli, and they had the protection of a sitting councilman.


    Myshkin turned his head away, and Cato realized that he had dug his fingers into the hard wood of the desk, leaving a shallow gash. Cato relaxed his hands and cleared his throat.


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    ¡°Continue, Myshkin.¡±


    ¡°My lord. He said what you expected. He was walking home from the market when a band of men, maybe five or six, came up from behind him with clubs and beat him. They ran off when the guard arrived, and he was taken in for disturbing the peace.¡±


    Myshkin stopped, hesitating.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°My lord¡­ the boy said that, while they were beating him¡­ they called him a devil worshiper. And¡­¡±


    ¡°They called me the devil, is that it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my lord.¡±


    Cato had detected some resentment and suspicion among the local population. While everyone else lived in fear of the plague, watching their neighbors and loved ones dying off one by one, nobody in Beroli was so much as touched by it. Already, dozens of locals had joined to listen to Father Andrea¡¯s sermons, and even more were planning to join their next baptism by the river. They were desperate for anything that would protect them. But Cato wasn¡¯t bound to any of them, and he wasn¡¯t able to purify or heal them.


    Seeing others untouched by common misery was bad enough. Once they realized that joining with the villagers didn¡¯t extend them any protection, the backlash would mount. That was one reason Cato was still adamant about moving on to Anthusa, where it would be easier to blend in.


    But he hadn¡¯t expected Beroli to turn on him this early. Rather, he hadn¡¯t expected the city as a whole to turn so quickly. Clearly, whoever was behind these bricklayers took offense at Cato much more quickly.


    What a pain.


    ¡°Does Remiro know?¡±


    ¡°Not yet, my lord.¡±


    Cato weighed his options


    ¡°Then inform him, and set a rule. From now on, nobody walks the streets in groups smaller than three. Add a curfew after sundown. And¡­¡±


    Myshkin waited patiently.


    ¡°Draw me a bath. Tell Andrea I will be missing vespers today.¡±


    ? ? ?


    There was more to this than just his own relaxation and indulgence, though those couldn¡¯t be overlooked. As Cato sank into the polished brass tub, perfumed with jasmine and lavender, he centered himself, collected his thoughts, and-


    ¡°Well well, look who came crawling back.¡±


    There it was, always there right before he even thought about calling.


    ¡°That¡¯s us, kid. Two peas in a pod.¡±


    He was pretty sure his reflection was talking again, but Cato had enough dignity to keep his eyes closed and just listen.


    ¡°Kiddo, I¡¯m hurt. But hey, you don¡¯t want to look me in the eye, that¡¯s fine by me. We¡¯re already way closer than that.¡±


    This voice, whatever it was, ought to skip the chatter and get down to the damned point.


    ¡°Hey, language. Really, kids these days.¡±


    Cato was hanging up.


    ¡°Woah woah woah, easy there. You think I¡¯m going to answer every time you ring me up, you¡¯ve got another thing coming. I just wanted to tell you how proud I was.¡±


    Proud? Of what?


    ¡°What do you figure? You¡¯re enjoying yourself! Indulging. Mind you, not quite what the guy before you did, but baby steps. Good food, nice baths and nicer clothes, it¡¯s a solid start. And while I would have definitely preferred cutting down the size of your little tamagotchi collection, watching you give that guard what for was just great.¡±


    Ah, right. That wrath, and the satisfaction he¡¯d felt humiliating that man. It was-


    ¡°Deserved, one-hundred percent. Don¡¯t think for a moment it was anything else. I mean, those bozos were planning to steal the kid¡¯s money after imprisoning him for nothing. They needed to get shoved around to learn who¡¯s boss around here.¡±


    And who exactly was the boss?


    ¡°You, obviously.¡±


    Don¡¯t be coy. That wasn¡¯t me, it was the body¡¯s old-


    ¡°Now let me stop you right there, champ. First off, that¡¯s lousy bait. Oh no, that wasn¡¯t you dearie, you¡¯re not responsible, is that what you expected me to say? Pull a little good intentions routine? I¡¯m not a cartoon devil on your shoulder.¡±


    Funny, that¡¯s exactly what you sound like.


    ¡°Rude.¡±


    Rude doesn¡¯t mean wrong.


    ¡°It means you¡¯re not looking. Actually, you know what, I should just show you.¡±


    Cato felt a jolt. It seemed to almost come from outside his body, as though his perception extended outside of his own skin. It sent a current through his body, from his right shoulder down the arm and into his fingertips.


    ¡°Oh yeah baby, that¡¯s the good stuff!¡±


    What the-


    ¡°Language!¡±


    What the heck was that?


    ¡°That, my fine, feathered friend, is what happens when you meet me in the middle. Another bridge rebuilt and open for business!¡±


    You like that metaphor far too much.


    ¡°Granted, it¡¯s just one lane right now, but it¡¯s a solid start. Thunderbolts, here we come!¡±


    Cato felt a thrumming power inside him now, like another sense. With just a slight effort of will, crackling energy erupted between his fingers.


    ¡°Careful where you test that, by the by, it¡¯ll burn down half the city if you aim it wrong.¡±


    Cato was less than fully impressed. What made this any different compared to the golden lions, or the spells Inna and Myshkin taught him?


    ¡°Oh, if you could see my eyes rolling right now. First off, those little witch-knacks are the bottom of the barrel as far as magic goes. They just enhance your natural capacities. More to the point, there¡¯s hard limits there. Those shepherds don¡¯t have enough magical oomph to get anywhere near those limits, but there¡¯s only so far you can enhance the human body before you start burning it out. You¡¯ve got to purify and reinforce the body and soul both to do more, but by the time you¡¯ve done that, tricks like those don¡¯t get you much farther anyway. You¡¯ll want to drop those as soon as possible and switch to something custom made for your hardware.¡±


    And I have, as you put it, different hardware?


    ¡°There¡¯s no getting anything past you, is there? That¡¯s how you could learn those spells so fast and use them so easily: you¡¯re operating way below your actual limits.¡±


    And the golden lions?


    ¡°Those are another story. That spell is a gorgeous piece of work, if anything it¡¯s way beyond your capacity right now. Like a three-year-old in the cockpit of a fighter jet. Even if you had manual control of those, you couldn¡¯t do much more than manifest them, though even that is enough to take down pipsqueaks in a backwater like this. Whoever put those on you wanted you safe, and wanted to keep you from tearing yourself apart by using them, so they put it on autopilot. They probably would have taken the training wheels off in a few decades when you were up to the task.¡±


    You mean when the body¡¯s old-


    ¡°Yeah yeah, same difference. But look here.¡±


    Cato felt that jolt again, but it was smoother this time. He felt powerful. In control.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a magical parlor trick, and it¡¯s not a piece of military supertech you don¡¯t know how to operate. This stuff is the prima materia. Formless and malleable, perfectly suited to your body as it is right now. Just learn how to manipulate it properly, and you can take your first steps as a cultivator.¡±


    He¡¯d heard the villagers use the word a few times, but the meaning escaped him.


    ¡°The path of surpassing your human limits. Transcendence. Immortality. Defy heaven, or become the heavens.¡±


    That¡­ was loftier than Cato expected.


    ¡°You came into this world right after half of the most powerful cultivators on the planet all got killed at the same time, and you¡¯ve spent every day since then with peasants who won¡¯t reach a hundred. No wonder you didn¡¯t have a clue. Remiro is the closest thing to a cultivator in Inillo, and he was only qualified to be a servant managing the peasants for the old baron. But you- or rather, your old body, belonged to someone who was very, very far advanced. Hell, you¡¯d probably live to a thousand even if you never cultivated another day, with just the few decades of serious practice this guy did. But if you can relearn what that guy knew-¡±


    Fly, throw thunderbolts, win staring contests with volcanoes?


    ¡°And more. Way more.¡±


    Cato dismissed the voice and sank back in the water.


    That was really, really tempting.


    He supposed it wouldn¡¯t be the devil on his shoulder if it wasn¡¯t. He¡¯d damn near forgotten that there had been a point to that conversation, and it wasn¡¯t to become more powerful. It was to learn exactly what kind of relationship he had with this body, and how strong an effect its old memories and habits had on him. In other words, how much of his current actions were really him, or something else.


    Who was in control of whom?


    He had to give the voice credit, it had distracted him with something that really merited thought. It was a good thing he¡¯d cleared out this evening-


    ¡°My LORD!¡±


    The bathroom door slammed open as Inna pushed in. Even as she averted her eyes from his bathing form, she yelled.


    ¡°Soldiers came into the chapel, my lord. They took Father Andrea and the others prisoner!¡±


    Somewhere deep in his gut, Cato felt that voice laughing. His fingers twitched, lightning at the ready.


    So that was the way it was going to be.

 The Reckoning

    Captain Cremieux was quite proud of where he had gotten in life. Born into a poor family with few prospects on Fleur, he signed on to fight in the Hadric Crusade against the Abyssinian heretics. Fighting side by side with the forces of the Black Armada, he caught the eye of several superior officers, who offered him a place in their units instead of returning home to Fleur. He served with distinction, trained on the frozen comet Helvetra, and rose to become the leader of his own mercenary company.


    Most recently, after winning hefty reward fighting in the civil wars on Petron, he settled in for a quiet contract working security on Vintal, in the city of Beroli near Anthusa. In this time, during a period of seclusion, he completed a second round of alchemic transformation, pushing his body far beyond the limits of ordinary human ability.


    Which is to say, he was completely overqualified for terrorizing unarmed peasants. But a job was a job.


    He and six of his men projected their auras within the chapel, filled to the brim with Inillians listening to their priest¡¯s sermon. The villagers¡¯ screams were cut short by the oppressive weight of the soldiers¡¯ presence, and all but the strongest fell to the ground in a daze.


    ¡°Cut your yammerin¡¯ and keep your hands where I can see em! Or me and my boys won¡¯t hesitate to cut your demon-loving throats.¡±


    These people didn¡¯t look much like devil worshipers to him. He¡¯d seen a few, from a distance, at the Battle of Tarfiz, surrounded by foul smoke and leading columns of the risen dead. Still, if the Lord Vicar wanted to make an example of some foreigners, who was he to judge?


    One of the congregation stood, unsteadily to block their way. This was their yeoman, Remiro.


    ¡°Michel.¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a fresh heretic with your name on ¡®im.¡±


    The young soldier, fresh from his first round of alchemic transformation, was itching to test out his new abilities, and leapt toward the defiant villager with his sword drawn. Remiro pulled the whip from around his waist, intercepting the soldier in mid-air, but Michel batted the weapon away with his bare hand.


    Remiro backed away, trying to keep the soldier at a distance, but it was no use. Michel estimated this man¡¯s physical abilities were just slightly more developed than his own. In a straight fight, he would have proven a good challenge. But in these tight quarters he couldn¡¯t afford to use that long weapon to its full potential for the fear of hurting his own people.


    Remiro dropped the whip and drew his sword, just barely blocking Michel¡¯s heavy blow. He flew back, but the younger soldier was on top of him, dislocating his shoulder and bruising his arms with vicious strikes the older man could hardly resist.


    Never mind his inability to use the whip properly, under the combined suppression of the captain and five other mercenaries, Remiro stood no chance.


    His body slumped against the altar, with his nose and mouth bloodied and cuts on his forearms and torso. The other soldiers surged forward and seized the screaming priest. The captain silenced him with a crack across the temple that left his body limp.


    Michel took the yeoman by the lapel and savored his victory. He turned to menace the assembled villagers, trembling in the pews and-


    ¡°Sir, one just escaped by the side door!¡±


    A low, authoritative voice came from outside the threshold.


    ¡°At ease. She¡¯s running to get her master.¡± A cruel smile spread under a monk¡¯s cowl. ¡°Sit tight, and let this one come to us.¡±


    ? ? ?


    Remiro and Andrea dangled from the steeple, hanging by their thumbs in the dark night.


    Cato felt the villagers¡¯ fear pounding in his chest, Remiro¡¯s wounds on his arms and body and the horrible strain in his hands and shoulders. He had been so deeply involved in talking to the voice inside him that he hadn¡¯t even noticed what was happening to his people.


    ¡°Welcome, your lordship!¡±


    An armored figure stood silhouetted on the chapel roof. He gave a mock bow, and Cato could see the glimmer of a gold tooth.


    Anger bubbled up inside him, but he suppressed it.


    ¡°Who are you, that you dare to assault my people, in a house of God no less?¡±


    ¡°If God doesn¡¯t want me to start a fight in his house, he can come down here and tell me. But I see no reason why he¡¯d want to protect you heretics.¡±


    ¡°You have the audacity to call me a heretic after you assaulted a priest?!¡±


    ¡°Priest?¡± The armored man spat. ¡°Some backwoods witch you dressed up in fancy robes I¡¯m sure. How else is it that the plague kills God-fearing left and right but you bastards are immune?¡±


    Cato¡¯s rage grew. The captain smirked. Just a little more. Once the would-be baron started a fight, the Lord Vicar would have all the cause he needed to burn them all.


    ¡°Let them down,¡± Cato said quietly, ¡°and I¡¯ll urge the Lord Vicar to have mercy on you.¡±


    The captain laughed like a barking dog.


    ¡°Horseshit. How about this? You come quietly, and I let your little puppets die quickly.¡±


    Cato leapt up to the roof in a single bound and drove his fist through the air where the captain¡¯s head should have been.


    ¡°Too slow!¡±


    A steel-toed boot swept his feet out from under him and a rough hand drove his face into the tiles.


    Cato roared and threw an elbow back at the captain¡¯s face. He caught it, and with a quick tug tore it out of its socket.


    Cato went limp with pain. ¡°Oh? You¡¯re no fun.¡± The captain grabbed a handful of hair and threw Cato off the roof to crash into the ground.


    ¡°Shackle ¡®im and lock up the rest in the chapel, boys. We¡¯re done here.¡±


    As expected, he was a weakling. Barely beyond the first stage of transformation, if even that, with no combat experience to speak of. Still, that left him with a young night and a full purse. A visit to Madam Tripaldi as the cathouse, perhaps?


    A vast surge of energy exploded behind Captain Cremieux. He turned, only to see his men lying scorched and dead in front of the chapel. Cato stood, his bloody injuries closing up rapidly, with lightning crackling across his body.


    Cremieux wasn¡¯t stupid. He didn¡¯t survive fighting the Abyssinians by being too dumb to recognize a strong opponent. That surge of power wasn¡¯t coming from the ambient air, it was stored in Cato¡¯s body; that and such fast healing was only possible for someone who had completed at least the second round of alchemic transformation.


    Like Cremieux had done just recently.


    ¡°Brother Julius!¡± he cried, unsheathing his blade.


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    Cato once again leapt onto the chapel roof, dagger in hand and surrounded by a nimbus of roiling power. Cremieux dashed away, gathering his aura around him, layering it into a shimmering shield that barely survived the scouring force. But he didn¡¯t have to wait long.


    Cato¡¯s reckless charge slowed, his limbs growing heavy and weak. Cremieux pressed the advantage immediately. His blade cut into the shining cloud, and very nearly reached its target, but slowed as if by innumerable layers of fabric it missed Cato by a hair¡¯s breadth as he lurched out of the way.


    Cato was hunched over and panting. Cremieux repositioned, and a man in a monastic habit stepped out of the shadows.


    The captain had thought the Lord Vicar¡¯s instruction to bring along a deacon of the Order of the Rose was foolish, even frivolous. What could a little lordling and his yes-man do against him and his entire squadron?


    Though it shamed him, he was glad to have the backup now. The boy was stronger than a young bastard from the country had any right to be. Perhaps the accusation of diabolism was more plausible than he had thought.


    ¡°Surrender to us, child,¡± the monk intoned. ¡°Give up your sinful ways, and the Lord shall surely show you mercy.¡±


    Brother Julius hid a sadistic grin under his cowl. Would it be the mercy of dying first upon the burning stake, or the mercy of being the first to be torn apart by the limbs? Surely it would not be the mercy of a quick death. The Lord Vicar wanted a public spectacle. An example.


    Under his habit, he held a doll fashioned from wax and wood, and poured the power of his soul into it. Poppets like these could inflict curses or heal wounds even at great distances if one had a sample of the target¡¯s blood; without such a sample, its effective range was limited to just a few yards. But Julius had learned the shape of his soul, and through this conduit he could impose his will onto Cato¡¯s being directly. The enervating curse was spreading from the boy¡¯s soul into his body, chilling his limbs, slowing the movement of his energy, and sapping his will to live.


    So why was the boy still standing?


    Cato¡¯s voice came out like a whisper. ¡°That¡­ that¡¯s¡­¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon you bastard, make it fun for me!¡± the captain roared.


    Julius blanched. What in the world was he-


    ¡°That¡¯s a dirty trick!¡±


    Julius felt like someone had reached into his chest and was crushing his heart. The downside of using a poppet at such close range without a unique medium was that it left the user vulnerable to counterattack by the same channel. But that could only happen if the target¡¯s soul was at least as well cultivated as the user¡¯s.


    The monk let go of the poppet and fell, pale and exhausted, to his knees.


    Cremieux took a step back. The boy had completed at least the second level of alchemic transformation, and to fight Brother Julius on even terms he must have also cultivated his soul far enough to make contact with his guardian angel. Doing either of those put one firmly above the rabble and opened up a profitable career in the church or as a warrior. To do both¡­ there was no doubt he was older than he looked, and he almost certainly had access to far greater resources than his apparently humble station implied. There was only one explanation.


    ¡°Devil spawn! Die!¡±


    The captain unleashed everything he had, all the energy he had stored up in the weeks since completing the second round. It took months to fully stabilize the body¡¯s transformation. Using his newfound power in that time pushed that back by weeks. Emptying his reserves threatened to undo all his recent work, and maybe even threatened his life.


    But there was no other option.


    An unseen wind crashed against Cato¡¯s golden clouds as the two pressed forward, trying to push the other back with sheer energy. Cato felt another attack on his soul, weaker this time, as the fallen monk tried to protect himself from retaliation. But this time he was ready.


    It felt very similar to the delusional state he fell into when the voice in his gut worked its influence. It had the same form and targeted the same places. But it was much, much less subtle.


    Instead of just pushing back against it, Cato caught the invading will as it tried to influence him, and¡­ it was difficult to describe exactly what he did. But it felt a lot like squeezing a grape until it burst.


    The monk screamed in agony as blood dripped from his eyes and ears. The captain faltered. That was all he needed.


    Cato pulled all his energy back into his body and, while his opponent was off balance, gathered it all into his arm. He pierced through the unseen wind and struck the captain full in the chest, sending him flying off the chapel roof.


    It was exhilarating. This power was his, all his. With it, he could do anything, with it, he was truly in control, he-


    No.


    He felt a wordless grumbling deep inside, which he quashed.


    Stop it.


    Cato took a deep breath. After just foiling a much less sophisticated attack of the same kind, how would he let himself be so easily taken by the influence of the voice in his gut? At the same time, what was it trying to distract him from now?


    A weak, bloody cough answered him. As if waking from a dream, Cato suddenly remembered Remiro and Andrea, tied up by their thumbs not a few yards away. He cut their bonds and lay them on the ground before the chapel, still scorched by lightning and covered in the bodies of soldiers. Within a few minutes the two were stable, though even with his power it would take them longer to recover from the severe injuries they had been dealt.


    ¡°My lord¡­ the villagers.¡± Remiro wheezed.


    ¡°They are safe. Rest.¡±


    Cato turned away, but Remiro grasped his sleeve with all the strength left in his arm.


    ¡°They are not safe. Beroli is not safe, my lord.¡±


    ¡°I defeated the soldiers, Remiro. We¡¯ll take everyone back to their homes and speak to the Lord Vicar-¡±


    ¡°No! Open your eyes, my lord. That monk with them¡­ it must have been the Lord Vicar who dispatched them. He is our enemy.¡±


    The cold truth sank into Cato. After being welcomed into the city so warmly just days earlier, two disasters befell the villagers seemingly designed to provoke his retaliation. He thought it only went as high up as one of the council members, but if that monk was also the Lord Vicar¡¯s subordinate¡­ it made sense, of a sort. Cato still couldn¡¯t understand such a fast change of heart, but it was clear that they couldn¡¯t remain in Beroli.


    He spoke hastily to the villagers. They would gather what they could and meet in the square within an hour. There was no time for anything heavy or slow, only what they could carry on their persons. It was to their good fortune that they had already sold almost all the livestock.


    But even if they could clear the city walls, this battle must have gotten attention, and the Lord Vicar¡¯s men would surely pursue. He needed some insurance.


    The following line of thought came naturally to him, as if it was one he had considered and used many times in the past. Hopping back onto the chapel roof, he grabbed the monk by his habit. He was unconscious and injured, but alive. Priests with his grasp of the soul and its power would not be very common in a smaller city like Beroli, and he would be quite valuable to the church, without having so many ties that he would make more enemies. Just the right kind of hostage.


    The captain would have also made for a fine prisoner. But while he searched the streets behind the chapel, he found no sign of a body.


    ? ? ?


    Captain Cremieux rushed his broken body through the dark city streets.


    Get away. He had to get away.


    That boy was a monster, a devil in human form. He needed to gather the guard, the church everyone, and exorcize him before he could escape.


    The watchmen at the Lord Vicar¡¯s estate let him through, despite the late hour and his bleeding, manic state. He staggered, followed by a train of confused and concerned guards, into the Lord Vicar¡¯s chambers, fully prepared to excuse his impertinence with the most urgent news.


    He found the Lord Vicar drinking a fine vermouth with a guest, and felt chills under his disapproving gaze.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, forgive me! The heretic has slain my men and taken Brother Julius. He is a devil-child, a-¡±


    He was cut off by the Lord Vicar¡¯s pointed clearing of the throat, and fell silent. There was venom in his voice.


    ¡°Captain. I am entertaining a guest.¡±


    ¡°Apologies Lord Vicar, apologies¡­¡±


    He turned to apologize to the guest, but stumbled over his words. He recognized that face. Twenty years earlier, just as he was forming his mercenary band and signing a contract to fight in Petron, he saw his old commanding officer in the Black Armada for the last time. Cremieux had wanted to recruit old Savon as his second in command, but he had gathered his own force instead, and already had a job lined up.


    The last time he ever saw Savon, he showed Cremieux the sketch of the man he was supposed to assassinate. A goldsmith who had made a few too many enemies, recently banished from Anthusa. Alone, with no patron and no protection. It was a nice, easy job to show the new recruits the ropes.


    By the time Cremieux came back victorious from Petron, he was able to visit Savon¡¯s cenotaph. He had been the best of friends. They had saved each other¡¯s lives. He was nearly a second father to him. According to the farmers who came upon the scene, there was barely anything left to bury, and they could hardly tell what remains belonged to whom.


    That face from the sketch was looking down at him now. Cremieux shut his mouth.


    The Lord Vicar sighed.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve shown you something unsightly, Benicio. It seems that good coin doesn¡¯t go as far as it used to.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a man so easily put off my drink, Phaero. But tell me, what is this business about a devil-child? I thought you ran a tight ship around here.¡±


    ¡°I thought so as well.¡± Hard, flint-like eyes fell on Cremieux again. ¡°But I allowed some refugees into the city lately. They seemed harmless enough, but it seems they have been causing trouble.¡±


    Silence reigned in the Lord Vicar¡¯s chambers.


    ¡°Say, Benicio, I would not want to impose, but¡­¡±


    Benicio Cecchini gulped down his glass in one go and cracked a smile.


    ¡°Lord Vicar, don¡¯t be such a stranger. It would be entirely my pleasure.¡±

 The Highwayman

    The people of Inillo scattered through the streets of Beroli like ants in their nest. Thousands of eyes watched them from behind half-shut blinds and around dark corners as they rushed into their homes, gathered their most necessary possessions, and fled the city. The rumor had spread through the city days earlier, and so had the insults: witch, devilspawn, heretic. But they waited. They kept quiet, shutting themselves in and preparing for the night when the plague-bringing diabolists would be cut down.


    And yet, instead of being clapped in irons and dragged into the square, they were at liberty. They swarmed over fair Beroli like vermin. The city longed to step out from behind the dark corner and strike down the invader, to reach out through the window and dip their fingers in the sinners¡¯ blood. The city would have exploded into violence¡­ if not for that deadly presence on the rooftops. It followed the heretics like a terrifying familiar in the sky, and filled the good citizens of Beroli with unutterable terror.


    The Lord Vicar spoke true. These heretics were protected from on high by the prince of darkness. So the city waited sleepless for the fourfold dawn that would wipe away their sin from its fair streets.


    ? ? ?


    The villagers departed Beroli by full darkness of night. The guards manning the south gate stepped aside with horror when they saw Cato carrying a bleeding, broken monk by the neck, and for all their curses and spittle they did not take the risk of following the villagers down the road.


    Only once the villagers, all three thousand, had cleared the walls did Cato allow himself to stop and think.


    Remiro and Andrea lay in the palanquin recovering from their injuries. Cato stabilized them and started the process, but even with Remiro¡¯s robust constitution it would take him many days to get back on his feet. Father Andrea might take weeks. Cato could fix them in less than an hour, but he couldn¡¯t spare even that little time.


    Between the assault on Girolamo and his imprisonment, then the attack on the chapel, it was clear that the powers of Beroli wanted them gone. But instead of chasing them out, they had tried to capture Cato and his strongest supporters. The entire city was filled with a cloud of fear and hostility. Only by spreading his aura as widely as possible could he intimidate the populace and keep them from attacking the villagers as they gathered their things.


    Only by holding a man of the cloth hostage could he guarantee their safe exit.


    Dimly and far away, Cato was horrified at the violence he had enacted at the chapel. The guards were dead, the monk was comatose, and their captain must have escaped with terrible injuries. He was horrified at how easy it had been, especially with the power that voice had granted him earlier that same day. It had been his choice to invoke that being at that time, but it was too much of a coincidence. Had it known what was going to happen? Was it able to block out Remiro and Andrea¡¯s pain? Or was Cato just learning to ignore it?


    After the captain knocked him to the ground, he was acting almost on instinct. He manipulated the lightning with an ease and dexterity that he couldn¡¯t imagine replicating afterwards. He had even been able to resist and counter the monk¡¯s attack on his soul¡­ how did he even know that¡¯s what it was?


    Like with the Book of Zevon, the truth felt like it was on the tip of his tongue, but it fluttered away just as he was getting close to it.


    ¡°My lord, look!¡±


    A tall and broad-chested man blocked the road toward Anthusa. He had his arms crossed and stood in the center of the road, illuminated in the half-moonlight, flanked on both sides by thick woods.


    And a forbidding, overwhelming presence flowed out of him that stopped the villagers in their tracks.


    Cato felt a powerful chill in his bones, like he hadn¡¯t felt since pulling himself out of the river. Still, he mustered all the willpower he could and stood tall with his hand firmly around the monk¡¯s neck.


    ¡°Step off the road! Unless you want this monk¡¯s blood on your hands.¡±


    The man on the road smiled.


    A tingle in his spine. All his hairs standing on end.


    Cato bolted to the side just as a lance of searing fire fell on his position. It erupted into an oppressive, choking blast of heat that licked at Cato¡¯s limbs.


    That was something he was familiar with. Second degree burns at least, and from this distance. It burned hot enough to cook right through him if he got hit.


    Then the pain doubled, tripled. Dozens of villagers behind him screamed as they scrambled away from the fire. It was all Cato could do to stay standing.


    The stranger stood on the road just as he had before, his eyes fixed again on Cato. No, those eyes had never left him.


    Cato wasn¡¯t sure if his own threat to kill the monk was a bluff, but if it was, it had been quite thoroughly called.


    The stranger tore a heavy branch off a tree and stripped the leaves from it. They burned to cinders in his hand, rose in the air, and screamed toward Cato. Though none of them made contact, even getting close to each one felt like his skin was getting seared with a hot iron.


    Not like this.


    Cato gave himself over to that voice, to that instinctive violence that had lain just beneath his skin since he crawled out of a freezing river, and summoned the lightning. It tore out of his body and arced toward the stranger like a terrible flood, but the crackling power forked and struck the ground to either side of him. The grass and shrubs combusted and the earth melted into glass, but he was completely unharmed.


    ¡°Die, monster!¡±


    It was Girolamo. Little Girolamo, who had just barely recovered from his injuries earlier that same day. He rushed toward the man threatening his lord brandishing a stout cane and brought it down on his head with all the fury of his short life. Fearless Girolamo.


    It didn¡¯t reach his target. A hard, backhanded slap struck him across the face and sent his body flying into the trees, where it lay motionless.


    Cato felt the burning in his face, and the excruciating pain of his neck snapping, and then¡­ nothing. He felt nothing more from Girolamo¡¯s body. Where once there had been a vague awareness of him, one which he could barely feel except when it communicated its suffering, there was now a vast, undeniable void, a hole in reality where a person ought to be.


    And some part of him had the rotten gall to feel happy. ¡°Look!¡± it said, ¡°you¡¯re still alive. It hurts, but you don¡¯t need to keep them alive!¡±


    That voice was relieved. As if it couldn¡¯t feel the terrible, gaping hole where Girolamo had once been. As if it didn¡¯t even care he had died.


    ¡°Hey, asshole!¡±


    But now was note the time to mourn.


    ¡°It¡¯s us you want, right?¡±


    He had to protect the rest, no matter what.


    ¡°Then come get me!¡±


    Cato leapt into the woods, the monk¡¯s body still in hand. The lightning lent his feet incredible impulses of speed, until he was running over the forest, barely brushing the treetops. He was relieved when he sensed the stranger¡¯s own steps following him.


    He was rather less relieved to sense that they were catching up, and fast.


    Heavy lances of fire rained down and fell among the trees, each turning a patch of forest into a blazing inferno within seconds. Cato leapt to and fro unpredictably, and none of them struck him. In fact, none of them even got close.


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    Cato realized too late that none of them were meant to hit him. In just a few moments the flames spread for miles around. There was only one escape route¡­ and the stranger waited there patiently.


    Cato let the monk¡¯s body fall to the earth below. Whatever his orders, this man clearly wasn¡¯t too torn up about letting the monk die. With his abilities, he could hunt down the villagers and kill them all whenever he wished. Right now, Cato was his priority.


    The lightning rose up again. More. Even more. Cato was now conscious that this energy flowed out of some ethereal reservoir, one which before had been so full as to feel inexhaustible. But now he could feel both its vast size and its limits. The lightning suffused his body, saturated it, until he was certain that no more could possibly fit inside his frame.


    More!


    Cato felt his veins turn to flame and his eyes into burning torches. His hair was a mass of thunderbolts and his flesh was purest energy.


    This was going to kill him. But he was gambling that it would kill this stranger first. The stranger grinned in the firelight and pulled all the flame surrounding him into a vast wave. There was no more sophistication in their battle, just a final contest of power and rage that threatened to consume them both.


    ? ? ?


    From her sanctuary in the ruined castle, she felt two points of power rising nearby. Fire and lightning. Purely destructive. Undisciplined. Not threats. But useful.


    From inside the dark chamber she reached out to the sky above and wove a ribbon of moonlight. She cast it out toward the destructive powers about to clash, and bound them both. At her command the rising energies dissipated harmlessly, and the two men fell to the earth without consciousness.


    ? ? ?


    Cato awoke to the most frightful sight of his short life.


    He was trussed up by hand and foot like an animal, and though his bonds seemed nothing more than thin strands of ivy, they felt stronger than steel chains. In front of him, in the crumbling shell of a stone fortress, men and women danced ecstatically around a bonfire, clad in the rough and still-bloody hides of goats and fawns, with crowns of ivy on their heads and on the tops of the oaken staves that they held in their right hands while they held drums and tambourines in their left.


    The strange man on the road and the monk were similarly bound on either side of him. The latter was still totally unconscious, but the stranger was well awake and noticed him stir immediately.


    ¡°Can you move?¡±


    The voice was deep and authoritative, even calm.


    ¡°Not much.¡±


    He got a grunt in response. Silence reigned between them, even as the wild clamor of dancers and drummers and mad pipers filled the air, raising Cato¡¯s hackles with their strange melody.


    ¡°Who are these people?¡± Cato ventured.


    ¡°Fucked if I know.¡±


    ¡°What are they going to do to us?¡±


    ¡°What do I look like, a damn prophet?¡±


    Cato felt very strongly that he deserved better answers from someone who had been trying to incinerate him just a few¡­ minutes? Hours? How long had he been out? The stars and moon above were hazy and indistinct, as if he was drunk.


    Were the villagers still safe? With Girolamo dead and many injured, could they still continue down the road to Anthusa?


    He needed to get out of there fast, never mind what these druid psychos in the woods wanted with him. He reached out for the power, the vast storm which burned through him. But it wasn¡¯t there.


    Rather it was, but something reached out and stopped him. It was gentle, like a parent¡¯s hand on a child¡¯s head. And like the hand of a parent, its will was absolute and inflexible. That last comparison came to mind immediately, though it was certainly not a part of Cato¡¯s own experience with his parents.


    ¡°I appreciate the effort, but if I can¡¯t manage it you¡¯re not going to either.¡±


    Cato really wanted to strangle this arrogant prick. Killing Girolamo was one thing, but looking down on him so casually was¡­ was nowhere near as bad as murder! Dear god, what kind of psychopath was it whose thoughts and habits he¡¯d inherited?


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯d be willing to make a proper introduction instead of just trying to kill me?¡±


    The stranger chuckled.


    ¡°Benicio Cecchini, goldsmith, at your service. Your lordship.¡±


    ¡°Are you one of the Lord Vicar¡¯s stooges too?¡±


    ¡°Phaero is an old friend. He did me a favor, I¡¯m doing him a favor.¡±


    ¡°Murdering innocent people is just a favor?¡± Was Cato going to reach Anthusa and find out that everyone in the city was a bloodthirsty maniac?


    ¡°Come now, it¡¯s a fair turn. You killed a half dozen good men who were doing their duty, and then you took a monk hostage. A quick death for you and your people would be a mercy compared to what the Lord Vicar had in store for you.¡±


    ¡°They attacked our chapel unprovoked!¡±


    ¡°And you fought back, which is exactly what he wanted. Nobody was going to look askance at any punishment he gave you after that.¡±


    ¡°So I was just supposed to take the beating lying down and let him do whatever he wanted with my people? What kind of justice is that?¡±


    Cato already knew. It was the logical consequence of how he already knew this world worked. He was responsible for those villagers, but right now there was nobody responsible for him. No higher power to appeal to, nobody to put the fear of God in the Lord Vicar. A dead baron¡¯s bastard son and his villagers could submit to the first person who demanded it or get stepped on, but they couldn¡¯t walk around independently and expect to be respected. Not unless Cato¡¯s own power demanded it.


    Benicio laughed.


    ¡°Justice? My boy, don¡¯t try to act high and mighty with me. I¡¯m far from one to judge, but making a pact with a demon, even just to spare your people from the plague, isn¡¯t something the Lord Vicar could overlook. Now, he¡¯s no saint either, believe me, but he¡¯s no diabolist. You don¡¯t have the upper hand here.¡±


    There wasn¡¯t much point in arguing that, even if he was wrong.


    ¡°Tell me, Benicio, how are you so goddamn calm right now? For all we know these maniacs are getting ready to cut us open.¡±


    ¡°I figure you¡¯re right about that. But still,¡± he lay back his head, as if completely relaxed, ¡°it¡¯s not my time to die just yet.¡±


    He spoke with such total confidence that Cato was almost taken in.


    ¡°What, you know when you¡¯re going to die?¡±


    Benicio flashed a little grin, and leaned in like he was telling Cato a fun secret.


    ¡°I once held the Oracle of Karchary hostage. While soldiers were swarming outside the cave, I told the prophet that unless he could tell me, for sure, that I wasn¡¯t going to die that day, I was going to gut everyone in the room.¡±


    ¡°... and?¡±


    ¡°The oracle said I would live until a fifth sun burned in the sky. I don¡¯t see any suns right now, let alone a fifth one, so I¡¯m not dead just yet.¡±


    Cato was fully fed up arguing with crazy people.


    ¡°Of course, that doesn¡¯t say anything about you or the monk. You¡¯re probably done for. Think about heaven and say your prayers, boy, you¡¯re going to need them after the stunts you pulled tonight.¡±


    The music changed, taking on a slower, sinister rhythm. As if following an inaudible command, the revelers uncoiled from their ring around the fire and danced toward the three captives. Their clothes were stripped off and their bodies examined like¡­


    Like lambs and bulls to sacrifice


    ¡­once again, a comparison totally alien to Cato¡¯s experience leapt out.


    ¡°My lady! My lady! His soul is destroyed! This piglet is blemished! Unfit for the flame!¡±


    ¡°Then let him be slaughtered! And let us enjoy him! A suitable fruit for such sinners as we!¡±


    This the revelers thundered out as they lifted the monk onto their shoulders and brought him toward the bonfire. He was only beginning to stir then, and screamed pitifully as he realized his situation.


    Cato and Benicio watched helplessly as the revelers sang and danced in their bloody skins. They brought forth depp and wide bowls filled with grain and pure water, and each one washed their hands and took a fistful of the grain. Then they lowered the trussed-up monk¡¯s face into the bowl of water. There he remained until, running out of air, he struggled and strained to move his head. The revelers cheered and raised him, nearly drowned, out from the bowl.


    It was a nod. Cato was sure of it. They had forced him to nod in assent, as justification for whatever they would do to him afterward.


    Even as he was still panting, their chief, a woman wearing a headdress fashioned from stag horns attached to the severed head of a mountain lion, roughly tore a handful of hair from his head and threw it into the fire. More cheers erupted. The drumming took on a frenzied tone. Each reveler in turn pelted the naked, screaming monk with handfuls of grain, until the very last, their chief, came upon him from behind with a great, heavy stone in hand.


    She struck him in the head, and blood scattered all around. Cato was certain that blow had enough power behind it to shatter steel.


    The revelers screamed a deep, wide, moaning scream, somewhere between a cry of horror and the cries of a woman in labor, that filled Cato¡¯s heart with a primal terror. Even Benicio, still convinced of his fated survival, was pale and drenched in sweat.


    The chief¡¯s assistants lifted the monk, mercifully unconscious once more, and the chief reached into the bowl of grain until it was all the way up to the elbow, and quick as a flash drew out a gleaming knife that cut a half-moon across the monk¡¯s throat. His blood fell into a well-placed bowl in a gushing stream, and when it was done, the revelers fell upon his body. His limbs and torso were ripped apart first; the former they threw to the ground, their swarming hands flensing the flesh from his bones with precision and fanatic enthusiasm, and the latter they threw to the air, which those revelers too far to touch the body flew after with a whooping chase, contesting with one another for possession of even a knucklebone and bathing themselves in the gore. Cato was almost glad when the last scrap of meat¡ªfor brother Julius¡¯ remains were no more than meat, now¡ªwas finally down the gullet of the last reveler.


    They danced more around the fire, and one by one ran off toward the river, splashing and squealing like playful children, before each returned, clean and pure, eager to do it all again.


    Cato went into their grasp frozen, meek as a little lamb, with Benicio¡¯s pale and apologetic gaze seeing him off.

 Resurrection

    Later in life, as she became more aware of the true nature of her order, Sister Aseneth came to know a great deal about the crude, base, and sinful things humans did. Sister Melia, in particular was fond of recounting her dalliances on Vintal and had a running list of the best and worst entreaties that the planet¡¯s famously amorous natives made to her, in total ignorance of her true vocation. Aseneth did her very best to block these from her mind and pray, not just for Sister Melia but for all the poor souls in her stories, but she had a guilty favorite among all those stories. Shortly after her first mission on the planet, while drinking away her reward money in Tirol, a man once asked her ¡®if it hurt when she fell from heaven.¡¯


    Far from the crudest line Melia had ever mentioned, but it struck Aseneth as perhaps the most blasphemous.


    Now she had a definite answer. It did, indeed, hurt to fall from heaven.


    In the Serene Abbey¡¯s observation deck, an angel had come to her. It had come in a pleasant form, and offered her the Gift of Wrath: a divine blessing that granted her the power to destroy whatever displeased her and the wisdom to enact it without falling into sin. It showed her a vision: the Serene Abbey opening its doors, reformed, with every nun a shining paragon of faith, virtuous valkyries that would sweep across the universe cleansing evil. She would be their leader, and in time a saint. Billions would beg favor of her relics, kneeling at the altar of her skull. They would launch a crusade in Aseneth¡¯s name!


    All she needed to do was wait. She just had to let this moment in time pass, let disaster and pestilence sweep over one miniscule corner of the universe. She just needed to obey the woman she had obeyed every day of her life since she was born, and so exactly what she had always done: absolutely nothing.


    It was all she ever wanted. But Aseneth knew well enough when she was being bribed. Power, glory, and sainthood in exchange for her determination and compassion? If that was the kind of deal the angels were making, she would rather be among devils.


    This gave her the rare privilege of seeing an angel in its wrathful form, and it very nearly killed her. If it had used the scourge in its left hand, there wouldn¡¯t have even been ashes left of her. But it let her live, for its own inscrutable reasons, despite her insolence.


    If she had been in proper shape, she could have floated down to Vintal safely. If she was in a rush, she could have chosen her destination and protected herself. Instead, what remained of Sister Aseneth in her smoking crater was most of a skeleton and a fragile wisp of a soul. Still, all her years of diligent cultivation weren¡¯t just for show. It took her a week of half-instinctive reconstruction to regain full consciousness, and another week to put her vitals back together by absorbing energy from the sun and rain. Once she could breathe and pull power from the air around her, reconstructing her body was a quicker task. That was when she discovered a virulent little curse running rampant in her lungs and blood, one which returned no matter how many times she purged it. The only way to stop it from infecting her was to stop absorbing energy from her surroundings at all.


    Before she fell from the Abbey, she could have lived for decades on her accumulated life force. But the near total destruction of her body left only the feeble reserves contained in her bone marrow, which she avoided tapping into even when rebuilding. She ought to find a secluded natural space and patiently rebuild her life force over the course of months. But the process of purging the curse that suffused the air consumed almost as much power as she gained in the course of contracting it. If she were a less disciplined cultivator with inferior control, absorbing energy at all would be a net negative process. Returning to full power under these conditions would take decades.


    So she stood up from her crater, still soaked in rain and soot, and sought out the nearest human habitation. She found a ruined old castle filled with rich debauchees, who immediately recognized her superiority and became her servants. They offered themselves up to her in body and soul. So she took from them what they offered. As she expected, absorbing energy directly from other living beings was far more effective, but these nobles had pitiful reserves. It was like trying to quench her thirst one drop at a time.


    Still, it was better than nothing. When she hungered, they came willingly, eager to see whom among them she would select. When Aseneth realized it was a gloomy and somber affair, they immediately set about dancing and singing in her honor. She disliked their ostentatious costumes, and they fashioned new ones from the skins of animals. She found one of the debauchees most obedient and the others crowned her their chief, the primary interpreter of Aseneth¡¯s will, all without her having to say a word. She simply sat in the purifying flame and they brought her a new volunteer to give up their energy. This was worship, she knew. It was sacrifice. And every element, from the dance and song to the way they screamed when the victim gave up the ghost, felt right and correct, in accordance with primordial rites written upon the foundations of the earth.


    So when she felt two presences far greater than those of her followers, they ran out and brought them back for her. Of the three volunteers, the first was unsuitable, and she offered him to her followers instead. The other two were excellent, each with enough power to bypass years of recovery.


    One was younger and less refined, but of excellent stock and with greater reserves, while the other was more powerful but leaner. The first would be more pleasant to digest. He came to her without resistance. This time there were other forces, one from above and one from below, that sought to take away her prize. The secrets hidden in his body rose up against her, but she quelled them with a gentle word. The infernal intruder attempted to discharge all the boy¡¯s power at once to deny it to her, but she cut off its influence. After no small number of frustrations, Aseneth was able to enjoy her meal.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Her reserves swelled, and she gorged herself as never before. When, finally, all that remained was the boy¡¯s soul, she savored it. But unlike all the others, it didn¡¯t stay down. It roiled inside. At first she thought it was trying to escape, and she suppressed it, but that only made it worse.


    Aseneth realized that it was changing her from within. The whole surface of contact between their souls was a vector of transformation and contamination. She pulled back, but it stuck to her. She expelled it from her body, but traces remained. What was this frantic, desperate will to survive? For what reason did it need to act?


    Love. And loss. The loss of a friend, a child, a family member, a follower. Love for all those who remained, whom he needed to protect. People she needed to protect as well. Or wasn¡¯t that why she gave up everything she wanted and left home? She saw herself as the boy saw her, a terrifying pagan goddess bathed in fire and gore which was about to eat him.


    Something dark and old twisted inside of her. It wanted blood and worship. But she knew it now, and named it, and the cage which had closed around her mind when she landed on this sinful world opened. Aseneth looked at what she had wrought and wept.


    ? ? ?


    Benicio Cecchini didn¡¯t doubt the words of oracles. Given how many close scrapes he¡¯d survived, he didn¡¯t even doubt his interpretation of his own oracle. But watching the baron¡¯s bastard drowned, pelted, and slaughtered in front of him left him really, desperately wondering how he was going to get out of this one.


    When twin golden lions, the guardian spirits of House Gulphay, erupted from the boy¡¯s body, he at once regretted doing Phaero this favor and cheered for his freedom. These ancient and powerful constructs, which Cechini doubted he could have defeated if the boy used them earlier, filled him with fear and hope alike. But then a woman¡¯s silhouette emerged from the fire and swept them away like gnats. The boy¡¯s body erupted with enough power to blow the castle apart, but she conquered and drew it out like water from a pitcher.


    He was rather curious about why a cultivator who had conquered at least the fifth realm of soul cultivation was hanging around in the woods undiscovered instead of ruling a diocese somewhere, but it seemed like a pointless question at the moment.


    Then, after the woman in the fire finished eating Cato and Benicio felt even the boy¡¯s soul flicker out, at the very last moment when his own death seemed certain, things turned around just as they always did. The lamia roared and twisted, and seemed like it was trying to cough up what she had just eaten. Her followers scattered in horror, and as he felt the iron-strong bands of ivy loosen around his limbs, Benicio whispered a swift prayer in thanks to the poor lad who had given this monster indigestion.


    But that was all the time he could spare. No time to wait and see if she was going to die on the spot, and his chances running were slim. Now, as she was weakened and distracted, was the time to fight.


    Benicio spilled his blood on the earth and cast a pocketful of spices and perfumes all around him. Without the remains themselves at hand, without even knowing how many people this monster had killed, this was probably the most slapdash necromancy he had ever attempted. But at least he knew two of their names.


    ¡°Brother Julius of Beroli! Cato of Inillo, I call you!¡±


    He welcomed them in the ancient tongues, and felt their shades rise up. A shade was not by any means the same as a person¡¯s soul. That passed beyond this world after death, beyond the reach of any mortal works. But a lifetime of accumulated sin hung upon a person¡¯s soul like dirt, and hung most thickly on the wicked and those who died sudden and violent deaths, without the chance to turn their faces toward God in their final moments. When the soul passed, that shell of spiritual filth remained in the shape of the soul, now unfettered and free to enact its most violent desires.


    The night darkened and a black cloud passed over the half-moon. The stars winked out. The fire burned pale and chill. A wavering shade, that of Brother Julius, rose from the earth by the fire and wandered toward him, growing more and more distinct as the black mist thickened. Though Cato¡¯s shade failed to appear, there came a dozen more, stumbling in from beyond Benicio¡¯s vision. They scattered away from the foul lamia like rabbits fleeing a wolf, and came towards Benicio instead, enticed by his blood.


    But something else appeared at the very edge of the firelight. Another shade, taller and more solid than the rest, which was not tempted by the blood offering. He was sure it was the bastard Cato¡¯s. But this one was bound with threads of gleaming silver, and golden pages inscribed with silver ink were impaled on its mouth and heart. This one wasn¡¯t under his influence at all. It hadn¡¯t obeyed his call: it had obeyed something else¡¯s.


    Benicio¡¯s heart skipped a beat, torn between terror and excitement for a moment.


    But it was only for a moment.


    ¡°Destroy it!¡±


    He cast more droplets of blood towards the apparition, and the shades obeyed him. Smoky bodies of shadow and mist slammed into one another, but they could not endure the touch of the silver threads, and the apparition¡¯s touch dispelled them. Benicio bathed it in flames hot enough to melt steel, but it stepped forward untouched. It lifted him by the throat with a hand cold as the grave and drained away his life force, just like the lamia had done to Cato. Benicio felt his flesh withering away and aging. In just moments he aged thirty years, and he felt the apparition become even more solid, as though it was swollen full of power.


    Then it dropped him to the ground, half dead, and stalked towards the bonfire and the lamia drenched in its flames. In the moments before he lost consciousness, Benicio saw it reach out towards her and gently pluck a bright and shining gem from between her eyes.

 Trial by Fire

    The three thousand villagers, many weeks and miles away from Inillo, stood by the road overlooking the Fusirlo river. They mourned the boy whom they now buried in the ground without a coffin, accompanied into the next world by only the token offerings they could spare: a wooden effigy of St. Philomena, a toy horse of beaten tin, and an amulet pouch containing holy water and soil from his birthplace. Girolamo¡¯s mother wept before the fast-closing grave, and her closest kin and friend keened alongside her. As if unaware of the wailing din, Father Andrea leaned on a sturdy cane and read a homily for the gathered crowd.


    Girolamo¡¯s courage, zeal, and good heart were all praised, and for meeting his death in the aid of a living saint his place in Heaven was assured.


    They had been three days on the road out of Beroli, and traveled with greater speed in those days than at any other time in their journey. They had no wagons nor animals to pull them, but each went on their own two feet, and even the eldest had more vigor and endurance than they did before the Holy City fell. This, they all agreed, was the blessing of God and the work of Cato, whose baptisms rejuvenated both body and soul. None gave equal credit to the fear of Beroli, that the guards might ride in at any moment in pursuit, though when they walked on through the dark hours without rest it was that fear and not their piety that drove them forward.


    But after three days of constant travel the caravan was broken, tired, and hungry. They had no welcome in any of the villages they passed, for the plague had only worsened as time went on. Without their animals and wagons, never mind the absence of a powerful noble to defend them, they cut a much sorrier picture than before. Even though many had pouches full of Beroli¡¯s silver, these other villagers looked on their money with disdain and called them bandits. But after so much hardship, they could finally see the high towers of Anthusa peering over the horizon. At night, the city shone like a star that hid shyly beyond the lip of the earth.


    Now, with dark clouds to their backs and the city¡¯s lights before them, the people of Inillo stopped and laid their lone casualty to rest.


    The night was warm and dry, and they were blessed in avoiding the humid heat of early summer. The villagers lay down to rest on the hillside atop their coats. Families huddled together less for warmth than for peace of mind. A few dozen kept watch, among them Remiro, who was still unable to walk more than a few paces away from the palanquin. While both he and Andrea had been beaten severely by the Beroli guards, Remiro¡¯s resistance had earned him far more crippling injuries which Cato had only begun to heal before his disappearance. Even with his superior physique, he was still far from recovery.


    ¡°Father Andrea.¡± Tommaso the baker whispered. ¡°You should get to bed, Father. We can keep watch ourselves.¡±


    Andrea smiled and waved him off. He hadn¡¯t even meant to keep watch, he just couldn¡¯t sleep if he tried.


    There was too much to consider. Why had Cato left them? Why had he allowed Girolamo to die? Why did he lead them into Beroli? Was it worse if he knew what fate awaited them, or if he didn¡¯t? Why did he see fit to instruct Andrea in the Book of Zevon? Now that they were so close to Anthusa, what were they meant to do?


    Before Cato appeared, Remiro had already planned to come here and seek out a new noble patron. Baron Inillo was by no means famous, but he was known in the area, and Remiro had a good reputation for diligence and tact among the local aristocrats. If he brought Father Andrea and some of Inillo¡¯s more skillful residents, he would have little difficulty finding a new patron, perhaps one even wealthier and more influential than the baron.


    But with a caravan of three thousand souls uprooted nearly whole from a remote village, many of them very young or very old, with no property except what they carried on their persons? How many of Anthusa¡¯s honored and wealthy lords would take the chance on them?


    None, Father Andrea thought, except perhaps as a gesture of pity. He burned with indignation at the thought that the future of his parish depended on the fickle moods of those so far above them.


    It had always been that way. But when the baron was there, or when Cato came after him, it was so easy to forget that and that responsibility on their shoulders.


    Nearby, a sleeping child coughed and hacked in his parents arms. A few minutes later, his father did the same.


    When Cato was with them, not only had Inillo avoided the ever present plague, not a single person had gotten ill. Neither the children nor the elderly, despite traveling for weeks through wind and rain, had so much as coughed. But now Andrea could hear the plague spreading through the caravan, and on occasion wondered if some of the villagers were hiding black spots under their clothes. The whole caravan had watched the same suspicions tear apart the communities they passed by, and as much as it shamed him, Andrea was starting to suspect his own parishioners.


    So he left behind any pretense of keeping watch and went down to the riverbank, where he watched his face and prayed. First for wisdom, then for temperance, then for answers, and finally, for Cato, wherever he might be. He hesitated for a long time about whether to pray for Cato¡¯s return. It struck him as ungrateful in a way, that he had the privilege of meeting such a man and keeping his company, and even after he saved their lives and delivered them nearly to Anthusa¡¯s doorstep, he still demanded more.


    But Cato had made an oath, hadn¡¯t he? He swore to protect the people of Inillo from harm. He had done so much for them, but perhaps he could do a bit more¡­


    As Andrea washed his face and rose from the river bank, he spotted something floating in the river. It was hard to make out in the waning moonlight. A log perhaps. Or a body.


    Impelled by some mad, impossible hope, Andrea ran towards it. He waded into the waist deep water and took hold of a hand, and oh so familiar hand, and pulled it to the riverbank with all his might.


    ¡°He has returned! He has returned!¡±


    His yells awoke the entire caravan in a short time, and they came down to the riverbank. Andrea, exhausted and hurting from the exertion, lifted Cato¡¯s body up from the wet earth. The villagers gathered around to touch him and see his face in the dim light. He was warm, but he had no pulse or breath, and in all other ways seemed dead.


    But they stayed by his side and prayed. When the white sun rose, his eyelid twitched. When the gold sun rose, his limbs stirred. When the crimson run rose, he took a deep breath. And when the cerulean sun rose, so did he, and the villagers of Inillo cheered and wept at the end of their long and restless night.


    ? ? ?


    Sister Aseneth watched this scene from a far hill, the mounting dawn behind her. She wore the monk¡¯s torn habit, and smiled beneath the cowl to see Cato reunited with his people.


    It was the least she could do after killing and eating him, though she hadn¡¯t been in her right mind at the time. But she also couldn¡¯t deny a powerful curiosity. He was a traveler from another world whose soul had been placed in a nearly-dead body, which all her considerable knowledge of souls and their movements suggested was impossible. Despite just barely surpassing the second realm of body and soul cultivation, his reserves of energy far outstripped his realm, such that he would explode if he tried to summon even a tenth of it all at once. It was ridiculous, wasteful, frivolous: he could only have gotten there by swigging holy wine like it was water. The body he inhabited was layered with powerful defenses, including an incredibly potent piece of necromancy that raised the host¡¯s shade and drove it to eliminate threats, retrieve the soul and reconstruct the body. It was sophisticated enough to pull the soul out of her before she could finish digesting it, and perceptive enough to recognize she was no longer a threat. Aseneth estimated that there were fewer than a dozen cultivators in the known universe capable of creating such a contingency. But why would they place it on the body of someone so weak, and why would the spell still recognize the interloper Cato¡¯s soul as the target of its self-resurrection?


    Despite all this, she had better things to do than investigate him. She had rejected a divine offer, fallen to earth, and spent weeks in the thrall of a demon. Purifying and redeeming herself would take a long time. But her first priority, now that she had the energy to spare, was to investigate the plague and the destruction of the Holy City.


    Still, she had taken a liking to Inillo¡¯s people after seeing Cato¡¯s memories. She could grant them a little more protection, to make up for the golden lions she had destroyed and the self-resurrection she had used up.


    Aseneth reached under the monk¡¯s torn habit and pulled a strand of dark hair. Infusing it with power and weaving a spell over it, she transformed it into a coal-black raven with shining eyes. It flew toward the villagers and circled them, watching tirelessly for any threat.


    Then Aseneth was gone, a whisper in the wind.


    ? ? ?


    The self-declared Holy Son Magnanimous VIII watched the slow turning of planet Fleur from a porthole of the holy starship. It had been a very long time since he had seen the red and blue hues of his native world, not since he was first appointed to the cardinalship. In his defense, he was very, very busy. He dug his family¡¯s roots deep into Vintal, and especially into the Holy City, and saw to it that his sons, nephews, and cousins were appointed cardinals as well. He and his family were ever obedient servants of the Holy Son before last, Zealous II, and stood by him even when his mad ambitions to unite all of Vintal under his own power earned the ire of the entire known universe.


    Stolen story; please report.


    When Zealous II finally passed away, the planets waited with bated breath to see what his closest allies would do, and they breathed a sigh of relief when Magnanimous VIII and his faction unanimously supported the last Holy Son, Prudence IV, an elderly, mild, and unambitious compromise candidate, one over whom everyone had just enough blackmail and influence to feel safe, but not enough to gain dominance over the Holy City during his tenure.


    The only truly unpleasant part of Prudence¡¯s rule was his unalloyed affection for his only son, begotten of a courtesan, upon whom he showered lavish gifts (lavish even by the standards of the Holy Son prior to Zealous II, Mysterious I, who commissioned an expedition to retrieve the core of a star and work it into the centerpiece of the Holy Crown, which he insisted on wearing about the house, to the dismay of his family, cardinals, and all polite society) and who wreaked countless outrages upon the commoners and aristocrats of the Holy City alike, a worthless layabout whose dearest father pardoned him of all crimes, even his attempt to pilfer the Holy Vault in order to pay off truly astronomical gambling debts.


    Not that Magnanimous VIII was bitter. Such emotions were beneath his present dignity.


    He was not at all above the warm and fuzzy feeling of knowing that bastard, Tenorio Kyno, was well and truly dead. Magnanimous and his allied cardinals, all of them powerful cultivators in their own right, survived the fall of the Holy City and the Abyssinian onslaught only because they immediately piled into the emergency starship hidden beneath the Sanctum Summum and fled the planet. Kyno was a worthless wretch whose lack of discipline and talent left him at the second stage of cultivation at the age of 160 despite access to near-unlimited treasures resources thanks to his father¡¯s position.


    Never mind that, since his father¡¯s death, everyone he had insulted during Prudence IV¡¯s reign was itching to kill him, and he survived as long as he did only by hiding away in the Sanctum Summum. With the Sanctum destroyed, the city virtually annihilated, and enemies that would kill him on sight all over the universe, his death was assured.


    Magnanimous had that little satisfaction to tide him over while he waited in orbit over Fleur. The Holy Son¡¯s traditional seat of power on Vintal was gone, and he needed a new place to assert his power. As much as it irked him, the best option was to return to Fleur and give up some of the Holy Son¡¯s traditional independence in exchange for the King of Fleur¡¯s protection. Beyond being his native planet, it was one of the largest, wealthiest, and most heavily armed kingdoms in the known universe.


    True, his relationship with the King of Fleur had soured as of late, as Magnanimous had to make many deals and burn a great many bridges in the course of securing the Holy Throne. He made a lot of decisions he would have avoided if he knew that most of the cardinals would have been killed.


    Not that he was bitter.


    But when the Holy Son came knocking at your door and asked to settle on your planet, you said yes! It was a no-brainer! So why was the King of Fleur making him wait so damned long?


    No that he was-


    ¡°Your Holiness!¡±


    ¡°Cardinal de Resol. Come, take a seat.¡±


    ¡°At once, Your Holiness.¡±


    Magnanimous VIII¡¯s rage subsided in another wave of warm and fuzzy feelings. Yes, he had waited so very long to hear that title, that reverence. Granted, it was coming from his nephew, but soon all the universe would call him by that name. He had waited so very long. He could wait just a little longer.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I have some news, Your Holiness.¡±


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°I was cataloging the items in the hold. The ones from His Holiness Prudence IV¡¯s offices.¡±


    ¡°What about them?¡±


    ¡°While I was down there, I heard an alert, and found a broken resurrection effigy.¡±


    Now that was news. Those effigies were anchors for potent spells that could autonomously resurrect their hosts. This one must have just raised its host.


    ¡°Whose was it? One of Prudence¡¯s younger allies? Cardinal Zeno, maybe?¡±


    Such spells were rare and difficult to create, but also of limited use. For cultivators as powerful as Magnanimous or Prudence, they were pointless. Anything that could kill them would be more than capable of destroying the spell, which could at most imitate the power of a cultivator in the fourth realm. Cardinal Zeno was appointed to his office at a very young age and had only just crossed the barrier into the fourth realm himself. It wasn¡¯t out of the question that he might have escaped with an injury, passed away afterwards, and returned to life now.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid not, Your Holiness.¡±


    ¡°... spit it out, Guillaume.¡±


    ¡°It belonged to Tenorio Kyno.¡±


    ¡­


    Tenorio Kyno had a resurrection effigy. Of course he did. The old bat Prudence had already done everything else for his bastard son, so why not also spend one of the most valuable enchantments the church had on him?


    The air tensed and flexed around the self-declared Holy Son in waves. The hull of the starship creaked in protest as his wrathful aura twisted space.


    ¡°Do you mean to say that wretch not only survived the city¡¯s destruction, but something else killed him and he¡¯s still alive?!¡±


    ¡°Please, calm yourself, Your Holiness.¡±


    ¡°Why?! Give me one good reason not to throw you out the damn airlock right now!¡±


    ¡°There is news from Fleur, Your Holiness.¡±


    Yes. Fleur. That did merit his attention more than the life of a spoiled brat. The air calmed, and the starship¡¯s hull remained intact.


    ¡°This had better be good news, Guillaume.¡±


    His Holiness¡¯ nephew froze.


    ¡°... the King has declared¡­ that he will give the Holy Son a new home in Fleur¡­ and support Your Holiness¡¯ legitimacy against the slander of heretics.¡±


    Good, good¡­ what? Neither his nephew nor the King were in the habit of being imprecise with their words.


    ¡°What does he mean that he will support my legitimacy?¡±


    ¡°Your Holiness¡­¡± the younger cardinal trailed off.


    ¡°Answer me, damnit!¡±


    ¡°Cardinal Tor also survived the Holy City¡¯s fall and has declared himself the Holy Son.¡±


    A bright meteorite clad in red robes burned in the skies over Fleur. It crashed in a lake just twenty miles outside the royal palace, swam to shore, changed into fresh clothes, and went into the palace to tell His Majesty that His Holiness Magnanimous VIII would accept his generous offer with an open heart and immense gratitude.


    ? ? ?


    The late Holy Son Prudence IV stood on the steep slopes of the Mountain of Heaven and watched the universe below. Immaculate XIII would often start reciting songs of praise as he climbed, and being so accustomed to the null-time of heaven could wander up for several days before realizing Prudence wasn¡¯t following him.


    This time it took him only a few hours to realize the younger Holy Son¡¯s absence and climb back down the mountain.


    ¡°What is it now, Prudence?¡±


    Prudence stepped aside and gestured toward the gap in the coruscating golden clouds of heaven. A young man with auburn hair, looking even younger than he last remembered, woke up in the arms of peasants on the shores of a river.


    ¡°God and all his angels give me strength! You doted on the boy quite too much when you were alive, it¡¯s time you let him go.¡±


    ¡°He was killed a few days ago.¡±


    ¡°And he was resurrected, just like you prepared. He¡¯s fine.¡±


    ¡°He won¡¯t be fine if he dies again.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s almost two hundred years old, Prudence. If he winds up in Hell now it¡¯s his own fault.¡±


    ¡°He would have been better off if I helped him less, I think.¡±


    Immaculate XIII raised his arms to the higher heavens and praised God that, at last, his great grandson had comprehended the bleedingly obvious truth.


    ¡°Now that we¡¯re on the same page, let¡¯s go.¡±


    Immaculate XIII walked up the Mountain of Heaven for another hour before realizing Prudence IV hadn¡¯t so much as moved.


    ¡°I swear to God and all his angels, Prudence, I will zap you into dust and reconstitute you at the top if you don¡¯t move!


    Prudence IV remained as he was, observing a young boy on the third tier of Purgatory.


    ¡°Prudence¡­¡±


    ¡°Fine, I¡¯m coming! What happened to temperance, or is that not a virtue anymore?¡±


    With a wave of his hand, Prudence IV tossed a shining ball of light through the portal and let it close.


    ? ? ?


    Girolamo lay bruised and beaten on the third tier of Purgatory. All around him was a dark mist, and from that mist emerged twisted shadows that stoned and beat and burned him. They had the faces of the bricklayers and the guards, but worst of all was that horrifying stranger on the road. No matter how long he endured the pain, he endured yet more without passing out or feeling it dull.


    He didn¡¯t know how long he had been there. Time seemed to be a far away illusion. But one day a shining silhouette appeared, descending from on high, with the face of his father. His father, who had left when he was eight, absconding with the old smith¡¯s daughter and leaving his wife to raise Girolamo alone.


    The shadows backed away as the shining figure approached.


    ¡°Papa¡­¡±


    ¡°My son.¡± His father did not weep, but his voice was filled with equal measures of joy and sorrow.


    ¡°Papa¡­ help me.¡±


    The shadows stepped forward again, but this time they assaulted the shining figure. They drove him to the ground with heavy blows and burned brands into his skin.


    ¡°Stop! Stop hurting him!¡±


    ¡°I forgive you.¡±


    That was what the figure uttered with each blow. Whatever the torment he absorbed on behalf of his son, those words were never far behind.


    ¡°Papa, what are you doing!?¡±


    ¡°You have to forgive them, Girolamo.¡±


    He looked upon the faces of these vicious tormentors. How could he begin to forgive what they had done to him?


    ¡°Papa-¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard, I know. Start by forgiving me, Girolamo.¡± There was sadness and joy alike. ¡°Forgive me, my son.¡±


    Girolamo hugged the bright spirit of his father as it shielded him from clubs and irons, and forgave him. After many days of forgiveness, the shining figure waned like mist, and rose up the mountain of purgatory, back to its punishment on the seventh tier.


    Then the beatings and burnings came for Girolamo again, but each time he forgave his tormentors, and the pain was transformed into the purest joy. So his redemption continued for many years, until his soul was purged of all wrath and anger.

 Was It All Worth It

    The crack of shattering glass breaks through the warm murmurs in the common room of the Cat and Fox.


    There were eight thugs with spiked clubs in hand. The most daring of these bravos held the Cat and Fox¡¯s proprietor by the collar and pulled him halfway over the counter, easy as lifting a child. These were commoners, yes, but vicious and well-trained. They wore the Kolonn family¡¯s red-and-gold and took every opportunity to show it off.


    Thousands of people, including the proprietor, Polto, had come to Anthusa years before the fall of the Holy City and the plague to avoid exactly this kind of harassment. It was unbelievably common all across Vintal. In any city or town that wasn¡¯t strictly allied with the Orczy or Kolonn families, or in which the control of one faction had recently slipped, thugs like these spontaneously generated like termites from sawdust. They pushed the locals around, extorted money, stole everything that wasn¡¯t nailed down, and generally did everything in their power to grind the faces of innocent people into the dirt.


    This continued until the local powers either plucked up the courage to expel them or joined their alliance. In the former case, wise princes joined the alliance of the opposing faction. If they failed to do this, they could expect the full wrath of the Kolonn or Orczy to come crashing down on their heads and conquer them outright. In these ways, the Orczy and Kolonn swallowed up the entirety of Vintal between them and set brother against brother in the planet¡¯s oldest and bloodiest feud. The families with the foresight and power to remain genuinely neutral in this conflict, like the Feretrio at Mount Coffin, were rare, but they garnered immense power so long as they could maintain their balancing act.


    Anthusa had been an Orczy stronghold for as long as anyone could remember. There were more Orczy elders here than anywhere else but the Holy City itself. At least, there had been. But the Conclave deciding the next Holy Son ran for so long, with so much contention between the leading candidates, that all their supporters massed at the Holy City in order to suppress their opponents¡¯ discontent in the face of their inevitable victory. The soldiery called this a ¡®target-rich environment¡¯, one which the Demon Sultan must have found absolutely irresistible.


    In the course of a single night, the most powerful elders of both factions were massacred, and the younger generations of both families were suddenly left in charge of their ancestral alliances.


    Some hoped against hope that the destruction would shock the feuding families into a new peace and the recognition of a common enemy. It almost did.


    But it came about that both of the frontrunners had survived the attack. Ippolito Tor, a powerful old cardinal from the planet Yvex who had forged close ties with the Orczy powers, fled to the fortress-comet Helvetra and declared himself the Holy Son Fulminous I. His close rival Dante de Resol, powerhouse of the Holy City and successor to the battle-mad Zealous II, who had fully a dozen of his close relatives appointed to cardinalships and lost almost all of them in the attack, fled back to Fleur and declared himself the Holy Son Magnanimous VIII.


    With the Orczy firmly on the side of Fulminous, the Kolonn reflexively took to the defense of Magnanimous, and the vast, interplanetary conflict over the legitimacy of the Holy Son fueled their blood feud once more.


    One might think that, with both families greatly weakened and the most powerful representatives of each gone, this would be a time for each faction to lick their wounds and consolidate their forces. Indeed, that would be the most strategically prudent option. But the Orczy-Kolonn feud had not been governed by anything so quaint as logic or restraint for over a millennium, and was instead based on the seething, volcano-hot hatred between families whose great-great-grandparents had killed each other for¡­ Cato really wasn¡¯t sure what. He was informed that the rivalry started because of a disagreement over the proper relationship between the Holy Son and the Gulphay emperor, but nobody, including the Gulphay emperor and the Holy Son, took that into account when making alliances anymore. The feud continued for its own sake.


    Still, everyone agreed that these colossal, historical forces required that this particular thug steal a barrel of wine from this particular innocent innkeeper.


    ¡°All of you sit down and shut up!¡± The second-most daring bravo threatened a crowd of civilians with his club. The third-most daring, evidently the most enterprising, piped up, ¡°We¡¯re collecting for the church, you see, so hold out your purses for God!¡±


    It so happened that those same historical forces now required that Cato do something about this.


    ¡°So much for a secret meeting.¡± He and Remiro stood up from the dark corner of the common room and doffed the hoods of their dark cloaks.


    ¡°Hey! Wait your turn!¡± Number two turned to threaten them. Numbers four through eight held their clubs menacingly.


    ¡°Make sure Polto is fine, I¡¯ll take care of the rest.¡±


    ¡°Yes, lieutenant.¡±


    ¡°What are you-¡±


    Thugs one and two flew out the open door and into the street. Cato followed close behind, and as he kicked thug number one into the far wall his cloak blew open, revealing the white-and-red Orczy colors.


    The Kolonn thugs didn¡¯t hesitate to fight back against their opposite number. They rushed toward him. Anthusa¡¯s citizenry screamed and scattered. Clubs cracked the ground at Cato¡¯s feet and shattered the masonry inches from his head, but never made contact. He responded with opportunistic strikes at their sides, a hard cuff at the temple, a stomp at the knee. His sword remained sheathed on his hip.


    They hadn¡¯t been tangling for more than a minute when the two thugs realized they were thoroughly overpowered.


    ¡°Surround him!¡±


    Their compatriots flooded out of the Cat and Fox, as much summoned by their leader as pushed by Remiro¡¯s precise, disciplined bladework.


    That was the discipline Cato was trying to replicate. The well-practiced movements of someone who spent his entire life learning how to stand up to superior opponents and take down his inferiors quickly, cleanly, and if at all possible, nonlethally.


    His body screamed in protest of such a style. His native strength alone could punch holes in these amateurs, none far past the first round of alchemic transformation. If he summoned the power he used back in Beroli, he could cook these jackasses through in just a few moments. Those were the habits inscribed in his body: crush your opponent with overwhelming force, and let the golden lions and other protective spells on his body handle the rest.


    A spiked club came down hard on his forearm, tearing his clothes but deforming on impact. The thug holding it was stunned for a short moment, and Cao responded with a hard kick to the stomach that sent the man tumbling down the street.


    That didn¡¯t hit too hard¡­ right?


    The smell of human flesh charred by lightning came back to him unbidden. Cato hardly avoided the whistling arc of a dagger aimed for the side of his neck, and was pressed backward one, two, three steps before he regained control of the space and tore his opponent¡¯s arm out of its socket.


    Was that scream too loud? Too agonized?


    He was not going to let this be like Beroli again. Cato wouldn¡¯t permit it.


    More and more memories came flooding back. The flight from Beroli. His one-sided fight with Benicio Cecchini. Brother Julius¡¯ screams as the revelers carried him toward the bonfire.


    Remiro outskilled these men, but he couldn¡¯t hold out against their numbers. Cato overpowered them, but wouldn¡¯t bring that strength to bear. Four, five, six, of the thugs surrounded him, forgoing their own weapons in favor of holding him down. He squirmed, but they held him fast. Another one, with a bleeding arm hanging loose from its shoulder, held aloft the knife, ready to plunge down into Cato.


    It wouldn¡¯t hurt him. It wouldn¡¯t even break the skin, he just needed to think and get out of the envelopment.


    He felt those hands on him again, the ones delivering him to be eaten alive.


    Cato just needed to stay calm.


    He felt the rush of flames. He smelled the carrion rotting between the fangs of that primal devouring god.


    There were nine agonized screams, and then there was silence on the street. Cato felt like someone had driven an icicle through his skull.


    ¡°Master¡­¡±


    Remiro¡¯s wheezing cut through the blinding haze of pain. Cato crawled over to him, less with his eyes or ears than with his sense that this pain was coming from somewhere, like a powerful wind blowing from the east. His hands closed on Remiro and batted clumsily towards his face, where Cato¡¯s fingers felt the blood pouring out from his nose and eyes. With a gentle push of energy, the worst of the pain was soothed, and Remiro¡¯s breathing steadied as he passed out.


    The street in front of the Cat and Fox gradually filled again as people peeked around corners had ended, seemingly with all the combatants injured or dead. Polto dragged the two Orczy men back inside and shoved them in the back, where Remiro began on the slow path to recovering from an injury to his soul and Cato set about regretting every decision he¡¯d made since arriving in Anthusa.


    After Cato¡­ died, there was no other way to put it, he awoke on the riverbank surrounded by the people of Inillo, with no notion of how he had gotten there. His body was transformed: it looked and felt younger than before, and he seemed now to be a man in his early rather than late twenties. This rejuvenation was accompanied by a distinct sense of loss, as though there were invisible limbs he had never been able to control, but now knew their absence. With days of meditation, he learned that it was the golden lions. That spell which had both protected him and marked him as a relation of House Gulphay were no longer there, and wouldn¡¯t come to his rescue.


    It was distressing, yet oddly freeing at the same time. He and the people of Inillo came to Anthusa to disappear among its throng, and while powerful protectors like the lions were useful, they also attracted far too much attention.


    Cato burdened Father Andrea alone with the truth of what happened after he separated from the caravan. His doomed battle with Benicio, whose fate was still unknown to him, their capture by a hopelessly more powerful opponent, the mad horrors he saw in the firelight, and his own death. Father Andrea decided this was a sign of divine favor; that Cato was protected from on high by God, and that no mortal power could kill him.


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    But Cato could feel the priest¡¯s hesitation. Cato¡¯s disappearance had shaken everyone, and though his miraculous return strengthened their faith, Andrea was coming to learn that his master might not be what he believed.


    Still, he kept these things secret, and placed his faith in Cato. When the caravan finally arrived at the high gates of the City of Spires, Anthusa, one of the planet Vintal¡¯s great centers of culture and commerce, he spoke for them and demanded they be allowed to enter and settle within the city. He was pleasantly surprised when, only a few short hours later, they were permitted inside with a minimum of fuss. And then he learned that Baron Inillo had taken out considerable loans from the great Manzi bank of Anthusa, which he had acquired using his castle, lands, and subjects and collateral.


    These loans went towards buying extravagant clothes, gifts, and bribes to offer at the Holy City to the new Holy Son. He expected these expenditures to rapidly turn him a profit. Now they, and everything they were supposed to buy, were ashes on the wind. The Manzi bank was overjoyed to locate the Baron¡¯s elusive next of kin, upon whom the debts now fell, since the lands and castle had become all but worthless with the blight spreading from the Holy City.


    Cato could do little more than curse his fictional father¡¯s misfortune and settle down to find a way to pay off his debts. The quantities were staggering. It would take centuries for the people of Inillo to pay them off through labor. But the world was more fragile than it had been for quite a long time, and Anthusa was no exception. The Orczy-Kolonn feud, from which Anthusa had been safe for generations, was once again spilling blood on the streets. The most influential members of the city¡¯s younger generation, including Archbishop Forna¡¯s sister Julia, the youngest son of the Tor family, and the heir to the Manzi banking dynasty, were holed up in the highest tower of the Cathedral Severe and thus, for all intents and purposes, prevented from having any real influence on the city¡¯s governance for another year and change.


    In their place the young Otto Orczy, an untested nephew twice removed of the late Orczy patriarch, was left in charge of Anthusa while his elders mustered armies and put out (or started) fires elsewhere on Vintal. His opposite number, the young warrior Konrad Kolonn, took up residence in the city along with a host of soldiers and was somehow sneaking hundreds of Kolonn partisans through the walls and doing everything he could to undermine Orczy authority in one of their traditional seats of power.


    It was a time of complete and utter chaos in which the unknown son of a minor noble became a valuable pawn. After a short discussion with a certain Captain Apostolis, the Manzi bank neglected to call Cato¡¯s debts due, and he was inducted as a lieutenant of the Orczy forces, with Remiro serving under him as a sergeant.


    For the last three months, Cato wore the red-and-white, busted Kolonn heads when they popped up, and stood around looking intimidating when the circumstances called for him. The Orczy weren¡¯t stupid enough to entrust a newly recruited officer, barely different from a mercenary, with anything sensitive. Cato got paid less than a mercenary as well, and the Maniz bank took most of his paycheck to service the interest on his debts. The specifics of his financial situation were covered in enough misdirection and technical obfuscation to make his head spin, but he estimated that he might be able to pay them off¡­ in a few hundred years.


    But as discouraging as the whole situation was, it could be much, much worse. The people of Inillo had more than just his protection now: though the old Baron Inillo had Kolonn leanings, the villagers were far away enough from the centers of the conflict that they never identified very closely with it. In short order they were subjects of the Orczy alliance under Orczy protection. Those were the bonds of loyalty that governed this world: Cato offered to bleed for them, and they took care of his people in turn.


    The job had plenty of other perks as well. Though warriors as powerful as Cato were dime-a-dozen in Anthusa, unlike in the much smaller city of Beroli, he stood head and shoulders above the common citizen. If he gave them respect, he was given respect in return, and if he did them certain small favors, they would do him favors in return.


    Favors like setting up a covert meeting with someone who knew where to find a certain witch, for example.


    Polto fussed and fretted over the two injured men, wiping their foreheads and trying to wake Remiro with smelling salts no matter how many times Cato waved him off. Orczy reinforcements came around to clear out the bodies and debrief Cato. Then, several hours after she was supposed to arrive, a little old lady in a green hat appeared in front of the Cat and Fox. She was surprised to find that Cato and Remiro were still there, and their recent spat clearly hadn¡¯t passed her by. But after some coaxing and many reassurances, Signora Galatina was able to give Cato his first solid lead on Agatha.


    Two years earlier, not long after found the witch¡¯s hut empty and abandoned except for the Book of Zevon and a note, a woman came to Anthusa who was skilled in medicines and surgeries. She practiced her craft charitably and healed many sick Anthusans who could not afford to see a doctor, and according to Galatina not a single one of her patients had died under the knife.


    But to those in the know, Agatha also offered her services in fortune-telling and, though Galatina didn¡¯t know for sure who to count among her victims, in curses and diabolism. Galatina had long confided in Polto and confessed her temptation to report the miraculous healer to the church, but held her tongue out of gratitude for Agatha curing her nephew¡¯s gout.


    With that, Cato and Remiro, the latter leaning on his master for support, sent her on her way with a tip and yet more assurances of their good intentions toward the healer.


    It took a while to convince Remiro and Andrea not to condemn the shepherds for consorting with a witch. It took longer to convince them both that they should seek her out. But Cato was convinced she didn¡¯t quite add up. Inna and Myshkin were too terrified to even open the Book of Zevon, never mind study it, but they wouldn¡¯t have been able to either way. It was written in an archaic, scholarly tongue, and it was a wonder that even Inillo¡¯s priest could understand it. Agatha knew that.


    So why would she leave it behind, along with a note telling them to study it? Why tell the shepherds where she was going? Why continue to use the same name?


    It was a long shot, he admitted. But Cato couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that this was a trail he was meant to follow, and he was dead set on following it to the end.


    For the moment, however, Remiro needed to rest, and he needed to center himself. After dropping his sergeant off at the crumbling manor house in which he and his closest followers had settled, he wandered over to the Cathedral Severe.


    It was the most beautiful building Cato had seen in either of his lives. Colossal and intimidating, yes, but crafted with such incredible artistry that sang to his soul. The exterior walls portrayed hundreds of saints, each in their own niche with their own, incredibly lifelike statue painted in bright, luminous colors. The tiers of saints rose dozens of stories, until they reached the grand egg-shaped dome, similarly tiled with statues of angels. Around the crown, four archangels dominated: Michael to the north, Uriel to the south, Raphael to the west, and Gabriel to the east, each one inspiring awe and devotion. At the very apex there was only a tall spire, reaching up to heaven. It was only slightly overshadowed by the much taller tower on the eastern wing, so tall that it pierced the clouds. The city¡¯s nine official rulers dwelt there for two years at a time, Cato was told, though he got the impression that they never did much of anything.


    Anthusa was by no means short of cathedrals and chapels, but the Cathedral Severe was by far the grandest. Some once claimed it compared favorably to the Sanctum Summum itself. Nobody made those comparisons anymore.


    As to why Cato came here, the reason was simple. It was very easy for him to speak with the voice inside him. It sometimes came unbidden when he looked in the mirror or into a body of water. But talking to the other guy, the voice like cool spring water on a hot day, was much more difficult. When he meditated on the people of Inillo, the love and faith they felt for him, and the love he felt for them, he felt it moving, and could almost grasp it. But when he came to the Cathedral Severe, admired its beauty, and laid his spirit bare, it would sometimes appear just beside him and speak without reservations.


    When his turn in the file came, Cato climbed into the confessional.


    ¡°Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession.¡±


    Cato was answered only by the gentle echo of his own voice.


    ¡°Father?¡±


    ¡°Go on, my son.¡±


    The priest¡¯s voice was low and shaky, but Cato thought nothing of it. He confessed his attack on the Kolonn thugs, his instinctive attack on their souls which might leave them crippled for life, his threatening of debtors as a favor to Polto, and numerous other, smaller sins.


    ¡°This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.¡±


    ¡°Then go forth, my son, and sin no more.¡±


    Cato was surprised the priest made no mention of penance, but left as commanded. Unlike Andrea, the Anthusan priests were businesslike sorts, and he had no desire to take a tongue-lashing from one for taking up too much time.


    As he stepped back into the evening air, the four suns descending in an arc and making multicolored, striated shadows as they passed between the city¡¯s innumerable towers, Cato felt a presence like a mother¡¯s reassuring touch settle on the crown of his head, and he spoke with it at length as he returned home.


    ? ? ?


    ¡°Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession.¡±


    Rosso Sen froze in the confessional.


    That voice. It couldn¡¯t be.


    He was supposed to be dead.


    There was no mistaking it. This was the voice that had threatened everything he loved during the Conclave.


    ¡°I know what you did and with who, and soon her father shall know as well.¡±


    ¡°The bull will thrash and trample and gore until all you hold dear is bleeding underfoot!¡±


    ¡°You foul seducer in the guise of a righteous man, venomous poet!¡±


    ¡° The letters in my hand are sufficient to damn you, and to raise a wrath greater than any ever suffered since the devil rebelled against God!¡±


    A sheen of cold sweat covered Sen; once a cardinal, one of Vintal¡¯s greatest living scholars, now a priest living in hiding because of the threats made by the man now sitting opposite him in the confessional. His pulse roared, and only Sen¡¯s considerable cultivation and mental discipline kept him from fainting.


    ¡°Father?¡±


    ¡°Go on, my son.¡±


    Sen answered out of habit. The terrible penitent listed his recent sins economically, in a practiced fashion. Of course he did. Such a prolific sinner would have confession down to a science.


    Sen had to remind himself that the confessionals and the screens of the Cathedral Severe were enchanted and reinforced. Many of the city¡¯s elite preferred it here, and the priests took steps to ensure that even the most powerful penitents did not know exactly to whom they were confessing. Even the confessor¡¯s voice was magically altered.


    So Tenorio Kyno couldn¡¯t possibly know to whom it was he was confessing. If he realized, he would tear through the screen and throttle him. Logically, Sen knew that this was far beyond Kyno¡¯s abilities. But in the priest¡¯s mind, he was not human, but a monster, a devil in the flesh with no regard for physical laws.


    ¡°This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.¡±


    ¡°Then go forth, my son, and sin no more.¡±


    Had he given himself away? What priest would forget to assign penance?


    But he left, and the next penitent came without incident.


    Rosso Sen kept accepting confessions well into the night as if his life depended on it. When a lull came in the constant stream of penitents, he dashed out of the confessional and rushed to the cathedral¡¯s back entrance. There, a squadron of Tor family soldiers awaited him, their captain a veteran in the third realm of alchemic transformation, and they escorted him, shivering with fear and darting at shadows, to the Tor family¡¯s towering mansion. He didn¡¯t stop until he reached the uppermost floor, and entered a den of luxury and hedonism that would make the most dedicated simoniac blush. Candles of unicorn tallow burned on rugs shorn from the back of dire ermines. The balcony had the second-best view in Anthusa. But there reclining on the couch with a glass of port in hand, was the very best sight in the city: the most beautiful woman in the world, whose intellect burned through the dark of ignorance like a star, for whom he had given up everything and gained yet more. His one true love. Dresses of velvet and cloth of gold were a poor imitation of her radiance, and the sapphires like quail eggs that hung from her ears were an affront before her sparkling eyes.


    ¡°Rosso, Rosso, are you back already? What happened to that determination of yours, hm?¡±


    He slunk toward him, put a lovely arm around his waist and brought the perfumed glass to his lips, but found him cold and stiff to her touch, rather than soft and pliant.


    ¡°Rosso? What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    For a moment, Rosso Sen really did consider the sacred vows he took, and the promise that a penitent¡¯s confession is private. Then he thought of all the other promises he broke in order to pursue his love, and told Ursula Tor everything.

 Visions

    The Hospice of the Blessed Mother was one of Anthusa¡¯s foremost houses of healing and respite. With walls of speckled marble, a threshold chased in gold, and statues of the Archangel Raphael bearing the serpent and cup, any patient permitted inside could not help but rest assured that their life was in the best of hands.


    Alas, space inside the Hospice was always in short supply, now even more so under the plague¡¯s oppression. When it first came to Anthusa, thousands of victims crowded its gates, begging for treatment. Eighteen died and dozens more were injured as the crowd was repelled by the guards. Where once the citizens of Anthusa lined up for a chance to be treated within, now the space in front of the gates was empty. Those who approached were of two types: those who had bought appointments inside with coin or the favor of their patrons, and the desperate, who were invariably turned away.


    Inna and Myshkin hobbled down the steps in front of the Hospice, away from the menacing polearms waved about by the guards in banishing these two intruders. They were covered in rags, coughing horrible, and their exposed skin was covered in black pustules.


    Granted, the coughs didn¡¯t sound quite right for the plague, and if the guards paid attention they would have noticed the pustules were drawn on with ink, but they saw what they wanted to see and acted accordingly.


    Inna and Myshkin played their part to perfection, and as they stumbled away from the hospice into the back streets, lamenting their fate, they were soon approached by a middle-aged man who told them of a miraculous healer who would treat them free of charge. Down they went through the twisting, dingy alleys, until they reached an unassuming portal attached to a disused house. Inside was a makeshift hospice, with sickbeds piled together chaotically amid basins of water and boxes of medicines, roots, and leeches. Scented candles and incense burned and filled the room with sweet aromas, and portraits of angels and saints looked down benevolently upon the sufferers.


    Dozens of assistants tended to patients in various stages on the road to death. Some would recover, and others would die, but human effort was not to credit or blame for either. Dozens more assistants had passed through this back-alley hospice and left in tears, distraught by the fickle violence of the plague and their complete powerlessness to cure it. Those who remained were the hardened, steadfast core of their discipline, who knew their mission was to provide comfort and ease to the suffering without regard for life and death.


    ¡°Miss Agatha!¡±, the middle-aged man called out. ¡°These two were rejected by the Blessed Mother, and have come here for treatment.¡±


    And chief among these healers was Agatha. She looked to be in her late thirties, and dressed in a simple tunic laden with innumerable tools of medicine and surgery. She turned her attention from a patient in the early throes of infection and looked the two newcomers up and down. Inn and Myshkin kept their composure: for all her costuming, this was the witch they knew from the little backcountry shack.


    ¡°Come with me,¡± she instructed, as she stepped into a back room and left the door hanging open.


    Inna and Myshkin followed her to a chamber that belonged less in the back of a hospice than a fortune-teller¡¯s circus tent. Astrological diagrams covered the walls and ceiling, an astrolabe and a wide table competed for elbow room: there was even a watermelon-size ball of thin crystal upon an ornate stand.


    Myshkin faked a hacking cough and tried to lower his voice. ¡°Why have you brought us here, o wise healer? Will you tell us our fortunes?¡±


    Agatha looked at them both, picked up a bucket of warm, soapy water, and set it in front of them.


    ¡°Go to the baths outside and wash off those spots. I trust you have clean clothes under those rags, yes?¡±


    The shepherds flushed with shame and stared down at their feet.


    A mirthful giggle broke the silence, and Agatha stepped forward to embrace them both. Inna and Myshkin were briefly reminded that, contrary to their perceptions, Agatha was actually a full head shorter than either of them, and had to stand on tip-toe to get her arm around Myshkin¡¯s shoulders.


    ¡°I¡¯m not angry. It¡¯s so good to see you both in good health. Now go!¡± she smacked Inna playfully with a sponge. ¡°We can catch up later, but I need to speak with someone else.¡±


    She looked to the door, still gently ajar. The air shimmered there, and to the shepherds it looked as if Cato suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Myshkin would have been shocked to learn that it was another application of the technique Cato learned from him, exerting control over one¡¯s aura to diminish and conceal it to such a degree that the uncultivated eye simply did not register his presence.


    ¡°Lady Agatha,¡± he bowed, ¡°my apologies for the deception.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t deceived, my lord.¡± Those last words still held just a tinge of reproach. ¡°Come sit.¡±


    She waved Inna and Myshkin out again like a grandmother shooing away her favorite grandchildren. Once they had gone, her expression hardened, and Cato felt a presence as dark and deep as the open ocean fill the room. It hung over him like a weighted net, trapping him, making any use of energy clumsy and sluggish.


    Cato learned enough from Remiro and Andrea to know that cultivators often exposed their auras in greeting to one another. This was most common on the battlefield or in negotiations, a way to size each other up and establish dominance. But it was also used more shrewdly to test a stranger¡¯s intentions.


    Right now, surrounded by the emanations of Agatha¡¯s soul, Cato was vulnerable. If this was a battle, he would marshal his own power and exert it on his surroundings, like he had in Beroli. If this were a battle, he and Agatha would be trying to intimidate the other with a display of force.


    If this were a battle, Cato would have already lost.


    He had an inkling of Agatha¡¯s power just from approaching the hospice, but now it was clear. She was comparable to Benicio Cecchini, and unlike his ambush on the road, Cato had walked right into her lair. The drawings on the walls and ceiling hummed a resonant note when her aura spread through the room, and Cato didn¡¯t doubt there were spells hidden among the astrological diagrams all around him.


    If Agatha wanted to kill him, only the golden lions might have saved his life. Now that those were destroyed, he was entirely outclassed. If he tried competing with her at this point, it would only belie his goodwill. So even as he pushed away memories of fire and teeth, he restrained himself and allowed the presence to wash over him without resistance.


    ¡°What brings you to my hospice, my lord?¡± She spoke lightly and easily, as if she wasn¡¯t pressing down with oceanic pressure.


    Cato strained to crack a friendly smile and speak. ¡°So you know who I am?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± The pressure doubled, and Cato held on to the table with whitening knuckles. ¡°But I know who you are to them. And I expect you to keep your oath.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ understand.¡± The pressure softened slightly. ¡°Please know¡­ Lady Agatha, they insisted on¡­ coming to see you.¡±


    She sat in silence for a time, letting Cato stew under her aura¡¯s oppression.


    ¡°Tell me, Cato of Inillo, how many villagers have died under your care?¡±


    Cato hung his head. ¡°One.¡±


    The pressure redoubled, and Cato felt the chair underneath him starting to give out.


    ¡°Really? Just one of Inillo¡¯s people died of the plague in weeks of journeying?¡±


    ¡°No¡­ one was murdered. None died¡­ of plague.¡±


    ¡°How?!¡± She spoke in anger and confusion, but she could detect no falsehood.


    ¡°I healed them!¡±


    Cato took a deep, gasping breath as the pressure was relieved all of a sudden. He barely stayed in his seat, but Agatha didn¡¯t wait for his lightheadedness to pass.


    ¡°How?¡± She was staring at him like a butterfly pinned to a display board.


    After regaining his breath, Cato explained¡­ almost everything. His miraculous survival of the Holy City¡¯s destruction, his ignorance as to his true identity, his encounter with Inna and Myshkin, the oath he swore, the journey to Anthusa, even his death and strange return. Agatha, for her part, explained that she had a premonition while hiding out near Inillo, which led her to take the shepherds under her wing and leave them with a book they couldn¡¯t read. Though her oracular abilities only allowed a hazy look at the future, she knew that course of action would save Inillo from disaster and lead their savior to her door.


    But the details made no goddamn sense.


    ¡°You¡¯re telling me you haven¡¯t been infected with the plague at all?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ yes?¡± Cato hadn¡¯t really thought about it at all. ¡°I figured because I had cultivated my body I was immune.¡±


    Agatha nearly tore her hair out. ¡°No! First of all, you¡¯ve barely cultivated your body. Second, the plague only begins by attacking the body. If it encounters resistance, it infects and multiplies in the soul and uses that to attack the body from the inside until it completely wears down. Only cultivators much, much more developed than you can prevent the infection of their soul, let alone purge it entirely, and the plague retaliates by infecting anyone who tries to cure it magically in others.¡±


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    She pulled out stacks of loose paper: letters from doctors and healers, case reports, documentation from her own hospice.


    ¡°Second of all, healing others with your own power, oath or no, requires someone much, much more skilled and experienced in bridging the soul and body than you.¡±


    ¡°Like you?¡±


    ¡°No, like a sage. Maybe the Mother Serene could pull it off, and there were a few Holy Sons who could definitely do it in the past. But you¡­¡±


    Agatha stood Cato up and turned his face to and fro.


    ¡°Who are you, exactly?¡±


    ¡°I was hoping you had some clue yourself.¡±


    Agatha stood still for a moment, then dashed over to a cabinet full of yet more books and loose paper.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind my asking Lady Agatha-¡±


    ¡°Drop the titles.¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind my asking, Agatha, how does one come to be a witch?¡±


    It was a totally artless question, but Cato just couldn¡¯t square the woman in front of him with the image of a cackling hag stewing children in a cauldron. Inna and Myshkin had painted a much more restrained picture, but their retelling, fond though it was, was tinged with superstitious fear.


    She certainly wasn¡¯t restrained in pursuing her goals, and Cato felt her power firsthand, but Agatha didn¡¯t seem the least bit malicious. It would never occur to him that she had colluded with demons or anything of the sort.


    Even though Cato suspected he had done that himself.


    ¡°It¡¯s not something you are so much as something you do. I was raised in the church. I was given to a nunnery at a young age, and I excelled.¡± Her low, calm tone grew into a crescendo of fury and frustration. ¡°I excelled! I justified doctrine beautifully! I translated texts that had never been read in Vintic! But then they caught me with a copy of Mystic Conclusions. Did they take my past record into account? Did they listen to its arguments at all? No! Of course not! They handed me over to the Inquisition for heresy, and I was stupid enough to try convincing them.¡±


    She went back to shuffling papers aside.


    ¡°So¡­ what happened?¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± She seemed surprised he even asked. ¡°I pretended to repent and then ran like hell. Faked my death. They stopped looking for me years ago. Let me tell you, it was hell getting a book collection back together. Teaching dangerous secrets to shepherds is my way of getting back at them.¡±


    ¡°Are those spells really so dangerous?¡±


    She pulled out a thick, leatherbound book and set it gingerly on a steadily rising pile. ¡°Those two taught you the Eye of Aforgomon and the Wolf¡¯s Howl, correct?¡±


    ¡°The sight spell and the aura technique?¡±


    ¡°The same. Those are derived from spells created by much more powerful cultivators. The Eye of Aforgomon is a divination that invites an angel of the sixth choir, the Dominion of Time, to give a glimpse of eternity. The Wolf¡¯s Howl is less potent: it brings one¡¯s soul closer to the angel of the third choir responsible for the fearsome quality of howling and roaring beasts, and imbues that power into the cultivator¡¯s aura.¡±


    ¡°So-¡±


    ¡°No, you haven¡¯t been invoking angels. Spells like those are immensely complex with a great many sub-techniques and require an extremely developed cultivation of body and soul. The versions I gave Inna and Myshkin, which they taught to you, are the fundamental preparatory techniques. Still, the fact that any part of those spells is outside their control infuriates the church to no end. It¡¯s like¡­¡± She reached for a comparison suited to her very, very low estimate of Cato¡¯s comprehension. ¡°Like taking apart a sword and giving someone the pommel. You can still hit someone with a pommel, and it¡¯s part of the original construction, but there¡¯s no comparison between them.¡±


    ¡°Or maybe,¡± Cato protested, ¡°it¡¯s like how the eye sees but the soul comprehends, and with greater comprehension one gains both more knowledge and deeper understanding of what one already knew.¡±


    Now that changed how Agatha looked at him. An iota of respect, maybe?


    ¡°So you did read the Book of Zevon.¡±


    ¡°Chapter eight, verse seventeen, from the parable of the dark glass.¡±


    ¡°Can you read old Achaean?¡±


    She didn¡¯t have to be quite so quick to pop his balloon. ¡°I can¡­ remember it. Father Andrea can actually read it.¡±


    Agatha rose with a swaying stack of paper and books, set them down on the table, and started scratching away with a quill.


    ¡°Male, aged-¡±


    ¡°A hundred and sixty.¡±


    ¡°Aged a hundred and sixty, physical appearance in early twenties-¡±


    ¡°I looked a bit older. You know, before¡­¡±


    ¡°How old?¡±


    ¡°Maybe twenty-eight?¡±


    ¡°Aged a hundred and sixty, former appearance twenty-eight years, spoke old Achaean¡­¡±


    She waited. Pointedly. Cato decided not to interrupt her in the future.


    ¡°... and was protected by the Golden Lions of Gulphay. May I?¡±


    She already took out a crystal lens set in a brass monocle before Cato could assent. She had him turn in a circle, and she focused on a pair of points on his back, below his shoulder blades.


    ¡°Anchor point for the Golden Lions located between the trapezius and latissimus dorsi muscles, placed symmetrically, as described by Galeanus of Tamur.¡±


    ¡°Erm¡­¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°What exactly are you looking at back there?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll show you. Open the Eye.¡±


    Cato stilled his senses and opened the dreamlike sight. In the course of learning it, he borrowed Inna¡¯s sight through his connection with the villagers. Now he was on the other end, and it felt completely different. Merging his senses with the villagers¡¯ felt natural, like another limb. But Agatha did it artificially, deliberately, like tying a thousand microscopic knots simultaneously. For the first time, it struck Cato how complex a process it was, and how much of the difficult work was performed without his own awareness.


    ¡°Good. Now look through the lens.¡±


    He looked, and was amazed. The invisible eddies of energy he could feel when he meditated became visible in bright, swirling colors. The rich greens and blues of the earth, the crimson fire, kaleidoscopic purples and oranges and the eighth color he could only see out the corner of his perception, all of them flowing around his body in interconnecting patterns. But there, at the points Agatha indicated, two solid chunks of luminous golden energy poked out of his body.


    ¡°They¡¯re broken. Might still be repaired later, but you¡¯d need a sage from House Gulphay to do it.¡±


    Cato snapped back to his ordinary senses, still swimming in what he just saw.


    ¡°To summarize: male, 160, late twenties appearance, bestowed with the Gulphay lions, in the Holy City when it fell.¡±


    ¡°And I had a dagger with the Gulphay crest sticking out of me in the river.¡±


    ¡°Noted.¡± Agatha concentrated, then sighed. ¡°Most likely, you were part of Prince Maximilian¡¯s contingent, maybe a younger relative, or your family are long-time vassals of the Gulphay royals. That¡¯s not a large pool of people¡ªthe Golden Lions aren¡¯t common¡ªbut I¡¯d need to do more research.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s not free.¡±


    Agatha turned and faced him head on. Like Inna and Myshkin earlier, Cato was surprised to find that she didn¡¯t tower over him; despite looking down at her, he felt compelled by an intangible force.


    ¡°I will help you find out who you are. I¡¯ll even teach you. You have some ability right now, but your knowledge of cultivation is scattershot. I¡¯ll bet your knowledge of history and the wider world is the same.¡±


    He couldn¡¯t argue with that.


    ¡°In exchange, you will help me find a cure for the plague. You could heal the villagers, and despite that the plague didn¡¯t retaliate against you. Fate has brought you to my door. With your help, I could save so many people.¡±


    She didn¡¯t bother to hide the raw, anguished notes in her voice. There were dozens of people piled on sickbeds in the next room. Some would live and some would die, and the power of human reason was powerless to decide which.


    This plague was a refutation of everything Agatha had lived for since she ran away from the nunnery. Now that a chance for progress was in front of her, she had to take it.


    Anthusa¡¯s bells tolled out midday in musical tones.


    ¡°I¡¯ll help. But I have something I need to do.¡±


    ¡°What could possibly be more important than this?¡±


    Cato turned away, pulled up his hood, and vanished from mortal sight. He would rather not face Agatha after telling her that he was duty-bound to guard a five year-old¡¯s birthday party.


    ? ? ?


    Teresa was about to turn five, and was making sure everybody knew it. She already told her nanny Myra and Colombo the gardener three times, and she¡¯d told all the other servants twice.


    But there were two people she hadn¡¯t been able to tell yet. Mama was doing really important things in the tower, which meant she couldn¡¯t come. She wrote letters, but hadn¡¯t gotten any back yet. The letters took a very, very long time to go up and down, because the tower was so tall.


    She also hadn¡¯t been able to tell Mr. Otto. He liked to be called ¡®Duke Ottofried Orczy, Protector of Anthusa¡¯ in letters but when it was just them he let her call him Mr. Otto. He hadn¡¯t been around for a whole week! That was almost a two-hundred-fiftieth of Teresa¡¯s whole life he missed!


    Yes, Teresa did the math herself. She was very good at it, and whenever the servants asked if she could count how many years old she was, she would show them how much higher she could count.


    Oh, and she had only told Mr. Rosso about her birthday once! He forgot all sorts of things, so she had to make sure to tell him again.


    He was also late to her lessons. This never happened. Teresa hoped he was alright.


    So to pass the time, she wrote a letter.


    ¡°To his Grace the Duke Ottofried Orczy, Protector of anthusa, Teresa Forna, the Baroness of Urdan, his loyal subject, sends greetings. I told Colombo that I wanted a fluffy white bunny rabbit, and he said that there were wild bunnies in the castle garden. Today I went hunting, and I found one! I know that the castle rules say we can¡¯t have wild animals, but can I keep this one? I will train it a lot so it won¡¯t be wild anymore. Yours in servitude and friendship, Teresa Forna. P.S. I¡¯m turning five today!¡±


    Just as she was finishing up, the door creaked open and Mr. Rosso came in. Teresa told him off for being late, but he smiled and said sorry. She supposed that could be forgiven. As penance, she had him read over the letter to make sure everything was right.


    Teresa was a genius: she could write letters fit for a duke, and she wasn¡¯t even five yet. But Mr. Rosso was pretty smart too, and knew some things she didn¡¯t.


    ¡°This is very good, my lady, very good.¡±


    No, it wasn¡¯t very good. The ¡®a¡¯ in ¡®Anthusa¡¯ in the address had to be capitalized. Mr. Rosso knew that, which meant he wasn¡¯t paying attention at all.


    But Teresa decided not to point it out. Mr. Rosso looked like he was thinking about something very far away.


    He looked scared.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like it! I¡¯m going to write it again.¡±


    She took the letter from his hands and wrote a new one, without the error. Better to not let him know she tried to trick him, it would only make him sadder.


    ¡°Will you come to my party, Mr. Rosso?¡±


    ¡°Of course, my lady. I wouldn¡¯t miss it for the world.¡±


    He still looked sad and worried. He also has his secret face on, like when Teresa asked him where he came from before he worked in the castle. He¡¯d only been here for a few months, though Mr. Rosso was her favorite tutor by far, and she hoped he would stay. He said he was from Roche, but his face didn¡¯t change. Mr. Rosso was a really bad liar.


    Teresa wasn¡¯t very good at lying either. Lying was a sin. But she knew that adults lied a lot anyway, and that was between them and God.

 The Invitation

    ¡°Figures they¡¯d put me with the rookie- no offense, lieutenant.¡±


    Cato kept his gaze straight ahead and level. ¡°None taken, sergeant.¡±


    Sergeant Enzo was a fixture of the Orczy force in Anthusa: fifty years old, a veteran of three wars and countless skirmishes who had recently reinforced his body to the second realm of alchemic transformation. His father and grandfather fought, bled, and died for the Orczy on Vintal. According to family lore which he never failed to bring up around new recruits, his twice-great grandmother was a personal servant to Duke Otto¡¯s aunt, Lady Ascania Orczy, when she was a child.


    ¡°Just saying, I¡¯m stronger than I¡¯ve ever been before, and they bump me down to guarding the back door. The back door! It¡¯s disrespect, lieutenant, a pure disrespect.¡±


    It took at least a few weeks to stabilize one¡¯s body after finishing alchemic transformation. Those who could afford it would take a period of bed rest and relaxation. Enzo was back on duty the next day, by all appearances because he wanted to. It made perfect sense to put him in a less visible, less confrontational position until he was ready.


    Of course, to say they were guarding the back gate was something of an understatement. The tertiary entrance to the Orczy compound was a twenty-foot high slab of sculpted and rune-inscribed steel, set into a curtain wall layered with magical protections. Unlike the grand entrance, overwhelmingly ornate and built for visibility along one of Anthusa¡¯s great roads, which was used for great events like today¡¯s celebration and led through a network of gorgeous gardens which Cato had barely been able to glimpse, or the secondary entrance which was more convenient and allowed the Orczy and their guests to slip in and out with fewer eyes on them, this door was primarily used for luggage and supplies. That meant far fewer tips to the guards, but also much calmer days.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure Captain Apostolis doesn¡¯t disrespect you, sergeant. Maybe he thinks I need your example, how about that?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d best follow it, lieutenant. Let me tell you, I¡¯ve been fighting Kolonn bastards since I could walk and carry a stick at the same time. Once, two blocks off the Lords¡¯ Square¡­¡±


    Families like Enzo¡¯s were a bit like the furniture. The Orczy handed them down from one generation to another, and they were expected to serve their purpose without so much as an unpleasant lump. Cato thought it was a depressing comparison, but it was the one Sergeant Enzo preferred. The Orczy certainly didn¡¯t see him as an equal, let alone a friend or companion, but they trusted him utterly, and in return he enjoyed a set of circumstances that the common citizens of Anthusa would kill for.


    The Orczy provided for every expense in his upbringing, his schooling, and most recently his training and cultivation resources. Ten years ago, they found him a nice girl from the countryside and put a token of their appreciation into the dowry: for the Orczy, that meant an ordinary laborer¡¯s entire lifetime earnings. They had three children now, all born safe and healthy thanks to midwives and doctors retained by Orczy coin. The youngest was now enrolled in an Orczy-funded school, accompanied by dozens of other children in the exact same set of circumstances. Enzo had slightly better than even odds of making it to retirement age, though that depended a lot on whether he had the talent to improve his cultivation and extend his lifespan. In the very plausible event that Sergeant Enzo died fighting in the Kolonn feud, the Orczy would cover the funeral and have a priest pray for his soul for three days straight, usually split over the course of a few weeks. His name would be inscribed onto a dizzyingly large slab of Orczy martyrs, and his children¡¯s children would grow up listening to stories about their brave grandpa Enzo, who died defending everything they loved from the Kolonn menace.


    Millions of children across Vintal fell asleep listening to stories like that, on both sides of this feud. When Cato understood that, it made him nauseous. But for Enzo and most of the people on Vintal, it was the water they swam in. They were bathed in millenia of blood and tears, and carried the weight of innumerable dead generations on their shoulders, whose sole commandment was the destruction of the other side.


    ¡°... and I swear, I sent both his front teeth flying! That¡¯s why they call him Rabbit now, you see. ¡±


    ¡°So when you said you were hunting rabbits last week¡­¡±


    ¡°Aye! He¡¯d shacked up in a cathouse, and he got some wooden teeth as replacements, but you can still tell. Here¡¯s the best part, Cato-¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s Lieutenant Cato to you, sergeant.¡±


    ¡°Right, of course. Here¡¯s the best part, lieutenant, when we get inside¡­¡±


    As far as Sergeant Enzo was concerned, Cato was a hired sword with no skin in the game, no ancestral blood shed for the family, and no reason other than money to not defect to the Kolonn. Mercenaries were bought, and they only stayed bought for one client if they were famous enough that betrayal would hurt their public image. A fresh-faced country bumpkin had no such compunctions.


    That was why Lieutenant Cato of Inillo was charged with guarding the little-traveled back door into the Orczy compound, and why one of their most trusted lower officers was assigned under him.


    This was a test. Cato had no doubt that Enzo was reporting to Captain Apostolis about everything he did. It wasn¡¯t just his possible loyalties: Enzo was poking at him, complaining, forgetting titles, trying to see which offenses Cato was willing to punish and which he let slide, and whether he would let a subordinate walk all over him. Like everywhere else in this world, the explicit rules of military discipline were just the first layer of how the Orczy forces worked, and they mostly bound rookies and outsiders. Complex bonds of loyalty, family, and camaraderie held the core of the force together, and a canny commander knew that he didn¡¯t have complete control over his men. He had to navigate old expectations and unwritten contracts, the kind which let the more senior soldiers get away with the kind of behavior that rookies would get whipped for, so long as they did it out of the public eye. That was why Cato accepted Enzo¡¯s invitation to join an after-hours gambling club, accepted losing some of his dearly-needed money, and didn¡¯t report it to the captain. Now he was complicit. He could be trusted, at least a little bit.


    ¡°... and that¡¯s why he showed up in front of the cathedral begging for the archbishop to exorcize him.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t Archbishop Forna have better things to do than ¡®exorcize¡¯ a random guy¡¯s syphilis?¡±


    ¡°Of course he does. Rabbit¡¯s not thinking clear though, on account of the syphilis. So if you see a guy with two wooden front teeth give him a good sock in the jaw for me, lieutenant, but wash your hands afterwards.¡±


    ¡°Noted, sergeant. Archbishop Forna is coming today, isn¡¯t he?¡±


    ¡°Sure is. I wouldn¡¯t worry ¡®bout it, he¡¯s got his own guards with him. Right now, you and me, we¡¯re more like decoration.¡±


    That wasn¡¯t totally wrong. The Orczy compound was a sprawling castle built in the center of one of the most densely populated cities on Vintal. High walls, gardens, fountains, subterranean dungeons, they had it all. It wasn¡¯t their biggest castle, not by far: the Orczy branch family had residences all over the planet, and the main family on the planet Konigsphare hollowed out an entire mountain in ages past. But for how scarce and desirable open space was in Anthusa, the Orczy family¡¯s ability to maintain such a property inside city walls spoke to their undeniable influence.


    It was under constant guard, both against Kolonn saboteurs and regular thieves, but the sheer scale of the magical defenses should ward off all but the most powerful or foolhardy opponents, and to hold out indefinitely in the face of a siege or city-wide rioting. Security was tight because the archbishop was visiting, but seeing as he was publicly accompanied by the knights of St. Trajan at all times, this was less because the Orczy worried about an attack on him and more because they worried about appearing too careless with such an important guest. Even after many weeks in the city, the details of events like this escaped him. But unlike his ignorance of cultivation, this was something he could just ask about.


    Cato put on his very best country bumpkin act and leaned towards Sergeant Enzo.


    ¡°Let me get this straight, sergeant. What¡¯s all this business with the archbishop about? And why would he come to a five year-old¡¯s birthday party?¡±


    Enzo looked at him with just the mix of pity and smugness that Cato was aiming for.


    ¡°Listen up, boss-¡±


    ¡°Lieutenant.¡±


    ¡°Fine then, listen up, lieutenant. What do you know about the Forna family?¡±


    ¡°Big shots from the Holy City, right?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s putting it mildly. They were big shots in the Holy City since before the Holy Son first settled there. Sure, the Orczy family and the Kolonn bastards control more of the planet, but if you want to see the Holy Son you¡¯ll need to pass through a lot of the Forna family¡¯s friends to do it. Before the Manzi showed up, they had more money than almost anyone else on the planet, and even afterwards they had more power and influence than you could shake a stick at.¡±


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°If he¡¯s so important that makes his attendance weirder.¡±


    ¡°Hey, I¡¯m getting to it, don¡¯t rush me. The birthday girl is his niece, Teresa Forna, his sister¡¯s daughter.¡±


    ¡°And her father is an Orczy?¡±


    ¡°Ha! You¡¯d think, but no.¡± Enzo beamed, just like he did every time he was about to tell a particularly nice piece of gossip. ¡°Back before the last Holy Son died, there was this big alliance between the Forna, the Manzi, and the Tor families to put one of them on the throne next. Forna wanted to be a cardinal so he¡¯d be eligible for the throne the time after this one, but he got made Archbishop of Anthusa instead.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound like such a bad deal to me.¡±


    ¡°Because you don¡¯t know squat. The Forna are from the Holy City, born and bred. The Holy Son is also the Archbishop of the Holy City, so if Forna was made archbishop of anywhere, he had to leave the center of his power. There were riots! Half the city almost burned down. But in the end he and his sister both got shipped over here, and all of a sudden they¡¯re not the top dogs anymore: the Manzi run the city and the Orczy do what the Manzi say.¡±


    Cato still wasn¡¯t sure what to make of being made archbishop, let alone of a place like Anthusa, as a punishment.


    ¡°Anyway, everyone says they got kicked out of the Holy City because the archbishop pissed off the Holy Son something fierce, but I hear different.¡± That excited grin spread even wider. ¡°See, the girl¡¯s father was Tenorio Kyno, Prudence IV¡¯s bastard.¡±


    ¡°Is it all right to call the Holy son¡¯s kid a bastard?¡±


    ¡°You seriously haven¡¯t heard of him?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t say I have.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you are in for a treat. So, this bastard, he¡¯s the most spoiled, rotten, worthless jackass in the Holy City. He was born when his father was already a Cardinal, and he became the Holy Son not much later. And because he¡¯s the only son, he gets all the money and gifts you could imagine. His father makes him a knight of St. Trajan, gives him land from the church territories, and makes him a count when he¡¯s barely out of diapers. And what does he do? Kyno drinks, whores, and gambles it all away. Not only does he lose it all, he winds up in so much debt he tries to rob the Holy City¡¯s treasury to pay it off, and when the guards arrest him he beats them bloody.¡±


    Enzo paused.


    ¡°But does his dear, holy daddy punish him? No! So he keeps doing it! It was outrageous! He would go to the Tors, the Fornas, the de Resols, spit in their faces and call them pig bastards, and they had to take it. No matter what he did, no matter how drunk or indebted he was, he always got bailed out. I heard that once the Manzis tried to collect on his debts and he had them imprisoned and whipped for a week. I heard that when a priest in the city preached against him, he got the priest beaten, tarred, feathered, and shipped to Petron. I heard¡­¡± Enzo looked left, right, and up to make sure nobody was listening in.


    ¡°I heard that when they were both younger, he threw horseshit in Ursula Tor¡¯s hair and made her cry.¡±


    Even Cato knew that Ursula was the only daughter of one of the two competing Holy Sons, an extremely wealthy and powerful aristocrat and, rumor had it, one of the three most powerful cultivators in all of Anthusa. It was one thing to have political enemies, but personally offending so many wealthy and influential people was¡­ unspeakably excessive. Cato was very, very glad he didn¡¯t have enemies like that.


    ¡°And then, get this: he had an affair with Julia Forna. The most beautiful, beloved woman in the Holy City! Worse, she gets pregnant. Well, their parents get a hold of this and force them to get married, though it only becomes public when Teresa is born. You can¡¯t imagine the scandal! And right afterwards, out of nowhere, Archbishop Forna gets assigned to Anthusa, and you know the rest.¡±


    Something about this didn¡¯t add up for Cato.


    ¡°But why send them away? I mean, I bet Kyno would want to see his kid.¡±


    ¡°Like hell! I bet he chased them out so he wouldn¡¯t have a kid messing with his whoring and gambling. It¡¯s a tragedy when kids don¡¯t meet their parents, but in this case it¡¯s a blessing. I hear he was ugly as a dog too. Just seeing her dad would probably traumatize the poor girl.¡±


    That¡­ was certainly an explanation.


    ¡°And I take it the Fornas crashed in the palace here, and Teresa got left behind when her mother went up into the tower.¡±


    ¡°Too right.¡±


    It was effectively impossible to ignore the tower of the Cathedral Severe. Anthusa was dotted with dozens of colossal towers, mostly belonging to powerful old families or to church orders, but there was one capital-T Tower. Every two years, nine of the city¡¯s elites were chosen by lot to go up and govern the city from a position of total security and almost total isolation. Cato could hardly imagine a less effective form of governance.


    ¡°What¡¯s the point of it anyway? You said it yourself, the Manzi run the city these days.¡±


    Enzo spat on the ground. That was one regulation Cato wasn¡¯t supposed to enforce.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get it backwards, lieutenant. The bankers might have bought everyone off and rigged the lots, but that doesn¡¯t change what Anthusa is. A free city, an independent city, by Anthusans for Anthusans. You¡¯d do well to remember that.¡±


    Cato held up his hands in defeat.


    ¡°Noted, sergeant. But tell me, how do you know they rig the lots?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s obvious. Just as the old Holy Son is on his deathbed, who goes up?¡± Enzo counted off on his fingers. ¡°One, Leo Manzi, the heir to the whole fortune. Two, Giorno Tor, the youngest son of a frontrunner for the Holy Son¡¯s throne. Three, Julia Forna, the most beloved woman in the Holy City, even after her scandal. The other six were nobodies.¡±


    ¡°So what?¡±


    ¡°So what? Out of thousands of people who might be chosen, you get the three most influential young people in Anthusa outside of Duke Orczy himself, all of them powerful and ambitious. I bet their parents wanted to keep them out of the Holy City to keep things predictable. ¡±


    That¡­ really didn¡¯t sound right to Cato at all. It felt like when Father Andrea was misinterpreting the Book of Zevon, that deep irritation calling up intense disagreements he couldn¡¯t remember.


    Was this body¡¯s old owner involved in this business somehow? That would put him closer to some of the most powerful people in the city, perhaps closer than he would like.


    Three of Cato¡¯s followers came running down the street towards them. It was unfair to call them villagers anymore; though they were all brought up in Inillo, they left it behind and managed to find a place for themselves in Anthusa. They wore the Orczy white-and-red and, officially, were no longer Cato¡¯s subjects. As citizens of Anthusa, they were no longer bound to the land but to the city itself and the authority of the Nine Governors in the tower.


    Of course, citizenship for three thousand people was bought with their service to the Orczy family. New members of the faction needed someone to organize and lead them. So they were freed from their old feudal obligations to Cato, and then given to Cato as subordinates whose service and loyalty he was tasked with managing. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.


    Given that their ¡®feudal obligation¡¯ to Cato was a sham from the beginning, it was rather convenient to have a more legitimate, legible bond between them to mask their belief that he was a living saint, but the irony did not escape him.


    ¡°Francesco, Mirtilio, Diogo!¡± Cato called out to the three young men, strapping and proud in the Orczy uniforms.


    ¡°Lieutenant Cato, sir!¡± They stopped, lined up, and saluted. He let Enzo step forward and correct their posture before giving them ease.


    ¡°What news, privates?¡±


    ¡°The archbishop made it in safely, sir.¡±


    ¡°I wish you could have seen it! All the knights were riding winged horses, and the archbishop rode an eagle-horse!¡±


    ¡°Hippogriff,¡± Enzo corrected.


    ¡°Right! They were carrying piles of gifts too, and when the gates opened we saw the gardens inside.¡±


    ¡°Just the smell of them, it was like being smothered in- erm!¡±


    ¡°Perfume, private?¡±


    ¡°Uh, yeah, um lieutenant. Sir!¡±


    Enzo cracked up with laughter, and even Cato had to stifle a grin. As much as they liked to pretend, these boys were a long way from being real soldiers.


    For their sakes, Cato hoped that day could wait a long, long time.


    ? ? ?


    ¡°Are you serious?¡±


    Abbreviator Caro Alidosi was rarely anything but serious. The stark, plain decorations of his office, on the eighteenth floor of the Golden Rose Order¡¯s tower in Anthusa, did not clash with his personality. But sometimes those with little imagination assumed he was joking.


    He did not joke.


    ¡°Miss Checco, I-¡±


    ¡°Chekodorovna.¡±


    ¡°Miss Checco. I am serious. The advance will be transferred to your account as soon as you agree to the job. I assure you, both the instructions and the reward are real.¡±


    Lio Chekodorovna was not a trusting woman. That would be a foolish quality in a career criminal.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t my specialty, Alidosi.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t sell yourself short. You¡¯ve pilfered larger items. The porphyry columns in Achae were your handiwork, were they not?¡±


    ¡°This is a kidnapping, Alidosi. You¡¯re asking me to ¡®pilfer¡¯ a child, not some Orczy jewels.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not opposed to taking some jewels if you can. Consider it a bonus.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t my kind of job! What part of that don¡¯t you get?¡±


    ¡°The part where any job that pays off the ransom is your kind of job.¡± Alidosi shuffled through some of his letters. ¡°What was the price on Kiyel¡¯s ransom again? Five thousand gold anthems?¡±


    It was six thousand. He just liked watching uppity thieves squirm.


    ¡°You know better than I do that Petron isn¡¯t very stable. No telling when a new faction might take power. One that would rather hang prisoners at the gibbet than sell them back to their families.¡±


    He pointed down at the instructions again. Four thousand gold anthems, half up front. If she sold everything else she had, she might scrape together just enough money to buy back her older sister from the gibbet.


    To her, it was a colossal sum of money. To the Order of the Golden Rose and their backers in the royal court of Fleur, it was chump change. To her, it was the price of seeing her sister again. To them, it was the cost of a little girl¡¯s freedom.


    And she could get it all with just one night¡¯s work.


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll do it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear, Miss Checco.¡±


    She stormed out of the office a minute later, a bloody thumbprint and her name upon the contract. Was it hypocritical to deprive Teresa Forna of her freedom to gain back her sister¡¯s? Absolutely. But that hardly mattered anymore.

 Dance of Control (+ announcement!)

    Though he rarely had time to visit, Archbishop Iskander Forna doted on his little niece. It wasn¡¯t easy growing up without knowing her father, and it only became harder without her mother nearby. The Orczy provided protection and guaranteed she had the best education possible, a rigorous and perfect upbringing as her mother wished. That left the archbishop in the perfect position to spoil her a little.


    The common loving uncle might pass his nieces and nephews some sweets and toys behind their parents¡¯ backs. A merely wealthy and influential uncle might provide their relatives with titles, sinecures, and luxuries. But only he could force the city¡¯s upper crust, from the church to the guilds to the aristocracy, to bow and scrape in front of a child.


    He had to admit, Otto really outdid himself with the party this year. Poor Teresa had been gloomy ever since Julia got sent up into the tower, but even so her studies proceeded flawlessly and her behavior was circumspect. That deserved a reward. Hiring a traveling circus to set up shop in the castle plaza was a good start. A flock of well-behaved pegasi and a hippogriff prancing on the green was better. A colossal train of well-wishers stretching from the main house to the gates, a who¡¯s-who of Anthusan society, all bringing delightful gifts? That was something only Iskander Forna could provide.


    Guildmasters in all their finery marched with a parade of artisans behind them, each carrying an enviable masterpiece. Priests, monks, and nuns processed with rare illuminated books and reliquaries. Nobility from Anthusa, other states on Vintal, and from other worlds all bore lavish gifts: jeweled dueling blades, fashionable dresses woven from spidersilk with a unicorn-hair trim, potions and alchemic materials invaluable for cultivation.


    There were many lesser gifts as well, mere gold and gems, furniture, perfumes, cosmetics, and the like, which were shown off at some distance and conveyed directly into the Orczy vaults. The guests carrying these gifts didn¡¯t even get to see Teresa through the sea of supplicants, nor did they linger at the party, but their presence was noted with approval. For these people of lesser standing to ignore the archbishop¡¯s invitation would have been disastrous. The wealthier and more important guests were allowed to walk in a column that snaked through the luscious Orczy gardens, with its glistening rose bushes and tree-frog arboreta and rainbow-hued fountains, and passed by a raised platform separated from the procession by a high fence. Atop that platform sat the lady of the hour herself, Teresa Forna, with her tutor and nursemaid in the shadows behind, a fluffy, white, ¡®wild¡¯ bunny munching lettuce in her lap, and the archbishop next to her, the two playing with dolls.


    Every so often, a gift would catch Teresa¡¯s eye. The parade would stop and the bearer of that gift would walk up the steps, past rows of armed Orczy guards, to introduce themselves, meet the birthday girl, and present the gift personally. It should go without saying that this was a deeply humiliating arrangement which everyone was forced to pretend was actually a profound honor. These were not people accustomed to putting themselves up for judgment, less so that of a child, and at almost any other occasion every single guest would be the one sitting down, with supplicants coming to them. This was an outrageous position, one which communicated the archbishop¡¯s intentions precisely.


    Despite being born of a forced marriage to one of high society¡¯s most despised characters, despite the influence and power of her father¡¯s side having quite literally gone up in smoke, the Forna family was not going to disinherit Teresa or lower her standing. Despite the Forna family¡¯s apparently reduced influence, Iskander Forna still possessed more than enough power to bring Anthusa to heel. All the schemers in the city, especially in the church, who had attempted to cut the young archbishop off from his support networks and make a puppet out of him had been crushed quickly, subtly, and decisively. When the Holy City fell and Anthusa once again smelled Forna blood in the water, the archbishop made a public spectacle of conspirators and hung their skeletons from the lower floors of the Cathedral Severe¡¯s tower.


    Forna power was not broken. Forna ambition was not broken. The Forna dynasty was not broken. His intentions were perfectly clear. Teresa would be a queen, and long after the name ¡®Tenorio Kyno¡¯ was forgotten she would rule with a golden scepter. That path began with a proper education and upbringing, yes, but also by setting expectations: hers, and those of others.


    ¡°Look uncle, a bunny!¡±


    She pointed to the Anthusa Goldsmith¡¯s guild delegation. At the front marched a mousy little man with thick pince-nez carrying¡­ a bunny rabbit prancing on a green field. Archbishop Forna blinked, and only after looking with his superior senses was he convinced that it wasn¡¯t alive.


    It wasn¡¯t merely a lifelike sculpture: though it was still, his instincts insisted that it was alive, merely frozen in time.


    The archbishop raised his hand and the column stopped. The mousy man rose to the platform, squirming under the gaze of so many guards, and placed his masterwork on the table in front of them.


    ¡°It is my honor to meet you, Lady Teresa. I am Master Chervin, of the Arjou Jewelers¡¯ guild, and it is my pleasure to present my masterwork.¡± He spoke with a thick Fleurish accent and crisp, practiced words.


    ¡°Uncle, uncle, Arjou is in Fleur!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right Teresa. When did you get so smart?¡±


    She giggled as the archbishop squeezed her cheek. From the shadows behind, her tutor stepped forward for the first time in the whole day. While he didn¡¯t have the same gravitas as the archbishop, Chervin could tell that this man possessed great dignity and authority completely at odds with his position.


    ¡°The young lady has a good eye, your Excellency. This jewel has developed an animal soul in imitation of its shape. I dare say, I¡¯ve seen very few pieces of similar quality before.¡±


    Chervin knew better than to protest and ask where this scholar might have possibly seen anything of similar quality before. He knew better. Even if he really, really wanted to ask.


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    The archbishop took it gingerly in his hand, and it took all of Chervin¡¯s self-control not to break out in jittery sweats.


    ¡°Oh my. The grasses are emerald, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    Chervin made the right choice, clearly the archbishop was a man of refinement and good judgment.


    ¡°And what is this jewel, some kind of violet sapphire?¡±


    No, he was a philistine of the lowest grade!


    ¡°It is zoisite, your Excellency. The unique color is due to an admixture of vanadium. Much rarer than sapphire.¡±


    The archbishop looked it over again, even more carefully. Even Teresa¡¯s pet rabbit was looking at it like it wanted to play.


    ¡°It is as you say, Rosso. I¡¯ve scarcely ever seen a more beautiful piece. However¡­¡±


    No no no, there couldn¡¯t possibly be anything wrong with it.


    ¡°The gold setting is rather uneven. I daresay, it throws the whole thing off. Who did this?¡±


    Chervin could feel the entire Goldsmith¡¯s guild staring daggers into his back.


    ¡°It was an apprentice of the Goldsmith¡¯s guild here in Anthusa, your Excellency.¡±


    That wasn¡¯t a lie, strictly speaking. Was it possible to kill a man by staring at him very, very hard? Chervin decided it was within the realm of possibility.


    ¡°But please, do not place the blame on them, your Excellency. I chose the apprentice myself, and it was my own poor judge of talent that led to this state.¡±


    Teresa pulled on the archbishop¡¯s sleeve.


    ¡°Uncle, this is so boooooring! Can I go ride the eagle-horsie?¡±


    ¡°Of course, dearest. Let¡¯s go ride together.¡±


    He placed the masterwork back in Chervin¡¯s hands.


    ¡°Send it back to the guild and have Master Agnolo redo the setting, then deliver the final product to Duke Orczy.¡±


    With that, the archbishop hefted his niece and her bunny into the air and made for the hippogriff on the green. Chervin felt like a house one load-bearing column away from collapse. He had avoided disaster, but he dreaded so much as turning around and looking at the goldsmiths¡¯ smug faces.


    The tutor¡¯s gentle hand rested on his shoulder.


    ¡°You look pale, Master Chervin. Why don¡¯t you take a seat with us?¡±


    That sense of steady dignity washed over him again, and Chervin walked to the table in the shade as if floating on a cloud. With a wave of the tutor¡¯s hand, the procession carried on, and without Teresa¡¯s interruptions it would run its course within the hour.


    ¡°Tell me, Master Chervin, do you already have plans to return to Fleur?¡±


    ¡°Oh no, er, I don¡¯t, um-¡±


    ¡°Relax. You may call me Rosso.¡±


    ¡°O-of course. I do not have any such plans, Lord Rosso.¡±


    The nursemaid tittered behind her sleeve, and even the tutor cracked a smile on what Chervin now perceived as a constitutionally sad face.


    ¡°I¡¯m very glad to hear that, Master Chervin. Tell me, are you at all familiar with Almonoides¡¯ treatise on the nature of partial souls?¡±


    Chervin¡¯s heart leapt.


    ¡°Of course! I read the fragments preserved in Catlos¡¯ On the Transcendent a hundred times while I was working on my piece. I can only grieve that the full text is lost.¡±


    The tutor Rosso beamed.


    ¡°Then you will be glad to know that a copy of the full text was uncovered a few years back. I¡¯ve just recently completed a Vintic translation, and I was hoping to arrange for a Fleurish translation as well, but I was lacking a proper proofreader. Would you mind coming next week to look over a few proofs?¡±


    The answer was obvious. What else could Chervin say?


    ? ? ?


    Myra tucked Teresa into bed just an hour past sundown. Between the gifts, the hippogriff ride, and all the cake, she was thoroughly tuckered out. But she always had enough energy to ask more questions.


    ¡°Myra, can we go outside tomorrow? I want to see the city.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s so good about the city, Terisita? All the best things are in here?¡±


    ¡°No! Mama isn¡¯t here!¡±


    ¡°Lady Julia has hard work to do. I promise it¡¯s very boring.¡±


    ¡°I hear there¡¯s fighting outside!¡±


    ¡°Fighting it an ugly thing, Terisita. It¡¯s not very ladylike to go watch fights.¡±


    ¡°But I wanna!¡±


    ¡°When your mother comes back, you can ask her, how about that?¡±


    Teresa was quiet for a long time.


    ¡°Will she be back when I turn six?¡±


    Myra embraced her.


    ¡°Your mama will be back as soon as she can.¡±


    ¡°And Mr Otto?¡±


    ¡°Mr. Otto is very sorry he couldn¡¯t be here today. He¡¯s a very busy man, you know.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m busy too, but I ALWAYS go say hello to him when he comes back!¡±


    ¡°I know, Teresita. I know.¡±


    She fell asleep in Myra¡¯s arms, and she expertly extracted herself without disturbing so much as a hair on her head.


    It was hard, growing up without her father. Harder with her mother locked away where they couldn¡¯t meet. Duke Orczy had decided Teresa wouldn¡¯t step a foot outside the castle walls until she was grown up. He also decided that any mention of the plague was forbidden in front of her.


    Teresa was fortunate in every other possible way. Immensely fortunate. The Duke was already more of a father to her than the bastard Kyno had ever been. It was only a matter of time before her adoption was official.


    That would make her happy, Myra thought.


    As she was about to blow out the last candle, a wrapped box with a bow caught her eye. They hadn¡¯t opened presents in the bedroom earlier, had they? Maybe when Myra was speaking with Rosso?


    Two long, thin, black-clad arms reached out of the box like a greater spider, wrapping around Myra¡¯s throat and lifting her wholly body off the ground. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. She tried to fight, but she couldn''t get leverage.


    She would have summoned her power and blasted the whole room to smithereens in an instant if Teresa wasn¡¯t so close. That moment of hesitation sealed her fate.


    Fast-acting contact poison spread through her bloodstream from ten points, and reached her brain in moments. After less than ten seconds, Myra, nursemaid and bodyguard at the third realm of alchemic transformation, fell soundlessly to the floor.


    The present¡¯s top opened, and Lio Chekodorovna unfolded like a contortionist. Bodyguard down. Target in sight.


    The gentle coo of a sleeping hippogriff sounded from outside the window.


    Escape plan confirmed. Commence operation.

 Fight of Your Life Part 1

    A loud cheer rose up from the throats of every man in the Orczy guard. The sun fell an hour earlier, and with all the day¡¯s guests gone, it was time for the guards to have some celebrations of their own. Dozens of tables piled high with fruits, meat, bread, and spices were assembled outside of the compound gates, and every man had a goblet of wine forced into his hand.


    That very much included the young and newly-minted lieutenant Cato of Inillo and his subordinates. The three boys, Privates Francesco, Mirtilio, and Diogo, gamboled about on the cobbled streets and drank their fill, entertaining their peers of more urban origin with stories and tricks only country boys knew. Sergeant Remiro kept a careful watch, mostly to ensure that they didn¡¯t try anything risky, like knocking apples off each others¡¯ heads with their clubs, and allowed Cato to take on the socializing and schmoozing such an event demanded.


    ¡°And then-!¡± Cato had a wild, enthusiastic look about him, with a wide grin and a rising voice, ¡°he shows up at the archbishop¡¯s door, begging him to¡­ to¡­ Enzo, what was it?¡±


    The flush-faced older sergeant howled, ¡°to cure-¡±


    ¡°HIS SYPHILIS!¡± The two ended together, and joined in loud and lusty cackles. Cato put an arm around Enzo, pretending to be more drunk than he really was, and his compatriot did the same as he almost collapsed into wheezing coughs.


    Yes, this was the stuff camaraderie was made of. In the hours since duty began earlier that day to this nighttime feast, he had succeeded in navigating the suspicions of his fellow guards, especially that of his ¡®subordinate¡¯ Enzo, and was sharing a raucous time eating, drinking and jesting with them with no awkwardness at all.


    It wasn¡¯t over, not by a long shot. Remiro did not underestimate how slow to trust these people were, surrounded by spies and conspiracies aimed at their charges, but with today¡¯s activities he was well on his way to earning their confidence.


    The clamor wound down to silence as Captain Apostolis rose from his seat and banged a mailed hand on the long-suffering table. He was a nobleman through and through, born to a family which had served under the Orczy for generations, and was one of the Duke¡¯s most trusted servants. Remiro had drilled Cato in the rudiments of aristocratic manners, and he knew that in any courtly setting such a display would be the height of boorishness. But Apostolis was also a leader, and his people were of common blood. He knew when to drop manners and bang the table rather than ring a silver spoon against his glass.


    Remiro admired the captain¡¯s acumen deeply, and commented as much to Cato on several occasions. Cato thought it was a bit condescending, but he kept those thoughts to himself. The morals and rules he learned in his past life¡­ it¡¯s not that they didn¡¯t matter exactly. He wasn¡¯t about to give up who he was. But spouting them off was bound to get him in trouble.


    ¡°Gentlemen of Orczy-¡± a great, roaring laugh came up, and he silenced it with a hand. ¡°You¡¯ve all worked hard these last few months.¡±


    ¡°The Kolonn bastards have been bold, but you¡¯ve been bolder! This feast is Duke Orczy¡¯s gift to each and every one of you loyal men.¡±


    He banged his fist on the table once, twice, thrice more.


    ¡°We will not be cowed! We will not be defeated! The archbishop and the Forna family stand with us!¡±


    A drunk, wavering voice rose from the crowd. ¡°Long live Holy Son Fulminous!¡± The crowd stirred, and Captain Apostolis banged the table again, which seemed quite close to splintering, drawing attention back to him as the offender was hidden from sight.


    ¡°The archbishop said today that the Holy City shall be rebuilt, and the Holy Son¡¯s friends in Anthusa shall not go without reward. This is the first of many feats to come. Hail!¡±


    ¡°HAIL! HAIL!¡± The deafening roar was silenced only when the guards slugged back their wine.


    Cato joined them. Two self-declared Holy Sons, one on the planet Achae and the other on Fleur, both contending for a throne which had been reduced to ash. Outside of a few hardliners, few of the great factions of Anthusa, let alone all of Vintal and the worlds beyond, had declared unified support for one candidate or another. The Orczy were no exception. This was a time to test the waters, learn the lay of the land, and secure concessions in exchange for support. It was to everyone¡¯s benefit if the candidates could be kept in some suspense, so that they would not be too secure in their victory. If some consensus was reached among the great powers, all the better, though the longer that was kept secret, the more concessions might be won.


    But against the logic of high politics stood the unease of the common people. A plague on Vintal, a city in ashes, and a faith divided made for worrisome times. Yet it was precisely because of this that the great unaligned masses fled to the protection of the Orczy and Kolonn factions. They begged for succor from the same powers that prolonged the uncertainty to their own benefit. And despite being very far from the high nobility at present, Cato was very well positioned to benefit himself.


    It was enough to drive any sane man to drink.


    ¡°Barrel¡¯s all tapped out!¡± Enzo¡¯s voice rose up from over the din. ¡°Lieutenant!¡±


    ¡°On it!¡±


    Cato swigged the last of the wine in his goblet and accompanied the sergeant. Two streets down and to the left, the closest tavern to the Orczy estate was lit up with lamps and candles, the sweet melodies of lutes swimming through the air. Young and old danced inside and spilled over into the street, but they parted for the two officers. The Duke¡¯s generosity did not extend only to his own men: dozens of taverns in the city managed by friendly faces were feasting with them, and many churches under their control were giving alms, food, and medicine.


    Flushed commoners cheered him on, and no small number snuck in smiles and meaningful glances. The barman had another barrel of wine ready before they even arrived, though neither was able to leave before the whole tavern started up a drinking song in their honor. It took eight verses before they were able to escape, rolling the barrel up the busy street back to the festivities.


    ¡°Enjoying yourself, Cato?¡±


    ¡°Lieutenant,¡± Cato responded, but the grin on his face wasn¡¯t false. It felt good in a way that the praise of Inillo¡¯s villagers didn¡¯t. To be feasted and celebrated, not alone, but as part of a group. Entirely despite himself, he was starting to think of himself and the other guards as ¡®we.¡¯


    A roar of approval came up as they turned the corner and a dozen thirsty lushes ran down to carry the barrel over to the tables. Cato saw Captain Apostolis¡¯ face turn towards them. What were the emotions written there? Satisfaction, happiness, pride? There was a gentle look as well, and acceptance. He was one of the first people Cato met in Anthusa. Their relationship had been entirely mercenary, and on paper it still was. Yet Cato couldn¡¯t help but feel that some real trust and appreciation had grown between them in the last months as well.


    Then Cato registered the crossbow bolt buried, still trembling, in the captain¡¯s throat.


    He fell back in shock, crushing a table piled high with food and drink, and the sound of splintering wood and shattered glass woke the crowd from its stupor.


    A split second later, Cato felt a spiked club strike his back, its impact breaking two vertebrae and the points tearing apart muscle.


    He wasn¡¯t injured. He knew well enough how to distinguish his own pain from that of his followers. With an exertion of will that had nearly become instinctual, he traced the pain back to its source. Down the street, just around the corner, from the opposite direction as the crossbow bolt.


    ¡°We¡¯re under attack!¡±


    He didn¡¯t need to see the red-and-gold to know the Kolonn family was behind this. Without waiting for a command, he unsheathed his blade and rushed to the corner where Diogo lay still on the street. Mirtilio and Francesco yelled and held the thugs at bay with their own clubs, but these boys were not experienced fighters. Only their desire to protect Diogo¡¯s body kept them from breaking and fleeing at once.


    But they held out long enough for Cato to arrive. There were six enemy uniforms flashing in the half-light, and he powered toward them with blind fury. Two lay on the street in short order, as a sword infused with power cleft their mail and left cruel tears in their flesh.


    Their compatriots held on a little longer, but Sergeant Enzo was just a few steps behind, and he piled into the thugs with reckless abandon, getting inside the reach of their clubs and chopping savagely with an axe.


    In terms of pure physical ability, Enzo couldn¡¯t hold a candle to Cato. He¡¯d only just broken through to the second realm, while Cato was certain the body he¡¯d inherited had been in the second realm for years, if not decades. The older sergeant wasn¡¯t even able to use all of his body¡¯s newfound power at present.


    But there was no substitute for real battle experience and¡ªCato found himself thinking¡ª??a frankly psychotic disregard for life and limb matched only by a desire to see his enemies bleed.


    As Enzo held off the others, Cato knelt down by Diogo¡¯s still form. He was alive and breathing, but that cowardly strike from behind had paralyzed the young man. Without hesitation, he pulled off a glove and tore the blood-covered shirt away, then pressed his bare hand directly into the open wound and pushed energy directly inside.


    Diogo didn¡¯t so much as twitch. Cato was glad the boy was spared a little more pain, but that meant the damage was much more than he could heal quickly. Even getting those legs moving again would require much more time than they had.


    Even as this end of the street was reinforced, yells came from all around the Orczy estate.


    ¡°Look there! In the sky!¡±


    Not only were they being surrounded, but Cato caught sight of a hippogriff flying low over the city, away from the Orczy compound, with a slim silhouette riding atop it.


    But he couldn¡¯t even give that his full attention. Back down the street, where the captain¡¯s body fell, one of the civilians was cowering.


    With a knife in his hand.


    Cato rushed over, not even stopping to pick up his blade, and threw himself against the man. Instead of falling over, he spun to the side and turned his blade against Cato. He backed away and reached forward to grab the assassin¡¯s wrist, but barely avoided a slice at his face as his opponent wormed out of the grapple.


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    This wasn¡¯t just another Kolonn thug. They¡¯d sent one of their lieutenants to finish the job.


    Enzo was still leading the defense up the street. His other peers, everyone who could help him overwhelm the assassin, was keeping the larger ambush force at bay. Not only might backup not arrive quickly enough, calling for any might confuse and break defenses elsewhere.


    The assassin wove back and forth, leaving Cato guessing what he should defend. Cato feinted, leaving himself open, and his opponent took the opportunity to strike his heart with a powerful overhead swing. He was ready, and stopped the blade in time, but not before the point dug through his armor and skin. The two wrestled, the knife drawing a shallow cut across Cato¡¯s torso before he managed to push away.


    Should he attack with his soul? Chances were good that his opponent focused on physical strength over spiritual development. But he wasn¡¯t good enough at controlling it yet. If he unleashed it now and struck the captain by accident, he might as well have done the assassin¡¯s job for him.


    So they wrestled in the dark, neither one giving an inch. Then the assassin cried out in pain and slipped. Cato wasted no time, knocking the knife from his hand and thrusting it under the ribcage.


    That wasn¡¯t enough to kill a warrior in the second realm immediately. Even with a pierced lung and, Cato expected, a severed aorta, he kept wrestling with Cato, trying in vain to take back the knife. So he kept pushing and twisting, virtually crushing his opponent¡¯s body in a bloody bear hug until he fell to the ground, pale and limp.


    Only then did Cato realize that the assassin¡¯s heel was sliced open, and Captain Apostolis lay on the ground with a bloody dagger in his fist.


    ¡°Captain!¡±


    Cato¡¯s superior reached toward his neck and tore out the bolt. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ fine. Poisoned. Need¡­ to purge it.¡±


    A warrior firmly in the second realm of alchemic transformation could keep fighting for a few minutes with severe injuries. In the third realm, meanwhile, one became nearly impervious to most weapons and gained an incredible level of bodily control, cutting off blood flow to injured areas and burning out toxins.


    The wind whistled through a hole in Captain Apostolis¡¯ throat with every word, but he wasn¡¯t even bleeding. That poison probably wasn¡¯t even expected to kill him, just slow him down and distract him long enough for their assassin to bury a knife in his brain or heart.


    ¡°Help me up. Which way did the hippogriff go?¡±


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    ¡°The rider was holding a child.¡±


    Cato¡¯s blood froze. There weren¡¯t too many children inside the Orczy compound. One guess which one merited a kidnapping backed up by a whole Kolonn squadron.


    ¡°But, why?¡±


    ¡°Oh for- which way!?¡± he half-spoke, half-whistled.


    ¡°West.¡±


    The captain rested his weight on Cato and stuck his thumb in the puncture wound. With a hoarse voice that made Cato shiver, he shouted.


    ¡°Men! These bastards have kidnapped Teresa, follow west!¡±


    Even as he spoke, another rider cleared the compound walls, a silhouette with a saber drawn atop a night-black pegasus.


    A powerful aura fell over the surrounding streets, and for the first time in many weeks Cato was viscerally reminded of Benicio Cecchini¡¯s presence blocking the road. This time, though, it filled him with vigor and aggression, and all throughout the streets the Orczy men rushed forth even as their enemies shrank back. The aura faded swiftly and the rider flew out of sight with just a few powerful flaps of the pegasus¡¯ wings, but the tide of the battle turned.


    ¡°Borca! Sirio! Enzo! To me!¡± The captain¡¯s ragged voice swept through the streets, and three of the captain¡¯s most capable soldiers joined his side.


    ¡°Follow the Duke on foot! Enzo, hold me steady.¡±


    Cato gingerly transferred the captain into the care of the older sergeant, and rushed ahead with the other lieutenants. Far from having to slow down, in their company he needed to work hard keeping up, as they leapt from roof to roof in order to keep the low-flying pegasus in sight against the night sky.


    They were just passing the tower of the Order of the Golden Rose when a javelin flew past Cato¡¯s face. He dodged, but went tumbling off the side of the building at high speed. Though he recovered and rolled to his feet just after hitting the ground, he didn¡¯t even have a second before a spearman descended, forcing him back.


    Both of his fellow lieutenants were engaged with enemies of their own, and these were no simple thugs; each was as skilled as the assassin from earlier.


    Lieutenant Borca drove his assailant off with a kick and shouted ¡°Form up!¡± Cato and Lieutenant Sirio rushed to his position, aiding each other in defense, but they were already tired from the fighting earlier, while their present opponents were fresh.


    Not only were they fresh, they weren¡¯t wearing Kolonn colors.


    The three created some distance from their opponents and stood their ground. They didn¡¯t need to win here, just stall until the rest of the force arrived.


    ¡°What midden did you crawl out from, you bastards? We¡¯ll rip you apart!¡±


    A low chuckle spread from their three opponents.


    They weren¡¯t even armored. They wielded spears, staves, and axes, but their clothes looked more similar to clergy robes than anything else.


    ¡°Look at that, this whelp is trying to scare us!¡±


    ¡°Wanna switch? I¡¯ll chop him to pieces?¡±


    ¡°Fuck off, he¡¯s mine.¡±


    ¡°Do you idiots have time to waste like this?¡±


    A cold aura spread out over the street. Candlelights in windows snuffed out and doors were locked tight as a fourth silhouette stepped out from the darkness. At the same time, Enzo and Captain Apostolis arrived from behind the lieutenants, a stream of soldiers behind them.


    ¡°It seems that your stalling has lost us precious time. Finish this quickly, then join me.¡±


    ¡°Yes boss!¡± Responded the three assailants.


    This newcomer bore no weapons, and looked much less like a warrior than a priest. Yet his presence seemed to cut directly through Cato¡¯s defenses and filled his bones with a chill. This was undoubtedly an attack using his soul, and though this man¡¯s power didn¡¯t seem that much greater than Cato¡¯s, everything about him bespoke great skill and confidence.


    ¡°Alidosi, you worm!¡±


    Captain Apostolis stepped unsteadily onto his own feet and walked toward the fight.


    ¡°Captain. You cannot imagine my disappointment in having to meet you again.¡±


    ¡°Not even bothering to hide your treachery? I¡¯ll have you strung up and torn to pieces!¡±


    The newcomer only smiled, and raised his hand.


    A wave of power thrummed through the air, and seemed to knock the captain back a step. Cato felt the clash of their souls, and it was clear that Alidosi possessed far more experience with this type of conflict.


    ¡°You overestimate yourself, Captain. I came more than prepared to end you and your men tonight.¡±


    ¡°The Duke-¡±


    ¡°The Duke will meet the same fate shortly.¡±


    A flash like lightning and a crash like thunder splitting stone arose, just a few blocks to the west.


    ¡°Speak of the Devil. That ought to be him dying now.¡±


    ¡°You little-¡±


    Alidosi didn¡¯t even face the captain. ¡°If you can¡¯t slaughter them all with my suppression, I¡¯ll have you three cleaning out stables for the rest of your lives. Go!¡±


    ¡°Sir!¡±


    The three assailants rushed forward with spear, staff, and axe. They faced not just the three lieutenants, but the injured captain, Enzo, and dozens of Orczy men. Yet an oppressive weight came down over all of them, and only the strongest of the force held on with enough strength to resist their onslaught. The captain took enough punishment for any two of them, but between his sluggish speed and the darkening veins around his eyes and neck, Cato clearly saw he hadn¡¯t finished purging the poison.


    Meanwhile, that man, Alidosi, stood back, completely sure of his own safety. Cato fended off the spear-wielder again, but even with Enzo¡¯s help they were barely holding on.


    They were going to lose. Everyone here was fighting with everything they had, but they were still going to lose.


    No, that wasn¡¯t quite true. Cato wasn¡¯t giving everything he could.


    He could attack with his soul as well, but while these warriors would probably be vulnerable to it, they were too close to his allies. Alidosi was alone, but he was skilled enough to resist Cato¡¯s attack and even fight back.


    He needed another way out.


    He switched with Enzo and yelled ¡°Cover me!¡± Then he rushed forward at Alidosi, blade held high.


    Cato had spent a lot of time lately learning about the nature of souls, and especially his own.


    The spear sliced clean though his side.


    ¡°Eyes on me, fucker!¡±


    He knew its parts, where different kinds of impulses came from, and how to speak with them.


    The stab in the back that should have ended his life missed by a country mile. That was Enzo for you.


    That was the most important thing when crossing from the second to the third realm of the soul. You needed to know yourself well enough to reshape it into something else, a vessel for something greater.


    Alidosi set his eyes on the reckless young man and smiled like a hungry wolf.


    Reshaping was the essence of the third realm, and invitation was the essence of the fourth. Cato still wasn¡¯t ready to reshape his soul. But he knew enough about how it ought to be done.


    Steel flashed in the night, and Cato staggered, impaled on the priest¡¯s sword.


    Enough to know just how dangerous this was, and, frankly, stupid.


    Cato felt an ethereal hand on his shoulder, like a cool spring, like a brother¡¯s touch. Telling him not to risk this.


    It was right. He shouldn¡¯t. But he did it anyway.


    ¡°Pray, fool boy. I¡¯ll give you that small mercy.¡±


    Cato drew energy into his soul, infusing it, saturating it. It was like seeing the grooves and shapes of something he had only ever touched without seeing. It was under immense pressure, at once solid and yet soft. He felt it tremble, briefly become pliable. He was supposed to work it into a thing of truth, wrought from himself.


    ¡°What are you-¡±


    The pressure in his body broke loose, energy blasting out through the gap he made for it. In the brief moment that this volatile, malleable power broke free of him like a river, he grasped part of it, worked it into a thing of spite and anger and threw it.


    It was like a bomb detonating in the ocean, making only a slight ripple on the surface. The rest of the combatants hardly noticed it.


    But even as Alidosi was trying to recall his power, to shield himself from this utterly reckless assault, it tore through his defenses and carved a wound inside him.


    The oppressive weight all of a sudden lifted from the battlefield. The priest bled from the eyes, nose, and ears, and he and Cato fell into a heap on the ground, the latter still impaled.


    ? ? ?


    Cato awoke with a terrible wound in his gut and a horrific numbness. Something was broken inside of him. Maybe irreparably.


    It was still nighttime. He was still lying on the stone. He wasn¡¯t dead or healed, so he could have only been out for a few moments.


    ¡°Cato! Cato!¡±


    Sergeant Enzo was shaking him, and it was only making all of his wounds worse.


    ¡°What kind of fool magic was that? Are you trying to get yourself killed?¡±


    Cato didn¡¯t so much look around as lazily allow his eyeballs to move. The battle was over. Two of the mystery assailants lay dead, along with no small number of Orczy casualties. Alidosi¡¯s body lay nearby, still breathing, but not likely to wake up anytime soon.


    ¡°Sit up, lieutenant!¡±


    A hard smack nearly snapped Cato¡¯s head off. He was about to complain, but two hands like steel grabbed his face, and his vision focused on the captain.


    ¡°Can you stand?¡±


    Cato nodded, feeling very far away from whatever situation he was in. The captain hefted him up, and the Orczy men felt a ripple of power from the west, right where the lightning bolt fell just a minute earlier.


    An immense smile spread over the captain¡¯s blood-splattered face. ¡°It¡¯s the Duke! He¡¯s doing it!¡±


    Enzo stepped forward to keep Cato steady. ¡°Doing what, sir?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s winning. On your feet, men! Unless you want to miss seeing the Duke ascend!¡±

 Fight of Your Life Part 2

    But what did become of Duke Otto Orczy?


    His meeting with the Runeguild ended unusually early, as the vice-guildmaster received some urgent news and postponed the meeting until further notice. It was still far too late to attend Teresa¡¯s birthday, but he hoped he might be able to speak with her before bed.


    All around the estate, the guards and servants drank their fill and celebrated. Within, all was clean and orderly, with the stablemasters just then putting the pegasi in for the night and the custodians putting away the last of the food and wine.


    Then there were screams. From every direction over the walls, guards yelled out drunken warnings and bodies fell to the ground.


    Otto Orczy extended his senses. The vast compound and the streets around unfolded before his second sight with an eagle¡¯s view. There were eight points of conflict, with Kolonn troops ambushing from every angle.


    But they hadn¡¯t gone after any of the entrances. Their forces were too spread out. It was like they were just trying to cause as much chaos as possible¡­


    Otto didn¡¯t stop moving as he focused his senses on Teresa¡¯s chambers. The scent of death spilled out through the ajar door.


    Myra lay dead on the floor. Young bruises on her neck. Contact poison in her blood.


    The window was open.


    And beyond it, from the dark, open green of the central courtyard, a hippogriff took flight. On its back was a black-clad figure, and in their arms was Teresa, still sound asleep.


    There was no time to raise the alarm, to armor himself, to grab any weapon other than the saber at his hip. Otto rushed out, jumped on the bare back of a tied-up black pegasus, severed its lead, and drove it into the sky.


    He swept around the perimeter of the compound, and everywhere he went his aura rolled over the battle like a deadly wave, empowering his followers and filling his foes with dread.


    Then he caught it.


    This kidnapper was a professional. Their aura was slight and subtle, and even the vigorous life of the hippogriff was concealed within it.


    But Teresa still wore the pendant he had given her years ago, and the tracking charm upon it still emitted a faint pulse. He swung the pegasus to the west and followed after that magical heartbeat, steady and slow even as his own heart and the flying beast¡¯s pounded in synchrony.


    Aerial chases were never easy. A skilled combatant on a trained mount could take advantage of movement in three dimensions, with sudden swoops and turns making engagement at distance a difficult prospect even if Otto had a crossbow with him. But it was worse in Anthusa. Anywhere else, he could simply rise high enough to get a clear line of sight to his target. In Anthusa, the City of Wonders, it was suicide to fly more than a hundred cubits above the ground. Millennia of magical defenses around the Tower of the Cathedral Severe kept unsleeping watch against whoever might try to infiltrate that bastion of Anthusa¡¯s liberty, and while the Tower itself possessed innumerable and devious defenses, the safeguards in the surrounding city were simple and deadly: anything larger than a pigeon that flew over the 100-cubit mark for more than a moment would be shot out of the sky and vaporized.


    His target knew that. In a city where half the buildings rose just up to that height and dozens of towers belonging to powerful families rose well above it, flight was not a free and open affair. Otto was speeding on through the dark night, mindful of the torchlight below marking out the shape of streets, constantly scanning to avoid crashing into the face of a tall building.


    But they didn¡¯t lose him. This was his city, and he knew its streets and alleys alike.


    He sent the poor beast into a sharp dive, and pulled it out just shy of the ground, then into a climb. He spurred it on and swung its reins hard to the left. Just as it was about to lose momentum it turned, its wings nearly perpendicular with the ground, and for a moment its heavy hooves tramped on the wall of a church before it jumped off and turned right-way up once again.


    His own legs aching from the effort of staying on without a saddle or harness, Otto whispered an apology to the beast and a prayer to the saints. But at last, his quarry was in front of him.


    They moved fast and low, and their aura covered virtually all signs of their passing. But there was no way to be totally invisible while hiding such a large life-form and flying at high speed.


    They spun and wove and swept between the buildings and towers. The hippogriff had certain advantages over the pegasus: it was smaller, nimbler, and more suited to dense and risky environments like this one. But it was also wilder, less accustomed to being ridden hard and obeying a rider, and didn¡¯t have the same kind of stamina as the pegasus. It was a curiosity, an exotic mount, not a beast of burden or war. Still, its native agility might have sufficed to make an escape, if not for the fact that it was being chased by Otto Orczy. Whatever their abilities as an infiltrator, this kidnapper didn¡¯t know Anthusa well, and wasn¡¯t an expert rider.


    Otto was.


    The thief¡¯s evasive maneuvers were predictable, and they were only thought out a few moves ahead. When they wheeled off to the right into a narrower, tall alley, Otto kept forward and spurred his steed with one more burst of speed. One turn, then another, and then he climbed, flying as close to the 100-cubit mark as he dared, synchronizing his heartbeat with the beast¡¯s, intermingling their auras, and thinking very, very quiet thoughts¡­


    And then there was open space. They had arrived at the Lords¡¯ square, right under the nose of the Tower. And true to form, his prey emerged from another street onto the square, flying low, just as he expected.


    Like a bird of prey he swooped down, his saber aloft, ready to strike down the rider in one blow. This black-clad woman, kidnapper and assassin, would die here and now.


    But he saw Teresa there, trussed up under the kidnapper¡¯s arm like a package, still, miraculously asleep.


    He could strike the kidnapper¡¯s head clean off without any danger. He could pluck Teresa from the air before she hit the ground. He¡¯d done more difficult, more dangerous things in flight before.


    Did he trust himself?


    Otto¡¯s saber twisted and struck the hippogriff¡¯s flank. The animal screeched and bucked, and its rider failed to regain control with just one hand on the reins. If this had been a duel, Otto would have given his opponent great honor for managing as well as she did. But in this moment he felt nothing but contempt.


    He swept around in a tight circle. The hippogriff twisted in the air, trying desperately to land even as its rider struggled with the reins. Otto charged forward again, his free hand ready to pull Teresa from the kidnapper¡¯s grasp.


    Only bare instinct saved his life.


    One moment he was bearing down on his prey, the next his mount was swerving away, and the steel lance point that missed his face by mere inches was like a dream, not experienced but only remembered.


    The hippogriff landed in a clash of limbs on the stone of the Lords¡¯ Square, the rider tumbling off and rolling, Teresa held tightly in her arms. But Otto couldn¡¯t focus on them.


    Circling in the air above him was another pegasus, a beautiful dappled gray war-steed, and upon it an armored knight with a beveled shield and a six-cubit lance. His face was hidden behind a grilled helm, and his heraldry was the blue rose.


    That said nothing, and everything. The blue rose was not the symbol of any house or order, but a declaration of anonymity. Those knights who wished to test themselves anonymously in tourneys or participate in battle without the benefit of their own name wore the blue rose.


    Heraldry existed to identify, to credit, and to intimidate. When the symbols of powerful houses flew, the weak stepped aside. The blue rose was an open challenge to try the nameless knight¡¯s skill directly.


    The two warriors circled the outer edge of the square, and Otto allowed his pegasus to catch its breath. They flew opposite one another once, twice, thrice. Otto held up his saber. Opposite a long lance, he was at a great disadvantage.


    His opponent held aloft the lance, and placed it in the ready position. Not my problem, that gesture said. Skill issue.


    Otto spat and kicked his pegasus with his bootheels. It swung to the center, head-on, and the blue rose knight flew to meet him.


    Otto breathed in and out with every pulse of the pegasus¡¯ wings. The anxiety of the night melted away into the one activity he had excelled in since childhood. The perfect, empty moments as two riders stared each other down. He felt as though every moment was suspended in time until he allowed it to pass, each breath, each pulse, each heartbeat a countdown to the inevitable collision.


    Within each moment the mind game of the joust was played. Would he dive to slice at the enemy¡¯s legs? Climb to strike at the head? Stay level? Would he create distance or close in, release tension or intensify? And what would his opponent do?


    The knight of the blue rose climbed suddenly and dipped his lance down, striking towards Otto Orczy¡¯s heart. Otto was already out of the way, a split-second swerve putting him well outside of the reach of his saber.


    They flew apart, and back to the edges of the square. Once, twice, thrice they circled, and joined anew.


    Ever since he was a child he¡¯d honed himself in this sport. It was dangerous. It was fun. It prepared him for adulthood, when he would take lives in the same way.


    This time Otto rose, early, too early, and the blue rose knight chased with the lance-point, aimed straight at the pegasus¡¯ vulnerable belly. But Otto judged the distances correctly, and the lance missed by inches.


    Most warriors wouldn¡¯t have made that mistake. They would have climbed as well as extending the lance. Inexperienced riders wouldn¡¯t have the coordination to perform both actions so quickly. Experienced riders would make that mistake if they were afraid, instinctually, unconsciously, irrationally, of being trampled by the climbing pegasus¡¯ hooves.


    They flew apart again. Once, twice, thrice, they circled.


    Otto had been practicing this ever since he was a child. And since he was a child, every summer without fail, there was one person he faced.


    They joined again. Otto swung to the right, putting both their beasts on a collision course. It was a typical mind game, a high-stakes game of chicken. It would have been, anyway, if he had started several seconds earlier.


    They were too close now. Too close for either of them to emerge unscathed even if they acted immediately. A full collision at this speed would kill both their mounts and maim both warriors at the very least.


    The blue rose knight froze. His mount panicked, and tried to change course.


    Otto swung back left at the very last moment. Instead of crashing head-to-head, their bodies crashed into one another at the side. Otto felt his leg get crushed by the impact, but his aim was steady.


    With a heavy sweep of his saber, charged with all the power he could muster, Otto cleft the lance in two right above its handle and struck the blue rose knight¡¯s shoulder.


    As their mounts screamed and both riders struggled to regain control, Otto turned his head. His booming voice filled the square.


    ¡°Give it up! You couldn¡¯t beat me in the air with a lance, and you sure as hell can¡¯t beat me with a sword. You were always a shit rider, KONRAD!¡±


    Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times, five they circled.


    The blue rose knight¡¯s helm fell to the stone below with a great ring, and Konrad Kolonn¡¯s fair locks fluttered about his much-too-handsome face.


    Both riders descended to earth, and their mounts virtually collapsed there. Lio Chekodorovna scrambled back to the high walls of the square, Teresa held tight in her arms, still under the effects of the sleep elixir. She knew better than to run now. Her best chance of survival, never mind getting paid, was to sit very, very still and not draw the attention of either man.


    They faced each other, now just a dozen paces apart. Otto¡¯s right leg was virtually ruined, but the third level of alchemic transformation was a wonderful thing. He was already sealing wounds, closing burst vessels, collecting and mending shattered bone. Everything below his knee might as well have been a bloody sausage, but it was still solid enough to bear some weight.


    Unfortunately, Konrad Kolonn was not in the same boat. His right greave was demolished and his chestpiece was deformed where Otto had struck, but he showed no difficulty or discomfort moving.


    Otto had really hoped the rumors of Konrad reaching the fourth stage of alchemic transformation were empty bluster, but it was not to be. At the third stage, one gained great resilience and conscious control over bodily processes. At the fourth, one began to wholly transcend the limits of flesh, purifying their physiques and becoming something more than human. Many warriors cultivated skin with the suppleness of flesh and the hardness of granite. Konrad must have done the same. It was just like him.


    A straight fight at this point would be a sure loss. Within half an hour, Otto could repair the damage to his leg entirely. Within a few minutes, he might be able to exchange a few blows on top of it.


    But he had more allies in the city, soldiers who were beating back the Kolonn threat at that very moment and would soon come to his aid. With enough backup and hostages, he could negotiate a temporary truce.


    He needed to stall.


    ¡°I never knew you to hide your pretty face behind a helmet, Konrad. Don¡¯t tell me; the scar¡¯s gotten worse.¡±


    Konrad tossed his hair and showed his left side. There on his cheek was the ghostly curve of a horseshoe, a reminder of when Otto¡¯s pegasus had trampled him on their 14th birthday. It was both of their 14th birthdays, actually. Two boys born on the same day to rival families. How could they avoid being compared?


    ¡°Your concern is misplaced, Otto. It wasn¡¯t for my benefit that I hid myself.¡±


    ¡°The Kolonn manners are as terrible as ever, I see. You should offer a duke proper deference, my good count.¡±


    ¡°Unlike your ducal grace¡¯s family, our prospects are not so damaged that we must thrust such a high position onto an untested brat.¡±


    ¡°An untested brat before whom you were afraid to show your face?¡±


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    ¡°You should be grateful to the old man, your Grace. He didn¡¯t want to make it quite so obvious when I trounced you in your own city.¡±


    ¡°Trounce me? By ambushing my men during a feast and kidnapping one of my GUESTS!?¡±


    Otto¡¯s voice rose and his aura flared. Lio pushed herself into the wall, wishing that she could just melt into it, and marveled that the little girl in her arms was still sound asleep.


    But Konrad wasn¡¯t pushed back. He showed no sign of being affected by the display at all, not even raising his own aura in opposition.


    ¡°I thought you would be glad to have that bastard Kyno¡¯s blood out of your household. Silly me, doing you a favor.¡±


    ¡°I need no favors from Kolonn scum. You kidnapped a guest from under my roof. Last I checked, Ursula¡¯s little friend still looks very poorly on breaches of hospitality. What do you suppose she will say next time you meet?¡±


    That put Konrad on the back foot. Though his face remained composed, Otto could almost feel the cold sweat under the armor.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you mean, your Grace. It was clearly that woman over there who offended your hospitality and trespassed against your guest.¡± He pointed at Lio, acknowledging her existence for the first time. The thief paled and began to tremble.


    Treachery! She should never have taken this job to begin with.


    ¡°Do you mean to say, my lord, that you were here by complete coincidence and just happened to joust with me as I was chasing down this criminal?¡±


    ¡°You took the words out of my mouth, your Grace. But I see no reason to let such an eyesore disturb our contest. In fact, allow me to remedy this matter.¡±


    Konrad drew his blade in a flash and slashed in Lio and Teresa¡¯s direction. A destructive wave lashed towards them, and Otto intercepted. The weight of it made his wrists numb and chipped the edge of his saber.


    ¡°My word! The Duke is defending the thief who kidnapped his own guest from righteous execution! What a scandal!¡±


    Konrad¡¯s grin broke out, unable to control the mirth in his voice.


    Otto turned back toward Lio.


    ¡°As of this moment, you are my prisoner. Understood?¡±


    Lio nodded weakly. So much for the other half of her payment.


    Otto stepped forward, his right leg still wobbling. It would have to do until help arrived.


    ¡°Leave Anthusa at once, Count Kolonn. Else I fear you will not be able to deal with the consequences.¡±


    Konrad pretended to mull this over. ¡°Hmmm. Not a chance.¡±


    The clock on the Tower of the Cathedral Severe struck the eleventh hour. Across the city, bells rang out, but in this square there was no bell, for the ringer was deathly afraid and dared not attract any attention from the scene below.


    ¡°I see I have taken rather too long. Well, your Grace, I must decline your generous invitation of cowardice and press my challenge.¡±


    A shadow came over his features, and Otto¡¯s stomach trembled.


    ¡°No holding back anymore, Orczy bastard.¡±


    Otto composed himself and stepped forward. His first step was met with terrific pressure. The second felt like walking through molasses. The third stopped dead, like it was buried in stone.


    He stared at Konrad in awe and terror.


    ? ? ?


    From the balcony of the second-highest floor of the Tower of the Cathedral Severe, Julia Forna looked out at the scene unfolding below.


    ¡°Julia¡­¡± Leo Manzi warned. He and Brother Tor were standing behind her, well-apprised of the night¡¯s events. There was static in the air, emanating from Julia¡¯s body, as if the very space around them was about to burst into violence.


    ¡°He¡¯s not ready,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°He¡¯s worked hard for a long time, Julia. He can at least hold out-¡±


    ¡°Kolonn is at the fourth stage of body and soul, now. In what world can Otto beat him?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not quite so dire, Julia,¡± Brother Tor interjected. ¡°Otto isn¡¯t far himself, he can-¡±


    ¡°So what if he can?!¡± she shouted. ¡°Teresa is down there! If either one of them fucks up, she¡¯ll get torn apart!¡±


    ¡°Have faith, Julia.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk to me about faith, Giorno.¡±


    She shut the two out of her mind. The Tower was made to keep people inside as well as keep others out. It was impregnable. Even Ursula and Iskander couldn¡¯t break through it.


    Then again¡­ in the last few hundred years, how many people had tried? For all anyone knew, maybe the Anthusans hadn¡¯t been doing maintenance on it for a while. Maybe it was never as strong as anyone said it was. That must be, it was just a bluff. She could tear her way out and stomp Konrad Kolonn¡¯s face into the ground, and rescue Teresa with her own hands, then-


    ¡°JULIA!¡±


    The coils of furious power emanating from Julia;s body dissipated in a flash. She turned at ¡®Brother¡¯ Giorno Tor in a rage, and he stared back at her impassively.


    Negation. Such an annoying ability.


    A telepathic voice tickled the back of her mind.


    Silly girl. If it was that easy to get out of here, wouldn¡¯t I have done it already?


    The blood froze in her veins. She stepped away from the balcony and rushed back inside.


    Leo Manzi stepped in front of her. ¡°Julia, I-¡±


    She socked him in the face, hard. Far behind, she heard his swearing, but she just ran to her room and locked the door behind her.


    Don¡¯t run, little girl.


    A great maw of teeth breathed down her neck.


    Entertain me.


    Julia rushed to her footlocker. Under clothes, correspondence, and books, in a hollowed-out copy of the Thirty-Nine Travesties, waited a rounded stone tablet the size of her palm.


    This was a device that allowed exactly one telepathic communication, once, to a single person. A trifle. A toy by the standards of magical artificing.


    Within the Tower, it was also bleedingly illegal. Only something so simple, layered with extremely intricate wards, could pass through the tower¡¯s defenses undetected. If she was discovered with this, there wouldn¡¯t be a trial. This entire stupid, ridiculous city would descend and tear her limb from limb, and probably fight a war over it.


    With a steady breath and a force of will, she infused it with her aura and snapped it in half. A powdery, colorful smoke flowed out and into her lungs. She breathed it out, and spoke.


    Brother¡­


    ? ? ?


    Rain fell from the empty sky.


    Konrad Kolonn hadn¡¯t just attained the fourth stage of alchemic transformation. His soul had achieved the fourth stage as well.


    In the first stage, one identified the various parts of one¡¯s soul, learned to feel them like limbs. In the second, one learned to speak with those various parts, to name them and inquire of them, and so gain great insight. In the third stage, one reshaped the soul to become a vessel for a higher power.


    In the fourth stage, one actually called down that higher power and invited them to dwell there.


    Konrad shone like the sun. A mighty presence rolled out of his person, an inviolable majesty. He gestured toward Otto, and the paralyzing weight was dispelled.


    Half of his own will, half by an intangible influence, Otto charged forward, chipped saber in hand, to cut down his enemy.


    With a lazy chop, the weapon was thrown from his grasp. With a light kick, his feet went out from under him. Konrad¡¯s boot rested gently on Otto¡¯s chest, and he fell to the ground with meteoric force, the stone cracking beneath him and his sternum pulverized.


    Even as he struggled beneath that boot, heavy as a mountain, great chains sprang forth and bound Otto hand and foot.


    He couldn¡¯t move. He couldn¡¯t even cycle the energy in his body.


    As the chains settled tight, the pain in his chest and leg hit Otto like a thousand hammers. The healing process stopped.


    Konrad cackled aloud, mad amid the growing rainstorm.


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe I compared myself to you for so long, Otto. Pathetic! Nothing more than an ant to grind under my heel!¡±


    He pressed down, and Otto screamed.


    And when the screams died down, between mouthfuls of blood, he laughed.


    ¡°What? Have you finally gone mad in the moments before your death?¡±


    At this point, there were five people in Anthusa who could fight Konrad evenly or on superior footing. Julia and Giorno were locked up in the Tower. Ursula could bring him to his knees with a snap of her fingers, but she didn¡¯t make a move unless it benefited her. Otto halfway believed the Kolonn had bribed her to look the other way tonight. Her late brother¡¯s pet snake could probably dismantle Konrad and laugh the whole time, but he moved on Ursula¡¯s order these days.


    The only one who was reliable and available was Teresa¡¯s uncle, Archbishop Iskander Forna. On any other day, he would have been here already, and nobody would have dared lay a finger on his niece to begin with.


    Very few people other than Otto knew that the Archbishop was scheduled to enter seclusion and perform alchemic transformation tonight, in preparation to reach the sixth stage. Even if someone sent a telepathic message, he would almost certainly dismiss them out of hand. He wondered distantly who had leaked this most important piece of information to the Kolonn.


    He was out of reach.


    Otto composed himself, and looked Konrad dead in the eye.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t lost.¡±


    ¡°Bullshit.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t talking to you.¡±


    Konrad trembled.


    To invite a higher being to dwell within one¡¯s soul elevated a person. This was the barrier between those who merely sought to improve themselves and those whose ambition reached the very heavens. It granted a fraction of that being¡¯s incalculable power.


    But any mortal who dwelt with an angel and thought they were in charge was a fool indeed.


    They were intelligent, willful, and each was unique. Precisely which angel a cultivator entreated was a closely guarded secret which could be used against them.


    But despite his recent improvement, Konrad Kolonn was nothing if not predictable. Otto knew exactly which angel was holding him prisoner.


    ¡°Oh venerable Mars, mighty among the Virtues!¡±


    The air thrummed. Konrad paled.


    Mars, the angel of Victorious Conquest, a great force of the fifth choir. An ambitious choice, and certainly suited to Konrad¡¯s personality. But they were not of one mind.


    ¡°Great Mars, I ask you. Where is the glory in conquering an enemy who has not fought with all his strength?¡±


    ¡°Bullshit!¡± Konrad screamed. ¡°You have nothing left! I could tear you apart with my bare hands right now! Great Mars, allow me to-¡±


    His face twitched, and he fell silent. A thunderous agreement, like the marching of a million boots, rang in Otto¡¯s ears.


    To say he had fooled an angel would be the height of hubris. He had merely played along with the angel¡¯s personality better than Konrad had.


    Now he had to take a risk.


    The chains retreated, and Konrad snarled at him like a rabid dog, his long hair stuck to his face in the slick rain, but he couldn¡¯t take so much as a step forward.


    Otto got onto one knee. He could have cycled his energies again, started healing his leg and stood on it again. But he was trying something very, very difficult. He had intended to bring his own body to the same level of purity that Konrad had attained before inviting his own angel. While it was technically possible while his body was still in the third stage, it would place much more strain on him and greatly limit how long he could summon forth those powers. Right now, there wasn¡¯t much of a choice.


    This pain was a perfect, essential offering for the one he was about to call down.


    Though every breath stung, though the rain beat down on him relentlessly, he chanted.


    ¡°Thus, refusing to accept second place in the universe, let us vie with angels.¡±


    His soul was filled with all the power and pain and longing he could muster. It rose up into an inaccessible heaven, and he was answered. Light rained down upon him, filled him, overflowed from him, and a great presence stood at his side.


    In his right hand a crown, in his left hand a scourge.


    Konrad fell back, and the presence behind him shook.


    Ever since the day man stepped into the cruel world, two angels stepped forth with them at the command of the LORD, that their days upon the earth would be filled with Toil and would end with Death.


    Still kneeling on the cracked stone, bleeding, panting in pain, Otto Orczy gloried in the gift he was given.


    Jegudiel, the angel of Toil, varlet of Death, lieutenant of Dominions, second of the Sixth choir, rested a hand on his shoulder.


    The presence of Mars quieted and paid obeisance to his superior, for just as a count should obey a duke, so an angel of the fifth choir should respect an angel of the sixth, to say nothing of Konrad.


    ¡°Now then, my dear count. Shall we continue our contest?¡±


    At any other time, Otto would have laughed in his face. But all the arrogance was gone from him now. He was empowered, and he was humbled, a truly changed man. He gave thanks to his late teacher, and swore eternal fealty to the ideas which he had spent his life defending. To suppress Konrad now would be a formality. He could afford to repay violence with tenderness, and viciousness with mercy.


    A great clamor arose from the east, dozens of soldiers, bloodstained and weary, entered the Lords¡¯ Square from the direction of the Orczy compound, wearing the white-and-red. They stood in awe, looking upon the face of their duke.


    They had come through fire and flame to witness his victory. Truly, these were dedicated servants. He looked upon the face of each one, and committed it to memory, determined to give each their rightful rewar-


    ¡­


    ¡­


    No.


    It couldn¡¯t be.


    Standing at the front of the crowd, glassy-eyed and leaning on the arm of Captain Apostolis was¡­


    THE BASTARD


    WEARING THE ORCZY COLORS


    He was supposed to be dead. He had to be dead. What kind of cockroach survived the fall of the Holy City and came to HIS CITY!?


    Tragedy! Injustice! But what joy as well! This day Otto Orczy would tear off Tenorio Kyno¡¯s head and offer it to Julia on a pike!


    Otto reached with his left hand for the scourge, the angelic weapon which he knew instinctively would unmake the bastard Kyno at the molecular level and send his soul hurrying down to hell.


    ¡°What happened to tenderness?¡± asked the voice of Jegudiel. ¡°What happened to mercy?¡±


    To hell with them! There will be time for both when there isn¡¯t a man in desperate need of killing!


    Otto reached, and grasped empty air.


    The scourge flared against his back, and Otto Orczy fell to the ground with an awful cry. The presence of Jegudiel, lieutenant of the Dominions, dissipated, and the human host lay twitching in a puddle.


    All around the Lords¡¯ Square, silence reigned. Konrad broke it with a coarse hyena laugh.


    ¡°Holy shit! You had me going there, you son of a bitch!¡±


    He stood, the presence of Mars behind him grumbling with disappointment, and a wrathful spear formed in his hand.


    ¡°Goodbye, Otto.¡±


    A firm hand grasped Konrad¡¯s wrist.


    His presence was only felt after he acted. He was a great lake, motionless and full of power. Invisible might. Sourceless thunder.


    Archbishop Iskander Forna stood between the two warriors, untouched by the rain, his hair still wet and stinking of alchemical compounds, dressed in his most pious bathrobe.


    His voice was calm and even, despite everything. ¡°Count Kolonn. I assure you that you would regret this deeply, even more than everything else you have done tonight. Let us end things here, and resume our activities in the morning.¡±


    Lio Chekodorovna stepped forward. Though she trembled horribly, she held Teresa out to her uncle. Still alive, unharmed, and by some miracle still deep asleep.


    ¡°See? That¡¯s proper behavior. We shall see to it you receive fair treatment as you deserve.¡±


    This did not assuage Lio¡¯s worries.


    Konrad stared numbly at Otto Orczy¡¯s defenseless body. So close. He was so close. Only this damnable priest stood between them, and he was powerless.


    No. He wasn¡¯t powerless.


    With a flick of his wrist, an ethereal chain flung out and wrapped around the archbishop¡¯s wrist. This was a joke. Child¡¯s play. Konrad was new to tapping Mars¡¯ power, and Archbishop Forna was an expert manifesting the power of his own guardian angel. It would take him less than a second to escape.


    In less than a second, Konrad Kolonn pivoted. His feet turned, his hips braced, and he flung that spear of force not at Otto, with the archbishop between them, but at Lio and Teresa.


    The Iskander Forna was too shocked to even shout. Lio faced forward with total acceptance of death.


    Distantly, Cato registered what was happening, though he understood very little. He was very weak, and very far away. There was nothing he could do. And yet, his hand reached out and a desire formed in his mind.


    The spear detonated, tearing apart stone and shattering windows ten streets away. Archbishop Forna freed himself from the chain, and struck Konrad with such a blow that he fell to the ground immediately, without resistance, and the presence of Mars dissipated with barely a word.


    When the dust cleared, Lio was unharmed, and Teresa was just beginning to wake up. On the ground in front of them, shielding both from the blast, was the carcass of a coal-black raven.


    The archbishop looked from that scene to the guards behind him. He registered one of them for the first time, and appeared in front of Cato as though the intervening space was only a suggestion.


    Catos¡¯ ears were still ringing from the explosion, never mind all the other events of the night, and he barely understood that someone very, very important was standing in front of him.


    ¡°Your Excellency!¡± called out Captain Apostolis, rather confused by the interest this great figure was showing in the nearly-unconscious soldier he was carrying.


    ¡°We have suppressed the Kolonn threat elsewhere. We cannot thank your Excellency enough for your aid today! Please, we ask that you take care of the Duke!¡±


    The archbishop continued to stare at Cato, staring through him, until he turned as if listening to an inaudible voice. He muttered to himself and turned about, then rushed over to where Lio knelt, shell-shocked, with Teresa in her arms.


    ¡°Sniff, sniff¡­ uncle? Where am I?¡± She looked about with bright little eyes, taking in the unfamiliar scene.


    ¡°This is a dream, my princess. Sleep.¡±


    He placed a warm and gentle hand upon her face, and she slept.

 Bonus: Excerpts from the Mystic Conclusions of Fenici da Mirasol

    Cato,


    Fenici da Mirasol was a great scholar of angels and magic, and one of the most profound thinkers of the last century. After his theories were repudiated by the church and his book banned, he fled here to Anthusa, where he dwelt under the protection of the Manzi family. His private academy taught the young scions of powerful families, including influential bishops and cardinals, such as the Manzi, Tor, Forna, Kolonn, Orczy, and de Resol. He was visiting the Holy City in the hopes of receiving forgiveness from the new Holy Son, as both the frontrunners had children educated in his academy. Unlike you, or the coteries of Fulminous and Magnanimous, he did not survive the slaughter.


    His Mystic Conclusions remains the most significant book I have ever read. I copy here some passages which I memorized before my escape from the nunnery, which should form your understanding of angelology. For more practical advice and discussion of his unorthodox ideas, let us discuss in person once you have recovered.


    Do not spread these notes around, and don¡¯t publicize that you are reading them.


    Yours, Agatha


    ? ? ?


    Since I understood my fallen nature, I have craved transcendence. The path to Heaven is steep and narrow, bounded on all sides by a vast chasm. Yet despite its difficulty, to cultivate is nothing less than to fulfill the will of the Divine. It is the reason for our existence, that within each of us lies the spark prepared for ascension and the will to carry it out.


    The first of the angels to know the Plan was Satan, and these were the words which caused the greatest of angels to turn and fall: that man was made not to serve the angels. This world is a crucible in which we are tested, and to pursue the Plan is to transcend our mortal, sinful limits.


    There being nine choirs of those beings whom we shall surpass, let us describe each in turn.


    The first and lowest choir, furthest in orbit from the Divine Font, is the domain of the angels, whose name means ¡®those who are sent¡¯, for they are the messengers of the divine unto humanity. They are many in number but few are named, though they are much like us in size and form. To seek the name of a being of the lowest choir is like searching for a leaf blown on the wind with a telescope, being both many and small and quickly lost from sight. The nameless angels who brought the righteous out from destruction, wrestled with the antiarch, and rebuked the nations for idolatry are among their number. The voice from out the whirlwind is not among their number, for his name is known. Their prince is Gabriel, the Annunciator, and his lieutenant is Iris, who gave the rainbow unto mankind.


    The second choir is composed of the warrior angels, whom the ignorant name ¡®archangels¡¯ because some texts said they were to the messenger angels as kings were to men, but this is a mistaken understanding. They take swords in hand to punish the wicked at the command of the Divine, but they are not slayers of men, and in form they are like giants. For the poets say that a sigh is an angel¡¯s sword: it is also a blade of grass, a cutting word, the touch that kills evil and leaves good alone. They are given unto the wicked to turn them from their path, and if they are repentant their blades cut out the demons within. When the final trump rings, they shall descend from Heaven and bring divine fury to Hell. The angel astride the road was among their number, and so was the one who brought food to the hungry. The one who slew the firstborn is not among their number, for his name is known otherwise and for the reasons written before. Their prince is Michael, the Avenger, and his lieutenant is Camael, the Strong Arm.


    The third choir, highest of the lower triad, is that of the principalities. These are the miracle workers, through whom the goodness of the Divine is known. They are many, but fewer and better known than the innumerable warriors and messengers, and in form they are like titans who overshadow houses. They are healers, dispatched by the successful intervention of saints to relieve disease and seal wounds, and when the time has come to allow one to die, they also relieve pain so that one may focus on heavenly things. We count Gadreel, who is called the Protector, and Domiduca, the Ward of Lost Children, among their number. Their prince is Raphael, the Merciful, and his lieutenant is Zadkiel, the Benevolent.


    Beginning with the fourth choir, we arrive at the angels who are known not by their interventions but by their continuous labor, for they uphold the myriad workings of the cosmos. The fourth choir are the Powers, whom the ignorant once worshiped as gods of grain and soil. These are difficult to name in their own way, but they can each be experienced through their works. We know well the angel who produces the fragility of a lily flower, the one who emits the chilling howl of the wolf, and the one who revels in the warm sea breeze. For those with patience and dedication, the names of these angels can be discovered directly from their respective phenomena. Their prince is Barachiel, the Provider of Gifts, and in my discourses I have found him to be a most melancholy angel, for he governs all the wondrous things upon the earth, but is most pleased when mortals spurn his works and most dismayed when they are enjoyed, for the pleasures of the earth are but the antechamber to the pleasures of heaven, and those whom he enraptures are commended to Hell. Some say his lieutenant is Metekiel, the angel of cabbage, for Barachiel often carries roses and is contrasted with the angel who produces a prosaic yet essential thing. However, with no ill will towards Metekiel, who is most diligent and kind, this is nonsense. For though he is known as the Provider in his capacity as Prince of Powers, his name reveals his true and original responsibility, the ineffable brilliance of a lightning strike. This is a fine thing as well, for a study of language reveals that the word for lightning and prayer differ by a single letter, and while prayer rises invisibly and in great waves from earth to Heaven, lightning descends from the heavens to the earth with great flash and glory. Accordingly, his true lieutenant is the crashing thunder that follows the lightning strike, the Night Thunderer, whose name I have divined as Summanus.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The fifth choir are called the Virtues, who are so named because they give things their essential qualities. Unlike the Powers, whose domain is the whole sublunary world, the Virtues are superior and ephemeral. We count among their number Kokabiel the Star-scribe, who is a minor chief in charge of the constellations, but their best-known representatives are many of the angels who, in a better time, dwelt among men and modeled proper modes for them. We thus know Mars, the angel of Victorious Conquest, Mercury the Roving Trickster, and Luna of the Changing Face, who also guards the border between linear and cyclic time. These angels teach and inspire modes in mortals, providing both virtues to reward and vices to challenge. Their prince is Uriel of the Flaming Sword and his lieutenant is Jupiter the Imperial.


    The sixth choir, highest of the middle triad, is composed of the Dominions, who uphold the fundamental laws of reality. So we count among them Vulcan the Shaper, who provides the forms to which the Virtue Venus Genetrix gives substance, as well as Neptune the Counter, who measures out the vast distances of space, and Tabris, who celebrates mortal freedom. Their chief is Samael, the Venom of the Lord, the angel of Death, who cuts away the soul from the body, and to whom we attribute the deaths of the firstborn. His lieutenant is Jegudiel, the Slave-driver, the angel of Toil, who came out of the garden beside his master and whose scourge wracks the body with pain as it works, preparing the mortal to encounter Death.


    The seventh choir, first of the upper triad, is composed of the Thrones, who dwell upon the threshold of the comprehensible. They embody the highest things which man can strive to know rather than merely experience, and are great patrons of scholars. They are powerful and well-known, but few. This author has a special appreciation for Tanith, angel of Welcome Knowledge. Their prince is Zaphkiel, the angel of Truth, and his lieutenant is Minerva, the angel of wisdom.


    The eight choir, known as the Cherubim, contemplate the divine mysteries and embody concepts which humans cannot understand by reason alone. To speak with them is most difficult, and even when conversing with other angels of the lower choirs, they veil themselves in order to hide their magnificence. Their prince is Raziel, the angel of Mystery, whom I have been utterly unsuccessful in calling down, though for what reason I cannot fathom. I have, however, conversed with Apollo, the Bright One, who claims to be regent over the eighth choir while Raziel is away on some important task, and his lieutenant Jophiel, the angel of Beauty.


    The ninth and final choir, the Seraphim, dwell at the shore of the Divine Font and sing praises. They never answer my summons. To converse with one is to be virtually in the Presence itself, and accordingly the Prince of Seraphim is Metatron, who is called the Voice, the one who spoke from out the whirlwind, who stands at the right hand of the Divine and declares His commands, while to the left stands the lieutenant Sandalphon.


    These are the ranks and the names of the first servants of the Divine, but the greatest servants in Heaven are those who rose.


    St. Zeno is among their number, for he defended the unity of the Divine and elucidated the art of measurement, by which we are taught the majesty and scale of Creation.


    St. Agatha is among their number, for she rejected all worldly existence and kept the Divine forever in her mind, even as she was commended unto Death.


    St. Trajan is among their number, for he defended the faith with sword in hand, and has inspired untold warriors to protect the Divine.


    St. Philomena is among their number, for she was steadfast before the might of the infidels and demonstrated the care of the Divine for the faithful.


    And we know that each of these are among their number because they have returned to the mortal world from heavenly bliss in order to give blessings and miracles. These saints, who were once mortals shaped from clay and dust, rose to stand among or above the angels, to intercede in the world according to the Divine Will. Thus, though angels are servants in charge of maintaining what is, it is the saints who serve to shape what could be. In this way they are greater, the true fulfillment of the Divine Plan.


    Thus, refusing to accept second place in the universe, let us vie with angels.

 Feed the Wolves Part 1

    ¡°An award for bravery and a pension?¡±


    Duke Otto Orczy shifted uncomfortably in his throne, the view from his office overlooking the cerulean blooms in the gardens below. He wasn¡¯t quite on his feet since the battle against the Kolonn family three days earlier; even with the very best care, the long, thin wounds all along his back and side, running from his rhomboid down to the upper thigh, refused to heal quickly. Even now, the unsightly pale scars left behind threatened to reopen constantly.


    Otto Orczy hadn¡¯t slept more than a couple hours at a time since then, constantly woken up by the need to force them closed again.


    But that wasn¡¯t going to keep him down, especially now. The Kolonn openly bared their teeth against him and tried to steal Teresa away, for what purposes he could only suspect. The city needed to know he was still in control, and he needed to stay on top of things.


    That began with Captain Apostolis¡¯ report.


    ¡°Yes, your Grace. Lieutenant Cato was an invaluable ally in the battle. If not for his quick thinking, never mind his sacrifice, I expect both myself and half of the officers would have died twice over.¡±


    Otto fiddled with the quill nub on his desk, too numb to be nervous.


    ¡°And this lieutenant Cato, he was the one you were carrying when you arrived in the Lords¡¯ Square?¡±


    ¡°Yes, your Grace. I suppose I shouldn¡¯t be surprised that you noticed him. I had intended for him to make a formal audience with you once he earned our confidence in a few months, but under the present circumstances that point is moot.¡±


    ¡°He has your full confidence, does he?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Captain Apostolis¡¯ voice was firm and unwavering. Despite only recently recovering from his own injuries, he held himself up to full height to make this point, as if it deserved nothing less than his full dignity.


    ¡°Mine and that of all the other lieutenants, not to mention Sergeant Enzo. He virtually crippled himself in order to break the stalemate against Alidosi, your Grace. For that reason, I request that you grant him the Order of the Silver Dragon and a pension of two-hundred gold anthems a year. In addition, I nominate him to replace Vice-Captain Caselli when I leave this post.¡±


    ¡°You want to make Vice-Captain out of, in your own words, a cripple?¡±


    ¡°His recovery goes well, your Grace, and Caselli has already agreed. With some training and support, I am confident he might become as capable as I am today.¡±


    ¡°But he will never surpass that state, will he, Captain?¡±


    Apostolis¡¯ gaze flicked to the ground. ¡°No, your Grace. Outside of an extraordinary intervention, his spiritual cultivation will never reach the third stage.¡±


    Under any other circumstances, Otto would have already agreed, and Apostolis knew it. For a soldier, let alone a relatively new officer of whom quite little was expected, to rise to the occasion as Cato did, more than merited an award. Not only did he risk death like everyone else around him, he employed a nerve-wrackingly risky maneuver that would either kill him or severely damage his soul.


    Only a true miracle, the kind that required the direct intervention of an angel or the Holy Son, could cure him, and that was rather unlikely. He survived, and he might even recover, but he would not continue to cultivate his soul. His body might reach the third stage of alchemic transformation, putting him on even ground with Captain Apostolis and Vice-Captain Caselli, but he would never rise above that. For the cultivation of body and soul to differ by more than a stage led to madness and death.


    Cato had sacrificed his future potential to defend the other officers. To deny him a pension at this stage would be the height of ingratitude. Apostolis knew that, and was uneasy when the Duke didn¡¯t immediately agree.


    What the good captain didn¡¯t know was that ¡®Cato of Inillo¡¯ was none other than Count Tenorio Kyno, the bastard of the late Holy Son Prudence IV, and one of the most despised men on Vintal. The very man who had tried to rob the Holy City¡¯s treasury even as his own father sat on the throne, who had relentlessly insulted the Orczy for decades, who had-


    ¡°Your grace?¡±


    Apostolis¡¯ voice was calm, steady, and yet radiated concern. Only then did Otto realize his fists were crushing the armrests of his throne. Power was leaking from him, and blood stained the right side of his shirt.


    With a muttered curse, the duke reasserted control and forced his wounds shut. Captain Apostolis was already waiting with a towel and fresh clothes.


    ¡°Apologies, captain. My wounds have taken more out of me than I expected. Let¡¯s table this matter and move on.¡±


    ¡°Of course, your Grace.¡±


    ? ? ?


    Archbishop Forna sat before a great work table laden with all manner of tools. Some resembled medical and surgical implements, others were of an alchemical nature, and yet others were of elusive and mystic function.


    Spread out before him was the body of a coal-black raven, the very one which had saved the life of his niece from Konrad Kolonn¡¯s spiteful attack. On the outside, it looked for all the world like a living and natural creature, but even three days after its death, it had not decayed or rotted at all. Its feathers were as hard as steel and sharp as blades, and its flesh was like stone.


    The archbishop held it still with a pair of tongs, and then a great and heavy chisel crafted from green glass rose of its own accord. It cracked the raven¡¯s body open, and showed it to be no living thing; its glossy, dark outer texture was less than skin-deep, practically a paint job over a body of hard, white clay that began to crumble and flake away the moment it was split open.


    Slow, heavy steps made their way up the staircase and up to the archbishop¡¯s laboratory door. No respectful knock or request for audience came from beyond. Duke Orczy simply pushed it open and stepped in directly, favoring his left leg.


    ¡°Your Grace, how wonderful of you to join us.¡± The archbishop did not rise from his stool, remove his goggles, or even face the duke. ¡°I am glad to see that your injuries have not kept you in bed.¡±


    ¡°Can it, Iskander. Am I going to wait until you¡¯re done poking into some stupid fucking bird?¡±


    He received no answer. The archbishop kept at the worktable, chipping the strange construct into smaller and smaller pieces, each weaker than the last. After a few minutes, the raven was reduced to a black husk and a pile of white sand. But inside the chest cavity, buried beneath handfuls of chalky powder, was a single strand of raven-dark hair.


    Archbishop Forna held it up to the light with a pair of tweezers, and gestured for the duke to examine it as well.


    ¡°What am I looking at?¡±


    ¡°This,¡± the archbishop intoned, as if giving remedial education to a child, ¡°was the core component of that stupid fucking bird that saved Teresa¡¯s life.¡±


    ¡°A golem?¡±


    ¡°Of a sort. Pop quiz, Otto. What are the three methods for instilling the breath of life in an artificial being?¡±


    The duke¡¯s brow furrowed.


    ¡°The miraculous word, the life-force of a living being, and¡­ shit.¡±


    Thwack! The archbishop struck the duke on the shin with a metal measuring rule.


    ¡°Hey! What was that for?¡±


    ¡°Third, the transmigration of a soul.¡±


    Otto stepped warily outside of thwacking range and took the strand in his fingers.


    ¡°The second type, then. But aren¡¯t those kinds of golems usually made with blood? Who¡¯d make it with hair?¡±


    ¡°Blood is more potent, but for a powerful enough cultivator, a strand of hair is enough. You just need to focus energy into it before plucking it out.¡±


    The archbishop demonstrated this very thing, concentrating for a moment before plucking a long lock from the crown of his head. Otto could feel the life energy concentrated inside the tiny volume.


    Archbishop Iskander Forna, a cultivator at the fifth stage in body and soul, preparing to make the jump into the sixth stage, really did have as much power in a strand of hair as any one of the duke¡¯s lieutenants did in their whole body.


    But something didn¡¯t quite add up.


    ¡°It¡¯s more convenient, and maybe easier to control than a blood golem, but not nearly as potent. This-¡± the duke took the archbishop¡¯s lock and poured in his own energy, incinerating it in a flash, ¡°wouldn¡¯t have even slowed Konrad down.¡±


    ¡°I see his education didn¡¯t fail you.¡± Before Otto could talk back, he continued, ¡°You¡¯re correct. That raven was comparable to a cultivator in the fourth realm, maybe slightly below.¡±


    A chill went down Otto¡¯s neck. ¡°So the person who made this-¡±


    ¡°Was not on the level of the Holy Son. There¡¯s power, and then there¡¯s technique. This strand of hair was reinforced, then charged, and then the golem grew out of it, rather than being constructed first. The outer shell resembles it exactly. This pushes the compatibility between the core and the body to the furthest point while minimizing loss of energy.¡±


    The duke weighed the archbishop¡¯s words. ¡°You already know who made this, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Ha! I¡¯m that transparent, am I? Well you¡¯re half-right. I don¡¯t know exactly who made this, but I recognize the technique.¡±


    The archbishop turned in his stool, removed his goggles and grinned at the duke.


    ¡°I once saw a Serene Sister create a servitor golem using this method. It was a stage weaker, and only intelligent enough to perform basic tasks autonomously, but it¡¯s the same technique. I¡¯d bet my cassock that this was created by a Serene Sister no less powerful than me.¡±


    ¡°That¡­ that can¡¯t be right. Weren¡¯t they all in seclusion on the moon? And since when do they save lives instead of taking them?¡±


    Otto knew that the Serene Sisters were elite assassins under the authority of the Holy Son. They remained strictly neutral in the struggle between Fulminous and Magnanimous, and would likely stay neutral until one candidate gained overwhelming favor. Even if some hadn¡¯t made it back to the abbey before its gates shut, no operative of theirs would be running rogue around Anthusa. Not without telling the major families, or the archbishop, or someone.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Seeing Konrad out to kill Teresa was bad enough. But an assassin who could go toe-to-toe with Iskander, or maybe even Ursula¡­ even if she was on his side, he couldn¡¯t leave her to her own devices.


    ¡°You¡¯re bleeding, your Grace.¡±


    His blood had already soaked through his clothes and was dripping to the ground.


    ¡°Shit. Now you tell me?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s really quite fascinating. What was the phrase? ¡®Whose scourge wracks the body with pain, preparing for death?¡¯ It¡¯s even more impressive in the flesh.¡±


    Otto mentally forced the wounds closed, and rapidly changed into a fresh set of clothes. He didn¡¯t expect the angel he contracted with to remain a secret from the Archbishop for too long, but to see through him so transparently¡­ maybe some of his grandfather¡¯s self-cleaning robes had survived the destruction of the Holy City. That would be some consolation at this point.


    ¡°As long as you¡¯re gawking, you might as well help me treat- hey!¡±


    The archbishop had already pushed him onto an examination table. His hands traced the pale scars, still daubed in blood, and Otto briefly thought back decades, when they were both still students. Their tutor, eccentric and rigorous in equal measure, considered a first-hand education in anatomy and medicine an essential part of their foundation.


    He¡¯d thought it ridiculous back then, and many would ridicule these two men of high standing for behaving like doctor and patient, but you couldn¡¯t argue with results.


    ¡°Hmmm.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Tell me, how does this feel?¡±


    Otto felt an electric shock run all along his side, and pain bloomed after it.


    ¡°Agh! What did you just do?¡±


    ¡°Hmmm.¡±


    ¡°Answer me, dammit!¡±


    ¡°Jegudiel¡¯s power lingers in these wounds. Not only does it resist and reverse natural healing, it interferes with efforts to speed recovery and corrupts that energy, causing even more damage. You¡¯re bleeding again, by the way.¡±


    ¡°Fuck. Can you¡­¡±


    Otto didn¡¯t even know what to ask.


    ¡°No. This wound wasn¡¯t dealt by another cultivator using an angel¡¯s power, but by the angel itself. It is beyond me.¡±


    That was disappointing, but not unexpected. Just as a count could not override the demands of a duke, an angel of a lower choir could not reverse the will of a higher choir.


    Trying to summon one of the most powerful angels from the sixth choir was immensely ambitious. Otto had very nearly succeeded, too, but the backlash from his ultimate failure was all the worse for his ambition. Out of all the most powerful cultivators he knew, almost none had ventured above the fifth choir. While the archbishop still kept the identity of his own contracted angel secret from even his close friends and allies, Otto gathered that it wasn¡¯t from a very high choir.


    Even so, his skill and ability in commanding that angel¡¯s power far surpassed that of himself or Konrad. In contests between cultivators, choirs has their own suppressive effect, but that counted for little if you couldn¡¯t marshal that power to good effect.


    ¡°Will it ever heal?¡±


    The archbishop chuckled.


    ¡°Yes. He wants you to struggle, I¡¯m sure. To toil. You¡¯ll have to work back up to the fourth stage from the bottom of the third, and it¡¯ll be twice as hard as before.¡±


    All of a sudden, Otto wasn¡¯t looking at the face of his childhood friend, which had always looked faintly ridiculous in the archbishop¡¯s gown and tiara.


    He was looking at someone far older and more experienced, with profound wisdom and confidence. He looked like priests looked when he was young, before he knew for himself how corrupt they were.


    ¡°If you can climb that mountain again, Jegudiel will welcome you back with open arms. I¡¯d wager that when you achieve the fourth stage of alchemic transformation, your body will see an even greater increase in strength and durability than normal. Until then, remain vigilant. This is your own journey, and I can¡¯t help you with it.¡±


    Otto took in these words and gathered his courage.


    ¡°If you won¡¯t help me with this, then-¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t even-¡±


    ¡°I know well enough. You want me to help you kill Tenorio Kyno. I won¡¯t.¡±


    A cold fury leapt in the duke¡¯s heart.


    ¡°Why the hell not? You saw him yourself, that night. He¡¯s crippled. You could crush him like an ant!¡±


    ¡°So could you, Otto. Even with your wounds, I¡¯m sure you could take him down without much worry, even without the entire army you command. So why not do it yourself?¡±


    ¡°You know damn well why.¡±


    Otto hadn¡¯t told the archbishop about Apostolis¡¯ report, but there was no getting around certain brute facts. Kyno had clearly adopted some new identity, for what reason he knew not, infiltrated his army, gained the trust of his officers, and then¡­ sacrificed his future cultivation to further Otto¡¯s cause? It had to be some bizarre plot gone awry, but the fact remained that the entire Orczy force in the city now held up ¡®Cato of Inillo¡¯ as a great hero. If he just marched up and executed the bastard immediately and explained afterwards, it would be a tremendous blow to morale. Even if Otto revealed his true identity and recounted every single one of his crimes, the same men who traded stories about Kyno¡¯s iniquities in taverns the night before would not take back his honor so easily. They might demand that Otto give him a pardon, show mercy.


    That was not a tolerable outcome. The bastard Kyno had to pay for his crimes.


    ¡°Right before I passed out,¡± Otto began, ¡°I saw you go up to him. Even before going to Teresa, you walked right up to him, and you did nothing. What stopped you?¡±


    ¡°Besides the scandal that would rise if I slew an injured soldier of yours as he lay in your captain¡¯s arms?¡±


    ¡°After everything he did to Julia-¡±


    Otto¡¯s breath stopped. An immense weight bore down in him, and it was all he could do to stay conscious and keep his wounds from reopening. The archbishop lifted his head by the hair and screamed in his face.


    ¡°Do you think my rage is any less than yours, Otto? Do you think I enjoy being motionless as that ruinous bastard walks free?¡±


    The weight lifted as swiftly as it came, and it left the duke gasping for air.


    ¡°Do not mistake control for dispassion. I did not go to him because I was tempted to splatter his brains across the stones.¡±


    He stepped back to the table and lifted the raven-dark strand of hair to the light.


    ¡°I went because this golem was keyed to him. It was made by someone else, but it was meant to protect and obey him.¡±


    Otto gasped, choked, and laughed a shrieking hyena laugh.


    ¡°So he has another damn backer? Who? How?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said the archbishop, winding the strand around the needle of a compass. ¡°But I¡¯m not leaving this up to chance.¡±


    He intoned a prayer and breathed onto the device. The needle spun around and around, and then slowed, jerking hither and thither, until it settled nearly due north.


    The two men looked at it with some doubt.


    ¡°Are you¡­ are you sure it worked?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± said the archbishop, with rather less confidence than the word demanded. He shook it from side to side, yet it remained fixed in that direction, just a degree off magnetic north.


    Right towards the Holy City, both men thought.


    ? ? ?


    Aseneth snapped to attention, her eyes pulled directly south.


    She wondered what trouble he had gotten himself into that wound up destroying a servitor with the power of a fourth stage cultivator, but her curiosity would have to wait.


    The ruins of the Holy City lay all around her, choked in gray ash and the plague¡¯s oppressive weight. It had gotten stronger and stronger the closer she had come to the city. The water was foul, the land was lifeless and dry, and no animal from the fly to the field mouse lived where it stalked. If she took so much as an unguarded breath here, never mind trying to gather energy, the sheer density of the plague would wreak havoc in her soul.


    She had learned a great deal more about it on this journey. This was a pestilence without equal, one which infiltrated the body through the soul and might lie dormant for any period of time before erupting, and unless the soul itself was purged no recovery, no matter how seemingly complete, would ward it off or provide resistance. Some people it killed straight away, others it tormented in waves. It was fickle in the extreme, and she had yet found no pattern in who was struck down, who suffered, and who was spared. No pattern in the strength of the body, the soul, in the saintliness or iniquity of the sufferers, in their habits or their class.


    But she knew one thing for certain. It was still far from its worst point.


    It was like a living creature, and the Holy City was its ruined lair, but so far it had only made brief forays out. It was spreading far, far more slowly than it might choose, and the greatest mass was still centered here.


    So Aseneth wandered the ash-choked streets, saw where statues had been cut from their pedestals, where great manors had been forced open and looted, and where the battle between the Abyssinian invader and the city¡¯s defenders had left wounds, great gouges in the earth, lightning strikes and floods.


    It had all happened without her, and without her sisters¡¯ intervention. When she came at last to the shell of the Sanctum Summum, she felt rage and despair in equal measure.


    This great palace of faith, this place she had dreamed of visiting for years, was torn apart. Its titanic cupola lay in pieces three blocks away, its towering dome was shattered like an egg.


    At the edge of her awareness, the demon returned her emotions in deceptive empathy.


    There were many ways to cultivate. The most common, orthodox fashion was to shape the soul into a vessel, a home, really, for a higher being to inhabit. Angels could dwell inside and offer their host a part of their power, though witches and diabolists invited demons instead.


    But this had its own drawbacks. Both the power a cultivator could display and the difficulty of improving their skills was directly related to the nature of the being they invited. On top of that, any mortal who dwelt with an angel and thought they were in charge was a fool indeed. No small number of foolish cultivators had contracted with angels whose temperaments proved incompatible, or whose principles turned out to be extremely restrictive, and they might lose access to that power for great spans of time or even be punished by their patron.


    The Serene Abbey instead taught its disciples to form their souls into a net, flexible and strong, with which they could catch a spirit, bind it for a time, and let it go. While it required more skill and led to great peaks and valleys in power over a lifetime, the benefits of versatility could not be denied, and the experience of catching and releasing many angels over time gradually lent the practitioner an innate power that could stand against bound angels.


    The biggest risk, however, so dangerous that only groups like the Serene Abbey were allowed to practice this method, was the risk of possession. Not only might a Serene Sister be deceived and catch a demon instead of an angel, but without a higher being dwelling inside them permanently, they became extremely desirable targets for demonic possession if they were injured or emotionally compromised.


    No surprise, then, that in the days it took Aseneth to reform her body after crashing to earth, a demon had possessed her.


    She tried to avoid thinking too deeply one what she had done under its influence, even as it had healed her wounds and filled her with the energy she needed to explore the Holy City. She repudiated it, and used that energy for good purposes.


    But the damn thing just wouldn¡¯t go away.


    It followed her around like a lost puppy, filling her dreams with scenes of madness and drunk revelry. No matter how many times she recited scripture and prayed to the saints and tried to exorcize it, it just came back.


    She already unleashed her power and vaporized her surroundings in twenty paces. That didn¡¯t stop it. Maybe a few more good explosions would do the trick, but she needed badly to conserve what resources she had.


    So she just had to put up with the damn thing, and keep up her guard no matter how innocent it appeared.


    She was so busy ignoring it that she almost missed the figure hiding in the doorway of the Sanctum Summum.


    He melted out of the shadows like a snake, coiled and full of cold aggression. His clothes bore the insignia of some aristocratic house. But which one? Aseneth cursed her ignorance on the subject.


    But most sinister was the way the air moved around him. He seemed to breathe with his whole body, the plague-laden air passing through him without harm.


    ¡°Greetings, friend. How shall I have the honor of addressing you?¡±


    His words were calm and his face composed, but Aseneth still felt a powerful killing intent pointed in her direction. Fourth stage, and no slouch within that realm. If she could call on the power of an angel, no match for her. But without that, and with his strange resistance to the plague¡­ she wasn¡¯t quite so sure.


    ¡°I am Aseneth.¡±


    He blinked. Slowly.


    ¡°Lady Aseneth, of no place and no family?¡±


    Best not to lay all her cards on the table. ¡°You have me at a disadvantage, lord¡­¡±


    ¡°Michelotto. Of no place nor family.¡±


    She¡¯d have to look up that insignia later.


    ¡°May I ask, lord Michelotto, what brings you to such a desolate place? I cannot imagine that you live here.¡±


    He chuckled.


    ¡°No indeed, lady Aseneth. I am merely passing through on business. In fact, I must be gone from here shortly.¡±


    ¡°That is a shame, my lord. This is my first visit to the Holy City, and I would have liked some directions.¡±


    ¡°I am afraid there is not much to see, my lady.¡±


    ¡°There must be something to demand your business here, I am sure.¡±


    Whatever business this lizardy man had in the ruins, she was certain it was related to the plague.


    ¡°Well said, my lady. My time is short, but I suppose I can delay just a while longer. I might even show you around, if you do me a favor as well.¡±


    ¡°What favor might that be?¡±


    ¡°You have the scent of someone I knew.¡±


    The wind picked up, and Aseneth felt the air swirl about him in rings.


    It was the plague. Not only didn¡¯t it touch him, he controlled it as easily as other cultivators controlled the flow of energy in their own bodies. Here, in the ruins of the Holy City, with the plague weighing heavy around them both, it was a formidable weapon. Even if she allowed the demon to possess her again, a fight would be a close thing.


    Those serpentine eyes shone in anticipation.


    ¡°Tell me how the two of you met. In exchange, I can offer a little enlightenment.¡±

 Feed the Wolves Part 2

    After spending several days recovering from the battle, first under the care of the Orczy doctors and then under Agatha, who barreled in and insisted she treat ¡®her¡¯ patient, Cato received some mixed news.


    Bad news first: his soul was severely injured, and he would likely never be able to cultivate it again. Without that, he would also not be able to improve his body past the third stage of alchemic transformation, and thus his lifetime potential was cut off. He could grow to match Captain Apostolis, but would never exceed him.


    Then the good news: the duke was so impressed with his courage and sacrifice that he assigned Cato an immense pension and gave him new responsibilities as a judge. In addition, he was to be placed under the direct command of Vice-Captain Caselli, and it was all but promised that, when Caselli became captain, Cato would take his present office, so long as he was able to improve his body to the third stage.


    Cato¡¯s soul felt like a leather bag filled with broken glass. He hadn¡¯t really appreciated how clearly he felt its shape before, but now it was chaotic and formless, grinding against itself and putting his teeth on edge. Even after the numerous injuries on his body were treated, not least the sword wound that ran through his guts and out the other side, he was accompanied by a constant phantom pain belonging to a non-existent organ.


    He accepted. With his improved salary and the pension, he was surely a wealthy man, and would pay off the Baron of Inillo¡¯s debts in a few short years. His new responsibilities took him off guard duty for a while, allowing him to recover, train, and get used to his new condition.


    It was more generosity than Cato had ever really expected. But he couldn¡¯t help but be rather numb to all of it.


    He had killed people that night. He didn¡¯t have a solid grasp of how many. Unlike in Beroli, where his newly acquired powers ran wild, he had felt much more in control this time. He had sliced humans open and cut into them like it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world.


    There was nobody in the city, probably the entire world, that would speak against him for that. Already, other members of the guard were singing his praises, not just for his sacrifice but for his ferocity and decisiveness. They sent letters with little war poems, mostly doggerel but some very sophisticated, and it all made Cato want to throw up because in the moment, when he was under attack and it was kill or be killed he hadn¡¯t even thought. The restraint he tried to exercise against the hoodlums in the tavern days earlier didn¡¯t even cross his mind, not even to reject it.


    Through it all, one impression came back to him again and again. It wasn¡¯t his fault. It was his body¡¯s instincts surfacing, old half-memories of bloody fights carved into his flesh. It wasn¡¯t his fault.


    If it wasn¡¯t his fault, it wasn¡¯t to his credit either. He didn¡¯t save Orczy lives, it was just muscle memory. He didn¡¯t plunge heedlessly into danger to defend family or country, it was just someone else¡¯s habit.


    He couldn¡¯t accept that.


    If he accepted that, what would be left of him? Just a fool who crippled himself.


    The rest of the night was a blur. He knew, vaguely, that the duke had confronted one of the Kolonn family leaders and fought to a bloody stalemate until the archbishop arrived and rescued his daughter. Other rumors about those events spread and mutated so quickly that even the eyewitnesses next to him couldn¡¯t agree on exactly what happened.


    So he just carried on. Went with the flow.


    Once he could walk again, the flow took him to the great, dark, damp dungeon beneath the Orczy manor. The contrast between the magnificent and colorful gardens covered in autumn¡¯s cerulean blooms and the tunnels of stone below shocked some distant observer within his skull, but the thing called Cato was led down through the secret door within the inner gatehouse like an old dog following dumbly at its master¡¯s heels.


    His master, in this case, was Sergeant Enzo, who had decided Cato was his blood brother for life and insisted on cheering him up at all times. These good intentions happened to collide with the single creepiest person Cato had ever encountered.


    The duke¡¯s resident torturer, Lorqua, proved especially unsettling for how normal he first appeared. An ordinary-looking man entering middle age, whose manner and expressions reminded Cato of a grocer he often saw in the city square.


    Then Lorqua gave Cato a tour of his implements, with detailed descriptions of the function of each and their order, using that very same friendly and cheerful manner, and even Enzo recognized this visit was unsalvageable.


    Torture, it happened, was not an effective method for extracting truthful information from a determined prisoner. In general, any person who was willing to spill their secrets would do so quite quickly, and those who knew nothing would make up whatever they thought their captors wanted to heat. In Lorqua¡¯s terms, it usually took around two-and-a-half fingernails. The first to show they were serious, the second to show it could get worse, and the threat of the third would break them.


    Anyone who got through the third fingernail without talking would probably go through all ten, and many worse tortures besides, because they possessed both a powerful reason to remain silent and the will to carry it through. This was why handlers most often had some kind of leverage over spies, usually their families. Whatever you could do to them, the same or worse would be done to their loved ones if they talked.


    As it happened, the three ¡®guests¡¯ residing in the Orczy dungeon gave Lorqua a perfect cross-section of possible torture victims.


    The first was none other than Konrad Kolonn, scion of the Kolonn family, and the mastermind behind the attack on the Orczy compound and Teresa¡¯s kidnapping. There was absolutely no shortage of questions the Orczy would have loved him to answer. Unfortunately, he was a prime example of a prisoner that could not be tortured, for two reasons.


    First, his political importance guaranteed he would soon be ransomed, and if the Kolonn family found even a hint of torture, the consequences would be severe. If he had died in battle against the duke, that would have been an acceptable outcome within the norms of the feud. But instead, Konrad was captured by the archbishop. Had the archbishop killed him, even under the very understandable circumstances, the Forna family would have been drawn into the feud, and despite its great influence it was not nearly so prepared for warfare as the Orczy. The same would have occurred if the archbishop handed him over to the Orczy for imprisonment and the Orczy tortured him. Better to keep him contained and take the ransom money.


    Second, Konrad Kolonn wasn¡¯t conscious. He was drugged out of his mind on Violet Dew, a devilish little substance concocted from hallucinogenic fungi, nightshade, and a hint of dragon venom. Phenomenally expensive and difficult to acquire, but the same dose that would kill a thousand ordinary men would keep a cultivator at the fourth stage in a stupefied coma for days. Given how few people in Anthusa were actually capable of defeating him, this was the only way to reliably keep him imprisoned.


    Violet Dew also had another lovely side effect: it seeped into the victim¡¯s bones, becoming inert and very difficult to detect, but would return to the victim¡¯s bloodstream if they exerted themselves, such as by cultivating. Since purging it was a slow process, even for someone as powerful as Konrad, it wound up delaying full recovery and further cultivation for quite a long time after the victim woke up.


    All this to say, torturing Konrad was neither permissible nor possible. Lorqua confided that many of his guests belonged to this category, and it frustrated him greatly.


    The second guest in the dungeon was Lio Chekodorovna, a notorious Petronian thief. She spilled everything as soon as she arrived in the dungeon, and Lorqua left her cell deeply disappointed, unable to even show off his instruments. Cato and Enzo, on the other hand, left with a great deal of detailed, actionable intelligence.


    The third guest was Cato¡¯s acquaintance, he of the gut wound, Caro Alidosi. He was a canon within the Order of the Golden Rose, a wealthy and influential monastic organization which had long played both sides in the Orczy-Kolonn feud. He had, to all appearances, gone rogue and aided the Kolonn forces in a scandalously direct fashion, which, it went without saying, his organization wholly condemned. A ransom of one-hundred gold anthems arrived later that evening: a very small amount, quickly rejected by the duke. While the Golden Rose took a few more days to raise the funds which were already sitting in their coffers, the Orczy had free rein to interrogate their guest without giving great offense to any party. Enzo explained this all very matter-of-factly to his country bumpkin of a blood-brother, who would soon need to understand the ways of the world.


    This was a guest upon whom Lorqua could practice his art. He invited Cato and Enzo to accompany him in the cell through the whole process, from showing Alidosi the instruments along with their functions, creating an anticipation of the ordeal to come, remarking that his patrons would not be interfering in the process, and offering one last chance to spill before the torture began.


    Alidosi didn¡¯t take it.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Cato spent most of the next few hours outside the cell heaving and vomiting into a nearby bucket. Enzo insisted that the first time was always the worst, and he would get used to it.


    Cato very much hoped that wasn¡¯t true.


    Lorqua took his sweet time, but eventually got well past the two-and-a-half mark, and Alidosi refused to talk. Cato honestly expected him to talk at this point, or at least take a break. The torturer did not. By the time Enzo pulled him out, the torturer had done far, far worse.


    Enzo explained on the way up. ¡°Everyone knows you can¡¯t crack someone who has more to lose from talking than from enduring the pain. Any good torturer also knows when their victim has crossed the threshold. That bastard,¡± he hooked a thumb down the damp stone stairs at the faint sounds of pain, ¡°isn¡¯t going to talk.¡±


    ¡°Then¡­¡± Cato couldn¡¯t get the words out through the sour taste in his mouth.


    ¡°Why keep going at all beyond that point?¡±


    Cato nodded.


    There had to be a reason. A good one.


    ¡°What do you think happens if we get someone down there who thinks he¡¯s got it all figured out? He¡¯s not prepared to withstand the whole thing, not by a long shot, but he thinks ¡®I¡¯ll get a couple fingernails taken out, I just have to hold out until then and the torturer will realize I¡¯m not going to talk and he¡¯ll leave me alone.¡¯ So he does that. Of course, we keep going. He realizes the torturer¡¯s not going to stop, so he talks. Could have saved himself a lot of pain for the same result.¡±


    That¡­ that wasn¡¯t a reason. Not a good one.


    ¡°If we try to be merciful, people like that thief down there start to get ideas. Wind up hurting themselves. So once we start, we don¡¯t stop, and we make sure everyone knows it. Before we hand Alidosi back to the Golden Rose, the duke is going to parade him through the streets. Let everyone know exactly what happens when you don¡¯t talk. That way, nobody gets any ideas.¡±


    Cato stopped, turned around, and retched again, his dry spit dripping down the stairs.


    ¡°Hey, hey easy. Look kid, the captain wants to make a judge out of you. It¡¯ll be good practice for what comes later, and don¡¯t forget that it¡¯s a damn good deal what you¡¯re getting. But before any of that, you need to know about the punishments. You need to see that shit first-hand.¡±


    Enzo helped Cato up the last steps and out of the dungeon. He sat Cato down and let him wash down the bile with a swig of diluted wine, then sat down across from him.


    ¡°You don¡¯t want to see that? Don¡¯t want to sentence anyone to that? Good. Anyone who can let that happen without blinking an eye is way too ruthless to be a judge. But remember this: that madman Lorqua¡¯s job is to be merciless so you can be merciful. He¡¯s the stick you hold. Don¡¯t forget how bad it hurts, but don¡¯t forget you have it either.¡±


    Cato gasped out a few tentative breaths. ¡°But¡­ the duke¡­¡±


    Enzo shook his head. ¡°Men like him and men like us are different breeds. Don¡¯t forget that either.¡±


    If nothing else, Cato was finally out of his stupor.


    ? ? ?


    Far away, beyond planets and moons and suns and stars, upon the slopes of the great mountain of heaven, His Holiness Prudence IV watched these events through a gap in the golden celestial clouds.


    He sat upon the raised palm of the angel Zathiel. Though cross-legged and leaning forward to peek through the same gap, he was as large as a house, and his full height was greater than thirty cubits. Despite this immense difference in size, the angel of the second choir accorded Prudence IV great deference.


    ¡°It is as you say, your Holiness,¡± roared the angel. This vast sound like the waves crashing upon the shore was reckoned among his kind as a very respectful ¡®inside voice.¡¯ ¡°Young Tenorio is in great turmoil, surrounded by dangers on all sides, and with few protectors.¡±


    The late Holy Son¡¯s head was in his hands. ¡°It¡¯s all my fault, Zathiel. Do you think, if I had been stricter with him, he wouldn¡¯t have to suffer so?¡±


    Zathiel¡¯s hair billowed like the sails of a ship as he shook it.


    ¡°No, your Holiness,¡± he rumbled like distant thunder, ¡°your actions were no less than the will of God, an inevitable part of the divine plan.¡±


    Say what you will about their bedside manner, but angels knew how to get you off the hook when they were so inclined.


    ¡°PRUDENCE!¡±


    His Holiness Immaculate XIII came stomping back down the mountain of heaven full of fire. Immaculate had no patience for any of Prudence¡¯s tricks, and took special care to keep him in sight at all times since he last interrupted their climb.


    However, Prudence was a keen student of history. He knew that his great-grandfather, during his mortal tenure as Holy Son, presided over a period of intense conflict and heresy over the matter of how and from whom the Holy Spirit proceeded. This question, initially dismissed as a minor matter, turned into an intractable philosophical debate which threatened to schism the church and might have one day provoked interstellar war.


    Immaculate XIII put down the debate with immense and carefully executed violence against the opposing side. So thorough was his purge that, even under the more liberal regimes that followed, few dared to bring up the subject in public discussion.


    In spite of that, nobody could say that the disagreement had actually been settled, and Prudence¡¯s great-grandfather spent much of his twilight years composing lengthy treatises arguing his side to an absent opponent. Prudence was forced to memorize these arguments as a child, and took great pleasure in provoking his ancestor with a few well-chosen barbs.


    Immaculate responded with a full recitation of his mortal manuscripts, followed by many more arguments he had composed while in heaven, but Prudence was gone well before then.


    The walking lecture went on for a month until Immaculate XIII opened the floor to clarifying questions, and another month went by scaling back down the mountain.


    ¡°Zathiel, put him down immediately!¡±


    The colossal angel obeyed, placing Prudence down on the mountain slope with immense care.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I must depart, dear Zathiel, but might I ask a favor before I go?¡±


    ¡°Prudence¡­¡±


    ¡°This won¡¯t take a moment, great-grandfather.¡±


    ¡°There wouldn¡¯t be any more moments if we made straight to the top.¡±


    ¡°Dear Zathiel, might I ask you to descend and give my poor son some guidance?¡±


    He eyed his ancestor, but Immaculate just gestured for him to get on with it.


    ¡°Of course, your Holiness. How shall I intervene? Shall I appear in a dream? An omen? Shall I inspire him when his heart is weak?¡±


    ¡°Actually¡­ I recognize this is a substantial request-¡±


    Immaculate XIII¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Absolutely not. Zathiel, belay that request!¡±


    ¡°I was hoping that you might incarnate and stand by his side directly.¡±


    ¡°Prudence, that is utterly excessive. Zathiel, deny him at once.¡±


    The warrior angel looked at the two impassively. Angels made decisions, but did not dither. They questioned, but never doubted. They debated¡ªindeed, some angels were known to do hardly anything but debate the nature of the Divine and of Creation¡ªbut they could not be said to disagree. They possessed total knowledge of their own nature, and merely needed to comprehend a situation to immediately understand what they should do in response. Their debates did not aim to persuade the other, but only to express themselves and their unique natures as God made them. They were invariably humble about their position as pieces of Creation, but with regard to one another they were utterly solipsistic.


    Only while incarnated in the mortal world might an angel undergo anything like doubt, indecision, or change.


    Even so, being forced to choose between the commands of two human superiors of equal rank was something angels found distinctively uncomfortable. In such moments, they had just one response.


    ¡°Please calm yourself, Holiness Immaculate. I sense it is God¡¯s will that I should do this. After all, I don¡¯t think I have ever incarnated before.¡±


    Prudence grinned. His selection had not been wrong. In cases where there was some controversy, angels acted invariably according to their nature. Zathiel was a guide and a protector, one who had just watched young Tenorio Kyno¡¯s fortunes and misfortunes for two months. His victory was assured from the beginning.


    ¡°This is ridiculous. Prudence, need I remind you that if Zathiel is corrupted and exiled as a result of the changes he experiences, it will fall on your head? Do you have any inkling of what could happen with such a hasty decision?¡±


    Prudence adopted the blank expression and vaguely condescending tone of the angel. ¡°Whatever shall happen, it is the divine plan, and the plan is good.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not remotely how this works and you know it, Prudence.¡±


    ¡°Hmmm, I don¡¯t know. What did Ariosto of Ulsi say about predetermination again?¡±


    ¡°You- that miserable antifilioquist buffoon never produced a thought of worth in his entire life!¡±


    ¡°Farewell, your Holinesses,¡± trumpeted the angel.


    A great, dark circle opened up in the golden clouds of heaven, more than a thousand cubits across. Before such a gap, even the great angel seemed like a miniscule stalk of wheat. Within that portal appeared a titanic face; a woman, perhaps, noble and silver, her dark eyes glittering.


    ¡°Greetings, o Luna. I request passage into the mortal realm.¡±


    ¡°Greetings, Zathiel. Has the time come for you to incarnate?¡±


    The two angels shared mirthful laughter for three hours. It was a very funny angelic joke. The two Holy Sons, meanwhile, spent those hours recovering from hearing the voice of this angel of the fifth choir, the guardian of the boundary between the mortal and celestial realms, whose every word contained the weariness of endless cycles and the mutability of the moon¡¯s faces.


    ¡°Indeed, great Luna, and I know both the place and the time. Already there is a vessel down there that shall fulfill my requirements.¡±


    ¡°I wish to state for the eternal record that I oppose this entirely!¡±


    Immaculate¡¯s voice could hardly rise over the roiling current of clouds, yet Luna turned her eyes towards him.


    ¡°Noted, your Holiness.¡±


    While the humans in their midst took more time to recover, Zathiel stepped through the vast portal and into Luna¡¯s waiting hand. With a gentle breath, she scattered him like stardust across the vast space around the planet Vintal. The greatest portion of his essence dissolved back into the endless perturbations of the vacuum, ready to reform when Zathiel returned to heaven.


    One speck, however, flew down to the planet Vintal. It was borne about on invisible astral currents hither and thither, and it seemed for all the world like this seed of consciousness might land in some totally unexpected location. But with the gentle inevitability of fate, it drifted towards the city of Anthusa, through a home¡¯s open window, and into the body of one  happy new mother.

 Feed the Wolves Part 3

    Chervin swept through the rooms in his new home breathlessly, looking for so much as a speck of dust out of place.


    In the days since his fortuitous meeting with the Forna girl and the mysterious Mr. Rosso, his fortunes had completely shifted. No longer was he the ambitious but ridiculed foreign upstart! He was now a guest of the Orczy family, who went as far as to provide him with a new two-story home, a valet, a small staff, and a fully-stocked and equipped workshop.


    In return? He merely had to hone his skills, work on his craft, and create things of beauty for his employer.


    This was the dream.


    Even better, he had a guest coming over. The extremely accomplished Master Agnolo, a major figure within the goldsmith¡¯s guild who had graciously fixed the setting on Chervin¡¯s masterpiece, was scheduled to visit. Not only was Master Agnolo a very talented and influential person, his abilities spread far beyond mere goldsmithing; he was an artist, sculptor, engineer, composer, poet, and scholar of ancient languages.


    Needless to say, Chervin wanted to make sure everything was spick and span before the good master arrived.


    A bottle of Ponte Nero wine? Check. Slow-grilled ribs with a spice rub? Check. Crystal goblets and silver cutlery? Check. A fashionable¡ªbut not gaudy¡ªnew velvet jacket and trousers over a silk shirt? Check.


    A properly rehearsed introduction and a memorized list of all the master¡¯s recent accomplishments? Check and double-check.


    So excited was Chervin that when the door to his new home swung open, he did not consider why his very busy guest had arrived a full half-hour before the appointed time, nor why the valet outside had failed to announce him properly.


    He simply jumped to his feet and raced to the door, already tripping over his words and welcoming in his guest.


    At once, a few issues were apparent. To begin with, Master Agnolo was supposed to be rather short and wiry, but the silhouette in his door was tall and broad.


    Master Agnolo was meant to be fashionable, well-groomed and composed, while the figure stepping over his threshold was unkempt and brutish.


    Most importantly, Master Agnolo was not Chervin¡¯s former goldsmithing instructor Benicio Cecchini, yet it was the latter and not the former that clapped a hand on Chervin¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Good to see you too, boy. If you¡¯d welcomed me like this before, I might have enjoyed teaching you more!¡±


    With a barbarian laugh, Benicio stalked over to the Ponte Nero and poured a glass while Chervin stood stock-still, stunned.


    ¡°M-master?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s you.¡±


    Benicio looked at him askance, pushed the glass of wine into the former journeyman¡¯s hands, and drank straight from the bottle.


    ¡°No shit it¡¯s me, has your eyesight gone bad?¡±


    Chervin took a deep breath and forced the swirling confusion into a numbered list.


    First, his master was exiled from Anthusa. He¡¯d up-and-murdered a rival sculptor when the Holy City fell, and capitalized on the confusion to escape the city. Only afterwards did Chervin learn that Benicio had a long history of violence, including against fellow guild members, and had some infamy as a bandit and mercenary during previous exiles before amnesties and favors from high-placed friends brought him back to Anthusa¡¯s good graces.


    That was just a few months ago, and Chervin seriously doubted the exile had been lifted so quickly.


    Second, Benicio disappeared months ago. Despite his status as an exile, a man of his talents in both craft and violence never had difficulty finding employment, and he was noted in the town of Beroli just a few days after the Holy City fell.


    Then, in the midst of some ungodly scandal and violence that befell the city, he disappeared. Chervin wrote to Lord-Vicar Phaero on several occasions recently asking after his master, but there was no trace of him.


    More recently, Chervin received notice that, on the night of Benicio¡¯s disappearance, a great wildfire had erupted in the forest nearby. In the ruins of an ancient fortress nearby, the Lord-Vicar¡¯s men discovered signs of habitation, but unidentifiable human remains and signs of violence.


    Benicio was presumed dead, and Chervin consoled himself with work, pouring all his effort into finishing the setting for his masterwork. He had even intended to thank Master Agnolo for perfecting what his master had taught him, and keeping a sort of legacy. Chervin had halfway fooled himself into remembering those apprenticeship days as hard but joyous times.


    Now, the very man stood in front of him again, looking and smelling like a wild hill-man who hadn¡¯t showered in his life, and all those illusions fell away.


    ¡°Master, may I ask a question?¡±


    His master grunted approval. That did not,strictly speaking, mean that Chervin might ask without getting cuffed upside the head, but he pressed forward anyway.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    Not ¡®How are you still alive?¡¯ or ¡®How did you know where I moved?¡¯ or ¡®How did you get in?¡¯ or ¡®Get out of my house you insane criminal!¡¯ though Chervin was very tempted by all these possibilities. Best to be diplomatic for the moment.


    Benicio finished gulping down the Ponte Nero.


    ¡°I need your hands.¡±


    Chervin twitched. Despite his master¡¯s utterly calm manner, he couldn¡¯t help but interpret that in the most literal, bloody way possible.


    ¡°What-what does that mean?¡±


    Benicio cuffed him upside the head.


    ¡°Where have your manners gone? Did you think I wasn¡¯t coming back?¡±


    ¡°No, sir. Apologies.¡±


    ¡°Better.¡±


    Benicio jumped into one of the lovely, high-backed and cushioned chairs that came with Chervin¡¯s new house, and let out a contented burp.


    Only then did the master take in his surroundings, noting the expensive and tasteful furnishings and the luxury of his former apprentice¡¯s lodgings.


    ¡°What are you doing here? Did you, ehh,¡± he racked his brains for the Fleurish phrasing, ¡°prostitute yourself?¡±


    Chervin flushed.


    ¡°I was hired by the Orczy family, sir. As a jeweler.¡±


    Benicio let out a long and understanding ¡°Ahhhhhhhh. Very sad.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s sad?¡±


    ¡°Seeing my student become a whore.¡±


    Chervin didn¡¯t remember crossing the space between them. He didn¡¯t remember grabbing his master¡¯s shirt by the collar, or what he yelled.


    He just remembered the fuzzy blankness, and the experience of coming to on the floor.


    Unless his sense of time was completely fried, it hadn¡¯t been more than thirty seconds. But his master¡¯s jovial bearing had changed completely.


    ¡°Look at you. New house, new masters, you think you are successful. So rich and sophisticated.¡±


    Benicio threw the empty bottle to the ground. Chervin felt like he could hear every individual shard of glass.


    He knew, abstractly, that his master was powerful. His artistic achievements indicated a powerful soul, and the rumors he¡¯d heard from others told him that he had seen many other strong men into the afterlife.


    But a quick and powerful strike at the soul, precise enough to leave Chervin reeling without causing any permanent damage¡­ he¡¯d been massively underestimating his master.


    ¡°You are a whore. They flash money in your face, you go wherever they ask, make whatever they ask. You thank them for the opportunity, so you are a stupid whore.¡±


    Benicio¡¯s brute Fleurish gave way to his native Vintic, which Chervin only mostly understood.


    ¡°What did I tell you, Chervin? You do not need to learn humility! You do not need to learn how to bow and scrape and please the tastes of philistine clients! You have talent, boy, real talent, and if I ever catch you making pretty baubles again I will crush your hands and beat you senseless!¡±


    Chervin did not dare to speak.


    ¡°You need ambition. If you don¡¯t have enough of your own, you shall have a taste of mine.¡±


    Benicio¡¯s soul extruded from his body, filling the space between them. All of his deepest desires, everything that Benicio was, unfolded before Chervin. Amid this incredible display of vulnerability Chervin saw fury and violence and blood, and it was beautiful.


    And at the very core, raised up on a grand pedestal, was the image of a woman covered in gore, her teeth stained with blood.


    Then it was gone.


    ¡°Do you see it, boy? Inspiration, purest manna from heaven! I have been searching for years, and at last I have found my muse. My greatest work is at hand, and I need your hands.¡±


    A knock came at the door, and the valet¡¯s voice rang out.


    ¡°Announcing the honored Master Goldsmith Agnolo, Master Chervin!¡±


    Chervin stumbled to his feet, still stunned by all he had seen.


    ¡°M-master? What do we do?¡±


    Benicio looked at him like he asked what color the sky was.


    ¡°What does it matter? Turn him away if you like, or don¡¯t. But don¡¯t forget what you¡¯re here to do.¡±


    Then his master disappeared, and Chervin was alone in his ruined drawing room.


    ? ? ?


    The Saint Massimo chapel in Anthusa had developed an odd reputation in recent months.


    To be sure, nobody accused the priest, lovely Father Andrea, of any of the myriad offenses which corrupt priests normally merited. Nor was the chapel in any kind of ill-repair, thanks to the efforts of the Orczy family, who sponsored its construction many centuries earlier and continued to foot the bill for its maintenance. Nor was it attended by objectionable people who met there to discuss unsavory and unholy business.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    No, its reputation consisted mainly in the fact that, ever since the people of Inillo had come to Anthusa and settled in the abandoned homes nearby, nobody else could ever get in.


    At the same times that every other chapel in the city welcomed worshipers for ceremonies, sermons, and prayers, whether morning, noon, or night, a crowd of Inillians would be found blocking the entrances refusing to move aside.


    This was not criminal, nor was it a great offense. There were many chapels in Anthusa and many priests, and neither the Saint Massimo nor Father Andrea were greatly esteemed in their respected camps. This state of affairs only bothered those who, not accustomed to attending ceremonies, decided to attend one on a lark and happened upon a chapel where the crowd simply did not part to let them pass.


    Suffice it to say that there was a good reason for this, though not one to which the people of Anthusa were privy.


    When the first sun hung low in the sky and the city gathered for vespers, nearly two-thousand worshipers gathered at the Saint Massimo, choking the pews and spilling out to the street, where they formed such a dense clump that no passerby could enter. But when Cato arrived, supported by Sergeant Remiro and the former shepherds Inna and Myshkin, as well as a doctor, Agatha, of whom stories were rapidly spreading throughout the community, they melted through the crowd as if it were not there, and made their way to a forward pew that waited for them. A young man and his mother sat there already, the boy swaddled in bandages and unable to move his lower body at all.


    Those sitting in the aisle reached out to take Cato¡¯s hand, and many closed their eyes and prayed as he passed. Father Andrea spoke with him for a few minutes before the sermon began, and when the dozens-strong amateur choir that the people of Inillo had cobbled together sang, they sang in his direction.


    It should not be surprising given this reverence that, when the time came to take communion, Cato stood alongside Father Andrea and briefly touched every man, woman, and child that came up. Those moments of direct contact were precious for each and every one of them, and only the great mass of worshipers behind them in line kept this contact brief.


    Well after the fourth sun dipped below the horizon, the last of the worshipers accepted communion and Cato retired to the vestry along with his inner circle.


    Only then did he allow himself to collapse.


    ¡°My lord!¡±


    Father Andrea was at his side first, with Remiro hauling him onto a cushioned chair immediately after.


    Cato had performed just such rites dozens of times in the last several months, ever since he led the people of Inillo on the road to Anthusa.


    But things had changed in the last few days.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine! It¡¯s just my wounds flaring up again.¡±


    Nobody spoke against him, but neither did they believe him.


    ¡°Remiro, Andrea, go tend to the people. Inna, Myshkin, go fetch a book from my room, the one with the metal covers.¡±


    One by one he waved them away over their objections, and he was alone with Agatha.


    ¡°How did that feel?¡± she asked.


    Cato grinned, fighting through the pain and exhaustion. ¡°Like rubbing my insides with sandpaper. How does Diogo look?¡±


    He sat with the boy for a long time and did his best to heal him, but his wounds were severe, and they had lost several days in treating them while Cato was laid up in bed.


    ¡°Some improvement, but¡­ his eighteenth vertebra was shattered and the nerves severed. While the surrounding damage is healing more quickly, it¡¯s hard to tell if any progress at all was made in reconnecting them.¡±


    They sat in silence for a time.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be frank, Cato. I don¡¯t think I can heal either of you.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no way at all to reconnect the nerves?¡±


    ¡°Oh, there are ways. But if you trust me to cut him open, remove his bones, and weave them together by hand, you have far more faith in me than I deserve.¡±


    Cato gritted his teeth. ¡°So all those healing elixirs and magic fruits I keep hearing about don¡¯t exist?¡±


    ¡°They exist.¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°So besides the fact that they¡¯re extremely rare and expensive, they wouldn¡¯t work on him. Elixirs flood the body with spiritual energy to accelerate the healing process, but that energy needs to be absorbed and directed to be used properly. Give them to someone unconscious, too injured to manipulate their own energies, or someone whose body isn¡¯t sufficiently reinforced to withstand the flood, you¡¯ll just kill them.¡±


    ¡°But if he could cultivate his body to the second or third stage-¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°But-¡±


    ¡°No! Never mind the resources it takes to cultivate to that extent, never mind how much more slowly he would accomplish it because someone who can¡¯t move below the waist isn¡¯t in the right state of body or mind to cultivate, even then there¡¯s no guarantee it would work! Unless we manage it very, very carefully, his body might take its own state to be natural and reinforce that injury instead of healing it.¡±


    It was so frustrating. Here Cato was in a world of magic and wonder, where he had just seen people cast spells with their souls and fought alongside people who could speak to angels, but a boy not even twenty years old would go the rest of his life unable to walk and there was nothing he could do about it.


    Even as Captain Apostolis announced Cato had been awarded a pension, he also said that Diogo¡¯s family was offered compensation for their son¡¯s injury.


    Ten gold anthems. More money than they had ever held in their lives, enough to keep the boy fed and clothed for the rest of his life.


    When his family looked at Cato, there was no blame or hatred. They were thankful, above all, that Diogo was alive. He had served under Cato, nearly died the very first time he saw combat, and received an award which, by their standards, was immensely generous.


    But all of that was worthless when Cato looked into the eyes of a young man who had trusted him, and saw that all of his dreams were dead.


    ¡°What about a miracle?¡±


    Agatha was astounded.


    ¡°My god! I never thought of that! By all means, let¡¯s use those free miracles we all have. Why did I ever consider anything else?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m serious.¡±


    ¡°This is the opposite of seriousness.¡±


    ¡°You said it would take a miracle to heal my soul, right?¡±


    ¡°To be clear, we¡¯re in the market for two miracles now?¡±


    ¡°Just one.¡±


    Cato let that hang in the air.


    ¡°I felt his injury when I was trying to heal him. I was trying to restore his body to how it normally was, but it was too complex. Too many elements that were too fine, that had to be handled in a careful order. Because the body couldn¡¯t fix this injury on its own, I wasn¡¯t able to accelerate the recovery.¡±


    ¡°That sounds right. And?¡±


    ¡°During the battle, I saw Captain Apostolis burn out poison and seal off his own blood vessels. Someone like him could heal a spinal injury just fine, right?¡±


    Agatha gave a tentative nod. It would take time and focus, but manually stitching nerves back together from the inside was on the upper end of what a cultivator in the third stage could do.


    ¡°So if I can become as powerful as him, I¡¯d have enough control over my own body to fix those kinds of injuries in myself¡­¡±


    ¡°... and because you have some absurd spiritual connection with Diogo and the others that lets you heal their injuries like they were your own, you could heal him then. Fine, you¡¯re right. Your logic is impeccable. You¡¯d still need to reach the third stage, and I¡¯d bet alchemic transformation isn¡¯t enough; your connection to these people is mediated through your soul.¡±


    Which put them right back at square one.


    ¡°So I can fix myself and then Diogo with just one miracle, right?¡±


    ¡°Where are you getting a miracle to begin with? You¡¯re putting the cart before the horse, Cato.¡±


    ¡°Well, the Holy Son can effect miracles, right?¡±


    Agatha didn¡¯t respond, wary of where this line of thinking was headed.


    ¡°Well there¡¯s two of them right now, so it doubles our chan-.¡±


    Agatha grabbed a nearby rod and rapped him on the knuckles with it. Cato was astounded at how familiar that sensation felt.


    ¡°Don¡¯t go saying things like that outside. If you need me to keep you from accidentally spouting heresy, your theological fundamentals are worse than I thought.¡±


    ¡°Fine, fine, point taken. Besides that, the archbishop was a hopeful for the Holy Son as well, right?¡±


    ¡°He was a hopeful for the next conclave, not this one. He¡¯d still have to be made a cardinal, and becoming Holy Son in the same cycle as one is raised into the cardinalship is almost unheard of.¡±


    ¡°So there is a chance?¡±


    ¡°A small one. Maybe not as small as most. He reached the fifth stage before his first century, so in terms of raw talent he¡¯d probably be the foremost among the younger cardinals. Assuming he was appointed to begin with, that is.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s three chances for a miracle then. Hell, I can start charming the archbishop today!¡±


    That was it. Agatha couldn¡¯t handle any more. She burst out laughing in the face of the ridiculous, lunatic overconfidence displayed by a man who could barely get out of his chair right now.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be that easy? Just charm the pants off one of the most influential men on the planet and get a miracle from him once he becomes the Holy Son.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    She had no response to that.


    ¡°Am I supposed to give up? Am I supposed to despair? No. I¡¯m done with that.¡±


    Cato stood, his knees trembling.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care how difficult it is, or how bad my chances are, I¡¯m going to keep pushing forward. If you want me to stop, you¡¯ll have to kill me.¡±


    The door creaked open. Inna and Myshkin stepped in, their faces bright and grinning.


    ¡°Agatha,¡± Inna began, ¡°I know you don¡¯t have faith in him, but I do. If anyone can make a miracle happen, it¡¯s going to be him, and Myshkin and I will help however we can!¡±


    Agatha turned to the two of them, seeming to loom over them both despite being shorter by a head.


    ¡°I suppose nobody taught you two not to eavesdrop.¡±


    Yet despite her flat tone, there was warmth in her expression.


    ¡°Fine. If you want to help, come to my laboratory tomorrow. I¡¯ll work you both to the bone, and I don¡¯t want to hear a word of complaint!¡±


    ¡°No, miss Agatha!¡± they both yelled.


    Cato grinned. ¡°Thanks, you two. Now, if I could get some help here¡­¡±


    He halfway toppled over before three pairs of hands steadied him and pushed him back onto the chair. Agatha sent them away once more, this time with the metal-bound pages of the Book of Zevon in her hand.


    ¡°I¡¯ll expect your best as well, you know. You¡¯re not off the hook.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t dream of it. You help me reach the third stage, and I¡¯ll help you research the plague.¡±


    ¡°Just so long as you realize you¡¯re a test subject, and not a researcher.¡±


    ¡°Fine. But as long as we¡¯re here,¡± Cato took the Book, heavy in his weakened arms, and opened it on the table, ¡°you¡¯ll have to help this poor research subject with his¡­ what did you say before?¡±


    ¡°Weak theological fundamentals?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it. First of all: ashlachma morkolyo ehlnofey¡­¡±


    ? ? ?


    Teresa whispered her bedtime prayers in the silence of the Orczy estate.


    She¡¯d had a very strange dream a few nights earlier: she saw Mr. Otto and someone else bathed in light, and Mr. Otto was really badly hurt. It was like they were ants at the feet of huge angels. She knew they were there, in the dream, but couldn¡¯t see them. She just knew.


    Then her uncle came, and saved Mr. Otto! He was also bathed in light, but it was easier to see his angel: it was tall and powerful, with wings that shone like the rainbow, but it was also terribly sad. Teresa had never seen somebody so sad in her life.


    There was also something else. It looked like a little kid with tiny wings, but it hid behind the rainbow-angel¡¯s leg, and nobody else seemed to notice it was there. But she noticed, and it looked at her.


    The rest of the dream was loud and scary, but she woke up right after. That morning, she learned that Miss Myra had gone home and wouldn¡¯t be coming back; one of her relatives was sick, and she needed to go and take care of them. As much as Teresa begged for Mr. Rosso to bring her back, it was impossible.


    She had a new babysitter now, Miss Delia, but it wasn¡¯t the same.


    Otherwise, things went on as usual. Mr. Otto sent some more gifts to say sorry for not being at her party, but she saw him even less afterwards. She was starting to think he didn¡¯t really care about her.


    So she prayed. Adults didn¡¯t always listen to her, but God and the angels did. Although, when adults did listen, they usually did what she said, while the things she prayed for didn¡¯t always happen. So it wasn¡¯t a sure thing either way.


    She prayed for Miss Myra and Miss Myra¡¯s family, and for Mr. Otto to visit her more, and for Mom to come out of the tower soon.


    When she opened her eyes, she saw it again. That little kid with wings from her dream!


    It floated lazily over her bed and waved to her with a big smile.


    ¡°Hello!¡±


    Its voice was small and musical, and just listening to it Teresa felt like she could do anything.


    ¡°Hi!¡± she responded. ¡°I saw you in my dream!¡±


    It tittered behind one wing. ¡°I saw you in my dreams too! Not a lot of people can see me, though.¡±


    Teresa puffed up with pride. ¡°Of course I can! Mr. Rosso says I¡¯m the smartest girl he¡¯s ever taught!¡±


    ¡°Wow!¡± It floated down and twirled around her, as if examining. ¡°You¡¯re really smart! No wonder you can see me, Teresa.¡±


    ¡°You know my name?¡±


    ¡°Of course! Do you know mine?¡±


    Teresa thought very, very hard. Then she struck a pose and pointed at him.


    ¡°Your name is Petruccio!¡±


    It floated, dumbstruck. Then it laughed like the tinkling of tiny bells.


    ¡°That¡¯s a fun name! Okay, from now on, I¡¯m Petruccio!¡±


    ¡°Are you an angel, Petruccio? You have to tell me if you are, angels can¡¯t lie.¡±


    It flitted about, frustrated. ¡°Fine! You¡¯re right, I am, but you can¡¯t tell anyone! Nobody else knows I¡¯m here.¡±


    ¡°Can angels have secrets?¡± Teresa was utterly shocked.


    ¡°So many secrets! We can only tell them if you solve riddles.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m so good at riddles!¡±


    ¡°Teresa?¡±


    The door swept open and filled the room with candlelight, with the nursemaid Delia right behind.


    ¡°You should be asleep, dear. Off to bed with you now.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Miss Delia!¡±


    Teresa jumped into bed and allowed herself to be tucked in, pretending to fall asleep as the candlelight and footsteps receded.


    ¡°She didn¡¯t see you at all!¡± she whispered!


    ¡°Told you!¡± said the angel which was now called Petruccio. ¡°Will you keep my secret?¡±


    ¡°Can I hear your riddles? I bet I can crack them!¡±


    "Deal!"


    And thus was their deal struck.

 The Hustle

    ¡°I call this meeting to order.¡±


    Archbishop Iskander Forna intoned from the head of a great oval table, mahogany topped with ivory and filigreed with gold. Through the flung-open windows, the waning light of the fourth sun washed over Anthusa.


    This was the view from his private offices in the Cathedral Severe, and the company around the table was no less lofty.


    First, the young Duke Otto Orczy, still focusing on the serious wounds in his side. He was practically swimming in the ducal regalia which looked far too ornate for someone Iskander had known since they were both children. His agitation was palpable.


    Next, Ursula Tor, eldest surviving child of Ippolito Tor, now the Holy Son Fulminous I. Though piled high with gleaming jewelry, her most precious ornament sat at her side, resting a hand on hers: the former cardinal Rosso Sen, now living in hiding after narrowly surviving the destruction of the Holy City. Though she wore no crown, a sense of royal majesty hung over her like a cloak, quite unlike the duke.


    Over her shoulder a sinister man stood stock-still, waiting to serve wine to the assembled guests. Michelotto was his name, a viper who once served Ursula¡¯s elder brother Valentino. Though losing him in the Holy City was a terrible blow, Iskander Forna couldn¡¯t feeling relieved that he was gone: if only that venomous manservant of his had done the same.


    Finally, sitting just to the archbishop¡¯s right, sat one person he had not expected to see again.


    ¡°So formal, Iskander. I thought this was just a friendly meetup!¡±


    Unlike many other families one could name, the Manzi made little distinction between their sons and daughters. Their vocation was not the church or the battlefield, but commerce, and especially banking, and they spared no time in teaching the firstborn of the new generation, Lorenza Manzi, all the secrets of the trade.


    They demanded nothing less than excellence, and so she excelled. In time, the family expected her to inherit the business and marry up: there were no shortage of old families with more prestige than wealth, and though it was no simple matter, they had every confidence that clever, keen-eyed Lorenza would fulfill the family¡¯s longtime ambition and secure an aristocratic foundation.


    One could not overstate the furor when she ran away from home and entered a nunnery. It was true, she had always excelled in her theological subjects, and everyone praised the sincerity of her faith, but nobody expected she would cast aside her position and disappear.


    They made every effort to retrieve her, of course, but she chose her retreat well. The monastery which she entered sat near Velatri, under the authority of Cardinal de Resol, whom they now knew as Magnanimous VIII. One of the most powerful forces on Vintal, de Resol spared no energy in blocking their efforts. If the daughter of an upstart banking family wanted to devote herself to God, who was he to stop her?


    Lorenza¡¯s removal from the Velatri monastery was one favor the Manzi hoped to ask from the new Holy Son after the conclave was done. Her younger brother Leo, to whom the inheritance fell in her absence, was locked up in the Tower as a matter of course; whether he genuinely respected his sister¡¯s decision or simply wanted the position for himself was irrelevant.


    When the Holy City went up in flames, Iskander Forna fully expected to never hear from Lorenza again. As far as his informants told him, she spent her days mixing medicine and copying books, with no questions about the outside world.


    Yet there she sat in a simple habit, walking in through his office door and joining them as though nothing had happened in the intervening decade.


    ¡°We have to deal with Kyno!¡±


    Duke Orczy pounded the table, drawing attention to himself.


    ¡°Count Kyno¡¯s fate is not on today¡¯s agenda, Otto,¡± the archbishop responded, ¡°we have-¡±


    ¡°Rosso, stand with me on this. We can¡¯t allow this bastard to keep running around with impunity!¡±


    The former cardinal shrank into his simple robes, looking more like the schoolteacher he¡¯d always wanted to be.


    Ursula stroked the back of Rosso¡¯s hand with a finger, drawing him closer away from Otto.


    ¡°Your Grace, have some decorum. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but let¡¯s not spoil our reunion with talk of such a vulgar man.¡±


    ¡°Agreed!¡± Lorenza smiled, bright as a moonbeam. ¡°The forgiveness of such a wretched sinner is a beautiful thing.¡±


    There was not a single person in the room who agreed with that sentiment.


    ¡°Sister, didn¡¯t Kyno threaten you with a sword when you refused to pay off his gambling debts?¡± Otto asked.


    ¡°What of it? Talk of money is such a sinful thing.¡±


    ¡°Enough! Tenorio Kyno is not on today¡¯s agenda!¡±


    ¡°He should be! I don¡¯t know how that bastard survived the Holy City, but he infiltrated my household and has my guard captain wrapped around his finger. He¡¯s clearly up to something!¡±


    Wine splashed out of the duke¡¯s goblet and stained the table. Michelotto stepped forward, silently wiping it down.


    Rosso tightened his grip on Ursula¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Otto,¡± Ursula began pointedly, ¡°we all share your grievances-¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± piped Lorenza.


    ¡°- and I know that everyone in this room would like to have him dealt with. But we have more important matters at hand, and one more rat scurrying around our feet can wait.¡±


    Otto set his jaw. ¡°If you want to forgive what he did to you, that¡¯s your business Ursula. But can you call yourself a friend to Julia if you do that?¡±


    The archbishop placed a heavy hand on the duke¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°Enough, Otto.¡±


    The duke turned and cast his friend¡¯s hand away.


    ¡°He was right in front of you! You could have killed him then and there, and you didn¡¯t!¡±


    ¡°I already told you-¡±


    ¡°Are you taking his side now, Iskander?¡±


    Rosso shifted in his seat, keeping an eye on the exit. Michelotto stood impassively, keeping an eye on the wine glasses.


    Lorenza looked on with the same gentle smile.


    ¡°Ursula!¡±


    Otto turned away from the archbishop and leaned over the table towards her.


    ¡°I can¡¯t do anything right now, and he won¡¯t,¡± he pointed at Iskander, ¡°but you can. Hell, just lend me Michelotto, and Kyno will be dead before sunrise, I-¡±


    The room filled with a deadly, freezing chill. Ursula, who already has the most regal bearing out of them all, seemed almost to glow, to grow, as if this was her domain and everyone else was here for an audience with her.


    ¡°Be very, very careful, Otto Orczy.¡±


    Those words spilled out from her lips, but they did not belong to her.


    ¡°You not only plot to kill a member of your own household, you do so in front of me, and you ask for my complicity? One of my brethren has already branded you for your insolence. Do not provoke me further.¡±


    The chill receded, and Otto¡¯s heart started to beat again. The archbishop trembled, steadying himself on the table and slowly falling back into his seat.


    Despite the temperature, Ursula¡¯s forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat, and her fast, hitched breathing belied her composure.


    Every angel was intelligent, willful, and unique. Each had their own creed, tied inexorably to their role within Creation, and had certain lines they would not allow their hosts to cross.


    To manifest like that, possessing Ursula directly¡­ it took no small toll on her.


    Michelotto poured the duke a new glass.


    ¡°As enjoyable an outing as that might be, your Grace, I¡¯m afraid I am not at liberty to join you. Please accept my humble apologies.¡±


    He offered a napkin to Otto, who cursed under his breath and pressed it to his bleeding side.


    ¡°Can we please¡­¡± Ursula gasped, ¡°get back on the agenda?¡±


    All eyes turned toward the long-suffering archbishop, who shuffled his papers into a new order.


    ¡°Ahem. First on the agenda.¡±


    ¡°The diocese of Helvetra has requested signatories to their open letter to the Holy Son requesting that they be granted an exception from the church regulations requiring that communion wine be made from grapes. The archbishop of Anthusa, duke of Anthusa, and the Manzi bank are invited to add their signatures. Lady Tor is requested to write to His Holiness in favor of the propriety of elderberry wine.¡±


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Silence reigned over the table.


    ¡°This is more important than dealing with Kyno?¡± Otto burst out.


    ¡°Yes or no, Otto, I wanted to get the easy decisions out of the way first,¡± the archbishop shot back.


    ¡°Fine, yes from me.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± said Lorenza.


    ¡°Wait, why?¡±


    ¡°Lorenza, you¡¯re not-¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s heresy.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not in line for the bank anymore, Lorenza.¡±


    ¡°Insuring the wine imports makes too much money, Leo would decline too.¡±


    ¡°I suppose¡­¡±


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we ask Mr. Manzi anyway?¡± Rosso asked.


    ¡°Not really.¡± Iskander¡¯s pen hovered over the page, about to tick off the item. ¡°Ursula, what about you?¡±


    ¡°What did they offer?¡±


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± he shuffled through his papers. ¡°The everlasting gratitude of the Helvetran Association.¡±


    She thought it over for a moment. ¡°Very well. Rosso, dearest, would you draft me a letter? Find some precedent for the expansion of regulations like these. Start with the writings of the church fathers. Make it poetic.¡±


    Rosso beamed, excited to practice his craft once more. ¡°Of course! I¡­ well, who should I write to?¡±


    ¡°Both of them.¡±


    ¡°On that note,¡± said the archbishop, moving speedily along. ¡°We have letters from both Fulminous I and Magnanimous VIII demanding that we publicly recognize them as the rightful Holy Son and the other as a demonic pretender. The archbishop of Anthusa, Duke of Anthusa, and the Manzi bank are all instructed to show their support.¡±


    He pushed two letters over the long table to Ursula. She skimmed them over and threw them back with disdain.


    ¡°Rosso, draft a letter to our friend de Resol. Inform him that my loyalty is not so easily bought.¡±


    ¡°At once.¡±


    ¡°And write to my father as well.¡± Her brows furrowed. ¡°Tell him that de Resol offered me a hundred-thousand anthems and the lands of the Gran Marlo nunnery, and that he¡¯d best bid higher before de Resol does.¡±


    ¡°Wait, we¡¯re still staying neutral?¡± the duke ventured.


    ¡°The longer we stay neutral, the more powerful we are, Otto.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but¡­¡±


    ¡®It¡¯s your father¡¯ was the unspoken protest. It did not move her.


    ¡°They¡¯ll come back with threats next time, both of them. We stick out the threats, and they¡¯ll come back to the table with the real offers. Don¡¯t settle for anything less.¡±


    Iskander ticked off that item.


    As powerful as each of them was, both individually and institutionally, none of them could stand up to such powers. If the armies of Fleur came crashing down on Vintal, a mere Duke of Anthusa would blow over like a matchstick in a storm. If the Holy Son saw fit to formally censure him, never mind excommunicate him, a young archbishop without a strong base of family power in the city would be swiftly overthrown. Likewise, money can¡¯t buy much if your customers and bodyguards fear for their immortal souls.


    But between them, controlling the ecclesiastical, political, and financial resources of the city, one so full of art and culture that even the most debased armies would hesitate to raze it, they held real power. Put to proper use, Anthusa was a lever that could move the entire planet. With truly exceptional scheming, it could move the universe.


    But that was only as long as the people at the table, and their siblings locked in the tower above, moved in lockstep. Any gap was an invitation to their enemies.


    When Ursula proposed this decades ago, when they were all children attending classes together, it was a heady fantasy. Now it was their reality. Maybe only she had understood, back then, what kind of strength it would take to hold it all together. But so long as she was keeping to that plan, so long as she refused to compromise, none of them dared to step out of line.


    ¡°Next. The Kolonn family has offered fifty thousand anthems in ransom for Konrad. Otto?¡±


    The duke stewed.


    ¡°Fifty thousand and a public apology.¡±


    Ursula scoffed.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Grow up.¡±


    The duke flinched like he¡¯d been struck. Iskander didn¡¯t dare give this so much as a second to develop.


    ¡°Counteroffer noted. Now, Michelotto¡­¡±


    This next part was not on the agenda.


    ¡°Your Excellency.¡±


    ¡°Did you find the vault?¡±


    That captured Otto¡¯s interest. It was, after all, the reason Konrad had tried to kidnap Teresa.


    ¡°Yes, your Excellency. It was in the floor of the northern wing of the Sanctum Summum, just where you expected.¡±


    ¡°And its defenses?¡±


    ¡°Intact. Nothing I did could so much as crack the outer door. Of course, since the late Holy Son now has two living descendants, we¡¯re spoiled for choice.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s one choice. Teresa isn¡¯t going.¡± Otto spat.


    Michelotto grinned an oily grin. ¡°Your Grace, I merely meant-¡±


    ¡°I agree. I won¡¯t let anyone risk Teresa in that ruin.¡± The archbishop brooked no disagreement on this matter. ¡°Was there anyone else in the Holy City?¡±


    ¡°Just one. A wanderer. Nobody of significance.¡±


    Iskander pretended not to notice Michelotto favoring his right leg.


    ¡°Very well. Final item.¡±


    The archbishop wanted everything else out of the way first, because this was going to be difficult.


    ¡°I¡¯ve received word from House Gulphay. The Sultan has set Maximilian Gulphay¡¯s ransom at one billion anthems, and all the House¡¯s allies are called upon to donate.¡±


    A billion anthems.


    The entire city of Anthusa and all its contents didn¡¯t amount to so much.


    ¡°That can¡¯t be right. Iskander, that¡¯s obscene.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s there in black and white, Otto.¡±


    ¡°You misread the number. Or it¡¯s in another currency, or-¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s real, Otto. There¡¯s no mistake.¡±


    In this meeting of some of the wealthiest and most powerful individuals on the planet, not one of them avoided a deep, visceral sense of how much money that was.


    So Rosso said what they were all thinking.


    ¡°House Gulphay¡­ they can¡¯t possibly plan to pay it? Right?¡±


    ¡°It sounds,¡± Lorenza barged in, ¡°like they plan for you to pay it.¡±


    ¡°After everything¡­ after the Holy City¡­ they want us to throw more treasure into the Sultan¡¯s lap!? Ursula, we can¡¯t go along with this!¡±


    All eyes turned to her.


    ¡°How much do they want us to pay?¡±


    A protest died in the duke¡¯s throat.


    ¡°Ten million. That¡¯s the share they¡¯ve assigned us, in the name of continued friendship.¡±


    That was a more¡­ comprehensible sum. Something that they might just be able to scrape together between them all, assuming they called in every debt, used every favor, alienated all their allies, and scraped the filigree off their family mansions.


    That was worse, somehow.


    Not that they could decline easily. This alliance of theirs existed to provide some leverage against the great powers of the universe. House Gulphay was one such power. The entire planet of Konigsphare was their ancient birthright. The vast wealth of the Manzi bank lay in stocks and contracts and accounts, but the wealth of Gulphay was held tight in their grasp. Their army, along with that of Fleur, were the only two that could seriously contend with the Sultan¡¯s hordes.


    And all of them were House Gulphay¡¯s allies. House Gulphay was the umbrella that allowed this band of schemers to focus their energies locally, on one planet at a time.


    To lose their friendship, inevitably publicly and shamefully, would set their plans back irreparably.


    Ursula jolted out of her seat.


    ¡°What are you-¡±


    ¡°I need to think.¡±


    ¡°Ursula!¡±


    ¡°My dear!¡±


    ¡°I have a solution!¡±


    Ursula was halfway out the door when she registered Lorenza Manzi¡¯s chipper declaration.


    ¡°Lorenza¡­you have ten million anthems stashed away in your nunnery?¡±


    ¡°Not quite.¡±


    ¡°Then what-¡±


    ¡°Relax! I have something better.¡±


    She pulled a small box from her bag and placed it on the table. It opened hermetically, and a miraculous aroma filled the room, fresh and slightly sour.


    Inside the box was a fuzzy, green, lumpy apple. Too unripe by several months, yet the spiritual energy contained within it was immense. If it had been allowed to grow and mature, it would have been worth many thousands of anthems. At present¡­


    Otto sank back into his chair, defeated. ¡°Lorenza, whoever sold you that scammed you. It¡¯s not worth ten million. As unripe as it is, a spirit fruit like this is worth a few hundred at most.¡±


    But neither Ursula nor Iskander could take their eyes off it.


    ¡°It¡¯s fresh.¡±


    ¡°... yeah.¡±


    ¡°Lorenza, where did you find this?¡±


    She beamed. ¡°A little while ago, a man stumbled into our monastery, covered in wounds. The abbess thought he¡¯d been caught in a bandit attack, so she sent him to me in the infirmary. He died not long after. I figure he was in the third realm, but whoever injured him was no worse. And all the while he was mumbling about a great treasure. ¡±


    She picked up the budding fruit in her fingers.


    ¡°He had this in his hand. I only managed to pull his fingers apart after he died. If he¡¯d eaten it, he would have lived for sure. Almost like the thought never crossed his mind. But if he had, I¡¯d have never known. One of God¡¯s little miracles!¡±


    She popped it into her mouth, wincing at the chewy, sour sensations, and swallowed in front of her stunned audience.


    ¡°A fountain of youth,¡± the archbishop whispered, reverent.


    Spirit fruits like these, filled to the brim with energy, were an immensely valuable resource. They could bring even a powerful cultivator back from the brink of death, were invaluable ingredients in elixirs, and could massively aid anyone¡¯s cultivation.


    But the incredibly dense natural energy necessary to grow them was virtually impossible to gather, and artificial orchards of that sort could only thrive by pulling energy from surrounding lands, rendering them virtually uninhabitable. There were only a handful of those on the entire planet, and their annual production was meager.


    But sometimes, just sometimes, God was generous. A fountain of youth was a divine phenomenon, appearing at random, in which a spring of blessed water poured forth from the earth and blessed all the lands around. Not only did spiritual fruits like this one grow like weeds in its vicinity, but the water itself, if bottled at the mouth of the spring before it was diluted, was an unmatched resource, a live-giving elixir all on its own which could produce potions of immense potency.


    Konigsphare had one. Fleur did as well. The vast territories of the Abyssinians were said to possess at least one of these wonders. In every case, control of that resource allowed a ruler to gain dominance over their home world.


    But there was no such place on the entire planet of Vintal, and so despite being the home of the Holy Son, a center of ancient learning and art, it played second fiddle to other worlds in politics and on the battlefield.


    That changed today.


    Now there was a fountain of youth near the city of Velatri, just a week¡¯s ride away from Anthusa. Practically on their doorstep. Closer than any other regional power.


    Ursula threw herself into Lorenza¡¯s arms and squeezed her tight.


    ¡°OW! Ursula, I need¡­ to¡­ breathe.¡±


    Ursula couldn¡¯t hear her over her own crazed laughter.


    ¡°Who else knows? Who else?¡±


    ¡°I- ow! Nobody else at the monastery. Maybe whoever hurt that guy, but they¡¯re bound to keep it secret too.¡±


    There was too much to do, too many plans to prepare , allies to gather, promises to make. But first, Ursula ran out the door, pulling Rosso by the sleeve. They had a long and sleepless night ahead of them.

 Runaway Part 1

    So passed the days, and the days turned into weeks, as Anthusa healed. The chronic offense of the plague and the acute offense of Konrad Kolonn¡¯s attack both faded from the mind, not gone, not irrelevant, but not of immediate concern. Konrad was ransomed back to his family in due time, and the city was untroubled by Kolonn forces for a time. The plague, which just weeks earlier ravaged the city and its environs and seemed poised to depopulate it entirely, just¡­retreated. All of a sudden the sick rallied, and new infections slowed.


    Into that emptiness came the bustle of the city, convinced that the trial had passed: noble Anthusa¡¯s defenders had seen off the foul invaders and God¡¯s punishment had lifted. The time for fear was gone. The new moment called for bold action.


    To Agatha, it seemed more like the plague was just taking a long, drawn-out breath, and she dreaded the day it would fall back upon Anthusa with renewed force. She had long since accustomed herself to thinking of it as a living being. It was her greatest opponent, invisible yet omnipresent, and only by tracing its activities and learning its true character could she put an end to it.


    Her staff, many of whom were hired with Orczy coin, whispered that their mistress, for all her genius and dedication, had gone a little mad trying to fight the plague. It was true, her habits had turned rather superstitious. She held her breath when an animal crossed her path, for the possibility that it was infected and the disease was, as she suspected, airborne. She avoided cups and utensils used by others until she had polished them with a rosewater-infused cloth. For a time, she genuinely believed that aconite extract might function as a prophylactic, and when she bought far more of the flower than she could distill in short order, she placed reams of it on every door in her home and laboratory, and handed out wreaths to her nurses to wear under their robes, just in case it helped.


    Later on, when she found no material effect, she hid it all away in embarrassment. Once, she had been a countryside witch, and had worked hard to ditch that old identity and recreate herself as a respectable healer. What a shame to get that suspicion going again by slinging wolfsbane for entirely medical purposes.


    Yet for every plague-ridden patient that walked out of her clinic in full health, for every panicked client she diagnosed with a simple cough and sent on their way, she could not relax. Her old enemy was not defeated, because she had not yet discovered its nature.


    It was only waiting, hiding, starving her of data, and the dread of an unseen enemy drove her into her research with more manic desperation than she had when the plague was at its peak.


    She was glad, in retrospect, for Cato. Not only had he offered himself up as an invaluable test subject, not only was he providing her clinic with far more funds than she could ever scrape together before, but he brought Inna and Myshkin with him.


    Agatha had really missed them. She took these two hardly-literate two shepherds under her wing when it was just her, a countryside shack, and a stack of pilfered books. Only much later, after she left for Anthusa, did she admit to herself that having them around kept her grounded. Considering the nature of her research, it was no exaggeration that their simplicity, their very basic and material concerns, kept her sane. Teaching them the rudiments of manipulating spiritual energy, even figuring out how to¡ªit was ungenerous, but true¡ªdumb down the principles until they could understand them, really did firm up her own understanding.


    To have them back, whole and healthy and with a new purpose in life¡­ it felt better than she would openly admit.


    So they helped around the clinic, and she kept teaching them. There was always good work for a trustworthy pair of hands, and what it cost for them to cultivate to the first realm in body and soul was a rounding error to Cato¡¯s requirements. Not to mention, just watching them learn helped Cato as well. Despite his considerable power and ability, it was clear that his fundamentals were full of holes, and accompanying them helped him patch those without raising too many awkward questions.


    Having them around slowed her research down immensely, yes, but it kept her going. As often as not, her best ideas, real progress, came when she was away from her records and in front of other people.


    This particular night in late summer was not one of those times.


    Plague cases in the clinic were scarce, Cato had long since provided a wealth of data which Agatha struggled to interpret, and Inna was on the verge of breaking through to the first realm of alchemic transformation. She was in the stage of multiplication now, fully crossed over from xanthosis to iosis, and the active components of the reagents in her body were replicating themselves at great speed: she had to eat and drink a balanced diet at a much higher rate than she was accustomed, waking up twice a night and eating a square meal. Agatha needed to constantly monitor her state and address imbalances by feeding her toxins, and needed to ensure that she remained awake and passed those toxins as soon as possible.


    It was exhausting work for stern stomachs, a delicate moment requiring constant attention that left very little room to think.


    It was well past midnight, only once she was sure that Inna¡¯s internal alchemy was balanced and she had enough food at home for an early morning snack, that Agatha left Inna to Myshkin¡¯s care and sat down in front of her data.


    She could barely read it. Her vision swam, and she could hardly concentrate, never mind find the subtle, hidden patterns she hoped existed within.


    This was despite feeling much, much too energetic to sleep. In such a moment, Agatha could really only do one thing.


    In her office, amid the astrological diagrams and crystal balls and other witchy accouterments she kept away from the public eye, was the one divining tool she put any real trust in: the World-Wheel of al-Sabti.


    It was a tome of wide, thin pages, more like an artist¡¯s sketchbook, dominated not by text but by diagrams: twenty-seven concentric circles divided by twelve spokes, and in each cell a syllable. These did not belong to the Vintic language, but to Abyssinian, each a unique combination of vowel and consonant. Beyond this wheel lay dozens and dozens of densely-written tables correlating letters and numbers to one another in dizzying combinations, and at the very back, a poem in Abyssinian, which Agatha had long since translated:


    You possess the question of the grand natural form


    Therefore, conserve the strange doubts that have been raised and which diligence can dissipate


    She had first stumbled on this book, abandoned in a dusty shop, many years ago, not long after escaping from her nunnery. She could make neither heads nor tails of it, but it fascinated her anyway, and she acquired it for a pittance. She learned Abyssinian just to figure out what it was about. It proved stubbornly obscure, so obscure that she could barely find any mention of it in other texts. Then, one day, she found a description of it in the Prolegomena of al-Hadrami: a machine for divination, a tool for computing the wisdom of the heavens, one so vast and potent that it included the entire universe as one of its moving pieces, for which that poem was a cipher.


    Agatha wrote down her question, and translated it, as best she could, into Abyssinian. From there, she employed the poem as a transposition cipher, turning syllables into numbers. She then queried the stars: the moon was ascendant, the bull in the sixth house. The cross-referenced the astrological data with her own numbers across the vast field of numbered tables. Briefly, Agatha was conscious that the weariness she faced with her own notes had passed, and the World-Wheel filled her, as it always did, with an unstoppable energy that pushed her forward, page by page, transformation by transformation, until she reached the end: there, the numbers became syllables once more, and the syllables formed words in Abyssinian, which she strained to translate.


    Her original question: How should I progress my research into the plague?


    And the World-Wheel answered, as well as she could make out: D O N O T F O R G E T H O S P I T A L I T Y.


    Its answers were always short and cryptic. The first time she queried it successfully, it told her to G O W I T H T H E R I S I N G S U N. She had asked how to achieve her goals and become a great scholar.


    Nevertheless, she woke up early the next morning, and left her accommodations for a morning walk. Later, a freak fire tore through the building. Only a few of her possessions survived; the very flammable World-Wheel was one of them.


    Its divinations were true and powerful. The only catch, as far as she could tell, was that it rarely told her what she wanted. Instead, it most often told her what she needed to hear, though she might not know why for a while thereafter.


    So she put the book away, back to its place of honor, and just as she was wondering what to do next, Agatha heard the baying of dogs.


    Anthusa was not a quiet city, especially not at night, but this night the air was deathly still, and the cries of hounds from outside her window sent a chill up her spine. Agatha went to her windows, but just as she was about to lock them shut, she saw him: a tall, thin silhouette limping through the street, smothered in a long, hooded robe. The hounds, though she could hear them approaching, were nowhere to be seen.


    For a moment, she froze. Best not to get involved, she thought. This man was a criminal of some sort. She had built something precious in her clinic, something she couldn¡¯t jeopardize on a whim.


    But the World-Wheel had never led her wrong before. More importantly, she remembered her own escape: running from everything she had ever known, faking her own death, and the lifesaving grace she had received from others because they had given her just a bit of generosity, just a little benefit of the doubt.


    She threw open her door and hissed at the silhouette, ¡°In here!¡±


    He stopped, turned, and ran into the safety of her home, the heavy wooden door slamming shut behind him.


    He collapsed on Agatha¡¯s floor, his body almost totally covered in his ragged robe, and they both waited in silence as the baying of hounds sounded on the street. The sounds stopped for a moment outside the door, and Agatha heard the sound of snuffling and pawing on the cobblestones beyond the threshold. She once again felt an inexplicable, overpowering dread, and wondered what kind of dog could instill such fear in a third realm cultivator.


    But with the passage of long moments, they passed by, and the confused cries of the hounds faded into the distance.


    Both Agatha and her impromptu guest had been holding their breaths, but he was in much worse shape, and began gasping as soon as the danger passed. Agatha rolled him onto his front, and saw the wrinkled face, the thin, snow-white hair, all covered in sweat and grime.


    He managed a ¡°Thank you¡± between gasps and coughs, but his condition did not improve.


    In some strange state between exhaustion and excitement, Agatha realized this man was ill.


    His skin was hot, unbelievably hot. If she had been an uncultivated mortal, touching his face would have seared the tips of her fingers.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Let it never be said that Agatha was not devoted to her craft; with a stranger having a deadly coughing fit on her floor, suffering from some disease she had never before seen, she sprang into action.


    First, water, then snowberry leaves and hyssop. There was no time to distill the active compounds properly: she mixed handfuls in a bucket, and summoned her power: spiritual energy rushed from her hands into the mixture, disassembling the ingredients into their constituent parts. From the heterogenous muck she willed a handful of globules to form, containing the densest pockets of the active compounds. With a burst of heat, she rendered them into a fine paste, and with a burst of formless energy she stimulated the elements within.


    Less than a minute after she started, the mixture in her hands was cold to the touch. She slathered it on his face first, then tore open his robe to administer it to his torso. She avoided contemplating the dense web of scars she found there, the marks of whips and clubs and blades. Those were old injuries. She had to address the acute symptoms first.


    With the rising heat countered, Agatha called forth her soul: it was the same principle as the far-seeing eye she taught to Inna, but focused on the very close and nearby, a telescope turned into a microscope. Her inner sight rushed through this man¡¯s body, seeking the source of his illness.


    She found an iron nail lodged in his body, just underneath his left lung: it was white-hot, unleashing a tremendous amount of destructive, fiery energy into his body. Having just worked with Inna, the symptoms were familiar: this was an imbalance of the inner elements, deliberately induced by whoever left this accursed thing inside her patient.


    She reassessed him as well. He was certainly not uncultivated, nor was he helpless: he was clearly very powerful, and working very, very hard to counter the effects of the nail.


    The operation that followed was not graceful or sophisticated; Agatha cut open her patient with a scalpel, fearless of blood loss or other injury. If she failed, those would kill him slowly. The nail would kill him much more quickly.


    The closer she got, the more of the blazing energy poured out of his body and into the surrounding room. By the time she pulled out the white-hot nail with a pair of tongs, she was standing in front of a wildfire, sulphurous smoke billowing out from this tiny piece of metal. Her tongs glowed and melted almost immediately, and the nail clattered to the ground just inches from her patient.


    ¡°Holy water!¡±


    He spoke, spitting out mouthfuls of blackened blood as he went.


    ¡°Douse it in holy water!¡±


    Agatha spun towards her cabinet, tore out a vial of holy water, and spilled it on the nail even as it was burning the stone floor and threatening to make her furniture combust.


    There was no smoke or vapor. The nail sizzled on contact, but the water didn¡¯t evaporate: instead, the nail melted into slag, its unbearable heat vanishing immediately. Where it had lain, there were only scorch marks and splatters of dirty blood.


    The blood was less worrying than if she had been treating a mortal patient. The capacity of more powerful cultivators to stimulate their bodies and reconstitute their bodies was considerable, and while this was most obvious in the form of regenerated limbs, the creation of new blood could be accomplished very quickly. Agatha wasn¡¯t quite sure how powerful her patient was, but without a doubt it was quicker to expel the corrupted blood and generate healthy stock in its place than to filter it through the kidneys. Such behavior gave rise to leech and bloodletting treatments among less educated mortals, which was very rarely the right choice.


    Better not to move him, though. So she brought him medicine even as the wound she opened in his lung closed before her eyes, and spread salve on the wound. She very much doubted it would get infected with a mundane disease, but it paid to take precautions.


    Just a few minutes after her operation¡¯s climax, her patient lay in a gory, stinking scene, but hale and healthy. That wrinkled face grinned up at her, and his eyes sparkled with enthusiastic intelligence.


    ¡°What was in that salve?¡±


    That was not a question Agatha was accustomed to receiving from a patient that ought to be reeling from an extraordinary illness, but she supposed some coped in different ways.


    ¡°Wine, ox gall, garlic, crofelac, and peat moss. What¡¯s your name, sir?¡±


    He completely disregarded that very reasonable question.


    ¡°Ox gall!? What century are we living in? Who is the Holy Son?¡±


    Ah. He was delusional.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get you onto a bed, sir. Can you stand?¡±


    ¡°Can I? Your mother!¡±


    He sprang to his feet with a joyful mien that Agatha really, really hadn¡¯t expected from someone who was just in such immense pain.


    ¡°Sir, you shouldn¡¯t-¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine! And if I¡¯m not fine it¡¯ll be your fault. Ox gall, the gall!¡±


    Agatha felt her bedside manner crumbling.


    ¡°Sir. Let¡¯s get you lying on a bed. You must be-¡±


    ¡°And what is the crofelac for? Two varieties of allium is redundant.¡±


    ¡°Complementary, not redundant. There are secondary compounds in both vegetables which interact with one another constructively to-¡±


    ¡°Secondary compounds? So you¡¯re not even distilling?¡±


    Let it never be said that Agatha was not dedicated to her craft. However, that dedication followed a tendency to be rather combative in the face of people who were being stupid. Quite without meaning to, Agatha began to treat this patient the same way she treated hack doctors who thought they knew better because they got all their medical expertise from a dusty, mistranslated book.


    ¡°Distillation is unnecessary when the active compound is abundant in the source. More to the point, garlic is cheap. There¡¯s no need to forgo the benefits of secondary compounds in this mixture.¡±


    He grinned.


    ¡°Good! Clever! But I¡¯ve never heard of this salve recipe using peat moss. If anything, that¡¯ll soak up half the effects of the allium. Who taught you that?¡±


    ¡°I added it myself. I know it reduces the effectiveness of the allium, but I¡¯m not short of supply.¡±


    ¡°But to what benefit? That¡¯s just wasteful!¡±


    ¡°I-¡± her protest choked. ¡°I¡¯ve been¡­ I¡¯ve been researching the plague. I thought that an infusion of peat moss might help build resistance, so I added some into my salves. I don¡¯t know if it works or not, but-¡±


    ¡°Which plague?¡±


    Agatha was stunned.


    ¡°The plague.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t make me repeat myself!¡±


    ¡°From the Holy City! That has been ravaging the region for months! Have you been living under a rock?¡±


    ¡°Something like that. Hmph.¡±


    He seemed to sniff the air.


    ¡°Now that you mention it, there is something odd about. Nasty thing.¡±


    There was no way¡­


    ¡°Can you¡­smell it?¡±


    ¡°I smell something alright!¡± He sniffed himself. ¡°And for once, it¡¯s not me.¡±


    One possibility: this man was insane. Delusional, half-sensical. Not worth listening to.


    On the other hand¡­ he clearly knew something about medicine. And he was a powerful cultivator, more powerful than Agatha was. Cultivators in the fourth realm and above didn¡¯t go unnoticed unless they worked very, very hard to remain inconspicuous, and Agatha couldn¡¯t remember any who matched his description in the region.


    She rushed into her laboratory, pulled out two vials of blood, and approached him with both.


    ¡°Tell me, what do you notice about these?¡±


    He looked at her quizzically, and sniffed at the vials.


    One belonged to Inna, which Agatha took as a sample while helping her cultivate.


    The other belonged to Cato.


    He pointed at the latter. ¡°That one is¡­ odd. It¡¯s clean. Like it¡¯s repelling this damn bug. How fascinating! Get me some paper, I have to-¡±


    A knock came at the door.


    ¡°Hide me!¡± he hissed. Before Agatha could say more, he vanished into the rooms beyond, out of sight of the door.


    Another knock.


    ¡°Agatha? Are you awake?¡±


    It was Cato.


    She opened up, and found him standing outside, flanked by a pair of Orczy guards. He was only armed with a short sword, but the bailiff¡¯s coat projected his authority to detain, arrest, and interrogate anyone against whom the captain had issued a warrant.


    ¡°Cato? What is the meaning of this?¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯t misunderstand. I¡¯m hunting a fugitive, a slippery bastard. Last I heard, he was spotted around here, and I hoped you could be of some help.¡±


    He produced a sketch: that same wrinkled face was menacing on paper, and the sparkling eyes were cold and hard.


    ¡°I see. Who exactly is this fugitive of yours?¡±


    ¡°A criminal from another duchy, I¡¯m told, violent. The paperwork is incomplete, but his name must be Vitello, or Vincarlo, or something of the sort.Not his first time breaking out of prison.¡±


    His eyes looked past her, and into the dark, stinking blood that still splattered Agatha¡¯s floor.


    ¡°Is that-¡±


    ¡°Inna had a hard time earlier,¡± she interrupted. ¡°I had to let out some toxic blood. Myshkin is with her at home now.¡±


    There was no single motive for lying to him now. Her curiosity about her own guest contributed. So did the World-Wheel¡¯s divination.


    But Agatha also sensed something sinister. It crouched behind Cato, just out of view, like it was sitting in everyone¡¯s blind spot. It was watching her.


    Waiting.


    Whatever it was, she did not want to let it past her threshold.


    ¡°Ah. Let me help you clean up then. My boys can help with the mess, and you can help with-¡±


    Agatha put up a resolute hand.


    ¡°I¡¯m tired, Cato. I appreciate the offer, but I haven¡¯t heard a thing about this fugitive of yours, and I¡¯m going to sleep just as soon as I clean up. If you haven¡¯t caught him by tomorrow, it won¡¯t be too late then.¡±


    He was taken aback: she generally wasn¡¯t so brusque with him. But he stood up tall, thanked her for her time, and went on his way.


    Once she shut the door again, Agatha felt a cold sweat run down her back.


    She had no doubt. There was something there, following Cato like a shadow. If she hadn¡¯t been so on edge, it probably would have slipped by her as well.


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    Her guest emerged from the back rooms, and the enthusiastic, impish expression from before was gone. He was somber now, and filled with profound gratitude.


    ¡°It was nothing, I-¡±


    ¡°It was no small thing. That is the third time tonight you have saved my life, dear Agatha.¡±


    ¡°So you are a fugitive?¡±


    He chuckled. ¡°After a fashion. Rest assured, I have broken no law that would offend your conscience. If your friend looked into his warrant a little more closely, he would realize it was no more than dust and cobwebs; his superior will not remember issuing it tomorrow. In a few days, I doubt your friend will even remember this visit.¡±


    Agatha had no idea what to make of that.


    ¡°But¡­ he was the one from before, yes? The clean blood came from him?¡±


    ¡°.. yes.¡±


    ¡°Aha!¡± There was the impish expression back again. ¡°How fascinating! This plague of yours, it is a very strange thing, an illness attacking the body through the soul, descending from the transcendent into-¡±


    ¡°Wait!¡± Agatha¡¯s mind raced. ¡°That¡¯s right. It must enter the soul through some portion. I¡¯ve been trying to figure that out for weeks. How did you¡­¡±


    Her guest smiled, but gave no answer.


    ¡°An excellent question, and a fascinating line of research. But alas, my time here is short. Now that I¡¯ve given Ol¡¯ Scratch the slip, I must be away. But I do not forget good graces so easily.¡±


    Despite being haggard, badly dressed, and covered in his own stinking blood, the figure in front of Agatha seemed to grow. He was authoritative, but also warm. Knowledgeable, and kind. Majestic, in his own way.


    ¡°Thrice tonight you have saved my life, Agatha of Velatri. I grant you one wish, if it should be within my power.¡±


    There was so much she wanted to ask. So many questions. Not least, how she knew where she was from. There shouldn¡¯t have been a single person in Anthusa who knew Agatha¡¯s origins.


    ¡°But between you and me,¡± he said, eyes a-sparkle, ¡°there¡¯s really only one option worth mentioning.¡±


    Agatha agreed.


    ¡°Teach me.¡±


    His cheeks puffed up. He chortled. And then he laughed.


    ¡°Teach you? I could have plucked the stars out of the sky, if only you asked! Are you sure you want me to teach you?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said, ¡°so long as you promise to stop interrupting me.¡±


    ¡°Excellent!¡±


    A great wind surged up. The room filled with the scent of roses, and before her eyes Agatha saw the blood disappear, the scorch marks vanish.


    ¡°Agatha, I give you my name: I am Virgilio, and from this day on you shall address me as your teacher. Until we meet again, my pupil!¡±


    He clapped his hands, a clap of thunder.


    Agatha startled awake. The pages of the World-Wheel lay open before her, her final translation of its message written in fresh ink.


    For a moment, she wondered if it had all been a strange, exhausted dream. But the scent of roses lingered in the air; she put the book away, back to its place of honor, collapsed in bed, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

 Note: Chapter Delay

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 Runaway Part 2

    Prince Maximilian of Gulphay rushed through the palms, their luxurious leaves just a whisper removed from his naked skin. He weaved between them, sacrificing speed for stealth, leaving only a soft in his passing.


    Not since the footraces of his infancy did he depend exclusively on his physical body for any kind of exertion, but he had no choice. Above him stretched the starry Abyssinian night; around him, the colossal estate of the Demon Sultan unrolled mile upon endless mile, cut through with black-silted rivers and nectarine groves. The Sultan¡¯s palace, his prison, with its mile-tall spires of brass, had already dipped below the dim horizon, yet the border of his domain was nowhere in sight.


    Over this vast expanse swept the watching eyes of innumerable guards, all prepared to seize him. Maximilian had heard no alarm, no commotion, but he had no doubt his escape was already noticed. Behind every bush was he feared a pack of monstrous watch dogs, and he expected every dark nightcloud to birth a colossal eagle mounted by one of the Demon Sultan¡¯s Immortals.


    He had no inkling of where he was, nor of where he was going, only that the palace was to his back and that he must press forward.


    All of his hard-earned powers were worse than useless: to ride upon the wind or stride the lightning would take him over the horizon in barely more than a breath, but it would also reveal him to his captors. He was confident in his ability to defeat any one of the Four Thousand Immortals, but he could not risk even a single fight. Any delay would bring many more of their number down upon his head, and then his capture would be sure. He had no artifacts with which to speed his travel or become invisible, and his clothes he burned in a brazier, on the off-chance they held some scrying charm. He had not noticed the Sultan¡¯s servants taking any blood or hair which might be used to track him, and though the Sultan seemed arrogant enough not to take such obvious measures, Maximilian could not be sure. So the prince relied only on his body, well into the fifth realm of alchemic transformation, and subdued all his spiritual powers, using none of them except to hide his presence.


    He had only dared this escape because the Demon Sultan himself, for the first time in the months since his capture, was off-world. He had taken a great host of Immortals with him, perhaps to scout another world in preparation for an invasion, and the bustling palace had quieted down. There were fewer guards on patrol, no longer a servant in every hallway, and major figures in court from the provincial ambassadors to the queen herself had either returned to their home worlds on business or taken their leisure elsewhere in the vast estate, perhaps in the tidal baths of its great inland sea or the snow-capped peaks which sprung up from a great plain, imported whole from a conquered world along with all the little villages dotting its passes.


    As the well-watered plains became arid and rocky hills, a great canyon opened before the prince, and he leapt its hundred cubits in a single, quiet bound. At the apogee of his jump, when the wind whipped around his ears in a great rush and a moment of weightlessness overtook him, Prince Maximilian cursed his foolishness.


    Descending, he recalled his last conversation with the Demon Sultan before his departure for distant worlds. In his boundless condescension he spoke to Maximilian as though he were a child, some wayward nephew living under his roof and not a prisoner, and told him of news abroad: the conflict between the Fulminous and Magnanimous, the upcoming coronation in Fleur, and the ransom. His ransom, totaling one billion Anthusan anthems, which his family had already agreed to pay.


    He could already hear the whispers in high towers across a half-dozen worlds. Gulphay¡¯s vassals and allies would be panicking, searching for new sources of revenue to pay their part of the great sum. Some of them, hopefully few, would drag their heels and decide that Gulphay¡¯s continued support did not warrant such a cost. House Gulphay¡¯s own power and wealth would become an open question. And through all that, the Sultan¡¯s purse would only grow, in coin, treasure, and magic.


    But that leering grin the Sultan shot before boarding his ship burned in Maximilian¡¯s memory. Was there more to this? In their desperation to pay the ransom, many of Gulphay¡¯s allies could become much less circumspect in their affairs, welcoming collaboration and loans from strange sources. It was an excellent opportunity for the Sultan to insert his spies into new domains and gain influence over his enemies.


    Maximilian could not allow that to pass. He must escape, or failing that, go down fighting against the Immortals. This was his best, and only, opportunity.


    His bare feet landed on the far lip of the canyon, his legs flexing and a subtle application of power muffling the crash as he immediately bounded forward across the rocky hills.


    It must have been a trap. For the Sultan to leave the palace under such light security right after informing Maximilian of his ransom, insulting him, all but daring him to escape and giving him every reason to do so, could not have been other than an intentional provocation.


    Maximilian pressed his back to a cold rock, cast in shadow by the light of Abyssinia¡¯s three moons. His heart was thundering, less from the exertion and more from the terror that he might still be in the palm of the Sultan¡¯s hand, that all his actions still played into his captor¡¯s schemes somehow.


    As he forced his heart to quiet and slow, he felt a vibration from the stone. Touching the pads of his fingers to it, he sensed it again, faint but rhythmic. Concentrating all his senses there, he heard speech: not the barks of guards but the lilt of a lecture, or a prayer.


    Even more strangely, he could tell it was being spoken in Vintic.


    Keeping all his wits about him and his movements silent, he searched around the crags and found a winding crevice, the hidden entrance to this mountain hermitage. The prayers grew ever louder, leading him through the darkness and into the warm candlelight of a cave.


    But this was no humble hermitage into which he had stepped; its high walls were cut with row on row of shelves carrying books and scrolls, great tables and chairs of mahogany and fixtures of gold and brass filled the open space, and perfumed incense burned on an altar before which knelt the would-be hermit.


    He was wrapped in a simple robe and spoke Vintic as a native. Had the Sultan hired¡ªor kidnapped¡ªa priest of the church to serve as one more curio decorating the vast estate?


    If that were the case, then this hermitage would have been much more accessible and visible from outside, and there would be guards posted here to watch him. Why would such a person, to all appearances a scholar, be here willingly?


    Though Maximilian made no sound that he could hear, the hermit turned towards him. To Maximilian¡¯s surprise, this man looked quite young, barely over thirty years old if he had no cultivation of his own. He was surprised to find a naked stranger entering his hideaway in the dead of night, but made no alarm or sudden movement. He only beckoned Maximilian closer and spoke in a hushed tone.


    ¡°Good prince, why have you come to this place so late?¡±


    Maximilian was taken aback. ¡°You know me?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, my prince. I saw you once from afar, in the Holy City, and had hoped to make your audience then.¡±


    Then this was surely another prisoner taken by the Demon Sultan in his assault on the Holy City.


    ¡°Are you well, friend? Has this monster done anything to you?¡±


    ¡°No, my prince. I am well. In his generosity, His Puissance has permitted me to live on his largesse, and continue my studies.¡±


    To hear a resident of the Holy City simpering before the name of the Demon Sultan disgusted him. ¡°Have you not tried to escape?¡±


    The young hermit shook his head. ¡°There is no chance of escape, for either of us, my prince. But neither shall I turn away a guest in need. You may shelter here as long as you desire, and I shall provide all that you desire, should it be in my power.¡±


    He turned to a great wardrobe of dark wood and silver, almost twice as tall as himself, and took from it robes in simple fashion but spun from exquisite silk, and dressed his guest. He poured out water from a jeweled ewer, warmed a pitcher of coffee on a stove of smokeless flame, and served a dish of chilled sweetmeats from an icebox concealed in the stone. Maximilian reconsidered his assessment of this hermitage. It was not merely opulent in order to cow this hermit, but it was no less luxurious to live in than his own well-guarded quarters in the palace. Did the Demon Sultan really have so much wealth that he afforded even captive hermits such luxury, or did this one have special favor?


    And if the latter, could he be sure that his offer of shelter was genuine?


    ¡°What is your name, friend?¡±


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°I am Fenici, your Highness.¡±


    ¡°I thank you, Fenici. Tell me, is there anywhere I can wash off the road?¡±


    The hermit accepted his euphemism without remark.


    ¡°There are baths in the chambers beyond, my prince, but I would caution against them. There is already another guest here, taking her leisure. Fear not, I will hide you when she comes out, and shall induce her to leave quickly after.¡±


    Maximilian weighed the hermit¡¯s words. With some concentration, he heard the flow and splash of water through the stone, and hints of gentle singing.


    So he ate and drank, keeping an ear out at all times for signs that this other guest was returning, and perused the shelves. At his request, Fenici pulled out an atlas of the Abyssinian worlds, translated the names there, and helped him draw out an escape route, which he nevertheless said was hopeless. Maximilian had his bearings in short order, and knew how to get beyond the borders of the Sultan¡¯s estate, moving through a mountain pass and into a populous region which possessed a spaceport.


    While he could not easily pass among the citizens of Abyssinia, the Sultan did employ foreign mercenaries. With some luck, he might be able to steal some arms and a disguise. Getting papers to move around freely would be much more difficult, and he doubted there were ships traveling anywhere near Konigsphare without heavy guard. His best bet would be to sneak aboard a smaller ship and commandeer it once it was already underway, and hope it had enough range and supplies to reach his home, or else stop on a closer planet like Achae.


    It was a long shot. Now that he laid it all out, he had to agree with Fenici that it was hopeless. Yet he couldn¡¯t afford to wait or try something else.


    As they finalized this plan, both men heard the stream of water in the chambers beyond stop. Fenici turned to him with an urgent whisper.


    ¡°My prince, hide yourself in the wardrobe, quickly! I shall distract her and see her off. Do not come out until she is gone, for both our sakes!¡±


    The prince, his face burning with indignity, jumped at once into the wardrobe, more than large enough to fit several men, and was at once enveloped in the soft embrace of innumerable clothes. Only a slit of wavering candlelight made its way inside, but his hearing was by no means impaired.


    He heard the gentle dripping of water in time with light steps. Fenici offered his other guest a drink and a bite from his midnight snack, and a honeyed voice accepted.


    Maximilian recognized that voice.


    He strained to see through the narrow slit without so much as rustling the clothes around him. Fenici entertained her, showing the various atlases he had been examining in a fit of curiosity, and they settled into a conversation on the subject of Abyssinia¡¯s geography. The minutes crept like hours, with Maximilian hardly able to move but desperate to confirm his suspicions.


    Finally, Fenici begged leave of his guest, saying that he was fatigued from their studies and wished to retire. She accepted, and asked to borrow several books they had been reading together, to which the hermit effusively agreed.


    Only then did she pass by the narrow range of his sight, and he knew his ears did not lie. This guest was none other than the astrologer Jullanar, the wife of the Demon Sultan.


    Her back was to him, and she was completely off guard, with no fear at all of the hermit. Indeed, being here without guards and speaking so familiarly on scholarly subjects, it was clear she trusted him deeply. Maximilian knew she was a powerful sorceress in her own right, no less of a threat than any of the Four Thousand Immortals, but so far from backup, unaware of his presence, she was vulnerable.


    If he took her as a hostage, he might be able to travel to the spaceport with impunity. He might be able to commandeer a ship directly and ensure his safety all the way to Achae.


    He didn¡¯t think twice. Maximilian leapt out of the wardrobe, surrounded at once by a shining nimbus of power. He dared not manifest his guardian angel, Gadreel the Protector, to enact such a dishonorable plan, but the deep well of energy within him was his own. It would just take one strike to stun her, and then he could seal her power. Maximilian would deal with the hermit if he tried anything.


    She didn¡¯t react quickly enough. Even before Fenici could give any warning he was behind her.


    Yet his attack never reached its target.


    The world was like broken glass.


    Each shining shard was a possibility, spinning out into the void, growing more distant with every infinitesimal fraction of time.


    Maximilian was suspended mid-strike, and in the mirror-like fragments around him he saw innumerable possibilities. In one, he rose to the peak of the known worlds atop a mountain of corpses; in another, he fell to a traitor¡¯s poison before he returned home. In others, he remained in the Sultan¡¯s estate forever, succumbing to its luxuries and forgetting all his duties.


    But in the vast majority he died, here and now. He saw thousands of shards in which his brains boiled out and splattered across the cave floor, in which his heart was crushed, in which the breath ran from his lungs and he perished without air.


    One fact was instinctively clear: this was no power of Jullanar or her guardian angel, nor was it any defensive talisman. This inexorable doom came from something else, some power that dwelt within her and threatened to burn him from the inside out for his offense.


    He tried to run, to twist his frozen body towards those possibilities in which he survived, but he moved as if swimming in molasses, and with each passing moment another shard wavered and displayed his corpse.


    Then he heard the hermit¡¯s voice, like a song, like a bell.


    ¡°Have mercy, mighty one.¡±


    Maximilian was pulled back by the collar of his robe, and the world collapsed into a single form.


    He had little time to appreciate this change before Jullanar¡¯s knee struck him full in the stomach. His body cracked the stone beyond and sent irreplaceable books flying in all directions, but the greater damage was not to his physical body: in that split second of contact, a splinter of raging spiritual energy attached itself to his soul, eating through him like an acid.


    Given a few minutes to concentrate, he could have isolated and neutralized it without issue. In a fight, it forced him to gamble: carry on and hope he could win quickly, or split his effort and attention in the hopes he could outlast his opponent.


    At present, Maximilian had no good options.


    That didn¡¯t mean he planned to surrender.


    The moment his feet hit the ground, he charged forward. Jullanar held her ground, and their battle shook the mountain around them, opening cracks in the cave and throwing it into darkness. She retreated into the night and he pursued, the pair trading blows as they arced through the open air.


    The furious energy in Maximilian¡¯s soul burned away his spirit, but he pressed through the agony, because he could see the same struggle in his opponent. Whatever power had been unleashed before, without her own knowledge or intent, inflicted a cost on her body.


    So they battled, both of them gradually slowing, weakening, neither willing to fall first.


    Their battle ended on the lip of a high waterfall, where Jullanar¡¯s resistance broke. Surrounded by the frigid mist, burning from exertion for the first time in decades, she slipped back on a slick rock and fell just shy of the cliff. Maximilian grinned, barely standing on his own feet as Jullanar¡¯s energy continued to assault his soul. He staggered forward, careful not to slip and join her on the ground, victory just within his grasp¡­ and then he felt a blade at his throat.


    A trio of Immortals, their golden armor pale in the light of three moons, threw Maximilian to the ground and wrapped him in chains. Cursing himself between agonized breaths, he turned his attention inward to the energy ravaging his soul.


    ¡°Mistress, what is wrong?¡± cried one of the Immortals.


    Jullanar could barely respond through pained gasps. ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t know. Get Fenici.¡±


    The Immortals swiftly retrieved the hermit, who rushed to Jullanar¡¯s side and gave Maximilian only a passing, disgusted glance.


    The hermit¡¯s face, now twisted with defiant anger, reminded Maximilian of where they had met. This was no mere scholar, but Fenici da Mirasol, the arch-heretic nestled under the wings of the wealthy Manzi family, whose trial he had been invited to judge after the Conclave in the Holy City. Right before everything went to hell.


    ¡°Fenici da Mirasol, you traitor! Dog! I¡¯ll have you boiled in oil, you rat!¡±


    ¡°Be silent!¡±


    The hermit¡¯s words rolled over him, and carried speech away. Maximilian was unable even to wonder what manner of esoteric power he had cultivated in his words, but he could understand what was spoken between the others.


    ¡°Fenici, what¡­ is happening?¡±


    ¡°Breathe, my lady, and calm the energy inside you.¡±


    When her breath and the roiling power alike stabilized, Fenici da Mirasol examined her, and his astonishment was plain to all.


    ¡°My lady, you are with child.¡±


    ¡°About¡­ time.¡± she said, covered in a sheen of sweat. ¡°But why did¡­ I felt¡­¡±


    ¡°It was defending itself, my lady.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    The hermit hesitated. ¡°An angel has chosen to enter the world through your child. It placed you at risk to manifest its power, just for a moment, and protect you both from his attack.¡±


    His disdain for Maximilian, who had violated his hospitality and assaulted the hermit¡¯s other guest, was clear.


    ¡°Which angel, Fenici? What does it want?¡±


    The hermit closed his eyes, as if listening for a faraway voice over the waterfall¡¯s din.


    ¡°He will shine upon your empire like the sun, a bringer of law, his magnificence unequaled. He-¡±


    The hermit recoiled, paling.


    ¡°I can say no more, my lady. Congratulations.¡±


    ? ? ?


    Otto Orczy sat behind his ducal desk, reading the last night¡¯s letters. Many were responses from the leaders of surrounding cities, eager to deepen their ties, unaware of the role they would play in securing the secret fortune near Velatri. Others were requests from his own citizens, for audience and aid. At the bottom of the stack, just as he was growing weary from all the demands on his time, he reached a letter sealed with the stag and key.


    He stopped, staring at it. He hadn¡¯t heard from her in months, not since the Holy City fell. In truth, he hoped not to hear from her again, though he knew she was not caught in that disaster. Some wishful part of him just hoped that she would never reach out again, and he would be spared from giving a proper answer.


    But it was not to be.


    The duke sliced open the envelope and pulled out the letter within, bracing to read the latest news from his fianc¨¦e.

 Rising Force + Hiatus and Revision

    The great book of law snapped shut, marking the end of the day¡¯s judgments, and Cato rose from his bench.


    Well over a month had passed since the attack by Kolonn forces, and life in Anthusa had settled back into a normal rhythm. Both the city¡¯s wounds and Cato¡¯s own injuries healed rapidly, but the same could not be said for his soul: though its sharp edges had dulled and mustering his energies no longer felt like crawling barefoot over broken glass, that grinding discomfort never left him, and he was forever wary of overextending himself and weakening himself further.


    Despite that, his own star rose in the weeks since. Captain Apostolis advocated for him relentlessly, praising his self-sacrifice for the sake of his fellow soldiers, and no small number of Cato¡¯s peers joined that cry. Not only had he received a considerable pension and an award, Captain Apostolis appointed him to an administrative post for the duration of his recovery, and it was an open secret among the Orczy soldiers that he was being groomed as a candidate for the Vice-Captainship.


    No longer was he a guard lieutenant, staving off Kolonn aggression and demanding public order, a figure of both admiration and fear among the local populace, he now served as¡­ well, effectively, a watchdog.


    Duke Orczy employed several executors who held open court within the city, as well as venturing into the prisons to render judgment on inmates. Each trailed a train of subordinate officials, including a doctor of civil law, several notaries and servants, some three dozen armed footmen and cavalry, and a soldier. Despite being considerably stronger than the patrolmen, Cato felt rather redundant.


    That was until he realized that his true role was not as a bodyguard.


    Though he was occasionally called upon to deliver sensitive reports, aid in apprehending elusive criminals, and secure witnesses against outside influence, Sergeant Enzo soon made it clear that his purpose was keeping an eye on the executor, not on threats to him. He attended visits to the prisons, oversaw testimony, double-checked sentencing, and though he was silent for most all of it, his presence exerted an undeniable influence on the judge and his subordinates. That was partly due to his small fame, but also the impression that through him, the captain and even the duke watched their actions.


    Cato often caught the executor, his supposed superior, sneaking glances at him, looking for signs of approval or disapproval. He followed Enzo¡¯s advice, and put on a stony expression at all times. ¡°Keep them guessing about how much you watch,¡± the sergeant advised, ¡°and about whether they¡¯re in your good graces or not.¡±


    When the executor investigated corruption among prison guards, Cato¡¯s presence at his side communicated that the duke took such matters seriously. When regular citizens came before the executor to seek redress for crimes, their eyes wandered over to him, even as their words were meant for the executor.


    Cato saw a very different side of the city these days. The desperation of the citizens faced with violence and disease was familiar to him, but the little frictions of daily life, from which he had previously been insulated, overwhelmed him in their sheer quantity.


    Where once his presence encouraged the people of Anthusa to be silent and orderly, he was now in a position to listen to their problems. Inevitably, their opinions and concerns on other topics snuck into their complaints and testimony, no matter how much the executor tried to keep them on track.


    It occurred to Cato that the Anthusans didn¡¯t much like the duke.


    That wasn¡¯t quite right. They liked Duke Orczy well enough. His support for the city in matters of security, amenities, and culture was well known and subject to great praise. And they didn¡¯t seem to mind that they, being a city on the planet Vintal, were ruled by a family from Konigsphare. The Orczy were immensely prestigious, and it didn¡¯t hurt that the duke had grown up in the region and spoke fluent Vintic.


    Rather, the Anthusans resented being a duchy at all.


    Once again, Cato leveraged his country-bumpkin reputation to get plenty of information out of his very educated coworkers. He¡¯d known for a while that the city was run by a council of nine governors, chosen by lot and locked in a tower for two years. It seemed like an absolutely insane way to run a city, but in seeing how ridiculous it was the real implications had passed him by. What did those nine governors actually do, with Duke Orczy apparently managing the city¡¯s affairs himself?


    Cato soon learned that, for most of the city¡¯s history, there had been no duke: Anthusa was an independent polity, one which had even executed its aristocracy in ages past and reconstituted itself as a republic. It was subject to constant destabilization and attempts by ambitious citizens and invaders to rule it, and institutions like the nine governors were created to decentralize power and make it as difficult as possible for any one person or family to gain control.


    That went out the window with the Manzi bank, once a small institution whose cooperation with the Holy Son allowed them to gain mind-boggling amounts of wealth and influence. The Anthusan anthem became the currency of choice all over Vintal, and even on other planets, and the city thrived, but despite their new prosperity the citizens always feared that the Manzi would go the way of countless would-be tyrants before them.


    Centuries later, their fears came true. In a moment of crisis occasioned by the mad Holy Son Zealous II, the Manzi took over the city, and called in their Orczy allies to be its formal stewards.


    That was only a few generations ago, and Otto Orczy was just the third Duke of Anthusa. The second duke, his uncle, died in the destruction of the Holy City.


    Everything else, from the executors to the nine governors, was a holdover from what Anthusa used to be, preserved not because it was the best way to govern the city but because it maintained a sense of continuity. With that, the Orczy rule and subtler Manzi control were more tolerable.


    That was the right word: the citizens on the street had no desire to overturn the current order, especially as the region was bouncing from one crisis to another in recent months. The duke¡¯s rule was stable and generally respected, and amid plagues and destruction the people of Anthusa clung to it like a life raft.


    As he walked the executor back to his home, Cato wondered what would happen if things improved. If Vintal was secured from further Abyssinian attacks, the Holy City was reconstructed, the plague was cured, and the Kolonn were driven from the region, how long would it take for Anthusa to stop tolerating Orczy rule? What was the duke willing to do to keep power, and how much did Anthusa value the freedom of its ancestors? How bloody would it get?


    And what would he do, if it came to pass in his own lifetime? He was almost ashamed to say that he felt a real sense of belonging among the Orczy guards these days. He had worked hard to integrate the people of Inillo into that faction to protect them.


    How much blood was Cato willing to spill to keep his pension, his station, and the relatively comfortable lives of his followers, if Anthusa tried to throw off the duke? Would he even consider betraying the duke, or trying to stand aside?


    He was dizzy with thought as he reached the threshold of Agatha¡¯s clinic. These days, he entered without knocking, and saw Inna lying still on the long couch opposite the door.


    For a moment, Cato¡¯s heart jumped into his throat. But with a second look, he noticed her healthy complexion, the gentle rise of her breath, and the slight, but unmistakable aura that coiled around her sleeping form.


    Inna just reached the first level of alchemic transformation. Her body was now more durable, flexible, and powerful, an equal for any uncultivated athlete or strongman.


    It was also an exhausting transformation, and the final step, converting all the alchemic potential built up over weeks into a permanent enhancement of the body was both stressful and risky.


    Agatha strode out from the back rooms, noting Cato¡¯s presence without surprise.


    ¡°Late day in court again?¡±


    He nodded.


    It was just the first stage, the first step in the work of a lifetime. But seeing his followers, one of his first followers even, take that step left him with vertigo.


    ¡°Myshkin is about to start the final stage himself. Want to watch?¡±


    Cato gathered himself, and nodded again. He spent the next few hours watching Agatha guide the one-time shepherd through the process, turning weeks of effort and investment into¡­ something more. A fulfillment of humanity, or maybe the first step in transcendence of it. Myshkin sat in a great cauldron, bathed in a heated solution of reagents, the same ones gradually introduced into his body over weeks, now reaching a saturation point. His breath was steady, his concentration did not falter, and with the witch¡¯s guidance he assimilated all of it.


    When it was over, he rose from the cauldron grinning. He stared down at his limbs as if feeling them for the first time. It took both Cato and Agatha to convince him not to move suddenly and to stay inside.


    Within a few minutes, he was heaving the last of the toxins and excess reagents into a bucket. Not thirty seconds after he was done with that, he passed out entirely and the remaining pair covered him in a robe and set him to sleep by his sister.


    Then it was Cato¡¯s turn.


    The fundamental process of alchemic transformation remained constant across the various stages: conditioning, purification, introduction, multiplication, assimilation, and transformation itself. At each stage, the body was reforged, with new and exotic reagents modifying the base matter and reordering it according to the subject¡¯s will.


    But while the process of each stage was in no small part a process of accumulation, the rarity and potency of the requisite materials increased mightily each time. The length and difficulty of the process likewise increased. Cato would meditate in the cauldron all night and most of the next day, and needed to totally memorize and understand the process himself: verbal guidance from Agatha would not suffice.


    As he lowered himself into the cauldron, he decided this was as good a time as any to ask.


    ¡°What would you do if the duke was overthrown?¡±


    Agatha wasn¡¯t taken aback by the question, but she did demand to know how Cato came to it, and pondered her own response at length.


    ¡°Not much, I suppose. I might have to shelter for a while, and keep my valuables out of sight if some trouble came about. I¡¯d definitely have to look for a new source of income.¡±


    That was perhaps more true of Cato than of her.


    ¡°One way or another, it wouldn¡¯t really change much about my life or what I do. Worst comes to worst, I¡¯d lack up and practice my craft elsewhere.¡±


    Cato meditated on that well after she left. Night came, and the cauldron boiled on, and he couldn¡¯t get it out of his head.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    How freeing, to be unmoved by the changes of fate.


    But how lonely, too. Even if he wasn¡¯t affected, too many others were. Agatha lived to learn, before anything else, but second to that she helped people. Whenever a new plague victim came to her clinic, Cato saw how much she genuinely cared.


    But that care was abstract, free-flowing: it attached itself to whoever needed help at the time, and moved on to a new target just as easily. She lived and worked in Anthusa because it was large and wealthy and it was easy to be anonymous. Before, she did the same in the outskirts of Inillo. There was nothing special about the people of this city that compelled her. Even her obvious soft spot for Inna and Myshkin resulted from their past acquaintance and her own whim, not any unbreakable bond. If packing up and leaving to do the same thing elsewhere was in her best interest. Cato had no doubt that she would do it, and wouldn¡¯t look back.


    How freeing. How lonely. How totally outside Cato¡¯s ability to imitate.


    Like it or not, his fate was inexorably tied to the people of Inillo. It had been an imposition and had become a duty, and was now¡­ a calling? Something he could not leave behind without denying a part of himself.


    Inna and Myshkin woke from their stupor well into the night, and waited quietly outside the chamber door. When the process was complete, theirs were the first faces he saw. They tended to him as he was purging toxins, clothed him and set him down to rest.


    It was more rewarding than the rush he felt in his newly transformed body, more beautiful than the vast array of subtle colors and scents that he could now make out.


    It felt good, not being alone.


    ? ? ?


    Vice-Captain Caselli arrived unacceptably late to the duke¡¯s office. Though he received the summons a full hour ago, during a long lunch, he was not hurried. He took the time to finish his meal, take another drink or two with his friends, and walk home at a relaxed pace. There, he changed into clothes that complemented his uniform better, combed his hair, and only then set off for the duke¡¯s office, not in the private Orczy estate but in the old potentate¡¯s fortress.


    He rode, of course, but only at a walk, slow enough to be admired by the crowds that parted for him like a cooing sea.


    Vanity, thy name is Vice-Captain Vittorio Caselli.


    And when one arrives, let us be clear, unacceptably late to a formal meeting with the duke, one ought to expect some punishment, or at least a scolding. That is, of course, only if the one in question is not named Caselli. It is at once an art and an instinct in him, to arrive neither on time nor to be conventionally tardy, but so late that all the formalities are surely done with and only relevant business remains to be discussed, and then to arrive with such aplomb that one is immune to censure.


    Such it is that Caselli thrusts open the double doors of the duke¡¯s office, cutting a fine and handsome figure in his well-ornamented uniform, that when both the duke and Captain Apostolis register his tardiness, they do not think it worth the trouble to comment on it: first, because at this point it is simply more expedient to briefly recount the important details of the meeting thus far (in Caselli¡¯s experience, what takes an hour to discuss can be summarized in a minute without much loss of detail) and because it would be a shame to penalize such a handsome, orderly, and talented young officer as himself for something so trivial.


    It doesn¡¯t hurt that, once he does arrive, Vice-Captain Caselli devotes his complete attention and incisive mind to the topic at hand, disarming all accusations of base sloth. He is simply a man who values his time, his health, and beauty sleep. Let others slave away, stressing themselves out for little gain. Maximum effect for minimum effort is the Vice-Captain¡¯s philosophy.


    Apostolis summarizes the essence of the meeting in record time: Caselli is to lead a diplomatic delegation to the neighboring city of Velatri to deepen the ties of brotherhood between the two governments and, more clandestinely, to survey Velatri¡¯s outlying lands for certain newly discovered resources they suspect have recently been uncovered. Captain Apostolis will hold down the fort in Anthusa, and Lieutenant Cato will be assisting Caselli.


    The young lieutenant has been in the room all along, but Caselli deems him worthy of attention only now.


    He¡¯s heard plenty of the young soldier¡¯s exploits: Caselli was also on duty the night of the Kolonn attack, holding off their assault on another front, and quite missed seeing all of his brave¡ªand frankly, suicidal¡ªheroics in person . They had grown in the telling, but Apostolis¡¯ own report was consistent, lucid, and nothing short of a hagiography.


    When Apostolis advocated for Cato to receive training in administrative posts and sustained his candidacy for the vice-captainship, Caselli agreed straightforwardly. When he became captain one day, he would need a go-getting subordinate to help carry his workload.


    But there were plenty of people who might fill that role, and Caselli was not yet convinced Cato was the man for the job. Apostolis was a righteous old soldier, but always overly impressed by camaraderie and courage in battle; Caselli needed to know whether this young lieutenant would be pleasant to work with. He and Apostolis, their temperaments complemented one another; whether Cato could fill a similar role was up in the air.


    The boy was ram-rod straight, formal, stiff. Caselli remembered this was the lieutenant¡¯s first time meeting with the duke in person for any length of time. No wonder he was a bit tense. He needed to learn the art of relaxation, and while it came easier to some it could still be trained. Even so, it was a good sign at the present. Clearly this was a rather serious sort with a healthy respect for the chain of command. Good clay.


    The duke¡¯s eyes also lingered on the boy during their meeting, and Caselli wagered it had been so prior to his entrance as well. It was subtle, but his eyes rested not quite in front of his face, on the air just to the boy¡¯s side, and darted over to look at Cato¡¯s expression frequently.


    Was the duke also trying to assess the boy? That wasn¡¯t quite right. Caselli had a nose for these things. There was clearly something going on between these two, something which was not common knowledge. The boy was either oblivious to it or hiding it capably, and the duke was losing his poker face over it.


    Altogether, a very interesting situation.


    As the meeting drew to a close, Caselli recapped the major points, drew new observations, and concluded the proceedings decisively. He¡¯d been listening very attentively the whole time, of course. It wasn¡¯t his fault other people couldn¡¯t multitask.


    ? ? ?


    ¡°Inquisitor, what do you think of¡­¡±


    Inquisitor Phaero was very good at finding new employment.


    After that whole mess in Beroli, the former Lord-Vicar quite had his hands full. His convenient little scapegoat turned out much more dangerous than he had first expected, a diabolist of some form for certain, and even as Cato and his rabble fled the town and Phaero¡¯s friend Benicio failed to return, Beroli fell into a frenzy.


    ¡°Inquisitor, this report for your perusal¡­¡±


    But Phaero was adaptable, and turned the situation to his advantage once more. With a certified murderer and diabolist and his vile cult having just been expelled from town, he made it clear to all that their continued depravity, not just of any one sector but of the whole town as a whole, had brought this doom upon them; first the plague, and then the Inillans. Unless the citizens of Beroli got their act together, not only would the plague continue, but more disasters of this sort would strike, each worst than the last.


    ¡°Inquisitor, the charges against him are as follows¡­¡±


    It worked. Though his little scapegoat didn¡¯t quite work as intended, it still bought him precious months and a little more control over the local narrative. Eventually, the plague did in fact retreat, and he was still on top and prepared to take credit.


    ¡°Inquisitor, about those heretics¡­¡±


    So, one might think, he would be free to stay in Beroli? Wrong. The whole place was tainted for him now. He did far too good a job, in fact. Even as the crisis calmed and the last lord¡¯s sons stuck their heads out for air, there was no public desire to replace the Lord-Vicar. How could Beroli ever replace its savior and protector?


    ¡°Inquisitor, I would like to offer my personal thanks¡­¡±


    He cursed himself. Trapped with the burden of responsibility! But he found a way out. Spectacular but vague rumors of how he dealt with some villainous and despicable diabolists reached the ears of the Order of the Black Mantle, whose inquisitorial branch was in dire need of new blood after the unpleasantness in the Holy City. It was with great public sorrow and private relief that he accepted a new post, lubricated by a considerable portion of his hoarded gold, and settled into his role as an inquisitor. To hell with Beroli, that pit of snakes and heathens!


    ¡°Inquisitor, I am innocent please!¡±


    He loved it. Forget his scholarship, forget any other part of the church, he should have joined the inquisition decades ago. What other order not only allowed, but actively instructed its members to rove around, gathering secrets and imposing orthodoxy? Where else could he mingle among the upper crust and insert himself into their affairs without becoming responsible for them?


    ¡°Inquisitor, this bottle is from the royal vineyards of Fleur, it¡­¡±


    Though, perhaps, it was only right that he should join at this point. Contrary to its rather sinister reputation, the Inquisition did in fact have rather strict rules around the conduct of its members, especially on the job. These were often circumvented, of course, but it did not escape Phaero that his new peers were all observant and curious weasels who would carefully file away his iniquity into their own black books. It was a rather perilous organization to belong to, for men of Phaero¡¯s persuasion.


    ¡°Inquisitor, please meet my daughter Armanda, she¡­¡±


    But he happened to enter the order just as it was suffering from both a lack of manpower and a boatload of new concerns. Not only had the Demon Sultan¡¯s attack on the Holy City severely hurt public confidence in the church and its power, the plague and the failure of existing measures to cure it gave rise to all manner of charlatans offering their own cures, informed by speculative aetiologies, many of which violated some element of church orthodoxy. It was open season on heretics, and Phaero had a big appetite.


    ¡°Inquisitor, shall we attend to the delegation from Anthusa?¡±


    He stopped in his tracks.


    ¡°They¡¯re here already, are they?¡±


    ¡°Yes, inquisitor, they just arrived at the gate.¡±


    Phaero bestowed a wise and gentle smile on his aide, young Gregorio. He was just the right blend of cunning and idealistic, eager to work his schemes on the hidden forces of devilry yet curiously blind to the failings of those he considered above him. A lovely companion who never ceased to amuse him.


    They carried on towards the great entrance hall of the ducal palace at Velatri. The city was one of those powerful influences whose attention he tried to avoid back in Beroli, but as an inquisitor his sights and tolerance for risk were set much higher. He¡¯d been residing in the palace for quite some time, cataloging the activities of the locals and helping the duke unspool the hidden machinations of witches and heretics. He quite liked Duke Ambroglio, in fact. He was a man after Phaero¡¯s own heart, a vicious rascal with whom he was always on the same page, who hardly needed to be deceived at all.


    Then, upon arriving in the entrance hall, Phaero stopped in his tracks, turned on his heel, informed young Gregorio that he was feeling a sudden and severe case of the runs, and made for his private quarters with all haste, where he spent the next hour quivering in terror.


    That was Cato.


    Cato of Inillo was in Velatri.


    Cato of Inillo was in Velatri, as part of the Anthusan delegation, and by all appearances not in a low position.


    Gregorio, ever sweet and useful Gregorio, kept him apprised of news through his locked chamber door. Only hours later, when the Anthusan delegation had concluded their meeting with Duke Ambroglio and retired to the guest quarters for the might, did he scuttle out of hiding and towards the duke¡¯s drawing room.


    Duke Ambroglio, the amalgamation of every old soldier who let himself go after grabbing power, was still awake and answering letters.


    ¡°Inquisitor, to what do I owe the pleasure?¡±


    The glint of gold in his mouth twinkled, then disappeared behind a scowl when he saw Phaero¡¯s own grim expression.


    Inquisitor Phaero spared no time or detail: he made exceptionally clear that a member of the Anthusan delegation, yes, in fact, one of the very people the duke had just entertained in this very room, was none other than a vile and insidious diabolist whom Phaero had once dueled and thought dead. Their response needed to be swift and lethal: otherwise, once this Cato realized that Phaero was here and his cover was blown, the cultists who secretly dwelt among the delegation¡¯s soldiers would start painting the palace red.


    Phaero was very surprised to find that the duke nodded along to all of this. The duke only grinned, and handed the inquisitor a letter, delivered by the delegation and meant for Ambroglio¡¯s eyes only, written in Duke Orczy¡¯s own hand.


    It was a whole lot of tripe, polite affirmations of brotherhood and the like, right up until the postscript.


    <blockquote>


    P.S.


    Among the delegation I have sent you there is a man named Cato of Inillo, an assistant to Vice-Captain Caselli. He is hateful to me and knows it, and in my negligence I have permitted him to gain such influence that it is most inconvenient for me to expose him or take vengeance upon him directly. If he should die, preferably in such a manner that the rest of the delegation does not suspect foul play, and especially in such a manner that makes him infamous, I am prepared to concede certain terms more preferable to your Grace in addition to whatever decisions are reached by the delegation.


    He almost certainly expects some scheme against him, and will be on guard. Though I have removed him from his allies, he absolutely must not be underestimated.


    Do not listen to his lies.


    </blockquote>


    Understanding came over Inquisitor Phaero, and together with Duke Ambroglio he began to scheme, as only two men that are of one mind can scheme.