ã€ŠScourge of Thorns (The Strong Gods Book 1): Grimdark Sword &amp; Sorceryã€‹


 Prologue: Blessing of the Strong Gods

    The Blessing of the Strong Gods, as recorded in The Book of Khinet¡­

    1:1       In days of old, vast cities of ghostlight shone in the sky, but none had yet been built upon the Earth. The Earth was wild and untamed, and the peoples were scattered across it.

    1:2       And it came to pass that the Blasphemous One chose a clan out of all the scattered peoples to worship him. In return for the fealty of the clan, the Blasphemous One promised their patriarch that his wife would give birth to a son whose offspring would tame the wild lands and fill the Earth.

    1:3       But the patriarch¡¯s wife was barren. From her youth to her old age, she had produced no children, until it seemed that her heart had died for want of a child. So when the patriarch spoke of the promise to his wife, she was filled with doubt, and said, The god who swore this does not know that I am barren and long past childbearing years besides. Come, take my maidservant, and she will give birth to an heir for us.

    1:4       And a son was born to the patriarch by his wife¡¯s maidservant, and they called him Khinet, for he was to be the leader of the clan and bring his father glory and riches. The boy was so fair of skin that the sun hurt him, but he was strong and exceedingly fast. He hunted by night, and the sun could not touch him.

    1:5       And the patriarch said, This is certainly the one who will conquer the wild lands and fill them with offspring.

    1:6       And the next year, the patriarch¡¯s wife¡¯s womb was opened, and she gave birth to a son. The patriarch and his wife rejoiced, for the boy was dark and healthy, and they called him Helat, for he was beloved by his father and a crown to him in his old age. And Helat loved the sunlight and the land, and he hunted by day, for the sun could not burn his dark skin, and everything in the land bent to his will.

    1:7       And the patriarch said, Surely this is the true heir whom the god promised us. He will conquer the wild lands and fill them with offspring.

    1:8       And the two boys grew in renown until all the peoples of the Earth hailed them as heroes. But Khinet and Helat were enemies like the night and the day, and their mothers could not stand in one another¡¯s presence without anger.

    1:9       So the patriarch¡¯s wife said, You were a maidservant. Your son is no heir. I am the matriarch of this clan, and my son Helat is the true heir.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    1:10     And the maidservant was wroth, and she said, My son Khinet is the firstborn, and the birthright is his.

    1:11     Their enmity divided the clan to the point of war between those who supported Khinet and those who supported Helat. And the patriarch feared that his sons would take up spears against one another.

    1:12     So the patriarch cried out to the Blasphemous One, Did you not promise that my son would conquer the wild lands and fill the Earth with offspring? Why did you give me two warring children? If they murder one another, will you give me yet another son to fulfill your promise?

    1:13     And the Blasphemous One heard this and was displeased. With the voice of thunder he said, I told you that I would give your wife a son. You did not believe me and took her maidservant to produce a child outside my will.

    1:14     And the patriarch tore his clothes, for he loved both his children, and cried to the heavens once more, Am I to lose both my sons to war, the promised and the unpromised? What shall I do?

    1:15     And the Blasphemous one said, The elder¡¯s hand will be always against the younger, but they will not destroy one another. Send away the child of the maidservant so that both may live.

    1:16     But the maidservant heard the Blasphemous One¡¯s will and struck the patriarch¡¯s wife in her old age. The patriarch¡¯s wife stumbled and fell, her head breaking upon a stone, and she died. So the maidservant paid the justice of the land with her life, and neither son heard his mother¡¯s voice again.

    1:17     And Khinet, the elder, was cast out by his father and sent into the wilderness alone, while Helat, the younger, was given the birthright and comforted by his clan.

    1:18     Khinet wandered by night, mourning the loss of his mother, and because of his great sorrow, he was careless. One night, as he was hunting upon a high place beneath a ghost city in the sky, wild beasts fell upon him and tore him until his blood watered the ground. Though the morning light approached, he could not crawl to the protection of a rock or tree.

    1:19     So it was that, alone and dying, Khinet cried out to the night which had always protected him from the burning sun.

    1:20     And the strong gods who dwell in the ghost cities heard Khinet and came down to Earth and had pity on him. And each gave Khinet their blessing, to him and to his offspring forever in return for his worship.

    1:21     From the goddess Eketra, powerful cunning to surpass all men.

    1:22     From the god Josean, warrior strength unending.

    1:23     From the god-goddess Teikru, desirability that could never be spurned.

    1:24     And they said, We will give you victory over your brother Helat and over the Blasphemous One.

    1:25     So Khinet gladly swore fealty to the strong gods, and they gave him drink of their divine blood, which healed Khinet¡¯s wounds and strengthened him. And he called the high place where he drank Siu Rial, the City of Blood, and he built an earthly city upon it from which to worship, and from that earthly city he built his empire, the Kingdom of Night.

    1:26     And it was blessed by the strong gods.

 Chapter 1: In the High Places & Low Streets

    Two Thousand Years Later

    In the high place of Siu Rial¡¯s temple, bathed in the pale green glow of the ghost city that hung upside down overhead, Queen Jadarah lifted her bloody offering to the strong gods. Covered in gore to her elbows and knees, she screamed for the deities¡¯ attention, their approval, their guidance.

    From the priests surrounding the altar rolled a deep, resonating chant.

    King Hazerial VI of House Khinet looked on in calculating silence as the mad queen placed the sacrifice, still steaming in the cold night air, at the center of the stone altar. It was too young to even utter a cry. Would the strong gods consider this a worthy offering?

    His queen claimed they would be pleased. Royal blood was a finer and rarer vintage than the common red spill of the street urchins whose bones littered the high place. As the only non-priest allowed to perform these auguries, Jadarah must know.

    The mad queen fought the dying labor pains racking her body to raise the killing knife. Her screams reached an ear-shattering crescendo as she plunged the blade into the tiny heart.

    New blood poured, purple-black in the green light, running into the troughs at the altar¡¯s edge. So little of that vital liquid in the newborn body. Barely enough to flow down the channels.

    King Hazerial¡¯s eyes narrowed.

    There could be no doubt that the gods could hear the mad queen. This was the most holy of places in the Kingdom of Night, perched at the peak of Siu Rial, the City of Blood. Here the tallest pinnacle of the strong gods¡¯ ghost city reached down from the sky until it nearly touched the tallest pinnacle of the earthly city, an otherworldly mirror in pale green ghostlight.

    The strong gods must smell the blood, too, scant though it was. The scent curled the king¡¯s own tongue and filled his mouth with anticipatory saliva, calling to the hunger deep within him. Within all Children of the Night.

    And yet there was no response from above.

    On the altar, the steaming sacrifice squirmed no more. Perhaps it was too young after all. Royal blood or not, it had not survived long enough for its suffering to entice the strong gods¡¯ notice.

    The priests raised their arms, digging into their flesh with glinting ceremonial daggers. Their chanting rose to a frenzy. Queen Jadarah carved at the motionless sacrifice and howled, her voice splitting into tones both too high and too low for any other soul to reach. Their frantic refrain vibrated through the stones of the high place, buzzing up through the soles of the king¡¯s boots.

    A gasp of wind. All air was sucked from the high place. The wet sheen of blood disappeared from the altar¡¯s troughs. Light shined from within the bloody lump of meat at the center.

    The mad queen staggered back, grinning triumphantly, gory knife at her side.

    The dripping lump of gristle and bone rose into the air above the altar. It shone so brightly that its half-formed bones stood out dark within. Its shadowed jaws opened and issued forth a hissing roar that echoed in the space between the city above and the city below.

    ¡°HE WHO SEEKS VICTORY FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT,

    TO SCOURGE THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN,

    TRAP A DROP OF OCEAN IN A SEA OF BLOOD AND STEEL.

    DRIVE DAYLIGHT INTO EVERLASTING NIGHT

    WITH THIS SCOURGE OF THORNS.

    THE CURSE REVEALED,

    NIGHT WILL POSSESS THE DAY.

    THE BIRTHRIGHT OF BLOOD RENOUNCED.

    THE ELDER TO SERVE THE YOUNGER ONCE MORE.

    ANCIENT BLASPHEMIES ECHO

    AND ARE OVERTHROWN.

    THE THRONE.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    THE THRONE.

    THE THRONE!¡±

    ***

    ¡°You would charge the Crown Prince of Night for his time?¡± Izakiel hauled the giggling whore onto his shoulder and smacked her taut rear. ¡°I¡¯d say that¡¯s a flogging offense.¡±

    ¡°This is a place of business, Your Highness!¡± Despite her amusement, she managed to convey disbelief aplenty in his title. ¡°Flogging costs gold, just like everything else!¡±

    Izakiel headed for the stairs, and the whore shrieked with breathy laughter. He suspected she wasn¡¯t only skeptical of his claims to the throne but also of his ability to safely transport her up the steps, given the way he was reeling.

    With a small expenditure of royal blood magic, he turned them both into a puff of curling black smoke, took a step, and resolidified them at the top of the stairs. Only twenty feet or so, nothing close to the distance he could actually smoke step, but in an enclosed space and as drunk as he was, it was safer to go with the minimum.

    Which still had great effect. The whore gasped in delight.

    Izakiel smirked. Nobles with the blood magic could do much, and extraordinarily gifted commoners could do some, but only the royal family had the power to smoke step.

    Of course, a common whore might not know any of that. Not much chance that she had upper-class patrons wandering into her low street whoring house in the middle of the day, when most good little Children of Night were preparing for bed or feasting the sunlit hours away. At best, she must think he was a wealthy merchant¡¯s son who could afford enough bloodslaves to waste his magic impressing ladies of the day.

    Not that Izakiel had to work very hard to catch a feminine eye. He was well aware that he was handsome. His strong House Khinet features and thick, dark hair always drew admiring glances, but it was the second set of dimples that the ladies truly could not resist. One set bored into either side of his mouth when he smiled; the other was always present, cut like notches high on his cheekbones.

    As if this weren¡¯t an overwhelming enough advantage, he was taller and fitter than most of the patrons littering the ugly red waiting chamber below, who displayed the fat and famine lifestyle of the lower classes. Izakiel was younger too, at a lusty seventeen years old, but as the crown prince liked to say, he whored like a man twice his age.

    ¡°I¡¯m Teikru-blessed,¡± he told the whore. ¡°I should be charging you.¡± He hauled his slipping burden higher onto his shoulder and started for a suite. ¡°Of course, that comes with the royal guarantee: your full and utter satisfaction, or I¡¯ll return every coin you pay me.¡±

    She cackled and pounded his back with hard little fists. ¡°If I believed every fine-feathered rooster who crowed that he was the Crown Prince of Night, I¡¯d never make any gold to be stolen by them, would I?¡±

    ¡°Interesting theory. Let¡¯s put it to the test.¡±

    The door of the whoring house crashed open below.

    ¡°Prince Izakiel, by order of the king, you are to return to the castle at once.¡±

    Izakiel¡¯s drunken grin evaporated. He sloshed around to face Vorino, one of his father¡¯s Royal Thorns.

    With one hand, Izakiel steadied the whore on his shoulder, and with the opposite, he grasped for the grimy railing, missed, grabbed again, and this time found it.

    ¡°This is a crisis, Vorino.¡± The prince adopted a serious expression. ¡°We¡¯re a nation at war, and I believe I¡¯ve found a spy for the Helat. Don¡¯t those ears look as if she¡¯s blunted them? My father will understand that this interrogation cannot wait.¡±

    As the royal sword tutor, Vorino had long ago become immune to the crown prince¡¯s charm. Mule-Face, Izakiel used to call him back when the prince still condescended to attend sword lessons, due to that long, narrow, stubborn countenance. Though Vorino¡¯s hair was longer than the current fashion¡ªperhaps in a vain attempt to hide his protruding ears¡ªthe Thorn kept his face clean-shaven in the trend Izak had set for the court.

    Grafted by King Hazerial six years previously, Vorino was in his mid-twenties and no doubt as wild about women as any other healthy young man, but the Thorn showed no empathy toward Izak¡¯s predicament.

    ¡°I¡¯m authorized to bring you back in ribbons if I have to, Your Highness.¡± For emphasis, he moved his hand to his hilt. Even that small motion was as smooth and deadly as an ambush predator preparing to spring.

    Thorns were the most elite and legendary swordsmen in the kingdom. Those grafted to the king were magically compelled to protect their sovereign¡¯s family with their lives. When that directive came into conflict with their master¡¯s orders, however, they could also thrash the light out of any one of his brats.

    ¡°Ten minutes,¡± Izakiel bargained. Seeing no leeway in Vorino¡¯s expression, he tried again. ¡°Five! I can get the answers I need in five.¡±

    ¡°Five?¡± the whore cried. ¡°I knew you weren¡¯t Teikru-blessed!¡±

    ¡°Trust me, darling, you¡¯ll be singing my praises with the strong gods in half that time.¡±

    ¡°This is not the day, Prince Izakiel,¡± Vorino warned.

    Over an open distance and at night, Izakiel could outpace the older man with a long-distance smoke step. In an enclosed space and in the midst of day, however, the Thorn¡¯s rigorous training and myriad enhancements would outdo him in a matter of minutes.

    ¡°Light burn me!¡± Izakiel let his head roll back in frustration. ¡°Then when is the day, Vorino? Answer me that.¡±

    ¡°Your brother¡¯s birth celebration and seeing-off¡ª¡±

    Izakiel let out a groan loud enough to drown out the Thorn. He didn¡¯t care a drop of spilt blood for what his father wanted, but Etian¡­ He owed his brother at least his presence at the feast.

    The prince set the whore down. Neither of them was laughing now.

    ¡°You really are him, then?¡± Her face was drained of color beneath its white powder.

    Izakiel gave her a tragic smile. ¡°I¡¯ll make good on my offer another day. That¡¯s a royal oath.¡±

    One of many that he intended never to fulfill. Although, there were only a hundred or so whoring houses in Siu Rial, and he did run through them. By accident, he might just keep his word.

    Izakiel faced the waiting Thorn.

    ¡°All right, you night-forsaken dyrehound, you¡¯ve treed your quarry, dragged it to ground, and shaken the life from its body. Return it to your master.¡±

 Chapter 2: How to Lose a Crown

    The feast was well underway when Izakiel strolled into the great hall, freshly poured into his finest clothing and splashed with enough scent to drown out the smell of the low streets.

    Every eye turned his way. Young women colored when he favored them with a smile. Young men noted every detail of his dress and deportment, eager to keep up with the crown prince¡¯s fashion. Ambitious nobles assessed his glances at their daughters, hunting for opportunity.

    Over the years, Izakiel had already enjoyed most of the prettiest courtiers his age¡ªand several of their handsomer mothers. He had no intention of tripping into their snares. When it became necessary, he would be married off to some foreign princess or the daughter of a powerful lord with designs on the throne. In fifty years or so, if his father expired without killing him first, the Crown of Night would come to rest on Izakiel¡¯s brow and he would receive the Blood of the Strong Gods, leaving him leader of the nation and their eternal war with the betrayers.

    At the head of the hall, his brooding sire sat scrutinizing him.

    Though it was said that Izakiel was the very portrait of the king, with the same dark hair, fair skin, and always-visible notch-mark dimples high on their cheekbones, to Izakiel¡¯s mind, he and Hazerial had never much resembled one another.

    There was something chilling in the king, something that sent icy spiders crawling down the spine. It was well known that Hazerial had been Eketra-blessed before he took the throne and received the triune blessing of the Blood of the Strong Gods. Perhaps it was the lingering threat of puppet strings jerking tight that set Izakiel¡¯s teeth on edge whenever he was face-to-face with his father.

    To the king¡¯s left sat her, backed by a half-dozen Royal Thorns. The only woman in the kingdom who had ever successfully grafted the magical swordsmen to herself¡ªwho had ever even been allowed to attempt the ceremony¡ªshe kept them close by, symbols of her power and untouchability. The mad queen could flirt with her Thorns in front of the king and the entire court and face no reprisal whatsoever; the king valued her gifts too highly.

    The mad queen was not Izakiel¡¯s mother. His mother, the first queen, had dutifully produced two healthy male children and then been replaced by this loathsome¡­ vile¡­ disgusting¡­

    He was too drunk to produce a satisfactory epithet. He couldn¡¯t rightfully call the mad queen a whore. He liked whores. Whores either took honest payment or robbed you blind, and then they left. After fourteen years, there was still no sign of Jadarah¡¯s exit. The only consolation he had was that his pet name for her¡ª¡°the mad queen¡±¡ªhad been adopted by nearly everyone in the kingdom.

    She grinned mockingly at him, twisting a dark ringlet ornamented with white bone beads around her bloodstained finger. The night¡¯s oracle must have been a success, then.

    Izakiel¡¯s mouth snarled into a hateful smile. Yes, there was the deflated belly that for the last few months had swollen the trim body Jadarah so prided herself on. She was despicably gorgeous and as Teikru-blessed as he was¡ªfacts that only served to make him hate her more. He hoped she would still be alive when he took the throne, so he could chop the head from her body himself.

    By the mad queen¡¯s side, Izakiel¡¯s half-sister, little Kelena, huddled in her chair. Where her mother was vibrant, deadly, nearly impossible to look away from, the thirteen-year-old princess was almost invisible. When one did finally notice her, she looked brittle and terrified¡ªafraid to flee, afraid to stay, afraid to make a sound. Today, pink blotches stood out high on her porcelain cheeks, and Izakiel knew they weren¡¯t from the sunlight. Kelena had probably never even glimpsed that shining orb except in paintings and illuminated story books.

    He gave his sister a reassuring smile. She ventured a shaky twitch of the lips.

    Spotting the momentary lapse in terror, the mad queen leaned close to the girl, eyes never leaving Izakiel¡¯s as she whispered poison into Kelena¡¯s ear. The shred of hope in Kelena¡¯s expression crumbled, and the princess shrank in on herself.

    Well, there was always the odd chance that Izakiel would kill Jadarah ahead of his accession. If he could get past her Thorns, that was. And of course, the king would be angry that he¡¯d destroyed such a valuable tool, but surely another she-viper could be found to serve the dual function of working the auguries and warming the king¡¯s bed.

    Perhaps an actual viper this time. It would have a better personality. It might even bathe once in a while.

    There was a clearing of a throat, and Izakiel realized belatedly that his brother stood at the king¡¯s right hand, facing the gathered nobles.

    Whereas Izakiel and Hazerial could be deemed slightly soft around the edges due to the intrinsic luxury of their stations, Etian appeared forged from the same steel as the sword he wore everywhere. Lean, hard, and athletic, sixteen years of obsessive training had carved away any hint of baby fat or childish foolishness from the Josean-blessed second prince.

    Nearly as tall as Izakiel, with the same striking House Khinet features, Etian had inherited their late mother¡¯s poor eyesight and smooth face. No dimples marked his cheeks¡ªeven in the rare event that he smiled¡ªand he looked out at the world through smoked lenses. Without the glasses, Izakiel knew, his brother was as good as blind.

    It seemed Izakiel had walked in on the announcement of Etian¡¯s departure for Thornfield.

    That gave him his first twinge of regret. The highest honor a secondborn prince had was to become commander of his elder brother¡¯s Royal Thorns, enslaved by blood and magic to the firstborn. Martial servitude was Etian¡¯s birthright, as the crown was Izakiel¡¯s.

    Of course, the people of the Kingdom of Night never called it ¡°enslaving.¡± That was too ugly a word. ¡°Grafting¡± was more palatable. Etian would be grafted to Izakiel with invisible magical chains that could never be loosed.

    The second prince was already a superb swordsman, having trained nightly from the time he could hold a dagger, first with their uncle, who had been grafted to their father, and then with his replacement Vorino.

    Yet Etian was not half the swordsman he would be when he left Thornfield. There, he would be honed to the deadly edge that could only come of the harshest measures and magics. And when Etian¡¯s training was complete, Izakiel would drive a magical blade carved from the wood of the thorn tree through his brother¡¯s heart and graft his soul in service until his death. So it was for every second son in the Kingdom of Night, going back to that first betrayal of their ancestor Khinet.

    The arrangement had never struck Izakiel as very fair. Etian had devoted his life to the sword, whereas Izakiel had stopped studying the royal blood magic years ago with minimal consequences. It was well known that the divine power of kinghood came with the Blood of the Strong Gods, anyway, and required only minor upkeep with the occasional disemboweling, massacre, or orgy. In Izakiel¡¯s opinion, that responsibility could and should be treated with every measure of disdainful laxity available.

    But Etian never complained. Like the strong god whose favor he had been born under, the younger prince pursued his duty with the single-minded dedication of the Josean-blessed.

    The least Izakiel could do to repay his brother was to acknowledge the sacrifice Etian was being forced to make by the bad luck of birth order.

    He swiped a pearled goblet from the closest lord¡¯s hand and raised it to Etian.

    ¡°My heartiest congratulations, Brother¡ª¡± on your departure from this nest of vipers. ¡°¡ªon surviving to your sixteenth year without leaping off the ramparts. Thornfield doesn¡¯t deserve a warrior of your skill and intelligence, and I do not deserve the loyalty of the Thorn you will become.¡±This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Behind his smoked lenses, Etian¡¯s dark brows twitched downward. Hard to tell through the clinging effects of the liquor what that particular expression meant. Etian was not the type to take offense, and he had always been exceptionally understanding of Izakiel¡¯s changeable nature.

    ¡°Well spoken,¡± King Hazerial said in a voice dangerously soft. ¡°You realize the worth of your Josean-blessed brother to a kingdom at war and the limited value of yourself. No doubt you will rejoice in our decision to renounce your status as heir apparent and give it instead to our secondborn son.¡±

    Izakiel blinked, the fine vintage congealing in his throat. For the life of him, he couldn¡¯t wring any sense from what his father had just said.

    Hazerial continued without regard for his confusion.

    ¡°As the strong gods decreed, the birthright of the crown is bestowed this day upon the man who will keep our people strong. Today, we break with the tradition established by our great ancestor Khinet two millennia ago.¡±

    A buzz filled Izakiel¡¯s ears. The titter of laughter from the mad queen. The murmur of shocked whispers passing from courtier to courtier. The sound of someone¡¯s world disintegrating beneath his feet.

    ¡°Etian,¡± the king announced, ¡°you are now Etianiel, Crown Prince of Night, Chosen Son of the Most High King, who will rule after my death. When the moon rises again, you will begin your training to receive the Blood of the Strong Gods.¡±

    Hazerial turned dark eyes upon his firstborn. ¡°Izakiel, you are hereby stripped of all claim to the throne and the title Crown Prince, Bestowed Son of the Most High. You are from this moment on only Izak of House Khinet. You will leave for Thornfield in your brother¡¯s place, whereupon finishing as a full Thorn, you will be grafted into the service and protection of your future king until death.¡±

    ***

    Despite his public removal from the line of succession, Izakiel¡ªno, Izak now, as he no longer had any claim to the royal suffix of inheritance¡ªsat in the chair at his father¡¯s right hand, which should have been reserved for the crown prince.

    Etian had made no move to take it, and what was a little pettiness on top of humiliation?

    ¡°Masterful stroke, old man.¡± Izak checked the depths of his wine for the poison his father must surely have dropped into it. ¡°Eketra must be licking her lips with glee. She loves a good knife in the back.¡±

    Hazerial stared out over his subjects. ¡°While the strong goddess will certainly be pleased with your childish injury, betrayal had nothing to do with our decision. Tonight¡¯s augury showed us the way to destroy the Children of Day once and for all, and shockingly, that was not by bequeathing the throne to a prince more interested in whores and liquor than the royal blood magic with which he was born.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what her augury said, was it?¡± Izak¡¯s eyes cut around the divine ruler to the queen, whose gore-stained hand had snaked behind her seat to caress her closest Thorn.

    ¡°Can you honestly say that you¡¯re the better man to rule?¡± the king asked. ¡°That you are the son of your bloodline most dedicated to the strong gods and the Kingdom of Night?¡±

    Izak ground his teeth, the liquor pounding in his head. Like every other move his father made, the questions were calculated to drive enmity between himself and Etian. To keep the brothers from trusting one another enough to join forces against him, as the king and his brother had done against King Ikario IX more than thirty years before.

    Some rancid instinct had the lie on the tip of Izak¡¯s tongue. A combination of the urge to believe he would have made the better ruler and the selfish desperation to hang onto his comfortable life in the palace while casting his brother into harsher climes. He even checked to see whether Etian would overhear his reply.

    The glint in Hazerial¡¯s eye and the appearance of both pairs of dimples said he knew how close Izak was to tearing down every bridge he¡¯d built with his younger brother.

    To curb that fetid impulse, Izak instead asked, ¡°How do you intend to get me to Thornfield? Drag me there in chains?¡±

    ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary. The queen can always birth another daughter to raise in her own image. She¡¯s fond of Kelena, but not attached.¡±

    Meaning if Izak protested too hard, his little sister would be dust.

    ¡°Masterful,¡± he muttered again and polished off his wine. A bloodslave ghosted mindlessly forward to refill it. ¡°When do I leave?¡±

    ***

    The horses were saddled and ready at sunset, a pair of handsome royal mounts and a packhorse with enough provisions for the two-week trip south, though Izak¡¯s status as the firstborn son of the King of Night still held enough clout to get him fed and boarded anywhere along the way.

    Castle Sangmere loomed over the stable yard, stark and indifferent backed by the dying sunlight. Little by little, the ghost city faded into the darkening sky overhead, reflecting the towers, the keep, the walls, and the surrounding City of Blood.

    Vorino and a groom fussed around, checking cinches and buckles and saddlebags, and Izak stood by not helping.

    Except for a change of riding clothes and a few odds and ends he¡¯d snuck out of the palace, the former crown prince was traveling mostly empty-handed. Thorns owned only their weapons and whatever their masters chose to give them; Thorns-in-training had even less.

    ¡°You look terrible,¡± said a voice from behind him.

    Izak pasted a grin on his face and turned to face Etian. ¡°That¡¯s not what the whores on the low streets said.¡±

    ¡°They had a vested interest in lying. I don¡¯t.¡± Etian¡¯s lenses caught the dying light, and his hand rested on the pommel of his ever-present sword. A sword he no longer needed to wield. ¡°Think you¡¯re capable of staying in the saddle?¡±

    ¡°I may still smell and look drunk, little brother, but I promise you I am disgustingly sober. Late one yesterday.¡± Izak let out a dramatic sigh. ¡°Lots of beautiful faces to bid farewell after the feast, lots of sweet thighs to reluctantly drag myself from between.¡±

    It was true that Izak hadn¡¯t slept, but he¡¯d spent the day alone, lying awake for most of it on the settle in his antechamber, drinking. Closer to sundown, he¡¯d risen to wander Castle Sangmere¡¯s sleep-hushed corridors. He¡¯d been so drunk that he nearly wandered down to the dungeon to take one last look at the Inquisition Hall and traitor¡¯s cells. After all, why not heap waking nightmares onto this twisted wreck of fate? But he¡¯d turned coward halfway down the stairs and slunk back to his apartments to hide.

    ¡°Apparently, I¡¯m commandeering Mule-Face.¡± Izak nodded at Vorino. ¡°No sword tutor to practice with. You should¡¯ve taken the night off and slept in for once in your life.¡±

    ¡°I wanted to get some sparring in with the guard before I met the blood magic tutors,¡± Etian said.

    ¡°Your work ethic makes my skin crawl.¡±

    ¡°Your laziness makes mine crawl. I can feel my speed and reflexes failing just standing this close to you.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll understand when you¡¯re older.¡±

    Etian snorted.

    The brothers fell silent as a lord rode past in full armor, polished steel glinting in the pale green ghostlight from the brightening ghost city. A procession of attendants, household, and men-at-arms followed. Izak¡¯s departure was being overshadowed by the crown¡¯s preparations to go to war with the pirates. The closest nobles were mustering their forces on the grounds outside Sangmere. The nobles between Siu Rial and the coast would join as the king¡¯s army passed through their holdings.

    Longing flashed behind Etian¡¯s lenses. It was obvious he wanted to go to war¡ªhe¡¯d trained for battle his entire life¡ªbut Izak had heard that the new crown prince would be acting regent in the king¡¯s absence.

    Regency was a responsibility Izak had been entrusted with one time and never again.

    ¡°Wish the old man bad luck from me when he rides out,¡± Izak said.

    Etian shook his head. ¡°His battle plan¡¯s too well made. It¡¯s his newly appointed heir¡ªhe¡¯s an impeccable strategist. Handsome, too. The kingdom will have the pirates under imperial thumb and their gold in the war coffers before winter.¡±

    Izak smirked. ¡°Well, if you can¡¯t inherit a kingdom fast, inherit it fat.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s everything, Your Highness,¡± Vorino said, mounting up.

    ¡°Coming.¡±

    Izak glanced up at Sangmere¡¯s closest tower. He¡¯d hoped Kelena might steal away from her mother long enough to say goodbye. Just in case she couldn¡¯t escape, however, he¡¯d left her a ribbon set she would know had come from him. Deep purple to complement her pale skin and dark hair and eyes. It was her favorite color, an admission that had taken him years to gain enough trust to coax from her.

    And now he was leaving her in the jaws of that rabid she-wolf.

    ¡°Etian.¡± With a start, Izak realized his mistake. ¡°Etianiel, rather.¡±

    The younger prince grimaced. ¡°Don¡¯t call me that.¡±

    Izak ignored his brother¡¯s protest. ¡°While I¡¯m gone¡­¡±

    Was there anything Etian could do to protect Kelena? Both younger siblings had looked to Izak to shield them from Jadarah, and beyond that, Etian had never seemed close with their little sister. He¡¯d spent his childhood driven to obsession with the sword, while Kelena had barely survived these thirteen years in the claws of the repulsive wench who¡¯d birthed her.

    ¡°Your Highness, we must ride.¡± Vorino reined his mount toward the gatehouse, tugging the packhorse along. ¡°We¡¯re due at the Kariot holdings by daylight.¡±

    With an annoyed grunt, Izak swung himself into the saddle and turned his horse so that he could see his brother.

    ¡°Don¡¯t let the mad queen have her head,¡± he said. ¡°She¡¯ll try every twisted trick she can think of to sink her claws into you, but there¡¯s nothing she can do to the heir apparent.¡±

    Etian nodded, all trace of humor gone.

    Nothing Jadarah could do, unless one counted holding a secret over a man¡¯s head until he made himself sick. Luckily, the straightforward, Josean-blessed second prince had no cause to fear such tactics. That was the prerogative of cowards like Izak.

    He looked over his shoulder at Sangmere. It was the last he would see of the palace and Siu Rial for four years, and when he returned, it would be in magical chains. At least Izak would be serving a brother who would someday be an honest, just, and powerful ruler. Their uncle hadn¡¯t had the same good fortune.

    As Izak rode for the gatehouse, Etian drew his sword and saluted. Izak offered a wave and a smile that hopefully did not bear the weight of the doom settling around his shoulders.

    Movement high in the tower caught his eye. A small, pale hand waving a dark-purple hair ribbon.

    Izak grinned. Seen off by the only two people he cared about in Siu Rial, he put his heels to his mount before he changed his mind and rode into the teeth of fate for their sakes.

 Chapter 3: Raedrs

    Sunset laced the waves with bloody light as Araam, Son of Olaan Bane of the Dirters, Chief of the Raen, First Tribe of the Ocean Rovers, scoured the already silken gunwale of his raiding ship with a handful of the finest sand from the Glittering Shoals.

    He¡¯d built Haelbringr with his bare hands from wood harvested from the Singing Glades, daubed her with the thickest pitch from the tar beds of Jicara Inlet, and hung her with sheets of dark canvas woven by the most skilled hands ever to grace a woman.

    The young Ocean Rover was impatient to take Haelbringr out on her maiden raid. The first that he would lead as raed commander, it would bring his new name, give him a new status within the tribe, and prove the manhood he had been honing these sixteen years.

    Araam did not look up when he heard the thud of feet on his deck. He recognized the rhythm of the boarder¡¯s tread, the slight hitch in the gait from old wounds, the confidence of the stride.

    Though the chief did not slow once in his approach, Araam knew the old man¡¯s sharp gray-green eyes were searching Haelbringr stem to stern for the smallest defect.

    There were no more defects. The few there had been eleven days ago were now perfected.

    There might, however, still be elements of her bearing that Araam could improve.

    If there were more improvements to be made, he would have to swallow his impatience and continue with the work. Already he had been turned down eleven nights in a row. Yielding to the wisdom of his elders was as much a test of his manhood as the raid would be of his strength, bravery, and command.

    The footfalls came to a stop at his side.

    Finally pausing in his work, Araam tossed the pearlescent sand back into the bucket, dusted off his hands, and rose to face the greatest Ocean Rover to stand on a deck since the Lost Tribe had still been among the Twelve.

    Olaan, Bane of the Dirters, Chief of the Raen, First Tribe of the Ocean Rovers, stood an inch or two shorter than Araam, but the chief¡¯s proud bearing made him appear to tower like a mainmast. His shoulders listed slightly right, pulled by an old battle scar, and his ears shimmered with rings of skillful goldwork¡ªsymbols of his significance, strength, and honor.

    ¡°Raed Commander,¡± Olaan greeted him.

    High seas battered the walls of Araam¡¯s chest. A maelstrom howled in his veins.

    He allowed no emotion to show on his face. Only children displayed their volatile passions for the world to see. Araam was nearly a man, and a man was steady, unchanging.

    Simply being addressed as the raed commander did not mean he or his ship were ready.

    But it was the first time his father had addressed him as such. It meant something.

    Araam stood at attention. ¡°Haelbringr awaits your assessment, Chief Olaan.¡±

    That great man of the seas stroked his graying beard as he gave the sleek, beautiful raed ship a token glance, then turned toward the Raen¡¯s tribal greatship anchored nearby. A slender, silk-wrapped form stood at the hulking vessel¡¯s bow.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Araam¡¯s mother nodded. She believed his raed ship ready to carry its first treasure.

    Araam fought back the storm swell in his chest. It was a good sign, likely much discussed by his parents before his father boarded, but he would not get his hopes up before the Chief of the Raen gave his word.

    Olaan turned back to his son. ¡°She is worthy of the ocean, Raed Commander. Gather your boarding party and depart at once.¡±

    As if no joyous peals of thunder shook him from the inside, Araam replied with the cool composure of a man who would soon be fully proven.

    ¡°Yes, Chief.¡±

    ¡°May the God Who Owns the Waves on a Thousand Seas watch over you this night, Araam, Son of Olaan.¡± Though his father¡¯s face was an ice sheet, the changeless stern expression of a man among men, Araam saw the glimmer of delight in the old raedr¡¯s eyes. ¡°Now go and steal a bride worthy of a fleet of greatships.¡±

    ***

    Haelbringr¡¯s sharp hull cut the dark water with hardly a hiss. She was even nimbler and faster than Araam had dreamed when he designed her. She moved on a breath of air, tacked with a thought.

    Ahead, the sleeping bulk of the Hael¡¯s tribal greatship drifted at night anchor. The vibrant colors she sported were muted in the cloud-covered night, her portholes and glass dark, except for a single yellow light in her stern castle. The soft glow of a whale oil stormlamp.

    Using the Ocean Rovers¡¯ silent language of hand signals, Araam sent down the order to his crew, Bring her leeward.

    The watchmen of his prey would be on peerless alert. This was raiding season, and though it was rare these days for one tribe to attack another, the Hael greatship carried such a treasure that her chief would have certainly doubled her guard.

    That was why Araam had opted for the darkest wood, the blackest pitch, and sheets of alaan, the darkest color known, the color of the ocean in the deepest part of the Deep Chasm on a moonless night. From the lookout on the greatship¡¯s masthead, Haelbringr would be less than a shadow against the waves.

    It was an oft-repeated joke that the men of the Hael tribe were as concerned with their appearance as their women were, but their fighting skill was no laughing matter. Their chief, Troanr Leviathan-Killer, was a legend who in his youth had slain one of those great beasts with nothing more than a sword. If Araam and Haelbringr carried the night against him, their future raids against the pathetic vessels of the dirters would be certain victories.

    Below, Araam¡¯s raedrs raced to obey the silent order. The usual daytime clank and groan of a vessel was muffled by layers of sealskin and cloth.

    Uelaat, Araam¡¯s best friend and chosen marshal, stalked the planks, watching for any who might give them away with carelessness.

    No man aboard had missed the signals, and none raised a noise in their work. Araam had chosen his crew carefully months ago, before beginning Haelbringr¡¯s build. Some were grizzled raedrs with multiple notches in their cutlasses. Others were closer to his age or younger, getting their first few raids under their belts in the hopes that they would soon be voted worthy of their own proving.

    Each man had been chosen for a purpose. Ruell climbed like a spider and swam like a barracuda. Put a pair of cutlasses in Otaar¡¯s hands and he was a school of sharks unto himself. Ceolr had a war howl that shook the ocean to its depths.

    Uelaat had been chosen for his power, monstrous size, and vicious appearance. Without that intimidating physique, friend or not, he would have been left on the Raen¡¯s greatship, as he was fast neither in water nor out of it, and his mental prowess extended only far enough to obey orders and repeat them to others. Uelaat was a man who would never command his own crew, but he was content with that. He often said he wanted only the means to provide for the wife and dozen children he would someday fill Cryst¡¯holm with.

    All that remained was to see whether Araam was the raed commander to provide Uelaat with those means.

    Haelbringr slowed to a crawl. Araam left the helm, signaling the raedrs he had chosen for the attack. A skeleton crew would remain behind, ready to sail when they had taken their plunder.

    He slipped his swordbreaker into his teeth and checked the belting on his cutlass. Then he stole over the rail and into the black waves.

 Chapter 4: Haelbringr

    Silently, the raedrs clambered up the Hael greatship¡¯s elaborately painted larboard bow, Ruell at their head. To a casual observer, the shadows moving up her hull might be nothing more than a trick of the eye.

    In the water below, Araam and Uelaat swam sternward. The young raed commander led his friend away from the faint yellow rectangle of light shed by the storm window, keeping their approach in darkness.

    They had just reached the towering stern castle when Ceolr¡¯s hurricane roar shook the boarded vessel to its timbers. The clash of steel on steel filled the salty air as a hundred or more Hael warriors attempted to repel the score of sopping wet raedrs.

    Araam¡¯s blood filled with the urgency to fight alongside them, but even the best raed commander could not force victory by being in two places. He must trust the men he¡¯d chosen to carry out their part in this attack.

    The lowest gallery of the greatship loomed twenty feet over his head, but he timed his leap with the next heavy swell, caught hold of the ornate scrolling woodwork and clambered up until he reached the slick rail of her stern walk.

    He hauled himself over the rail, took the swordbreaker from his teeth, and spared a moment to assess his way forward.

    Framed by the walk were the thick, swirled panes of stormglass that made up the rear windows. These afforded the best cabins in the ship with fresh air and a view while protecting them from being swamped by powerful waves.

    Uelaat swung over the rail beside him, water pouring from his huge form.

    Where now? he signaled.

    Araam nodded starboard. The best handholds had led them to the larboard side of the castle, away from the cabin they sought.

    Dripping, they crept along the walk, searching each stormglass in turn for treachery until they reached the glow of lamplight.

    His treasure sat locked within, shining golden as the sun and swathed in silk and jewels. It was hard to make out details through the blur, but Araam knew it was her. She had lit the stormlamp to guide him, burning valuable whale oil every night in anticipation of his arrival. In the month since he had promised her he would come, she had not given up.

    Araam levered the tip of the swordbreaker into the casement frame and searched for the catch.

    He must have made a sound. Inside, the silk-covered form started. She turned toward the windows. Through the blurry glass, he saw her pull up her silken scarves, covering her hair and face, hiding everything but her eyes.

    God of the Waves, tonight he would see her face! His hands shook with the urgency to get inside.

    Mercifully, the catch triggered, and the thick casement swung open. The greatship rolled suddenly, pitching the heavy, swinging stormglass back toward him. Araam braced himself on the rail and caught the window before it could knock him into the surf.

    Taking the rare initiative, Uelaat snatched the casement away, holding it so his friend could climb inside.

    Araam saw nothing of the cabin as his wet feet hit the warm dry wood of its floor. The most brilliant teal eyes gleamed at him from between swatches of red-orange silk, pitch-dark lashes making the oceanic gems shine brighter than belief.

    This was the bride he had chosen, the eyes he had built Haelbringr for, the woman he had risked his name and his honor and his manhood for.

    She was also the one who had so lovingly crafted Haelbringr¡¯s beautiful alaan canvas with those slender, clever fingers. The day the sheets had been smuggled onto the Raen greatship and into Araam¡¯s hands, he had stood taller than any rogue wave.

    ¡°Mehet, Daughter of Troanr Leviathan-Killer, Chief of the Hael, Sixth Tribe of the Ocean Rovers,¡± he said, savoring every word of her name. ¡°I claim you as mine. From this day forth, any man who seeks to place himself between you and me¡ª¡±

    Uelaat cringed. He had been about to cross between the lovers to gather the ceremonial bag of pearls the bride kept at her side. The big raedr stepped back.

    Sweet laughter tinkled from behind Mehet¡¯s silken wrap like windchimes in a favorable breeze.

    Araam¡¯s soul blazed like ball lightning at the feminine sound. Ocean Rover women covered their faces to hide the emotions they chose not to share. An audible laugh was an intentional glimpse of her mood, and Mehet¡¯s was almost painfully beautiful.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    A second later, a more masculine sound caught Araam¡¯s attention. The clash of battle from the greatship¡¯s deck was spreading.

    ¡°¡ªany man who seeks to place himself between you and me will taste the steel of my cutlass,¡± he hurried to complete the rote. ¡°Daughter of the Hael no longer, my tribe is your tribe. From here to eternity, let this woman always be known as Mehet, Wife of the Son of Olaan, and one day Chieftainess of the Raen, First Tribe of the Ocean Rovers.¡±

    ¡°I shall raise the alarm,¡± she said, the ritual response unconvincing in its mirth.

    ¡°Then I shall wait no longer.¡± Crossing the cabin, Araam scooped the silk-bundled form into his arms. The scent of a dozen heady spices engulfed him at once. Warm, enticing. It felt like sacrilege that his rough, wet clothing was soaking her fine silks, but she would soon be soaked through, as he was.

    A shout in the corridors. The thunder of feet.

    Chief Troanr had seen through the distraction and was now storming below to protect his greatest treasure. From the noise, there must have been a hundred men at his heels.

    Araam would have a lifetime to breathe in the perfumed oils his bride wore, but only if he made it back to the Raen greatship with her. Ocean Rover bridal procedures had been greatly formalized since the olden days when the tribes warred and raided one another, but this last bit of the ritual was the roughest, where marriages were still known to capsize.

    ¡°Get her to Haelbringr,¡± Araam said, thrusting his wife into Uelaat¡¯s arms.

    Without hesitation, the big raedr plunged through the heavy, swinging casement, his wide shoulders and tough head shielding the stolen bride from harm.

    Behind Araam, the cabin door burst open. A white-bearded Hael as elaborately bedecked as his greatship shouldered through, swinging a sapphire-encrusted saber.

    Araam ran to meet the chief¡¯s attack. He caught the first blow on his swordbreaker, the edges of the saber screaming as it wedged in one of the dagger¡¯s deep serrations.

    Chief Troanr bore down with the strength of decades spent surviving on harsh seas. Araam¡¯s muscles knotted, and his arm shook with the effort to hold the saber at bay. He could still lose this night, his wife, his name, everything.

    He brought his foot up, planted it in Troanr¡¯s gut, and kicked him away.

    In that breath of space, Araam ripped his cutlass free of his belt. He was almost too slow. The older man was already throwing himself at Araam once again. Araam parried and slashed and met ready steel. Troanr fought like a man half his age, as fast and fearless as the poets said he had been when he killed the leviathan, gladly accepting smaller wounds in pursuit of the greater victory.

    Araam felt as if he were fighting the leviathan more than the man. He trapped an attack between swordbreaker and cutlass. Troanr tried to yank free, but Araam twisted his blades. The older man¡¯s wrist turned, his thick knuckles caught inside the saber¡¯s jewel-studded rings.

    Troanr was off balance, but not beaten. With his free hand, he yanked a longknife from his boot. The old man lurched up, snapping his head into the underside of Araam¡¯s jaw.

    Lightning flashed inside Araam¡¯s skull. Blood poured into his mouth from his bitten tongue.

    But the longknife.

    Araam threw himself into a blind roll, praying to the God of the Waves that he¡¯d picked the direction away from Troanr¡¯s attack. No cold blade sank into his vitals. He slammed into a wooden bulkhead and bolted to his feet, blinking sparks from his eyes.

    And ducked. The sapphire-encrusted saber sliced through the air where his head had been. Wood splintered, showering him with chips.

    Troanr¡¯s body was too far forward. His reckless style had betrayed him. He had committed too heavily into the swing at Araam¡¯s neck.

    As the old man stepped to catch himself, Araam kicked Troanr¡¯s foot out from beneath him. The Hael chief tumbled to the deck, but did not stop fighting.

    Troanr rolled onto his side and swung the saber. Araam stomped the jewel-encrusted blade to the ground. The longknife stabbed for his foot, seeking to pin him to the planks. He smacked aside the dagger with the superior reach of his cutlass.

    The clang of steel on steel rang outside the cabin, the pitched battle between the Hael men and the Raen raedrs reaching a frenzy, as Araam pressed the swordbreaker to Troanr¡¯s throat.

    The chief had fought like a man possessed by demons from the deep, but he went still at the cold caress of the toothed blade.

    The battle between tribesmen stilled in a ripple, beginning with those fighters closest to the cabin and spreading down the corridor. In moments, the only sounds were the endless creak of the greatship, the harsh breathing of the combatants, and the clinking of the Hael men¡¯s jewelry.

    Araam spat the blood from his teeth. ¡°Kill them all.¡±

    At his command, raedrs brought their swords to throats and mimicked a slaughter. Most of the defeated Hael crouched rather than knelt in defeat, not wishing to dirty their extravagant garments any more than they already had, and offered up their weapons.

    Every blade was crafted from the deadly black steel of the Waeld, the Third Tribe among the Ocean Rovers, renowned for their weaponsmithing¡ªbut Araam knew none were the defeated warriors¡¯ best weapons. Mehet¡¯s tribe had had weeks to prepare for Araam¡¯s eventual attack, and would have stored their most prized blades in their quarters until the marriage ceremony was complete.

    From the floor, the Chief of the Hael studied his newly acquired son-in-law. ¡°What name will you take when you return to your tribe? I would know what to call the father of my grandchildren when I ask for the God of the Waves¡¯s favor upon his ship.¡±

    ¡°The God will tell you my name when you meet Him.¡± Araam pulled back his cutlass and imitated a beheading swing.

    Troanr¡¯s eyes warmed with approval. ¡°You are a leviathan in a sea of sharks, Son of Olaan.¡±

    The old man shifted to his knees, grunting as his aging joints cracked, and handed off his sapphire-encrusted saber.

    ¡°Mehet is my finest treasure, worth a thousand of these,¡± he said. ¡°Treat her well and she will make your tribe as great and strong as her mother did the Hael.¡±

    Araam turned his back on the chief, then signaled to his men. One by one, they carried their plunder through the casement and leapt from the stern walk to the churning waters below. There the Haelbringr circled, ready to disappear into the night.

 Chapter 5: Raen

    The clouds had parted during the raid, and now a silver moon hung in the sky, mirrored on the black waves. Araam¡¯s raedrs greeted him with proud gazes as he climbed aboard his ship.

    ¡°Come about,¡± Araam ordered as if he were not about to burst apart at the seams. ¡°Full canvas home.¡±

    As the men set to work, Araam listened to Ruell¡¯s report of the battle abovedeck. Then the plunder had to be inspected and each sword taken declared as belonging to the man who had won it. Thankfully, there were no disputed prizes that night to slow the proceedings. After a quick check of the stars to make certain of their heading, Araam dispersed the pearls from the bride¡¯s bribery among Mehet¡¯s new crew.

    Finally, with the last of the ship¡¯s business handled, Araam turned the helm over to Uelaat and went below in search of his wife.

    Raiding ships like Haelbringr were not meant for the long-term berth of a full crew, and so did not have a crew quarters. Raedrs kept permanent cabins on their tribe¡¯s greatships. The raed commander and his wife alone lived on the smallship.

    Araam found Mehet in the cabin, inspecting her new home.

    He stopped on the threshold. The breath stuck in his lungs.

    She was turned away from him. She¡¯d changed from her wet wedding garments into the daily silks of a chieftainess, but she had yet to re-cover her face and head.

    Even sodden and bedraggled by the swim, her hair was the color of a late summer sun. The women of Araam¡¯s tribe could hardly dream of a gold so pure to craft. It seemed to fill every inch of the cabin, to edge out her new loom and push back the desk and his cases of charts and books, to consume and reflect the light from the stormlamp she¡¯d lit.

    Where Raen women were known for their goldsmithing, Mehet¡¯s tribeswomen were weavers. Most of the silks and linens that he had stocked had probably come from the Hael in the first place, so those were sure to meet with her approval. As they were going into winter, however, he¡¯d also added several of the best furs he¡¯d taken in his childhood raids.

    She ran a long-fingered hand over their softness, still not facing him, though she must have heard the cabin door open.

    Araam swallowed. When he had taken them, he thought those furs were a treasure; now he wasn¡¯t so certain. He¡¯d been a child then. His immature ideas of wealth might have led him to see pearl dust where there was only white sand.

    He stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him.

    ¡°Is Haelbringr to your liking?¡± he asked. If not, he would rebuild her. It wasn¡¯t unheard of for a raed commander to reconstruct the entire ship if his new wife found it lacking. At the moment, that seemed like a meager price to pay to please his bride.

    ¡°She is a vessel well worthy of the ocean,¡± Mehet said.

    ¡°But is she worthy of her mistress?¡±

    Mehet turned, her face lit with a smile.

    She was more beautiful than he had imagined. High, proud cheekbones kissed gold by the sun; thick, dark lips; teeth as white as a coconut heart. The thin gold nose chain he¡¯d sent as a betrothal promise dangled from one delicate nostril to the shell of her ear.

    Until Mehet replied, Araam had forgotten he¡¯d asked her a question.

    ¡°The vessel is as worthy as the man who built her, but sporting considerably more finery than he does.¡± The golden chain swayed against her cheek when she spoke, and her brilliant teal eyes sparkled as she studied him.

    Araam had a vague idea what he looked like, having spied himself in calm waters and in his mother¡¯s silvered mirror when he was a child. He remembered gray-green eyes, sandy brown hair streaked lighter in places by sun and salt, and lately, brown whiskers that had yet to spread past his upper lip and chin.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    He had never given much thought to these features, but suppose she approved of the ship and not of its raed commander?

    Mehet smoothed a hand over the breast of his drying roughspun shirt. Practical clothing for building a ship or leading a raid, but perhaps not for welcoming home a beautiful woman accustomed to the finest ornamentation.

    She reached up and touched the hair he had only recently been allowed to start growing out. Her finger traced the gold rings piercing the top of his ear, each lovingly crafted by his mother. One for his naming, one for his first successful navigation, one for his first raid. When they returned to the greatship and he presented his wife, his mother would add the fourth ring, signifying his first successful command.

    Araam had dreamed of earning this earring since childhood, but a few simple trinkets of braided gold must look like nothing to a daughter of the Hael, where the men decorated themselves as gaudily as the women and jingled with every breeze.

    ¡°A wife has much influence over her husband¡¯s dress and bearing,¡± he said. ¡°A woman as gifted as the one who wove Haelbringr¡¯s sails could easily improve a man to her liking.¡±

    ¡°If I had wanted a decorative husband, I would have married within my own tribe.¡± She rubbed her thumb over his chin, testing the rasp of his whiskers. ¡°It was a raedr I sought and a raedr I caught.¡±

    Alone with his wife, in the privacy of their quarters, it was acceptable to show a small measure of the joy billowing through his soul. Grinning, he swept her from the floor and pressed his lips to hers.

    ***

    ¡°Raen greatship on the horizon!¡±

    The cry brought man and wife reluctantly from below.

    Among the Ocean Rovers, it was the duty of every raed commander¡¯s wife to assess the vessels they approached, whether for war or profit, and Mehet did so with an eye as quick and clever as her weaver¡¯s fingers.

    The night had cleared enough to give her a superb view of the greatship¡¯s soaring sextuple masts, powerful bowsprit rammer, and handsome trailboard. In the storm season, the greatship and her crew would rest at Cryst¡¯holm, that great floating refuge. During the raiding season, as it was now, the massive vessel housed the Raen tribe¡¯s raedrs, and if they were childless or their children were grown, their wives as well. A raedr never sailed without his woman if he could help it.

    The waters surrounding the greatship were populated by twenty¡­ thirty¡­ forty¡­ forty-two smallships laying by. Forty-three counting Haelbringr. Even assuming that some vessels were absent on other raids, they well outnumbered her tribe¡¯s two dozen auxiliary crafts, but none were as dark, sleek, or beautiful as the predator she stood aboard, the ship outfitted with sheets she¡¯d woven herself.

    Mehet realized that, out of habit, she had called the Hael her tribe. She was Raen now. The Raen¡¯s ships were her ships, their plunder was her plunder. Beneath her silken scarves, she smiled. She had chosen a husband who would one day command this formidable fleet. On that day, she would become Mehet, Chieftainess of the Raen, First Tribe of the Ocean Rovers.

    All this passed through her thoughts in an instant.

    It was not until the next moment that she saw the unseasonable storm clouds rolling in from the direction of the land.

    She frowned. Those clouds were not clouds. They raced against the wind, toward the Raen fleet, a wall of black smoke, devoid of lightning or billow.

    ¡°Raed Commander, silence your men,¡± she said, gripping his arm.

    Araam signed the order. The shouts of men bringing them to the field of smallships turned seamlessly to gestures. Half the crew continued their work, while the other half stood with weapons ready, watching the advancing wall of smoke.

    Through the veil of perfumed silk, Mehet smelled a stench that pushed back the clean salt breeze. The wrinkling of her husband¡¯s nose said he¡¯d caught a whiff of the same stink. Filth. Blood.

    Dirters.

    Araam read the signals as she gave them. Unnatural. Danger. Blood magic.

    Wasting no time, Araam drew his cutlass and signaled to his helmsman to guide Haelbringr wide of the greatship. The dirters would focus their efforts on the largest target, and when they did, the smallships would tear them apart from the flanks. He sent four raedrs plunging overboard to fan out and spread the word of the attack through the fleet.

    Mehet grabbed Araam¡¯s sleeve and pulled him back to look at her signals.

    This attack had none of the marks of the chaser ships the dirters sent after them along the coast. They were well into Raen waters, where none of the land-loving blood drinkers dared to stray.

    Mehet gestured to the coming cloud of black. It stretched from one horizon to the other and was quickly cinching inward like a looped thread pulling tight. This was magic on a scale not leveled against them since that legendary era when the Twelfth Tribe was lost.

    Araam pressed the hilt of his swordbreaker into her palm until, bewildered, she took it.

    We are Raen, he told her. We do not fear death or dirters.

    The First Tribe held the most dangerous waters as their territory for a reason. The blood drinkers had long ago given up any hope of ever stomping out the Ocean Rovers because of the Raen¡¯s mighty warriors. Renewed warfare was the dirters¡¯ folly.

    We are Raen, he had said.

    We.

    It was a raedr she had sought, and a raedr she had caught¡ªand so, a raedr¡¯s wife she must be.

    Mehet released her husband, switching the swordbreaker into her non-signing hand, and gave him a silent command to send the dirters to the ocean floor.

 Chapter 6: Close-Rats

    Impulse said to grab that loaf of brown bread from the baker¡¯s cart, and Brat was never one to ignore an impulse. Second thoughts were for corpses. In the muddy low streets of Siu Carinal, the Jewel of the Delta, first thoughts and fast hands filled bellies.

    The fat baker wasn¡¯t looking. He was busy haggling with a tired-looking woman juggling screaming babies. Nobody was watching the dirty street urchin edge toward the cart except the equally dirty little girl crouched in the alley across the street, ready to dart into the Closes beneath the city at the first sign of trouble.

    Brat claimed to be that little girl¡¯s twin, but there wasn¡¯t another close-rat with half a mind who would give that lie credence. How could anyone know if they¡¯d been born at the same time by the same woman when any trace of a mother was long gone? Besides, it was common sense around the Closes¡ªthe maze of enclosed tunnels and brick caverns beneath the city that had once been Old Siu Carinal¡ªthat nothing the brat said could be trusted.

    Even if someone did manage to wrestle Brat and Pretty into submission long enough to hold them side by side, an observer would find the claims of twinship doubtful at best. Brat¡¯s tight-chopped, colorless hair was dotted with bald patches from ringworm and rats, where Pretty¡¯s long black tangles hung like riverweed from beneath her threadbare, mud-encrusted headscarf. The former¡¯s sharp teeth and pointed features sparked distrust rather than pity¡ªtoo much of a nasty, elfin cast to them¡ªwhereas the latter¡¯s wide, innocent eyes and heart-shaped face emphasized the unfairness of a world that could cast such beauty into its gutters.

    The nearest thing to resemblance between the pair was the dirt and the hungry, malnourished look common to all the abandoned creatures who called the Closes home.

    Fat Baker held out a loaf of softbread to Tired Woman, demonstrating its freshness and pliability with the gentle press of a thumb.

    Brat darted in, snatched the brown bread from the cart, and bolted.

    ¡°Sir Baker,¡± drawled a bored voice with a strange, nasally accent, ¡°that little beggar¡¯s swiped something.¡±

    ¡°Hey! Stop him!¡±

    Somebody had been watching after all. Brat didn¡¯t slow down to see who it was. Slowing down got you dead or thrown in the gaol, and brats didn¡¯t last long in the river city gaol. So death, or death and worse, and then who would look after Pretty?

    Pursuing footsteps splashed in the muddy street, gaining.

    What aboveground dweller cared so much about a hard loaf of brown bread that they would actually chase after a thief? It was every man for himself in the low streets.

    Brat hadn¡¯t eaten in nights, but the cramped thoroughfares were full of folks going about their nightly business, bathed in the green glow of the ghost city overhead. Plenty of medicine for the taking at this hour. Brat snuck a sip from a whore as she tried to cuff the little close-rat for almost running her over, then nabbed a gulp from a dockworker plodding toward the river. The urchin¡¯s speed increased with every bit of energy stolen.

    But the splashing footsteps weren¡¯t fading.

    Blood would have worked better. That was always stronger medicine than energy. But finding a rat or stray dog to drain when you¡¯re on the run? Not so easy.

    Brat swung around a corner, catching a glimpse of the pursuer for the first time. Just one man? It had sounded like two or three.Stolen story; please report.

    If the clean clothing and healthy cast of the man¡¯s features weren¡¯t enough to give away that he didn¡¯t belong on the low streets, the sword hanging at his hip cemented it. Not the usual merchant¡¯s thug, riverboat deckhand, or dockworker. Not even a priest of the strong gods looking for someone disposable to sacrifice.

    That could only mean the bodyguard of a slumming lord or lady. Very bad news. The twins had fallen into the ring-bedecked hands of the uphill folk once. Better to get caught as a sacrifice than let that happen again.

    Out of habit, Brat prayed to the Cormorant, but the god of the streets didn¡¯t appear. No surprise there. The Cormorant couldn¡¯t save every close-rat every time they got into trouble. Most of the time it was up to them if they wanted to live, which Brat thought was reasonable. Besides, the Cormorant¡¯s rare attention was more mind than the rich folks¡¯ strong gods ever paid to street urchins.

    The wailing of music grew louder as Brat shot around a corner. A minstrel band had set up right on the other side of the building, busking for coins. Reactions sharpened by the stolen medicine, Brat leapt over the tangle of sprawled legs, the crust of the brown bread cracking beneath clutching fingers, feet narrowly missing a skin drum and its cursing player.

    Minstrels meant the edge of the stinking riverfront neighborhood and the start of the rich uphill houses. Should be easy to lose the thug in the packed, colorful promenades.

    Fast as Brat was, though, Sword Man was catching up.

    More medicine. The rich folks up-hill were healthier, so their energy boosted better.

    A four-horse cart from the docks rumbled up the street, laden with cargo.

    Impulse again.

    Brat ducked between the teams, head down to avoid their trappings. The heavy workhorses tossed their heads and whinnied indignantly, but the impish creature had zipped out the other side before their massive hooves crushed bone. Cursing floridly, the driver fought to get his beasts under control.

    Brat¡¯s gamble paid off. Sword Man was too big and too scairt to follow. He cursed and ran around the back of the cart. The fool cut the corner tighter than he ought to have and clipped the edge of the rolling vehicle with his shoulder. Brat guffawed.

    Just ahead, beneath a hanging bit of rotten siding, was a hole into the Closes too small for an adult to squeeze through. All Brat would have to do was wriggle in, take the Windings up to the Clutch, climb the metal staples, and crawl along the brick shaft to their little chamber.

    Pretty was probably already there waiting to share the meal of brown bread.

    Brat¡¯s mouth watered so hard it hurt, imagining the taste of that first bite. Pretty would finally stop crying if she had a full belly, and they could both sleep easy without hunger pains waking them up.

    Then maybe later Brat would sneak out and see if Sword Man was still hanging around the low streets. Come looking for trouble and you just might get a handful of dung slung in your face.

    Thrown from the safety of a bolt hole, of course.

    Two mud-splattered boots stepped in front of Brat¡¯s escape tunnel. Handsome boots topped with clean trousers over straight, bowless legs. Another sword hilt flashing, this one even fancier than Sword Man¡¯s, glinting in the pale light of the ghost city.

    Brat spun right.

    And crashed into Sword Man. One hand caught hold of Brat¡¯s too-large sack shirt, while the other grabbed the back of Brat¡¯s scrawny neck.

    ¡°I thought he¡¯d outpaced you.¡± Muddy Boots smirked at Sword Man.

    A laugh. ¡°I¡¯m not that old yet.¡±

    They were working together, probably for the same lord.

    Brat kicked and clawed and smacked with the loaf of bread. Sword Man tried to stop the onslaught, got his hand too close to Brat¡¯s face, and got bitten.

    ¡°Bloodthirsty little monster.¡± He cuffed Brat in the side of the head.

    The close-rat screamed and went into a frenzy. A few months before, Brat had been cuffed hard enough to wake up a night later, right eye swelling and oozing. The damaged orb had since shrunk back to normal, and it wasn¡¯t tender anymore, but Brat couldn¡¯t see out of that eye now. The thought of losing sight in the other one was terror itself.

    ¡°What do you think?¡± Muddy Boots yelled over Brat¡¯s flailing and shrieking. ¡°Feisty enough?¡±

    Sword Man cursed and tightened his grip. ¡°I think he¡¯s feral.¡±

    ¡°Even better, Grandmaster would say.¡±

    ¡°Grandmaster¡¯s not here. Let¡¯s see how he measures up against the other candidates at the gaol. If the crop¡¯s too weedy, we¡¯ll have to take him.¡±

    Powerful hands clamped around Brat¡¯s fists while a muscled arm snaked around the screaming throat. Air was suddenly in very short supply.

    Pretty¡¯s face appeared, white and terrified, in the hole beneath the siding.

    As darkness closed in, Brat wrenched a hand free and launched the loaf of bread Pretty¡¯s way, praying she wouldn¡¯t try to get it before the men left and that no one else would run in and grab it before she did.

 Chapter 7: River Street Gaol

    Brat woke up lying on stone. That was normal. The child-coffin-sized chamber where the twins slept was stone. They¡¯d had a blanket for a few years, but over time it had moldered away.

    It wasn¡¯t usually this cold down in the Closes, though. The sigh of aboveground wind and the mutter of voices weren¡¯t right either.

    This wasn¡¯t the Closes.

    Eyes flying open in a wild panic, Brat searched the unfamiliar space. Bars over the window and bars for a door. Stinking puddles on the floor, the ones bordering the room eddying with the muddy tide.

    This was the gaol on River Street.

    Around the cell were scar-crossed men, women with torn clothing and missing teeth. A few prisoners closer to Brat¡¯s age huddled in corners or trembled with fear, many of them already in the grasp of the gaol¡¯s older, larger predators.

    Brat gulped. Caged in the gaol, like the worst of day terrors. Soon one twin would shake the other awake.

    Hopefully soon. Hopefully before the adults descended or the priests came looking for blood.

    No saving second awakening came. The nightmare was real.

    A pebble plinked off the back of Brat¡¯s head.

    The top of Pretty¡¯s face peeked in the window bars.

    Casting a look around to make sure no one was closing in, Brat scrambled to the window and pulled up on the bars to look out. The gaol was off the Salt River proper, tucked back on the crumbling edge of the Mean Tributary. Brat had heard the cells filled up with muddy water during flood season and only the prisoners who won a spot on the windows survived. Everybody else drowned.

    Water could be awfully bad medicine.

    The window Pretty peeked in overlooked a rocky ledge that had been eroding for years, the water eating away at the dirt until there was nothing but patchy limestone and the ancient underground brick of Old Siu Carinal holding it up. A hole from the Closes came out down there. In drought times, the twins liked to poke their heads over the ledge to watch the hangings. Brat¡¯s impression of kicking legs and bugging-out eyes always made Pretty laugh.

    Pretty wasn¡¯t laughing today. She pressed her face against the bars, bottom lip trembling. ¡°Those men took you, and they ain¡¯t even sheriffs. They looked like they mighta been gonna stick you in a carriage.¡±

    This was how Brat knew they were twins¡ªthey were always thinking the same way.

    ¡°Nah, I scairt the piss out of ¡¯em, me,¡± Brat said. ¡°They wasn¡¯t so tough once I caught a holt of ¡¯em.¡±

    ¡°I prayed to the Cormorant, but he didn¡¯t help none.¡±

    Brat scoffed. ¡°What, you think a god¡¯s gonna show his face every time a close-rat gets in trouble? He was busy, you know. But he helped me plenty¡ªjust with invisible medicine.¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°Oh.¡± Invisible explained it. Who was going to waste big medicine on a close-rat when small would do?

    After a second, Pretty¡¯s eyes filled again. ¡°What¡¯s gonna happen to you?¡±

    Lots could. Hanging. Getting ate. Bad stuff. Sacrificing.

    ¡°I got the gaoler right where I want him, me.¡± Brat eyed the lightening sky. ¡°You oughta get somewhere safe, though. Sun¡¯s gonna burn you soon.¡±

    Pretty shivered. The sun was bad medicine, especially for her. Brat¡¯s skin could tolerate it, but hers never had. She¡¯d be blistered and sick if she didn¡¯t get going.

    ¡°You get that bread?¡± Brat asked.

    Pretty swallowed. She shook her head.

    Brat cursed the air foul.

    ¡°Aw, don¡¯t cry, Pretty. I ain¡¯t mad, me, just hot at whoever took it.¡±

    She scrubbed away the tears, leaving behind dirt-trails, and sniffled.

    ¡°You get on back down into the Closes and wait for me,¡± Brat said. ¡°I¡¯m fixing to be outta here and on my way. And this time I¡¯ll bring us something even better than nasty brown bread.¡±

    ¡°Promise on your everlasting soul?¡±

    ¡°What, am I gonna miss this year¡¯s Carnival of the Dead? We gotta see whether they run out ol¡¯ Tonia for it, don¡¯t we? And there was s¡¯posed to be one a¡¯ them fancy ladies died a couple months ago, too. I ain¡¯t missing that.¡±

    ¡°Swear it, Brat.¡±

    ¡°Didn¡¯t I just?¡± Not a budge from Pretty. ¡°Fine, I promise on my everlasting soul I¡¯m coming home right quick here, may the Cormorant strike me dead in the streets if I¡¯m a-lying.¡±

    The barred door of the gaol shrieked. Both twins flinched, but Brat recovered faster and layered on the bravado.

    ¡°All right, you best get gone so you don¡¯t have to see me lay into this guy. It¡¯s fixing to be nasty, and I might have to kill a few folk with their own guts. Like that dock thief, remember? The one they hung up with his insides?¡±

    ¡°Get away from that window, boy!¡± a deep voice yelled.

    Pretty shrank back. The crate she was standing on tipped, but she grabbed the bars and caught herself before she fell.

    Brat kissed her dirty little fingers where they wrapped around the bars. ¡°Get.¡±

    The heavy tread of feet crossed the gaol cell. Pretty jumped down and disappeared over the rocky ledge. A huge hand snagged Brat by the arm.

    That stone floor felt a lot harder when you got tossed onto it. Brat winced.

    ¡°A little more care with the merchandise, if you please, Master Gaoler.¡± Muddy Boots was standing by with a smirk Brat would¡¯ve liked to knock off his face. He had one hand on his blade. All the adults in the cell had backed away from him like they were scairt.

    ¡°Guess I can¡¯t talk you out of taking that one?¡± Sword Man was blocking the open doorway.

    ¡°Not this time.¡± Neither of those silt brains had drawn their blades. Why wasn¡¯t anybody fighting them?

    ¡°Well, my money¡¯s on this big strapping lad here.¡± Sword Man nodded at a heavyset towhead with a split lip and black eye. ¡°How old are you, boy?¡±

    ¡°Sir?¡±

    ¡°How many flood seasons do you have under your belt? Isn¡¯t that¡¯s how you delta folks measure time?¡±

    ¡°I¡ªfifteen or sixteen, sir.¡±

    Muddy Boots rolled his eyes. ¡°Too timid.¡±

    ¡°But he has blood magic,¡± Sword Man argued. Blood magic was rich folk talk for medicine. ¡°What¡¯re you in for, boy?¡±

    ¡°Hit a guy for calling me out. I never figured it¡¯d kill him, me.¡±

    Sword Man raised a smug brow at Muddy Boots.

    A sigh. ¡°Fine. The fat one¡¯s in. Got anyone else in mind?¡±

    ¡°Take me!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll go! I ain¡¯t a-scairt of nothing, me!¡±

    The other young prisoners all figured wherever these men were taking them had to be better than the cage full of predators the riverfront had puked up. Brat wasn¡¯t so sure. Getting bad hurt on a stone floor and getting bad hurt on a feather bed weren¡¯t a whole lot different; you just stayed warmer on one than the other.

    But there would be another chance to escape outside. A swift kick to a groin or a fistful of mud in an eye and Brat would disappear belowground just like Pretty had.

    In all, the armed men only picked three kids to take with them¡ªBrat, Scaredy-Cat, and a skinny boy with crazy eyes who claimed to have blood magic, too. The rest of the pitiful pleas went unanswered.

    Brat edged toward Sword Man, the pursuer who¡¯d almost been licked by a simple run through the streets.

    There was that ugly smirk on Muddy Boots¡¯s face again.

    ¡°Don¡¯t even think about it, kid.¡± He pulled out a set of jangling chains.

    Brat made sure Muddy Boots had an undertow of a time getting those shackles on.

 Chapter 8: Cursed Earth

    Chained, bleeding, reeling from a blow to the head, Araam was dragged out of the dirter¡¯s craft and into the shallows. His ears still rang with the screams of the dying and the crash of burning ship¡¯s timbers breaking up. He smelled his own reeking sweat, felt the gritty layer of ash on his skin.

    White-capped waves lit by the approaching dawn thundered into Araam, pitching him backward into the surf and dragging down with him the armor-clad dirter holding his chains. Another soldier helped the first to stagger to his feet, then together they hauled Araam out of the water¡¯s embrace.

    Hundreds more armored soldiers dotted the waves, disembarking from their clumsy crafts and floundering toward the beach.

    The dirters had burst from that wall of black smoke onto the Raen ships like dolphins leaping from the sea; how was it that they could not simply return to the land in the same fashion? If they could not travel through the smoke with their catch, then why bring the last of the survivors at all? After that slaughter aboard ship, why leave any Ocean Rovers alive?

    Araam¡¯s exhausted mind could not grasp the meaning in any of it.

    Only two dozen Raen warriors had survived the battle. The approach of the cursed earth brought even the most dazed raedrs back from the brink of unconsciousness. Araam¡¯s eyes wouldn¡¯t focus on any one man, but he heard their renewed struggling. Fighting to die before they were dragged onto that looming shore.

    An Ocean Rover who set foot on dry land was cursed. No longer part of any tribe, he could never return to Cryst¡¯holm, never see his family again. He would be separated forever from the God Who Owned the Waves on a Thousand Seas.

    The maggot-white dirter monsters hacked open the struggling raedrs¡¯ throats and fed on the red that poured from within. What lifeblood missed the blood drinker¡¯s mouths turned the surf pink. The emptied bodies were abandoned to bump against the sand and the rocks until the scavengers and sharks found them.

    Some bone-deep instinct told Araam that this was the better way to die¡ªstill pure, still a Raen, still in the graces of the God of the Waves¡ªbut he felt no sudden surge of panic. As the chains hauled him closer to the rocky dirt, he did not look to the right or left.

    Ahead, his father, Olaan, Bane of the Dirters, Chief of the Raen, First Tribe of the Ocean Rovers was dragged ashore by a pair of the monsters. His legs dangled lifelessly, blood oozing from the injury to his back.

    Araam¡¯s bare foot scraped unfamiliar dry sand. He stumbled and fell to his knees in the dirt.

    This was not the silt in the depths of the ocean nor the soft, grainy wash on the constantly shifting floor of an inlet. This felt wrong. Static. Dead.

    A jerk on the chains encircling his wrists yanked him out flat on his stomach and elbows. Filth stuck to his wet skin and caked his clothing.

    To his right, Ceolr roared¡ªan awful, wounded sound¡ªand beat the dead sand. ¡°Bachaela! Bachaela, my pearl! My sons and my daughters, my wife, I am sorry!¡±

    Araam had thought he was numb, but the raedr¡¯s cries sent a hot spike of humiliation through him. Ceolr was a man among men; how could he disgrace himself by displaying his pain and his loss in full view of his enemies?

    A series of sharp, meaty hacks ended Coelr¡¯s wailing. The thud of a head hitting sand, followed a moment later by his body.

    Dirty boots crunched across the shingle to Araam.

    ¡°On your feet, pirate, or you¡¯re next.¡± The kick made an already broken rib in Araam¡¯s side crackle as it stove in.

    The sound was so close to the crackle of Haelbringr burning. His gut churned with the same sinking sickness as when he¡¯d put the torch to her. Better she sleep in peace at the bottom of the ocean than let dirters defile her.

    Dragged ahead, Olaan the Cursed, Chief of No Tribe, intoned his death poem as if he were standing amidship with high seas crashing around his hull.

    ¡°My soul. The wind and the brine and the God of the Waves from whence it came. I return all to thee.¡±

    They would die here, then. Though Araam could discern no reason for the blood drinkers to have dragged the few of them ashore alive, his father must know now that they would die on this dirt. Around him, the crewmen and raedrs took strength from their former chief¡¯s composure and called upon the God Who Owned the Waves on a Thousand Seas to hear them one final time.

    Araam had composed his death poem the first time he had gone out on a raid. Here on the dirt, he could not recall a word of it.

    ¡°Yell louder,¡± a blood drinker sneered at the praying raedrs. ¡°Your pathetic one-god might be sleeping.¡±

    ¡°Maybe he sailed away.¡±The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Maybe the sharks got him.¡±

    ¡°If you¡¯d had more than one, the others could have saved you.¡±

    The dirter holding Araam¡¯s chains yanked them again. ¡°On your feet. Now.¡±

    The links dug into Araam¡¯s wrists and hauled him forward. He spat sand from his mouth and staggered up to standing. He may be covered in the filth of dry land, but he would not die on his belly.

    The king of the blood drinkers, the monster who had led the attack, stood scrutinizing the last vestiges of the prisoners his men had taken. Cold eyes the color of rotting mud fell upon Araam.

    ¡°That one.¡± The monster waved a dead-fish pale hand.

    The ground beneath Araam¡¯s feet held disconcertingly still as he was pulled forward. He pitched and listed with the immobility of the land, but he did not fall again.

    That proud warrior Olaan was tossed onto the sand at the foot of the blood drinker¡¯s king, chains clanking. He lay there, crumpled on his side, unable to raise himself from the dirt.

    ¡°Son of my strength,¡± the former chief said, his voice steadfast and unaffected by shaming emotions. ¡°Forgive me for my failure, my son, as your mother forgave me.¡±

    Araam shook his head, unable to speak without revealing the storm within. His father had fought to the moment he could move no more, had sent his mother on to paradise before the monsters could touch her, had done everything a man should do. Araam was still standing¡ªGod of the Waves, still walking! It was he who should be begging for his father¡¯s forgiveness. Even after Mehet¡­ To have been blindsided by a dirter on his own ship¡­ He was the one who had failed.

    Another blood drinker joined the king, holding an ugly, pale, dirter-forged sword in hand. He flicked his wrist, slinging Ocean Rover blood from the blade.

    ¡°Shall I open this one up, Your Majesty?¡± The sword-bearer looked from his leader to Araam.

    The dirter king gave a negative shake of his head. ¡°Not this one. To kill him would spurn the augury the strong gods favored us with. This boy is the son of their chief, the only sort of royalty their crude minds can grasp. He will be the emblem of their defeat.¡±

    The sword-bearer sheathed his blade. ¡°Bloodslave, then?¡±

    Araam spat at his feet. ¡°I will bail my blood onto this cursed filth where you stand before I serve dirters.¡±

    Olaan¡¯s eyes shone with pained pride.

    The king of monsters smiled. ¡°Even a bloodslave could one day break free. It takes a different sort of scourge to beat the obstinacy from these savages. Above all, they value their legacy and their manhood. Kill the old man and geld the boy.¡±

    ***

    The strong gods smiled upon the body-strewn beach as the commander of Hazerial¡¯s forces chopped at the stubborn neck of the leathery old pirate. Blood gushed and puddled on the sand.

    Hazerial watched the old man¡¯s son struggle to hide his pain and disgust as the head finally tore free of its last strings of gristle. The cold dawn rang with the babbled prayers of the few remaining pirates, but the boy was silent.

    The god-goddess Teikru would be excited by such intense passions, and the warrior god Josean approved of any means that ended in victory. But it was Eketra who had always favored Hazerial, and she whom he ultimately sought to please. That cunning goddess led him between the twisted pitfalls of this world and gifted him with the means to control his enemies.

    Hazerial could see her hand now, holding out the gory puppet strings.

    With the old pirate dead, Hazerial¡¯s men turned to the boy. Blades of sunlight pierced the horizon as they wrestled, first only two, then four more piling on. Blood-soaked sand churned.

    Children of Night were weaker in the daylight, but it should not have taken so many soldiers to hold the pirate boy. A savage like that would be a powerful asset.

    A drop of ocean in a sea of blood. A scourge of Thorns, grafted forever to serve.

    Finally, the boy was pinned and the cutting began. Blood flowed, but not enough to kill him, as he must hope.

    The king raised a hand. The gelding stopped, half finished.

    In the sudden stillness, the boy¡¯s retching was the only sound. The few pirates still alive watched with ashen faces.

    Hazerial took the mutilated testicle from his commander and held it before the boy¡¯s eyes. When recognition dawned in all its beautiful horror, the king spoke.

    ¡°You are half ruined, boy. Halfway to your line being cut off from this world forever. Halfway to being a useless old woman.¡±

    The boy shivered despite the sweat matting his hair and dripping from his face. Beneath sun-browned skin and caked, bloody sand, he was all pallor.

    ¡°But I am a merciful ruler,¡± Hazerial said. ¡°I offer you a choice: Submit to me, and I let you keep what¡¯s left of your manhood. Resist, and my men finish the job.¡±

    The boy¡¯s chest heaved. He stared at the headless corpse of his father. To the heretical savage mind, death held reward, not threat. After a lifetime of attacking one another and the ocean-going vessels of higher civilization, the pirates greeted Death like an old friend.

    But no death was offered here.

    Time passed in drips of blood and sweat on the churned sand. The boy was paralyzed. Emasculation was a terror he¡¯d never confronted before.

    Hazerial brought the dismembered lump of meat closer. The boy¡¯s wide, bloodshot eyes followed its motion, his pupils juddering with shock.

    ¡°You will serve me as a gelding or you will serve me as half a man¡ªbut either way, you will serve me. Take my Mark upon you and retain what manhood you have left.¡±

    All resistance went out of the boy. He fell limp in the soldier¡¯s grasp, head and shoulders sagging in defeat.

    A clarion thrill rang through Hazerial. The Blood of the Strong Gods surged with victory.

    When he slashed open his wrist and shoved it into the boy¡¯s mouth, there was only nominal resistance. The savage was broken.

    Fingers of magic sent back essences of shattered strength and ruined pride. Hooks of arcane power twisted into the boy¡¯s veins, leaving Hazerial¡¯s Mark upon his innermost being, but stopped short of turning him into a mindless thrall. A bloodslave would feel no torment, experience no humiliation. Hazerial¡ªlike his beloved goddess¡ªpreferred those he conquered to feel the weight of the iron yoke around their neck.

    Hazerial turned to the remaining pirates chained on the sand. Their faces were contorted in revulsion and dismay.

    ¡°Today, you are witnesses. Return to your people and tell them how the son of their great chief bowed to me. Tell them how he now serves Hazerial of the Kingdom of Night.¡±

    Soldiers loaded the chained pirates into one of the crafts. The savages called out to their leader¡¯s disgraced son, but the boy ignored them, head hanging, eyes clamped shut as if he could not stand to look at them.

    With a nod from Hazerial, the soldiers shoved the craft into the waves. The tide carried the pirates out to sea.

    In a few hours¡¯ time, the plague Hazerial had implanted in the messengers¡¯ blood would take hold. Whether any of them were alive or sensate by the time their fellow savages found them did not matter. Their bodies were the message and the weapon.

    The oceans belonged to the Kingdom of Night.

 Chapter 9: Blind Prince

    Etian strode through the lower corridors of the pit house, a pair of his father¡¯s Thorns flanking him. Familiar guards and staff members bowed to the prince as he made his way toward the stairs.

    From inside the arena came the roar of the crowd and the stench of blood and animal and offal. Thanks to the endless, dragging meeting with the Council of Northern Lords¡ªwhich had achieved nothing, of course¡ªhe¡¯d already missed the opening dyrefights.

    He hated to miss a day at the pit house. There was too much an observant swordsman could learn from the brutal, animal styles the beasts favored. Ever since Etian had been named heir apparent, however, so much of his time had been spent attending to the useless figurehead duties of acting regent that his attendance at the fights was flagging.

    Left to his own devices, Etian could cut through the tangle of governance in an hour. But his father, likely concerned that his successor would gain too much power in his absence, allowed no independence of action. Everything must be carried out exactly according to the nightly, overly detailed dispatches Hazerial sent. Without word from the king, no business of the throne could be done.

    Etian felt like a fettered warhorse.

    When he wasn¡¯t telling nobles to wait until the king returned or carrying out the meticulously comprehensive orders his father had sent, Etian was training in the royal blood magic. That at least offered a challenge. Of course, with that taking up the remainder of his nights, he¡¯d had to cut the time he slept each day in half to make up his lost hours of sword practice.

    He had considered forsaking the sword to focus his efforts entirely on the blood magic. Vorino, his usual sword tutor, had even been sent with Izakiel under the assumption that Etian would leave behind his bladework.

    It would be sensible. The warrior god Josean was known for his stark, single-minded approach to everything, and while Etian had been blessed at birth by the warrior god and was often touted as Josean¡¯s second coming, he didn¡¯t want to fall into the same trap it was said that the deity had. If Josean had learned to divide his attention effectively, he would have ruled the universe alone. But because Josean could not split his focus equally, Eketra had managed to thwart his plans by ensnaring him with her daughter. Josean¡¯s failure was a cautionary tale Etian wouldn¡¯t ignore.

    If blood magic was to become Etian¡¯s primary weapon when he took the throne, he would hone it to a sharpness that surpassed his sword, not dull his sword to make the blood magic seem sharper.

    After all, if Izak had done it, he could.

    His brother would have laughed aloud at the sentiment and agreed. The former crown prince had never given the impression that he¡¯d worked very hard at mastering his birthright, and yet mastered it he had, and at such a young age that Etian¡¯s newly acquired magic tutors overflowed with praise and disappointment for Izak.

    ¡°So talented!¡± they gushed. ¡°Yet so apathetic. Such tragedy.¡±

    Etian didn¡¯t put his faith in talent. Anything that could be surpassed by sweat and determination was too brittle a foundation to rest on.

    As he jogged up the steps, he stabilized his sword with a hand on the hilt. At the top, he swung left, passing curtained archways owned by nobles and the wealthiest members of the upper class. Most families of consequence kept a box in the pit houses, since it was well known that more alliances were made there than at court.

    Now and again, curtains shifted and bright, smiling faces attempted to catch his attention. Etian couldn¡¯t remember ever seeing so many young women at the fights before he was named heir. The Eketra-blessed noble parents must lay awake at night scheming to get a daughter on the throne.

    Time wasted. There wasn¡¯t a noble girl in Siu Rial with brains of her own.

    Luckily, Etian had brought along Ruis and Gander, a pair of Royal Thorns who enjoyed the dyrefights as much as he did. As desperate as most of these courtiers looked, even their parents¡¯ scolding wasn¡¯t enough to make them approach those menacing brawlers.

    During feasts, in the halls of the palace, and after court was another story. If he were even slightly less disciplined, a week of their hollow, practiced fawning would have had him begging his father to be stationed in the west fighting pirates.

    King Hazerial had briefly considered sending him to lead the forces on the coast, but Etian had been forced to oppose the idea. Based on the prince¡¯s study of the Pirate Wars during Mikuel II¡¯s reign, nothing short of the king¡¯s royal blood magic would defeat the cordon of warships the pirates kept between the shores and the open ocean. If the cordoning fleet fell, the rest of the oceanic nomads would follow, but a swift initial coup was vital. Otherwise, they would be defeated as soundly and swiftly as Mikuel II had.

    Unfortunately, Hazerial had seen reason and agreed.

    Etian stopped suddenly outside his box.

    His curtains were closed.

    The Thorns picked the implications up as quickly as he did. Gander kept watch over the crown prince in the corridor, while Ruis drew his sword and ducked through the heavy draperies.

    In moments, he returned, blade sheathed.

    ¡°The Princess Kelena, Your Highness.¡± He held the curtain aside for Etian to enter.

    His younger sister watched him approach with huge, frightened eyes. She¡¯d taken the seat he usually sat in, the one at the farthest left side of the box, with the best view of the arena. As she never came to the fights, she couldn¡¯t have known that seat was his.

    ¡°Kelen.¡± Etian gave her a perfunctory bow. Her tense, ready-to-fly posture did not ease at his use of the boyish nickname Izak always hung on her. He took the seat beside the princess as if it were an everynight occurrence for the pair of them to sit together and watch dyre tear one another apart.

    As if someone had stabbed her with a pin, Kelena leapt to her feet and sank into a deep curtsy. ¡°Crown Prince Etianiel, please forgive my¡ªuh¡ªmy lapse in deference.¡±

    ¡°Just don¡¯t let it happen again.¡±

    She dropped her head lower. ¡°Never!¡±

    Light, she thought he was serious? She was shaking.

    Etian tried a smile. He wasn¡¯t as practiced with those as Izak was, and it showed in the princess¡¯s frightened confusion.

    ¡°I was joking, Kelena,¡± he told her, letting the unfamiliar expression drop. ¡°Sit down.¡±

    The girl hastily scrambled back into her seat and turned to the fight below. Her eyes were pointed in the right direction, but they didn¡¯t move with the action. She wasn¡¯t watching the combat. She was waiting for him to say something.

    The silence opened like a chasm between them.

    If Izak were there, he would have kept them both talking. The elder prince could make conversation with a stone wall. Etian didn¡¯t even know what princesses liked to talk about.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    ¡°So, you¡¯ve come to watch the fights?¡± Idiotic thrust in the dark, but the opening move was made. Depending on how she countered, he would find a better angle of attack.

    Kelena¡¯s head jerked in a tight-necked nod.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen you here before,¡± he tried.

    This time a headshake. Agreeing that she¡¯d never been? Disagreeing that he¡¯d never seen her here?

    ¡°Why are you here?¡± Was that too blunt?

    ¡°Mother.¡±

    Etian scowled.

    ¡°Where is the¡ª¡± To call Jadarah any of the names he and Izak reserved for the mad queen would have been a misstep. He knew nothing of Kelena¡¯s feelings for her mother. She was just a child. It was conceivable that she felt some sort of love for or misguided loyalty to the harpy. ¡°¡ªthe queen?¡±

    ¡°Gathering the blood of the dead dyres.¡± Kelena¡¯s hands twisted around one another, knuckles ice white. ¡°She says it has singular properties.¡±

    Meanwhile she had left a defenseless child without a single Thorn for protection. No wonder the girl was scared.

    ¡°She¡¯s teaching you¡­¡± What did one call what Jadarah did? Murder orgy divination? ¡°¡­to speak to the strong gods the way she does?¡±

    Kelena shuddered.

    Abandon that angle of attack.

    ¡°What do you think of the fights?¡± Etian asked, nodding down at the new pair being set on each other.

    Kelena swallowed. ¡°I thought dyre were always beasts when they fought. I didn¡¯t know some of them remained men.¡±

    Either Jadarah had not brought the girl early enough to watch the beginning of the previous fight or Kelena had sat there the entire time with her eyes shut.

    ¡°They haven¡¯t transformed yet. Some do it immediately, others wait until it fits their strategy. Still others don¡¯t change into beasts at all. There¡¯s one who never changes. He¡¯s one of the best, I suspect because he¡¯s able to keep all his faculties.¡±

    That last bit was pure conjecture. When Etian had asked the dyre, it wouldn¡¯t tell him, wouldn¡¯t even look his way. It had just paced its cage. The workers in the pit house cages said that one could speak but never said a word.

    Kelena continued to wring her hands. She clearly hadn¡¯t heard a word he¡¯d said.

    Blood sprayed below. This fight would be over quickly. Etian had watched the dominant dyre fight before, usually in full panther flesh. The bleeder was new and too slow, crossing his feet when he circled. In an instant, the dyrepanther transformed, manlike flesh tearing away in flags and replaced by fur and tooth and claw.

    Inevitably, the bleeder tripped over his own steps. Kelena gasped as the dyrepanther tore into the bleeder¡¯s throat. A fluttery moan escaped from the princess. Her hands finally stopped twisting and covered her mouth as if to hold in further sound.

    Gently, Etian took hold of the girl¡¯s elbow and turned her to face him. Her huge, dark eyes glittered with tears.

    ¡°Kelena, you don¡¯t have to watch if it upsets you.¡±

    She shook her head.

    Etian sighed. ¡°No what? Because if you¡¯re saying it doesn¡¯t bother you¡ª¡±

    ¡°No, she must watch.¡± The mad queen strolled in, that lackwit grin on her face. ¡°Her queen ordered her to take in every shred of the festivities.¡±

    ¡°To what end? She obviously finds it disturbing.¡±

    ¡°Drink it in, Kelena,¡± Jadarah purred. ¡°Fill your belly with it. Feel it festering. Aggravating.¡± She sank onto a chair in the second row and leaned over the prince¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Awakening.¡± She let out a low moan that made the hairs on the back of Etian¡¯s neck stand up. ¡°Arousing.¡±

    The scent of dried blood and feminine sweat and body odor assailed him. The mad queen never bathed. How her Thorns could stand it, Etian didn¡¯t know. She was gorgeous from a distance, and despite her age she barely looked a handful of years older than he was, but in such close quarters even her beauty wasn¡¯t enough to cancel out her rancid stink.

    He grimaced and pulled away, letting her arm drop onto his seatback.

    Jadarah chuckled, and Etian realized he¡¯d misstepped. Revulsion was just another weapon to the mad queen, and he had let her see that her strike had landed.

    Recover. The mad queen had taken one point. He had to take one back.

    Kelena¡¯s teeth chattered, but she wouldn¡¯t disobey her mother. She stared through wide, watery eyes at the dyrepanther gorging on the meat of its dying opponent.

    Etian couldn¡¯t countermand the queen¡¯s order that the princess watch the carnage. Hazerial allowed Jadarah complete authority over Kelena so that only the king himself could overrule her. Which he never did.

    The mad queen¡¯s Thorns, however, were an unguarded target. Etian could feel them behind him, watching over their mistress, never more than a sword length away.

    Sex was one of Jadarah¡¯s weapons, but for the Teikru-blessed, sex was also a weak point. A life in Izak¡¯s shadow had taught him that much.

    ¡°Queen¡¯s Guard, you are dismissed from the royal box,¡± Etian said. ¡°Get out or I¡¯ll consider your presence an act of aggression on the heir apparent and take appropriate action.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t order my Thorns around!¡± Chipped, blood-encrusted nails dug into his shoulder, their sting barely dulled by his clothing.

    ¡°I won¡¯t have armed men loyal to someone else standing over my back. Unless you plan to assassinate me, they can wait in the corridor. Gander, Ruis, escort the Queen¡¯s Thorns out.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Your Highness.¡±

    Shuffling bodies. Etian didn¡¯t take his eyes from the fight below, but he felt the dynamics of the box shift. He waited, on guard, for her next attack.

    A huff of laughter. A tug of his lenses. The queen pulled the eyeglasses off his face ineptly, chuckling to herself as she held them at arm¡¯s length and studied them.

    Etian scowled, but otherwise pretended he didn¡¯t care. He didn¡¯t need to see to defend himself; he¡¯d learned to fight blind while Jadarah was still carrying Kelena in her cursed womb.

    ¡°The baby prince is a big boy now that he¡¯s going to inherit the Blood of the Strong Gods. Big, tough, and chosen.¡± The mad queen fitted the glasses onto herself. ¡°And blind as a bat, too.¡±

    To his left, the blur of crepe and silk that was Kelena rustled. Dyre blood pooled on the sandy arena floor below, visible only as a spreading shadow on a distant tan landscape.

    ¡°Someone who didn¡¯t know better would say the blind prince never saw a thing in his life.¡± Jadarah hooked the glasses back on his ears aslant enough that he had to catch them or let them fall to the floor and crack. Hot, rancid breath tickled his inner ear as she whispered, ¡°But I do know better, don¡¯t I, Etianiel?¡±

    Parry.

    ¡°You¡¯ve never shown your face at the pit house before,¡± he said. ¡°Why are you here, in my box, less than a week after my brother was disinherited? I assume you have a reason other than torturing the princess.¡±

    Jadarah gasped, the sudden sound making Kelena flinch. ¡°My daughter! My darling, you were alone with this brute without a chaperone! Did he touch you?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be disgusting,¡± Etian snapped.

    ¡°One man¡¯s disgusting is another man¡¯s enticing,¡± the queen purred.

    Little Kelena trembled, face pointed rigidly forward as if she could avoid hearing this conversation by dint of will.

    Etian¡¯s temper flared. ¡°She¡¯s been in full view of everyone in the arena since she sat down. That seat has the best view of the pit¡ªthat¡¯s why I usually sit there¡ªwhich conversely makes it visible to the rest of the arena.¡± Burn it all, the harpy had gotten him on the back foot, forced him to defend himself. He should have turned the attack around on her. ¡°Ask anybody here tonight,¡± he finished lamely.

    ¡°For a blind prince, you certainly know a lot about where the best view is,¡± Jadarah said. ¡°Do you have a spy hole into your sister¡¯s bedchamber, too? Have you been watching her undress as well?¡±

    ¡°You vile wench, I would never¡ª¡±

    ¡°Never what, blind prince? Never watch a woman slide out of her clothing?¡± Jadarah¡¯s hand crept across his chest and down. She sighed in his ear. ¡°Never spy from behind a hidden panel in the wall while a woman enjoys a moment of private ecstasy?¡±

    He batted her blood-encrusted hand away, sickened by her and, worse, by his body¡¯s response.

    Etian didn¡¯t believe that the strong gods spoke directly to the mad queen, even if she did sacrifice scores of half-developed fetuses to them. But she couldn¡¯t be guessing. Her details were too perfect. Somehow, she knew.

    But it had only been one time, and over a year ago. Immediately after, he had known he could never go back into that hidden passage, never look into the mad queen¡¯s room again. And he hadn¡¯t. So how did she know?

    Had she told his father? Was bringing it up now a threat that she would?

    Etian could protest that he hadn¡¯t even known where that view port looked in when he¡¯d opened it, that he¡¯d been exploring the castle¡¯s old passages to alleviate the boredom until his next sword training, and that seeing the queen within had surprised him as much as anyone.

    But he hadn¡¯t slammed the port shut immediately and walked away. Lust had overrun his judgment, panting, shaking, staggering lust, and he¡¯d stayed.

    From the burning spots on Kelena¡¯s porcelain face and the terrified, unblinking stare directed at the arena below, her mother¡¯s words had already convinced her that he was a deviant. Any further attempt to shield the girl from that underhanded witch would only water the seeds of mistrust.

    How had Izak made it past Jadarah¡¯s twisted bullying and Hazerial¡¯s attempts to pit the royal offspring against one another to actually befriend his younger siblings?

    Etian couldn¡¯t see it, and Izak was gone, so he couldn¡¯t ask.

    He had to make a tactical retreat. Live to fight again. Preferably on a day when he had a weapon against the mad queen.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what sort of lunatic nonsense you¡¯re spouting, but if you refuse to shut up and let us watch the fights in peace, I¡¯ll have Gander escort you back to the palace. And I¡¯ll grant your daughter free rein to leave the pit house whenever she likes.¡±

    The heat of Jadarah¡¯s soft, puffing laughter tickled his neck. ¡°Oh, I¡¯ll stay quiet, Etianiel. You and I¡ªwe¡¯ll stay very, very quiet, won¡¯t we?¡±

 Chapter 10: Cut Out for Killing

    ¡°I could flay you alive. The strong gods would favor me for it.¡±

    ¡°Eketra would be especially pleased,¡± Vorino agreed.

    ¡°If you fall asleep, I¡¯ll pin your limbs to the ground, piss in your face, and take to the smoke.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s one for Teikru, probably.¡±

    Light burn the man. They had been riding for nights, and Izak had yet to get a rise.

    ¡°Are you a bastard?¡± he asked as their horses plodded down the rutted highway. ¡°Lords send their bastards to Thornfield to make use of them, don¡¯t they?¡±

    ¡°Several do.¡± Vorino nodded. ¡°Lords, merchants, vintners, and anyone else with money. Of course, they also send along the odd criminal or rakehell or the offspring of their dissidents to ensure loyalty. Got to keep up with the body tax.¡±

    The body tax was the pet name thrown around court for the yearly levy of soldiers required from each of the kingdom¡¯s landowners. The majority of the young men sent went straight to the northern front, had a pike thrust in their hands, and were run out in front of the enemy for as long as they survived.

    Rarely long against the vicious Helat.

    The small number of young men with a spark of blood magic in their veins, however, went to Thornfield.

    ¡°Be that as it may,¡± Izak conceded, ¡°you strike me as a bastard.¡±

    Nights passed in the saddle and with most of the conversation supplied by the prince. Days, Izak demanded they spend in taverns and public houses with company besides one another. Vorino didn¡¯t object.

    Despite the Thorn¡¯s mulish disposition, Izak noted on their stops that Vorino rarely spent a day alone. He certainly wasn¡¯t what Izak would consider handsome, but something about the man drew women almost as handily as Izak¡¯s Teikru-blessed charm. Even with a drink in his hand, Vorino gave off the resting intensity of a rapier through a still-beating heart. It was the nature of Thorns.

    Apparently these rural slatterns liked that sort of thing.

    In all, Vorino wasn¡¯t such a terrible traveling companion. He didn¡¯t object to Izak drinking as much as he wanted, and he never tried to steal a woman from him. The only time the Thorn directly opposed Izak was when the prince was still entangled in a lovely pair of arms past Vorino¡¯s unreasonably early departure time of sunset. For some unfathomable reason, the swordsman refused to let Izak turn up late for Thornfield¡¯s enrollment.

    ¡°Correct me if I¡¯m wrong about the thornknife ceremony,¡± Izak ventured as they traveled southward through yet another night, ¡°but Thorns get to choose their names when they¡¯re grafted, yes?¡±

    ¡°Before. The proper name must be used to recall them from death, so their master has to be informed of it before the knife falls. Most students decide on a name a year or two ahead of their grafting.¡±

    ¡°And you chose the name Vorino. No one made you take it. You decided of your own free will that because you were going to be a Thorn until you died again, calling yourself ¡®Thorn¡¯ in Old Khinesian was excitement enough for you?¡±

    ¡°I suppose I thought it was honor enough to have a name I had earned, one that could never be taken away from me in front of a hundred nobles at a feast.¡± Vorino shrugged. ¡°Or on the street or in a barn. Wherever.¡±

    Izak went from stunned silence to whooping with laughter.

    ¡°You sting as bitterly as a scratch from your namesake, Sir Thorn.¡± He beamed at the older man. ¡°I didn¡¯t realize you had a personality. Perhaps if you¡¯d shown some when I began shirking my sword practice, I would have given your lessons more attention.¡±

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t your attention lacking. Prince Ahixandro¡¯s shadow was a hard one to fill. In your eyes, no man could measure up to your uncle.¡±

    The Thorn had found dangerous territory. Perhaps that was a part of his training¡ªto get an opponent on unstable footing. But if he expected Izak to pull back to safer ground, he was about to be disappointed.

    ¡°All heretics measure the same height in the end,¡± Izak said with a carefree grin. ¡°About a head shorter than the rest of us.¡±

    ***

    The landscape shifted the farther south they rode. The hills flattened into featureless plains like endless tables, showing glowing ghost cities hanging over their unseen earthly counterparts deceptively far away.

    Eventually the plains dampened into swampland. Sprawling, twisted trees hunched like old crones over treasures hidden by the tattered draperies of moss that hung from their knotted branches.

    The highway became rutted and muddy. They passed fewer vintners and farmers and more merchant caravans, carts piled with imports and foreign bloodslaves from ships that had made it through the treacherous pirate-infested waters. The wealthiest of these were escorted by career mercenaries, and the humblest by common sellswords.

    The reason for this became apparent when highwaymen attacked Izak and Vorino at a narrow point in the road between muddy, sucking sloughs. The oafs should have spotted the sharp stare and catlike carelessness with which Vorino lounged on his horse. Perhaps they had noticed it and simply believed that a single swordsman and his wealthy patron against a dozen armed brigands would be an easy take.

    Vorino leapt from his mount and killed five of them before Izak could shout a warning. Blood pattered onto the muddy road like a gentle rainfall.

    The next wave of brigands was smart enough to hang back and get the measure of their prey before blundering in. They must¡¯ve had a little more skill than their dead comrades; it was taking Vorino longer to put them down. Unless the Thorn just enjoyed playing with his food.

    Two of the brigands skirted the whirlwind of blood and death, beelining for what they took to be the helpless lordling separated from his guard.

    ¡°Stay back!¡± Izak raised a hand. They wouldn¡¯t feel it, but he¡¯d caught hold of the blood in their veins. ¡°If you don¡¯t, you¡¯ll wish you had.¡±

    ¡°Oh, look at me shaking.¡± The jester was lean and ragged, with a hungry coyote smirk on his face. His bigger, uglier friend chuckled, his round gut jumping with the sound.

    Izak¡¯s horse stamped and sidled, ears flicking. The beast must sense his rider¡¯s hammering heart.

    The prince swallowed. Don¡¯t make me do this.

    The brigands must have smelled his hesitation. They lunged.

    Izak boiled the blood in their veins.

    The eyes of the jester burst in a spray of red, dead in an instant. His big, ugly companion screamed for considerably longer, writhing in the wheel ruts, steam rising from his blistering flesh and grease running from his pores as the fat beneath melted.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    The shrieks bored into Izak¡¯s brain. One more tortured scream in a thousand, and yet the listening never got easier. If he had been blessed by Eketra, Izak might have been able to enjoy the drawn-out spectacle of agony. As it was, it just made him sick.

    Vorino appeared at the edge of his vision, longsword flashing. The crunch of blade through an eye socket and into a roasting brain ended the second highwayman¡¯s torture.

    Izak twisted the reins around his fingers to hide the trembling. He was out of practice. That should have been over with much faster. He swallowed the sour taste of bile and looked down his nose at Vorino.

    ¡°Bit lax, weren¡¯t you?¡± Izak managed a passable bored drawl.

    With a whip of his sword, the Thorn scattered the blood clinging to his blade, then wiped it clean on the dead man¡¯s dirty sleeve.

    ¡°I stopped ten of them,¡± Vorino said.

    ¡°How many would it have taken to kill me?¡± With a disdainful nudge of his knees, Izak urged his horse to step over the bodies. Still twitching with its rider¡¯s nervous energy, the beast pranced free of the human detritus.

    The Thorn mounted up and followed. ¡°They were nowhere near you. I would¡¯ve gotten to them before they got to you.¡±

    Izak shook his head and sighed. ¡°Letting two slip through your fingers? I thought Thorns were better than that.¡±

    Vorino didn¡¯t speak to him again for the rest of the night.

    ***

    The cities on the delta were much more to Izak¡¯s liking than the piddly rural villages. Whoring houses aplenty, many with their own in-house gambling and hours flexible enough to allow even him a semblance of respectability.

    He especially looked forward to Siu Carinal. Poised at the mouth of the Salt River delta and bursting with decadence, it was his favorite city in the kingdom. Court frequently spent winters at the sumptuous Mistfen Palace to take advantage of the milder southern climate, and Izak always made the most of his time on the river¡¯s mouth.

    ¡°They never close in Siu Carinal, Vorino!¡± He had to shout to be heard over the fat drops of falling rain. ¡°Imagine if whores everywhere were available all night long as well as all day. My complexion would be as porcelain as Kelena¡¯s.¡±

    The Thorn looked doubtful.

    Izak grinned up at the downpour. ¡°See if they don¡¯t change your mind. It¡¯s not called the Jewel of the Delta for nothing. If we stretch our visit long enough, we might even manage a few nights of Carnival of the Dead. That¡¯s around this time of year, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    Vorino said something that got lost in the rain.

    ¡°What was that, Sir Thorn?¡±

    ¡°I said enjoy the dream while you can.¡±

    Izak laughed. ¡°Why bother dreaming when the reality will be so much more fun?¡±

    The answer became apparent when, just as they came into view of Siu Carinal, they turned westward, leaving the glow of the sprawling ghost city and the king¡¯s highway in favor of a two-rut track trudging through ugly, endless swamp. For the next two days, they didn¡¯t see another public house, inn, or village, let alone get to revel in the debauchery, howling music, and gluttonous feasts of the delta. The most thrill Izak got was swatting clouds of mosquitos and glaring at the occasional tumbledown shack on stilts.

    The inhabitants of the shacks were inhospitable, verging on hostile. Half of them still thought Ikario was king, and the other half wouldn¡¯t put up a weary traveler for the day even if Izak¡¯s long-dead grandfather did walk in and demand a meal.

    ¡°If Hazerial were here,¡± Izak muttered, ¡°he would make them peel the skin from their own bones. Then he would sleep in their bed, eat their food, and burn their shack down when he left.¡±

    Vorino raised an eyebrow at him. ¡°Do you plan to do any of that?¡±

    Cursing, Izak urged his horse on.

    They spent the day like beggars beneath the swaying hairy moss of a sprawling oak on what Izak assumed was the highest point within a hundred miles. His only consolation was that Vorino tossed and turned every time the dappled shade shifted. Good. Hopefully, he would get a scorcher of a sun blister.

    Izak lay cold, damp, and awake, squinting up at the brilliant blue sky between branches. His skin itched from mosquito and chigger bites, lack of bath, lack of liquor, and lack of feminine company.

    He wished he was a good enough man to find consolation in the knowledge that his sacrifice had kept his siblings in comfort and safety. As safe as anyone could be in their family.

    Could Etian protect Kelena from her mother?

    Etianiel, rather. Crown Prince of Night, Chosen, etc., etc.

    When they were small, both of Izak¡¯s younger siblings had looked to him to shield them from Jadarah. The mad queen had realized early on that she couldn¡¯t bully him as she did them. She had done an augury to find out why Izak didn¡¯t fear her, and she had uncovered heresy within the royal family itself.

    Six years later, the memory of Jadarah¡¯s utter glee when the king¡¯s Thorns dragged Uncle Ahixandro away in chains still had the power to scorch Izak¡¯s internal organs with fury.

    I know a secret, Izakiel, she had cooed in his ear.

    He¡¯d thought she would skip immediately to the king, singing Izak¡¯s heresy for the whole palace to hear¡ªWe have not one heretic in the family, but two!¡ªand cackle while the chief interrogators wrung it out of him bit by broken bit.

    But Jadarah hadn¡¯t. She had kept it close, cosseted it like a beloved kitten, until Izak had been forced to stamp it out himself.

    If he were thrown to the interrogators today, they would find no trace of that belief left in him. The Blasphemous One was a lie; he knew that now. Ahixandro had died for nothing.

    Perhaps that had been her game all along, to force Izak into that realization.

    If Izak was lucky, one day he might get to kill her in return for destroying his uncle. He would be grafted to Etian, after all, and the mad queen was mother to neither of them. She would not count as part of his brother¡¯s bloodline, and so there would be no compulsion to protect her from harm.

    Another dream he should enjoy while he could, as Vorino had put it.

    Light, what he wouldn¡¯t give for a woman to occupy his attention.

    ¡°Will we ride through any other villages?¡± Izak asked, suspecting he already knew the answer.

    Vorino surprised him. ¡°One more, close to Thornfield.¡±

    Of course. A fortress that large would create a small economy around its needs. Weaponsmiths, healers, farmers, bloodslaves, recreation for restless Thorns-to-be.

    ¡°Not that you¡¯ll be allowed to visit it,¡± Vorino added as an afterthought.

    Izak scowled. ¡°I¡¯m the¡ªI was the crown prince, and I am about to become the captain of the future king¡¯s guard. I go where I like.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t expect that to get you special treatment at Thornfield. If you¡¯re found outside the walls before your third year, they¡¯ll scourge you bloody before the whole school, to make certain everyone learns from your example.¡±

    ¡°I suppose belowstairs wenches will do in a pinch.¡± In fact, he¡¯d known several comely and enthusiastic sculleries, washerwomen, and chambermaids in the palace who were just as much fun as, if not more so than, their painted counterparts in the common sector.

    ¡°There aren¡¯t any,¡± Vorino said.

    ¡°Any what?¡±

    ¡°Women. They aren¡¯t allowed in Thornfield. You won¡¯t find a single skirt within the walls.¡±

    Izak¡¯s skin prickled all over. ¡°You¡¯re lying.¡±

    The Thorn rode on in smug silence.

    ¡°You¡¯re not serious,¡± Izak insisted. ¡°I can¡¯t go without a woman for four years!¡± Deprivation like that didn¡¯t bear thinking about.

    Vorino smirked. ¡°I thought you Teikru-blessed didn¡¯t care whether you were with a man or woman.¡±

    ¡°I care! I¡¯ll kill myself within a week.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll be too busy training to¡ª¡±

    Izak burst into a cloud of smoke. The curling black mist was highly visible in the daylight, and under the sun the spell required loads more blood magic than in darkness, but let his reserves deplete. He wasn¡¯t going to that night-forsaken hell.

    He reappeared a hundred yards away, but Vorino was faster than he looked, only a step behind. Izak threw himself into another smoke step¡ªmore of a desperate smoke leap.

    But Vorino had guessed his direction and was waiting for Izak when he resolidified. With his longsword, the Thorn hacked through the tendon at the back of the prince¡¯s ankle.

    Izak nearly went down. ¡°You son of a poxy whore!¡± He raised a hand, catching hold of the Thorn¡¯s blood. ¡°I¡¯ll crawl inside your mind and make you set yourself on fire!¡±

    A Thorn¡¯s blood was much more powerful than the beaten-down slaves and political prisoners Izak had practiced on as a child. Stronger even than the wild defiance of the two brigands he had killed. A surge of determination threw off his hold.

    Vorino advanced on him.

    Izak hopped backward on his one good foot. He couldn¡¯t smoke step one-legged. He could grab hold of the Thorn again, this time with the fury of every heir of House Khinet back to the founder of the Kingdom of Night himself.

    He should.

    ¡°I¡¯ll walk you naked and flayed into the nearest swamp so the sawteeth and alligators can have you!¡±

    Not even a flicker of fear showed in Vorino¡¯s face.

    ¡°Children talk,¡± the Thorn said. ¡°Men do.¡±

    Izak¡¯s hand shook.

    ¡°I¡¯m not cut out for killing,¡± he pleaded. That sick-sour taste pushed up the back of his throat at the memory of the brigands, his uncle, scores of Hazerial¡¯s political enemies, a thousand bloodslaves. If Izak got his way and went free, his sister would join that procession of bloody recall, not killed by him, but certainly dead because of him. And yet still his disgusting, traitorous, selfish heart flapped against his ribs like a trapped bird, desperate for any chance to break free. ¡°Let me go, Vorino.¡±

    Ruthlessly, the Thorn advanced.

    Izak cursed and dropped his hand.

    Vorino sliced through Izak¡¯s other heel tendon to keep him from running.

 Chapter 11: Blood Debts & Heretics

    The blood dried, the wounds healed, and the fever began. Bone-deep fire. Araam shivered uncontrollably as he burned alive.

    Father. Mother. The Raen tribal greatship. Uelaat and Ceolr and all the raedrs. Haelbringr.

    Mehet. Those beautiful eyes glittering in the flames of their burning wedding vessel. No, glittering in light from the whale oil lamp in their cabin. Glittering beneath him. Soft hair the color of sunshine, still slightly damp from the waves, tangled around his fingers. Golden skin and the taste of salt. The smile that was only for him, hidden from the rest of the world by sweet-smelling silks. Those clever weaver¡¯s fingers.

    Do your duty by me, husband.

    When Araam surfaced from the fever dreams, he remembered that he was in one of the land-going crafts the dirters called a cart. Ugly and violent, it sailed as if it were constantly running aground. Crude planks beneath him banged and lurched endlessly. At times, he crawled to the cart¡¯s waist to retch over the side. At others, he found no strength to move, and bile pooled on the boards beneath his cheek.

    Was any of this real? How could it be? How could he have given in to cowardice so easily, sold his soul for his manhood? Wrecked, mutilated, ruined manhood that it was.

    Half a man. Son of no one. Of no tribe. Disgrace to the people and the ocean that had birthed him.

    He hadn¡¯t fought hard enough. He should have died rather than given in.

    Why couldn¡¯t he have died fighting? Died with his cutlass in hand, as Uelaat and Ruell and his crew had.

    Or with swordbreaker in hand, as Mehet had.

    Beautiful eyes like sparkling teal gems, Mehet stood on the deck of the Haelbringr. All around her, flames consumed her wedding vessel.

    It is lost. Do your duty by me, husband. I will not be taken by this dirter filth to be raped and enslaved. I am Raen as much as you are. I will die free.

    Only minutes his wife and already she had had the courage of a fully proved raedr. He¡¯d been sick with love and pride and pain as she pulled back her silken veil and guided his cutlass to her throat.

    But he had failed in that, too.

    Someone shouted from the bow of the dirter¡¯s cart. They were sitting at anchor now, that sickening lack of motion making nausea bloom in Araam¡¯s gut. He was too weak just then to crawl to the side. Too disoriented to tell which way the side was. He choked on the acid taste of the bile, coughed it onto the planks.

    ¡°Think he¡¯s dying?¡±

    ¡°Nah, the king gave him some blood. He should be healing.¡±

    ¡°But he¡¯s a foreigner.¡±

    ¡°It can work for foreigners. I seen it done when I was on the northern front. When they want to keep a prisoner alive long enough to question ¡¯em, they work the blood magic. In a couple days, they¡¯re good as new.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t look like it¡¯s working.¡±

    A pause. ¡°Sometimes there¡¯s rejection.¡± Another pause. ¡°But it¡¯s the king¡¯s blood we¡¯re talking about here.¡±

    Their voices were like screaming gulls. Araam curled in on himself trying to block out their noise and ease the sickness in his stomach.

    ¡°Anyhow, we¡¯re close now. Once we dump him off, he¡¯ll be Thornfield¡¯s problem.¡±

    ¡°Better be. I¡¯m not wanting to square accounts with the king if he croaks along the way.¡±

    ¡°What do you think about those? Think they¡¯ll be missed?¡±

    ¡°I never saw any gold.¡±

    Pulling, then tearing, along the top of his ear. Araam tried to push their filthy dirter hands away, but he was too weak. Fresh blood trickled into his ear canal and hair.

    They stole my earrings.

    I didn¡¯t deserve them. A coward doesn¡¯t deserve significance.

    Lurching, jolting motion returned an unknown time later. A ship driven over reefs by an unskilled hand. Araam¡¯s head bounced. The pain in his torn ear flared as it bumped against the planks.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    Mehet, forgive me. I was not worthy to be your husband.

    Her glittering, fearless eyes. The cutlass at her throat. The final duty of every Ocean Rover whose wife accompanied him into battle against the dirter savages.

    He had to spare her from being taken captive.

    Do your duty by me.

    But Araam had hesitated. Selfishly, he had prayed to the God of the Waves for last-minute, impossible salvation.

    Then a burst of pain at the base of his skull.

    When he had opened his eyes, he was facedown on the deck. Mehet lay just feet from him, legs rigid and shaking, heels thumping against the planks. The swordbreaker he¡¯d given her was still clutched in her delicate hand, slinging dirter blood as it struck erratically into empty air. Her head lay an arm¡¯s reach from her body in a spreading pool of red.

    A dirter had stood over her headless corpse, swearing and inspecting the gash she had scored in his forearm.

    A filthy dirter had cut off his wife¡¯s head. Araam had failed her, left her at the mercy of those monsters. Like her father, who had not stopped fighting when he was beaten to the ground, Mehet had attacked and kept attacking.

    ¡°I am Raen as much as you are.¡±

    Moreso, Mehet. You were more Raen than I deserved to be. You fought to the end and past. In my place, you would have died. You would never have disgraced yourself or your people.

    He should have suffered the emasculation, then killed himself honorably. If he killed himself now, disgraced, would he go to the hell he deserved?

    It was a coward¡¯s thought. Mehet¡¯s determination had driven her headless body to keep stabbing at her killer until the lifeblood drained from her. His mother had fought until the mainmast of the Raen greatship fell. His father had fought until his back was broken and he could move no longer.

    His wife, his parents, his tribe. A sea of blood debt closed over his head.

    Hell or paradise, Araam¡¯s soul could never rest. How could any Ocean Rover¡ªeven cursed, even half a man¡ªlie down and die when a blood debt that huge hung over him?

    You will serve me.

    No, he would not serve, and he would not die. Not before he had repaid the king of the dirters for the Ocean Rover blood he had spilt.

    ***

    Thornfield lay at the end of a miles-long stretch of sand, separated from the mainland by a wide inlet. The far shore was visible, but just barely. The only road on the sandbar passed through a village halfway down.

    Perhaps because Vorino felt bad at having to temporarily lame Izak to get him this far, or perhaps because a full skin of blood had been required for Izak to heal the slices, the Thorn took a small measure of pity on the prince and let him spend his final day of freedom in the public house. He didn¡¯t even burst in on Izak and the pub girls the moment the sun set.

    Vorino¡¯s patience wasn¡¯t limitless, however. After midnight, he was done waiting.

    ¡°Your time is up,¡± he growled through the door. ¡°The enrollment is tonight, and we have miles left to ride. Get your clothes on and get on a horse.¡±

    Izak slipped from between soft, warm bodies and considered the jump from the window.

    ¡°If you try to run again, I¡¯ll ride straight back to Siu Rial and inform the king,¡± the Thorn called.

    ¡°Light, Vorino, can¡¯t you tell a defeated man when you chop his feet off?¡±

    ¡°Stop being dramatic, I barely nicked¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m coming, I¡¯m coming! The horse is dead, man, stop beating it.¡±

    They rode in silence along the moon-bright stretch of sand. Tufts of dune grass hissed in the breeze. In the distance, Izak¡¯s prison loomed closer. The village they had just left was too small to have its own ghost city, but Thornfield was mirrored on the dark sky in pale, watery green.

    ¡°I can¡¯t survive this, can I?¡± he muttered.

    ¡°A little celibacy won¡¯t kill you.¡± Apparently Vorino was finally in a joking mood. ¡°Besides, the rumors about Thorns are true¡ªyou¡¯ll have no shortage of women lining up after you¡¯re recalled from the grave.¡±

    Izak¡¯s lip curled in disgust. He had never run short on female admirers nor the desire for more of them.

    Funny how Teikru¡¯s blessing looked more like a curse with every passing second.

    ¡°I mean the thornknife ceremony.¡± Rumor had it that there was an open pit where they tossed the bodies of the men who failed. ¡°Etian¡ªEtianiel, rather¡ªhas been training for this since he could hold a sword.¡±

    The dunes pulled back from either side of the path, revealing the graveyard from which Thornfield had taken its name. Wooden thornknife hilts cast shadows on the moonlit sand. The oldest were little more than ugly stakes snapped from the closest thorn tree. Those must have hurt like blazes going in. Probably left enough splinters in the wound to grow a new branch.

    The passage of centuries became obvious as they drew closer to the recent blades. With every generation, the thornknives were refined. They went from ugly stakes to handsome, tapered blades so thin and deadly that they could slip between a pair of ribs with ease.

    Of course, ¡®ease¡¯ must necessarily be defined by the owner of said ribs.

    Coins, baubles, and shells glinted around certain blades, left behind by visitors paying homage to the dead men whose souls had once resided within.

    Was his uncle¡¯s thornknife stuck there in the sand among those many thousands bleaching in the sea breeze? Did heretics get memorialized or had that magical blade been hacked into mulch and cast into some stinking privy hole to add insult to execution?

    ¡°I don¡¯t have my brother¡¯s sense of duty, his dedication, or his skill,¡± Izak said. ¡°And I certainly don¡¯t have his¡­¡± Etian wasn¡¯t bloodthirsty, but he could be cold when he had to. Izak was certain that his younger brother could kill a brigand and not spend the next week reliving it. If Etian believed action was necessary, he would move immediately and without a second thought. ¡°¡­his Josean-blessed disposition. Can I survive the grafting?¡±

    Vorino sighed. ¡°Do you think a rustic caught up in the body tax has sixteen years to prepare before he¡¯s shipped off to Thornfield? And the criminals dragged from the gaols¡ªdo you think they¡¯re born with the expectation that one day they¡¯ll be tied by ancient magics they can barely comprehend to a lord whose life they would suddenly give anything to protect?¡± The Thorn¡¯s long face turned away as if he were counting the knives in the field. ¡°You will survive, you will serve, and you will be a better man for it.¡±

    Izak searched the rows, remembering a better man. All the noble hopes that better man had held for his eager, bright-eyed nephew. Right up until the ax fell.

    The corners of Izak¡¯s mouth twitched in a bitter grin. ¡°How could I be worse?¡±

 Chapter 12: Thornfield

    By the time Izak and Vorino reached Thornfield¡¯s thick curtain wall and its ghostly mirror above, a gentle shower had moved in from the sea, dampening both riders and their steeds. The stink of wet horsehair rose from the beast and insinuated itself into Izak¡¯s clothing.

    The walls were nearly thirty feet wide at a glance, dotted by archer loops, and outside, the sand had been dug out to steepen an approach on foot and discourage siegeworks. Although who would go to the trouble of bringing an army all the way out here to take this pile of sand and rubble, Izak couldn¡¯t guess.

    As they rode beneath the arched entry of a two-tower gatehouse, Izak glanced up and found a thick slot in the masonry with a recessed portcullis. Wordlessly, the guardsmen¡ªone of whom looked younger than Izak¡ªsaluted them.

    Dominating the bailey was a massive, thorny locust tree, its black bark drinking the ghostlight that filtered through the rain. After miles of patchy dune grass, Izak had assumed nothing else could grow on this sand bar, but that quilled monstrosity must have been two hundred years old if it was a day. Its trunk was covered in wicked thorns as long as Izak¡¯s forearm.

    He dragged his eyes away from the beast long enough to take in the rest of Thornfield. The keep was ugly, utilitarian. No plaster to soften its crude stonework. Additions from bygone eras hugged the sand around the rounded tower and squat hall. Minor outbuildings were scattered around the bailey as if they had been dropped in over the years whenever someone realized a new structure was needed, with no allusion to flow or design.

    At the least cluttered end of the bailey, men and boys fought with sword and shield. On the wall, patrols stalked. Just around the corner of the keep, Izak spotted a wooden horse with a knight in full armor in the saddle. One at a time, trainees were attempting to take the knight down before he could maim them with his flanged mace.

    A groom came running out. Vorino and Izak dismounted and handed off their bridles to the boy.

    Izak stretched and twisted. His back answered with a chorus of pops. If there was one perk to having finally arrived in this hell, it was not having to ride another mile. Without blood magic to accelerate healing, his backside would likely have been permanently scarred from saddle sores.

    A meaty thwack drew his attention back to the knight. Whoever was on the horse hadn¡¯t pulled his mace swing. A boy was struggling back to his feet, arm hanging at a sickening angle. He received a few remarks from the knight, then limped off.

    ¡°You¡¯re headed that way,¡± Vorino said, pointing the opposite direction.

    A crowd had gathered beneath the massive thorn tree.

    ¡°Quite a turnout,¡± Izak said. There were upward of fifty young men waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

    ¡°Smaller crowd than I remember.¡± Vorino shrugged. ¡°Go on. I doubt they¡¯ll start without the prince.¡±

    Izak was met halfway to the group by an aging master with thinning white hair plastered to his head by the rain. The man had the gracefully decaying build of a swordsman. Elderly Thorns were rarer than body fat on a Josean-blessed, but when the old man turned square to get a better look at Izak, the retired thornknife by his side confirmed it. The ceremonial wooden blade was well-oiled and obviously cared for.

    ¡°You must be here for the enrollment,¡± the old man said. ¡°I am Grandmaster Heartless.¡±

    ¡°Izak of House Khinet.¡± Izak forced the royal smile onto his face. ¡°King Hazerial and my brother Crown Prince Etianiel send their regards.¡±

    A surprised twitch of the brow. Clearly, no one had bothered to inform the grandmaster of this last-minute prince exchange. However, having no doubt spent most of his service at court with one lord or other, the grandmaster recovered at speed.

    ¡°Of course. You are the last of this year¡¯s crop to arrive. Please take your place among them.¡±

    Izak nodded and stepped closer to the crowd, but not into it. The distinct smell of unwashed bodies overpowered the stink of wet horse rising from his clothes.

    The group of new recruits had divided itself like oil and water and a third reeking liquid which the other two did not want to mix with. The scent he was attempting to avoid rose mostly from the central group, all of whom had the dirty, mean look of city low streets.

    The corn-fed-looking rustics had taken the space on the far side of the ruffians from Izak. They were fairly clean, if one ignored the dirt under their nails and the mud caked on their boots or bare feet.

    Representing the lavender water crowd a step closer to Izak¡¯s level of society were a handful of young men whose well-made clothing set them further apart. The sons of merchants, wealthy landowners, and at least one almost-noble. Izak recognized the Duke of West Crag¡¯s illegitimate son, Penuel or Denuel or something.

    Interesting. Last Izak had heard, the duke had been trying to legitimize the bastard, since his only court-recognized offspring were a passel of daughters.

    But, light, what daughters! Tender lips, soft curves, athletic tendencies¡ªthe fifth daughter was an especially fun riding companion. Though the horses never got much exercise when she and Izak went out together¡­

    Just a step apart from the wealthy and near-wealthy stood a sinewy foreigner with sun-dark skin and sandy hair. His brightly colored clothing was stained with old blood, so perhaps not only a foreigner, but a murderer, too.

    The crack of a whip jolted Izak from sizing up his fellow prospective Thorns. The lash was answered by the squeaky shriek of a young boy. A runt in rags was pushing his way back into the smelly low street crowd, sucking on a rapidly swelling weal on his hand.

    Recoiling the whip with a practiced flick, a young master with eyes so pale brown that they appeared gold stalked to the head of the group. Izak measured the young master¡¯s age against the oldest-looking of the new arrivals¡ªnot much margin there.

    A retired Thorn in his early twenties. Martial prodigy or massive failure?

    ¡°Thievery will not be tolerated in Thornfield,¡± he said, his gold eyes narrow. ¡°While you¡¯re here, everything you have belongs to Thornfield. Theft from your fellow recruit is theft from Thornfield, and you will receive ten lashes for each item missing.¡±

    From there, the young master launched into a litany of offenses punishable by scourging. There was the theft, of course, then there was taking a single step past the memorial Garden of Knives at the edge of the grounds, disrespecting a master, defiance of a master¡¯s order, fighting with a naked blade outside sanctioned training, misuse of equipment¡­ It was a wonder that any Thorn left with his hide intact.

    Of course, the way they¡¯d been training to assault a knight suggested that Thornfield employed excellent healers. Or perhaps they had enough young men clamoring for Thorn-ship to be generous with their lives.

    As the intimidation speech went on, Izak¡¯s attention wandered. The grandmaster stood to the side, watching the new recruits. Sharp blue eyes took the measure of each prospective Thorn. When they lit on Izak and found the prince staring back, the grandmaster¡¯s lips lifted in a smile.

    Smiling because he¡¯d been caught looking or smiling because he was about to make an example of Izak for not listening to the whipmaster¡¯s endless rambling? Given the length of that punitive list, inattention was probably another scourging offense.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    But the blue eyes roved onward to assess the next recruit, Penuel-Denuel the bastard of West Crag, without comment.

    What did the grandmaster think of this latest crop of recruits? Izak wondered. Certainly, they ran toward the low class. The most common clothing ranged from threadbare to barely fit for rags. How many of these boys and young men had been lured into joining with the promise of steady food?

    And how many had agreed to escape the noose? He eyed the foreigner¡¯s bloodstained clothing more closely. Though inches shorter than the prince, the foreigner must be close to Izak¡¯s age. Already he had a poorly advised patch of sandy hair covering his upper lip and chin.

    Izak had put facial hair out of fashion at court. When the crown prince could only grow pathetic wisps, no one else was allowed to flaunt beards or mustaches free of ridicule.

    The list of crimes and punishments wasn¡¯t infinite after all. The grandmaster took the young whipmaster¡¯s place.

    ¡°You see the locust tree behind me,¡± the elderly swordsman said. He didn¡¯t shout to be heard over the rain; more like the rain quieted down to hear him speak. ¡°Its towering crown. Its broad trunk and far-reaching branches. You hear it creak and groan in the wind. You watch it drink the water from the ground all around its roots. You fear its untimely collapse and its ability to pull down lightning from the sky.

    ¡°Its weight, its power, its significance¡ªany one of these could crush us.

    ¡°This tree is the king of Thornfield. Great and powerful, and yet there are any number of threats to its life. Creatures large and small who would tear and gnaw and chop it apart if only they could get at it. Creatures who would home in its branches for the protection it provides and unknowingly or knowingly bleed it dry. What protects this king of trees from those puny cowards who would do him harm?¡±

    The old man rasped his wooden thornknife over the covering of wicked spines protruding from the trunk.

    ¡°His thorns.¡±

    ***

    ¡°Perhaps you came into Thornfield with a name and a past.¡± The old dirter, who had introduced himself to Araam as Grandmaster Heartless, slipped the useless wooden knife back into his belt. ¡°Are you proud of it? Ashamed?¡±

    A few voices answered at first, but as the questions continued, all but the dullest among them realized that they were not meant to reply. Araam remained silent throughout, his eyes on the strange, glowing reflection in the dark sky overhead. It was an exact reflection of the structure they were standing in but projected in eerie green light.

    ¡°Do you fear what you left behind?¡± the grandmaster asked. ¡°Do you wish to cling to it? Was it stolen from you, or did you escape it?¡±

    Araam clasped his hands behind his back to stop them from balling into fists. He would not display his emotions for all the world to see like these blood drinkers did.

    He might be able to see at night better than he ever had before, he might be able to smell blood almost before a cut was opened. But he was not one of them.

    Take my Mark upon you, boy¡­

    Cursed, corrupted, and even disgraced as he was, he was not one of them.

    ¡°Anyone who enters through that gatehouse becomes a new man,¡± Grandmaster Heartless said. ¡°You have no name, no past. You bring nothing with you into your new life. The slate is clean. When you leave four years from now, you will take only your grafting to your new master, the weapon with which you will defend their life, and a new name.

    ¡°This name will not be handed to you at your mother¡¯s breast like your first was. You will wrestle it from every drop of blood you spill, every tear you cry, every scream of anguish and failure and victory while you are here. You will earn your name, and no man, not even the king himself, can take it from you.¡±

    When a young Ocean Rover returned to his tribe¡¯s greatship from a successful proving, he was rewarded with a new name of his choosing. A man¡¯s name.

    Araam was a boy¡¯s name¡ªa play on words, meaning both Son of My Strength and Strength of the Sun¡ªand he deserved not even that. He had not made it back to the deck of the Raen greatship. He had not kneeled before his father and mother and presented his wife or spoken his adult name to them. Like Mehet and Haelbringr and the life he had expected to live, that name was lost to wave and depth. May a more deserving raedr take it someday.

    ¡°If we ain¡¯t got names, what¡¯re we supposed call each other?¡± a broad-shouldered dirter asked in an unhurried drawl.

    ¡°You will be assigned a number,¡± Grandmaster Heartless said. ¡°Over the years, the system has gotten a bit snarled by those who died before their thornknife ceremony. Those numbers are returned to the pool to be assigned to the next crop. By the same token, the numbers of the men who have taken names and been grafted are returned as well.¡±

    The grandmaster looked at the gold-eyed dirter at his side. ¡°Master Saint Daven, if you would?¡±

    The whipmaster cleared his throat.

    ¡°Master Saint Galen, rather,¡± Grandmaster Heartless said. ¡°Excuse me.¡±

    One by one, the gold-eyed dirter went through them, giving out numbers.

    ¡°Nine?¡± One scrawny boy cackled when it came to him. ¡°I never heard tell of such a number, me! You¡¯re pulling my leg!¡±

    ¡°I assure you, Nine, Master Saint Galen does not pull anyone¡¯s leg,¡± Grandmaster Heartless said, chuckling at the dirter child¡¯s ecstatic disrespect. ¡°Not without completely tearing it off.¡±

    The loud, filth-encrusted child had never heard of seventeen, forty-three, or eleven, either. Blood drinkers were not just heathens and monsters, it seemed, but ignorant, too.

    ¡°All concepts you¡¯ll be introduced to over time,¡± the grandmaster promised of the numbers.

    The whipmaster stopped in front of Araam, scowling as if he wanted to spit in Araam¡¯s face.

    Araam¡¯s muscles coiled. If the filthy dirter tried it, he would join the tally of blood drinkers Araam had delivered to the sharks, the first payment on the dirter king¡¯s blood debt.

    A sudden hold seized Araam. He couldn¡¯t move, couldn¡¯t even twitch. Every muscle had turned to stone from the veins out.

    The Mark. The blood drinker king¡¯s corruption was holding him in place like a giant fist.

    Ignorant of the averted danger, the whipmaster growled out, ¡°Twenty-six.¡±

    ¡°Twenty-six!¡± crowed the loudmouthed little boy when he heard Araam¡¯s number. ¡°Fortee-aleventy-nine!¡±

    The whipmaster moved on to assign more numbers.

    Still immobile, Araam forced down the rage, clamping it into a hot ball of fury at the base of his throat. Then he tested the strength of the Mark. Bit by bit, he probed at its edges, searching for weaknesses or holes in its grip.

    Nothing.

    But the change to methodical focus allowed the fury to ebb. The Mark released him.

    He looked at the beardless dirter to his left. Considered cutting him down in cold blood.

    No resurgence of stone clamped down on his veins. How sentient was this Mark? Could it tell he had been out of control for a moment facing that whipmaster, but only testing its boundaries with the second dirter?

    If the dirter king were standing before him now, arms open and heart ready to sheath a swordbreaker, could Araam run him through? Or would he be locked in place by that corruption, nothing more than impotent stone?

    I chose this. I chose these chains when I chose to take his Mark.

    That was a thought Araam could not stand to pursue for long. It replaced the burning fury with a shame that curdled his gut and looped ropes of dark seaweed around him, pulling him down, down, down.

    Let Araam go. Let him sink. He was weak; he proved that much on the beach.

    Twenty-six, the dirter whipmaster had called him.

    It was no name, but then he was no man deserving of a name.

    Could Twenty-six survive this? Could Twenty-six stay sane under the weight of shame and defeat and the chains he¡¯d grabbed for in his cowardice?

    Until he knew the name of the man he would have to become to avenge his tribe, Twenty-six would work.

    Twenty-six, Cursed of the Ocean, Half a Man, Blood Redeemer of the Tribe of Raen that was once First Among the Ocean Rovers.

    ***

    The young master giving out numbers stopped before Izak.

    ¡°Four?¡± Izak guessed. The sacred number of the Kingdom of Night¡ªthree strong gods and their chosen divine ruler on Earth, the number of yearly festivals, the number of mass sacrifices each year¡­

    ¡°Four,¡± the young master gritted out in agreement, hand resting on his whip handle.

    Izak sighed and nodded. Being told not to expect special treatment, then finding that they had reserved the number ¡°Four¡± for the son of the king so no one could mistake him for a commoner. It was all so tedious and predictable.

    When the last of the numbers had been assigned, the grandmaster stepped forward again and drew their attention by slipping the sword hanging at his side from its sheath. Unlike the thornknife, this was no ceremonial display piece. Izak was no student of arms, but even he could tell a well-made weapon when he saw one. It had an older style branched knuckle guard rather than the currently popular basket hilt, but its long blade was narrow and falchioned, a design said to have originated at the Thornfield forge in the last half-century.

    The grandmaster held the sword with the familiarity of a longtime lover, gazing at it with a m¨¦lange of bittersweet tenderness, the pain of old scars, fondness, aversion, and a dozen other nuances Izak couldn¡¯t read.

    ¡°While you are earning your new name, you are forging a weapon. And while you are forging that weapon within yourself, another weapon will be forged for you.¡± His blue gaze swept over them. ¡°The life of a Thorn is one of bondage¡ªbrutal, violent, and ofttimes short. The thornknife that will send you to the grave and recall you from thence? That bit of fancy woodwork will be given to your master, whether that be His Majesty or a nobleman who has gained the king¡¯s favor. It is a feather in your master¡¯s cap, a symbol of importance, and for many, a way to flaunt status. A mere trinket. All he must do to receive it is avoid botching the thornknife ritual so badly that you cannot be resurrected.

    ¡°But this¡ªyour weapon¡ª¡± The grandmaster turned the falchion so that its fuller caught the meager glow of moonlight through the rain. ¡°¡ªthis will be given to you alone. A reward for all that you overcome here, recompense for all that you will endure in the service of your master. It will be given to you on the day you are grafted.

    ¡°And all you will have to do to receive it is die.¡±

 Chapter 13: Wash Away the Past

    After the grandmaster¡¯s quiet, passion-filled meditation on the blade, he could have asked the new recruits to march on Siu Rial itself. Instead, the old man let all momentum fall out from beneath him and began droning on about procedure, blood magic, and exacting standards.

    Izak let his mind wander. Procedure tended to reveal itself in time, and he knew better than anyone what the energies of the blood could do to a man. The questions he wanted answered were when he would be allowed to get out of the rain and into some dry clothing and whether Thornfield served wine or ale with meals.

    But the mundane information held captive the imaginations of the peasants and criminals. Even Penuel-Denuel stood with his mouth hanging open when the master described how the king could boil his enemies from within and close off portions of a mind as easily as slamming doors.

    Everyone was eager to angle for a place at court until they considered that they could be made a drooling bag of meat and bones at the king¡¯s merest displeasure.

    ¡°If¡¯n he¡¯s got such powerful strong medicine,¡± the loudmouthed little boy from the low street crowd wanted to know, ¡°then how come he needs us?¡±

    With a nod, the grandmaster acknowledged the question he¡¯d been angling for someone to ask.

    ¡°Many of you come from backgrounds that romanticize life in a palace, but royalty, by nature, are surrounded by enemies, and none so much as the King of Night. Not only do the betrayers, the Children of Helat, seek to destroy all Children of Night, but especially the king and his household. As well, there are closer enemies who seek to steal the throne. To have the king as master is a constant battle, and it requires endless vigilance. As the old saying goes, ¡®kings sleep; Thorns must not.¡¯¡±

    Izak rolled his eyes. From what he¡¯d seen, the Thorns grafted to his father spent all their on-duty time herding royal children and all their off-duty time lounging, gambling, and flirting with the palace¡¯s fairer staff. If the Royal Thorns had averted any assassinations in Izak¡¯s lifetime, it was a well-kept secret.

    More to the truth than perhaps propriety permitted the grandmaster to say, the Thorns grafted to the king were there to protect Hazerial from threats within his own household. Namely the son who¡¯d been training for seventeen years to use the royal blood magic as effectively as the sire. Hadn¡¯t Hazerial been about Izak¡¯s age when he and Ahixandro killed their father and took the throne?

    Hazerial¡¯s paranoia at being betrayed in the same way must finally have gotten the better of him. Perhaps he believed that making a prince trained in the sword and not in magic next in line would extend his rule. After all, one who had received the Blood of the Strong Gods could not die by time or illness. Only violence would do it. And who could kill the divinely appointed ruler of the strong gods but their next chosen one? Even one as disgusted by the family magic as Izak might someday decide his ambition outweighed his revulsion.

    Such would be the ravings of the mind of an Eketra-blessed king. The strong goddess bestowed upon her favored ones wheels within wheels of scheming, and when one was ever plotting against the world, then how could anyone in that world be anything but an enemy?

    I¡¯ve known him all my life, Izakiel, Uncle Ahixandro had said. I know the man he can be. My brother can see around corners, but he can¡¯t see what¡¯s right in front of him. That¡¯s why he needs me.

    Clearly, the king had not agreed.

    ***

    The downpour picked up conviction as dawn tried to break beyond Thornfield¡¯s thick walls. The best the newborn sun could manage was a cloudy gray that faded the ghostly green battlements above but couldn¡¯t banish them entirely.

    The scent of roast meat and hot bread slipped into the space between raindrops. Izak watched enviously as the sparrers at the far side of the bailey broke up and filtered into the keep and the surrounding low buildings.

    Such was not to be the fate of the new arrivals, not while the grandmaster still had breath in his lungs.

    ¡°Anyone can learn to wield a sword, but to become a Thorn, to uphold that great and terrible responsibility to protect the king himself, requires more. The threats that face His Majesty and his family come from those who live steeped in magic. Nobles who learn to use its power from birth. Defending him will require not only steel but blood magic.

    ¡°Each of you has this magic running through your veins. Without it, you would not have been chosen to become a Thorn. Many men have aspired to join our ranks, and many have been sent to the king¡¯s armies instead. It is a job no less honorable and no less deadly, but one that does not require any measure of blood magic.¡±

    A murmur went through the crowd.

    The grandmaster raised a gnarled hand to quiet them. ¡°What I¡¯ve said is true. You may have heard otherwise, but it is not only nobles who are born with blood magic. A small portion of the common population are born with it as well, and you are part of it. Many of you do not realize what you are capable of. All your life you have believed you were luckier or more physically gifted than your magicless counterparts, when in truth you fueled your greatest feats with energies stolen from those around you.¡±

    ¡°How could somebody not know?¡± It was the dirty little runt who kept interrupting. ¡°I knowed it my whole life, me. Just like I knowed you don¡¯t never drink from your twin ¡¯cuz stealing their energy makes a body weak. They take sick easy and can¡¯t wake up if you do it too often.¡±

    The whipmaster looked to the grandmaster for a ruling on the interruption. In Izak¡¯s opinion a good beating might actually get through the kid¡¯s thick skull, but the grandmaster gave a negative shake of the head.

    ¡°Nine will spend the day at scullery in the kitchen.¡± The old man turned blue eyes on the child. Izak wondered how many snot-nosed street urchins the grandmaster had to deal with every year. Clearly enough that they didn¡¯t faze him. ¡°You¡¯ll be able to eat and rest once you¡¯ve cleaned the pots to the cook¡¯s liking.¡±Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    The boy wrinkled his dirty nose. ¡°I was helping, me. Everybody oughta know not to steal medicine from your own folks.¡±

    ¡°And now they do. Interrupt again, and the scourging for disrespect of a master will be enforced.¡±

    The grandmaster waited to see if the boy would test the proclamation. No more objections or outbursts were forthcoming.

    With that settled, the elderly swordsman addressed them all again. ¡°While you are here, you will train not to rely on the blood or energies of others. You will strengthen the magic in your own veins to enhance every aspect of combat, instinct, and endurance. The blood of others is a luxury, not a necessity, and a Thorn must be capable of operating without it.¡±

    There was a small distraction as a handful of senior students approached the thorn tree, dragging four huge copper basins between them. These were placed before the new arrivals and filled with water from the wellhouse.

    ¡°I said before that once you step into Thornfield¡¯s bailey you have no past,¡± the grandmaster said. ¡°This isn¡¯t meaningless prattle. We keep no records here of who you were before you came to us. Your former life, titles, crimes, or triumphs are all erased.¡±

    A fussy-looking master of middle years passed by each basin and tossed in a handful of powder.

    ¡°Of course, some of that past is harder to leave behind. If you will please strip off your old rags and wash clean, you will be allowed to enter the keep and get in out of this rain. Master Malice is waiting inside with the appropriate replacement garments.¡±

    Izak eyed the rain plinking across the surface of the bathwaters. He wasn¡¯t keen on bathing in cold water, but he would be glad to rid himself of the stink of wet horse. Too, looking at the most heavily encrusted members of the new recruits, he would rather be at the head of this bathing endeavor than the tail. Something told him they wouldn¡¯t be refilling the basins after every wash, and he didn¡¯t much fancy playing island to a bunch of drowning lice.

    Before he could be edged out by someone covered in grime, Izak strode to the first basin, tossing riding leathers as he went.

    Penuel-Denuel and the foreign murderer must have shared his concerns. They were the next to strip away their sodden clothing and climb into a basin. The final basin was fought over by one of the other well-dressed lads and a barrel-chested rustic. The rustic won and clambered in.

    An astringent scent curled Izak¡¯s nose hairs as he sank into the chilly water. Looking at the low street recruits, he hoped the cleanser was strong. Mites had taken over the royal residence at Siu Patanal when he was a child. Eradicating the little monsters had been such an undertaking that the court had avoided residing there for two years after.

    ¡°Oh no!¡± The little loudmouth¡ªNine¡ªbacked away, hands raised. ¡°No, no, no. I ain¡¯t getting in that, me.¡±

    ¡°One way or another, you¡¯re going into that water,¡± Grandmaster Heartless promised.

    Nine shook his ringworm-stricken head. ¡°Folks get drowned in water! Miasma collects around water and gives folks the coughing sickness. Water¡¯s bad medicine. Better not to tempt it.¡±

    The grandmaster nodded at the whipmaster.

    Izak thoroughly enjoyed the chase that followed. Nine was fast and nimble and didn¡¯t mind stealing energy from anyone he came within drinking range of¡ªthe grandmaster included. Unfortunately for him, Master Saint Galen had the advantage of reach, especially when he added his whip to the contest.

    The lash snarled around Nine¡¯s ankle mid-step, and the boy splatted on his face in the mud.

    Seeing that he¡¯d lost, Nine decided to fall on his own sword. Rather than let the approaching whipmaster grab him, he scramble-galloped on hands and knees the final few yards through the mud and splashed fully clothed into the basin with Penuel-Denuel.

    With an incredulous cry, the bastard tried throwing the runt out. That didn¡¯t work, so he vacated the basin himself and left the sloshing waters to the boy and his various low street parasites.

    Chuckling, Izak ducked under his own bathwater, gave his thick hair a cursory scrub, then climbed out. A few of his peers acted awkwardly about being naked¡ªmaybe they were concerned the cold didn¡¯t show them to best advantage¡ªbut Izak had never been shy, whether in public or private. He strode confidently to the keep, hoping to find the aforementioned master waiting with dry linens and warm clothing.

    The narrow stairs dipped in the center from centuries of foot traffic, but no loose stone rocked beneath Izak¡¯s feet. Inside, he paused to sheet the water from his chilled skin. Limewashed plaster coated the walls, holding the ocean winds at bay. The narrow entryway ceiling soared twenty feet above his head, pocked with murder holes. Neither these nor the farthest, darkest corners had been left to cobwebs. Even the soot looked as if it were regularly scrubbed from behind the flickering sconces.

    Thornfield wasn¡¯t pretty, but it was well-maintained.

    Spotting no master in the immediate vicinity handing out dry clothing, Izak followed the warm glow and noise coming from the far end of the choke-point corridor.

    A grand hall opened before him, alight with torches and a massive fireplace. Scores of boys and young men filled long trestle tables, eating and talking. More than a few were pointing and guffawing at the new arrivals¡ªPenuel-Denuel and the foreign probable murderer had beat Izak inside. Izak gave his spectators a bow and dimpled grin before looking around for the promised outfitter.

    The high table at the front held the masters. Izak wondered how many were former Thorns. They certainly had the simmering intensity he associated with his father¡¯s guard. Could there truly be that many who¡¯d been released from service to live out their days in peace? In all his life, Izak couldn¡¯t recall hearing of a single Royal Thorn who had been retired by the king, but perhaps lords were less stingy with their grafted swordsmen.

    Vorino had the seat of honor at the masters¡¯ table and was deep in conversation with the other men. He looked more animated than Izak had ever seen him. He even laughed. This night was becoming more surreal all the time.

    ¡°First-years, over here!¡± a deep voice called.

    Izak turned to find a stocky, muscular master with skin so dark brown that it was almost black. Around his thick neck hung a strand of pale pink shells. He must have hailed originally from the Coffee Islands.

    Izak had now seen as many foreigners in one day as he saw at court in a season. Of course, he encountered a good number more in the whoring houses. That recreation was popular regardless of where one was born.

    He joined the Coffee Islander and the pair of dressing recruits.

    ¡°Master Malice?¡± Izak guessed. He gave the master a courtly half-bow. It never hurt to get on the good side of one¡¯s tailors. Especially when one paid tabs as rarely as royalty did.

    The dark master replied in kind, then asked, ¡°Number?¡±

    ¡°Four.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡± As in, Ah, the prince has arrived.

    Master Malice sized Izak up for a moment¡ªhead to foot, then shoulder to shoulder¡ªthen dug into the stacks of folded clothing and came out with hose, trousers, a belt, a padded jacket, and a roughspun shirt. Peasant clothing. No silk robes or cloths of state to be found.

    ¡°These should fit.¡±

    Izak dressed, eyeing Penuel-Denuel and the foreigner for hints at how to adjust the laces on the trousers. Those were new to him. As were the ties on the shirt¡¯s long sleeves. He cinched the cuffs back to his forearms so they wouldn¡¯t drag in the food that would hopefully be served before his stomach chewed through his spine.

    ¡°¡ªso¡¯s I took and gutted him and tripped his pals up with that rope sausage that fell outta him.¡± Nine¡¯s high-pitched voice cut through the chaos of conversation. The boy was still fully clothed and drenching the stone floor with every step, but this didn¡¯t seem to bother him. He chattered away at the naked rustic beside him as they entered the hall.

    Master Malice waved the boys over, then tossed Izak a pair of boots. Sturdy construction, but they wouldn¡¯t turn any heads at court.

    ¡°You lot take a seat,¡± the clothing master told Izak, the bastard, and the foreigner. ¡°On the coming night, you¡¯ll start your serving tasks, but since it¡¯s your first day, it¡¯s traditional for last year¡¯s crop to bring you dinner.¡±

 Chapter 14: Revenge

    The tradition, as it turned out, was for the previous year¡¯s crop of prospective Thorns to spit in, dump on the floor, stomp on, and generally ruin the supper for the new arrivals. In this way, the just-raised second-years could both demonstrate for the new students what to expect from their first season at Thornfield and join the ranks of the hazers who had made their previous year hell.

    Looking down at the impressively large gob of mucus in his mutton and the boot-mashed piece of bread, Izak decided he was not that hungry after all. The next meal would be more to his tastes.

    ¡°What, are you took sick?¡± Nine asked, inspecting Izak¡¯s food. To lean over the table, the runt had to climb halfway over it. ¡°¡¯Cuz if you are, hand that here. I won¡¯t let the rats get it, me.¡±

    ¡°Enjoy.¡± Izak slid the plate across to him. ¡°Have a little trouble getting dressed?¡±

    From where he¡¯d been sitting, naively anticipating his meal, Izak had watched the runt wrestle with the new clothing, batting away Master Malice¡¯s attempts to help, and finally yanking it on over his dirty, dripping rags. Between the master, the rustic, and Nine, they had managed to wrangle the old clothing off from beneath the new¡ªat least some of which had required the assistance of Malice¡¯s sword. The garments Nine wore now were still damp in places.

    ¡°Me?¡± Nine scoffed as he scooped snot off the food and onto the table. ¡°I used to get dressed leventy-five times a day in jewels and gold and salks, but then I figured out that-there¡¯s for fools. You put on clothes once and you can keep ¡¯em on ¡¯til they fall off. Saves you all sortsa grapplin¡¯.¡±

    Izak smirked. ¡°Really? So those rags you had on used to be¡­ salks, did you say?¡±

    ¡°Sure ¡¯nuff, finest you ever seen downriver.¡± He was already halfway through the second plate. ¡°Salk this and that and th¡¯other. Like to choke me, I had so much.¡±

    ¡°Naturally. Who was your importer? Carovelia and Sons? Opalo Company?¡±

    ¡°Juan.¡± The contaminated plate was cleared of edibles and a stomach-turning amount of phlegm. Nine¡¯s pointed features searched the hall for other unwanted or unprotected grub.

    ¡°Juan?¡± Izak prompted.

    ¡°You sure heard of Juan! Ask around Siu Carinal. The rich uphill folks, they all know Juan.¡±

    Izak chuckled. ¡°Oh, that Juan.¡±

    A shadow stopped behind the boy. The whipmaster was back.

    ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be on scullery duty in the kitchens.¡±

    ¡°I never scull on a empty gut, me.¡±

    Master Saint Galen hauled the protesting boy off the bench and toward a door behind the masters¡¯ table. Nine swiped an older student¡¯s half-eaten bread unnoticed as he was dragged past.

    ¡°Take all sorts here, don¡¯t they?¡± Penuel-Denuel said.

    ¡°I hadn¡¯t noticed.¡± Izak usually avoided speaking to the bastard at state functions, not due to his illegitimacy but because the man was a dedicated belaborer of the obvious.

    From either side, the wealthier sons who had been keeping their distance from the low street brat slid closer, hoping to join the conversation with the prince. All excluding the foreign murderer, who was ignoring everyone equally.

    Izak let the sycophants fawn, making the occasional sarcastic remark, but he was only half listening. By his guess, the little liar Nine was the youngest of the new arrivals. About Kelena¡¯s age, if not younger, still waiting for puberty to strike. A heavyset vintner¡¯s son several seats to Izak¡¯s right had to be the eldest, approaching a score of years. The majority fell closer to Etian¡¯s age, around sixteen.

    Izak felt conspicuously old.

    Up at the head table, Vorino and the gold-eyed whipmaster burst out in laughter. Twice in one day! One might think guarding the royal family wasn¡¯t all the merry entertainment it was purported to be.

    Other instructors who had finished their meals pulled their chairs closer to the visiting Thorn. It wouldn¡¯t be every day a rider came all the way out to this night-forsaken end of the world. This might be their only chance to catch up on news and gossip for the year.

    The upperclassmen began leaving the hall, but the new arrivals remained. Some¡ªlike Nine, who had snuck back out of the kitchens to inhale the left-behind scraps¡ªwere still eating. Others were looking around for direction.

    Izak didn¡¯t bother. He was used to retainers directing him from engagement to engagement. The body-shufflers at Thornfield might be called by a different name, but they would be on their way.

    ***

    ¡°They¡¯re staring,¡± Vorino said, slicing into his mutton.

    As a visiting Thorn, he had been given the seat of honor at Grandmaster Heartless¡¯s right, on display for the sea of faces below. A good number were looking up at him with open worship. He couldn¡¯t believe there were creatures so young and naive in all existence. Or that he¡¯d ever been one of them.

    ¡°I¡¯m sure you did the same in your time here,¡± Heartless said. ¡°I know I did.¡±

    Vorino grunted in slightly embarrassed agreement. In fact, Heartless had been the visitor he¡¯d gawked at. Every boy in his year had. The Great Defier, conqueror of the Coffee Islands, many-times savior of Ikario IX. Equal parts hero and legend, Heartless was the Thorn they all aspired to be.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    To either side of Vorino, the masters¡¯ table was peopled by former Thorns whose exploits still made the rounds among the guard. Fright, who had single-handedly saved his lord¡¯s entourage from Helat ambush in the north. Grizzled Joashin, who at his lord¡¯s order had fought a thousand battles as a mercenary and come out the victor in every one. Malice, who had taken his lord¡¯s place in an impossible duel and saved the man¡¯s life and dignity.

    Those were the men who deserved the awe of the students, the men whose valiant examples of service they should aspire to follow. Vorino was barely more than a royal babysitter.

    But proximity and age had taken the shine from the legends. The students saw thinning hair, sagging muscle, and growing paunches and couldn¡¯t imagine the speed, power, and bravery of the Thorns their instructors had once been. Even Heartless failed to hold their attention. These boys had never known a Thornfield without the Great Defier.

    Vorino was a new face, in his prime, and liveried in the king¡¯s colors. He was what the boys imagined when they heard the words Royal Thorn, and so he received their unmerited admiration.

    ¡°Small crop this year,¡± he said in attempt to change the subject.

    ¡°Young men who can use the blood magic are getting harder to come by these days,¡± the grandmaster admitted. ¡°Those who have it are either born noble and exempt from service or have already been drafted into a lord¡¯s standing army and killed on the northern front.¡±

    ¡°And now we¡¯re at war with the pirates. That ought to take out what¡¯s left.¡± A hand slapped Vorino¡¯s back. ¡°Welcome home, you ugly mutt.¡±

    ¡°Six!¡± Vorino dropped his knife and slung an arm around his young friend.

    Hard to believe this was the same gawky little lunatic Vorino had tried to get kicked out of his room. Looked as if Six had finally grown into those gangly arms and legs, and there was even a hint of stubble on his jaw. Same eerie gold eyes, though.

    Vorino and Six had started at Thornfield a couple years apart, but when two of Vorino¡¯s bunkmates had died of a particularly virulent ague, Six and another first-year had been assigned to fill the empty beds.

    ¡°Saint Daven now,¡± the gold-eyed man said, taking the seat next to him. ¡°Though I did consider going back to Six after¡­ after.¡±

    Awkwardly, Vorino nodded. It didn¡¯t need to be said what ¡°after¡± his friend was referring to. The Cinterlands Rebellion was four years in the past, but the night still stood fresh and bloody in the minds of every Royal Thorn.

    ¡°Thorns don¡¯t have the luxury of retreating, Master Saint Daven,¡± Grandmaster Heartless reproved him. ¡°We push forward, always.¡±

    ¡°Of course, Grandmaster.¡±

    Under the guise of taking a drink, Vorino studied his young friend more closely. Dark circles lay under his eyes, and shadows haunted the hollows of his angular face. No Thorn slept well¡ªthe grafting didn¡¯t allow it¡ªbut these days Saint Daven must have more reason than most for day terrors.

    Four years before, the rebel Lord of the Cinterlands had grafted three men without the king¡¯s sanction, intending to use them to dethrone Hazerial. Of the stolen Thorns, Saint Daven was the only survivor.

    More than thirty of the Royal Thorns sent to arrest the traitorous lord hadn¡¯t been so lucky.

    Khalit-alash¡ªthe Old Khinesian legal term for ¡°brother-killer¡±¡ªwas how the Thornfield Archives recorded the death of a Thorn at the hands of another Thorn. In one bloody battle, Saint Daven had slain more brothers than most Thorns were called upon to face in a lifetime, outpacing all but Master Risk, Ikario¡¯s infamous executioner.

    What the previous grandmaster, the ancient Poqin, had been thinking when he allowed the unauthorized grafting was impossible to say. Perhaps his sight had already been too weak to recognize a falsified writ when he held one. All that could be said for sure was that Poquin¡¯s death in his sleep had come just in time to save him from a very messy alternative at King Hazerial¡¯s hand.

    Not soon enough to save Wraith, Cutter, or the thirty-odd Royal Thorns Saint Daven had killed defending his lord, however. Nor soon enough to keep Saint Daven¡¯s grafted soul from shattering when his lord fell.

    But that was the life of a Thorn. Brief, brutal, and ultimately, disposable.

    Vorino racked his brain for some neutral ground, something they could talk about that skirted around their lost brothers.

    ¡°I suppose you¡¯re weapons master now?¡± he asked. As a boy, Six had always been supernaturally good with any weapon he picked up¡ªbetter than any sane man could hope to be.

    ¡°More like Master of Charity.¡± Saint Daven scowled down at his cup. ¡°Grandmaster finds things for me to do so it looks like I¡¯m not just living off the king¡¯s generosity.¡±

    Heartless scoffed. ¡°That¡¯s nonsense. These nights, staff are as short in supply as new students. In active war, no one retires their Thorns. I work Saint Daven half to death just to keep Thornfield from being washed out with the tide. There is no charity or kindness in it. Only cold, simple necessity.¡±

    ¡°Heartless necessity?¡± Vorino ventured.

    Saint Daven let out a sharp bark of laughter that looked as if it surprised him. Pleased with himself for lightening his friend¡¯s dark mood, Vorino laughed, too.

    ¡°I swear you young fools get more tiresome every year,¡± Heartless said, shaking his head. But behind his cup, he smiled as well.

    ***

    ¡°What do you know about the war at sea?¡± was Grandmaster Heartless¡¯s next line of inquiry. Several other masters had crowded around to listen.

    ¡°Very little.¡± Vorino hadn¡¯t been privy to the king¡¯s war council, being instead tasked with the domestic job of delivering the former crown prince to Thornfield. But he had picked up bits and pieces before he left. ¡°The strong gods declared it as the path to victory over the Helat. Ruis says the king believes that attacking the Kingdom of Day by sea will give us the upper hand.¡±

    ¡°How so, when we barely know anything of the continent¡¯s northern coastline?¡± asked Master Fright. Fright was in his middle years, and his foppish taste in all the modern fashions made him something of a joke¡ªat least until he had steel in hand. Then it became clear that he was well named.

    ¡°They won¡¯t expect it, for one,¡± Vorino said. ¡°If you look at the goods Lord Narinde¡¯s seagoers have seized from the pirates in the past, it¡¯s obvious the Helat have merchant fleets just like ours that get similarly raided by the savages. His Highness Crown Prince Etianiel believes that, with the ocean at our disposal, we could seize a handful of Helat trading vessels and make a massacre of their coastal cities before they know what hit them.¡±

    ¡°Take a look down there.¡± Heartless indicated the new arrivals with a subtle jerk of his chin. ¡°See the lad with the blond hair? A pirate from the first raid.¡±

    Vorino frowned. ¡°I was under the impression that there would be no survivors.¡±

    Master Malice clicked his tongue at Vorino¡¯s naivety. ¡°Hostages win and lose wars. A wise king will always hold at least one until he is assured of victory.¡±

    Malice would know. He¡¯d been nabbed from the Coffee Islands as a boy along with a slew of native children. Now his people served the Kingdom of Night in their own coffee forests and cane fields.

    ¡°According to the orders I received, His Majesty intends to graft the pirate when he¡¯s finished his training,¡± Heartless said. ¡°I assumed he would be used as a ransom. Waging war requires a near constant supply of gold, after all, and even back in my day keeping the war coffers full was an endless struggle. If your source is correct about a sea attack on the Helat coastline, however, the boy¡¯s knowledge of the waters could prove pivotal.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s supposed to stop him from swimming away before then?¡± Saint Daven asked, speaking up for the first time in several long minutes. Vorino was glad to hear it; he¡¯d begun to think that his friend¡¯s glassy, distant stare meant Six had left them behind to relive bloodier memories.

    Heartless looked to their Coffee Island brother. ¡°I believe Master Malice is the best one to answer that question.¡±

    ¡°I can tell you in one word why he will stay.¡± Malice grinned, showing wolfish teeth. ¡°Revenge.¡±

 Chapter 15: Good as Dead

    The sun was nearing its apex as the newest crop of prospective Thorns was assigned to board in the westernmost wall of Thornfield¡¯s battlements because it had the highest abundance of empty bedchambers. The years were not always so clearly segregated, however. Deaths, fires, and the constant construction required for the upkeep of such an old structure frequently saw new arrivals boarding with senior students, or seniors shifted to junior¡¯s rooms when repairs were required.

    Once assigned, Izak and his bunkmate were left to acquaint themselves with their room. Not a lot of work, that. A door, an archer loop, four shelf beds anchored to the stone walls, two at knee-height, two more nearer the low ceiling. One might call it a cell without being corrected.

    Two seemed a small population for a room with four bunks, but perhaps this was another nod to royalty. Thornfield had no luxury to give, so let the former crown prince have extra space.

    The foreign probable murderer went to the archer loop and looked out at the sea. Sometime during the late meal, the rain had stopped, leaving behind a churned-surf smell and the harsh glare of sunlight.

    ¡°Noisome, isn¡¯t it?¡± Izak tossed the roll of blankets he¡¯d been issued onto the ugly straw tick on the closest lower bunk. ¡°You don¡¯t happen to know how to arrange these so they look usable for sleeping?¡±

    Instead of answering, the foreigner craned his neck to see out the top of the archer loop, as if he expected Thornfield¡¯s meager ghost city to be hanging over their heads in broad daylight.

    ¡°Me either.¡± Izak unrolled his bundle. That was starting to look right. It almost reached from the head of the bed to the foot, anyway. ¡°I walked in on a chambermaid doing my bedding once, but we never got around to seeing how that ended.¡±

    No response.

    Izak crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the top bunk. ¡°Look, if we¡¯re stuck in here together, we might as well get to know each other. I¡¯m Izakie¡ªuh¡ªIzak, rather. Four, if you like.¡±

    Silence.

    ¡°Do you even speak this language?¡± Izak asked. ¡°I know a few others. Coffee-anee? Pilekiene lak vek?¡±

    The foreigner went to the opposite lower bunk and dumped out his bedroll. In a few efficient motions, the straw tick was wrapped in cloth and cover.

    Izak blinked. ¡°Run that by me again.¡±

    Without a word, the foreigner climbed into his bed and turned his face to the wall.

    ***

    Well after midday, the door to their room scraped open. Both Izak and the foreigner turned over.

    It was the little liar Nine. The boy squinted back and forth between the young men.

    ¡°Which a¡¯ you am I supposed to get in with?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not.¡± Izak pointed to the bunks closest to the ceiling. ¡°But take your pick of those.¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s sleeping in ¡¯em?¡±

    ¡°You.¡±

    ¡°And who else?¡±

    ¡°Just you.¡±

    Nine goggled. ¡°Ain¡¯t nobody gonna get up there with me?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s all yours. Along with your very own salks and boots.¡±

    But Izak had misread him. The boy wasn¡¯t impressed, he was dismayed.

    ¡°All out in the open by myself?¡± He shook his bald-patched head. ¡°Nah, that¡¯s bad medicine, sleeping alone. Get on over, let me in.¡±

    ¡°No.¡± The foreigner shoved Nine off his bed.

    ¡°I knew you could understand me!¡± Izak said.

    The foreigner scowled. ¡°I do not speak to blood drinkers.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re speaking to me now.¡±

    Nine turned to Izak. ¡°Let me in with you.¡±

    ¡°Absolutely not.¡± The kid looked just as dirty as he had before the bath, and now he was giving off a powerful smell of onions from the kitchens. ¡°I doubt that dip earlier was enough to kill your lice.¡±Stolen novel; please report.

    ¡°I ain¡¯t got lice, me!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not sleeping down here. You¡¯re the smallest, that bed¡¯s the smallest. Therefore, you sleep up there.¡±

    Nine tried to dodge around, as if Izak would change his mind if he just made it into the bed, but the prince was faster and had longer arms.

    Finally convinced Izak wasn¡¯t going to let him in, Nine clambered onto the top bunk and flopped down harder than necessary. The bed creaked under his bird bones.

    Izak settled back onto his straw tick, content that he¡¯d won and glad he hadn¡¯t trusted his weight to that rickety piece of driftwood.

    ¡°Anyhow, I piss the bed every day,¡± the little runt growled, ¡°me and my lice.¡±

    It was hard to sleep the sleep of the victorious after that. Izak kept waking up certain he heard dripping.

    ***

    The new recruits¡¯ first few days at Thornfield went to evaluation.

    Assessment did not begin with weapon work, but with quizzing in history, letters, arithmetic, politics, and courtly protocol. Nine wasn¡¯t the only boy among the new crop who couldn¡¯t read, write, or count. Most of the low street rabble were entirely illiterate. Several of the rustics had a basic grasp of mathematics¡ªtwo winter ricks of hay per ram and three per nursing ewe sheep would keep the flock alive until spring grazing came around again¡ªbut they had no concept of things such as debt, interest, or accrual.

    ¡°I understand why you require lessons on courtly etiquette, and I admit rudimentary numbers will come in handy, especially if all Thorns gamble as recklessly as the King¡¯s Guard,¡± Izak said after he¡¯d been deemed Excellent in every field of study, ¡°but why bother teaching the rest of it? What Thorn needs to know the subtleties of semantics in the legal sciences or the angle of decay on an arrow? Tell them to step out of the way of the pointy bit, and that¡¯s the gist, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Many lords eventually come to rely on their Thorns in more than matters of security.¡± The Master of Archives, who led the academic assessment, was a bespectacled, bookish-looking old man whose name¡ªRisk¡ªIzak would have taken as a joke if he could find any evidence that the man had a sense of humor. ¡°Who can a lord trust with his businesses, personal dispatches, collections, and lands more than a man grafted into loyalty? In many cases, quick-witted Thorns have risen to take over the night-to-night running of their masters¡¯ estates and affairs of trade or industry.¡±

    Perhaps that was true in the private sector, but Izak had never seen King Hazerial confer with a Thorn on anything but war or defense.

    Twenty-six had a different objection for the Master of Archives. ¡°What you are saying is not history, it is lies. The first Dirter War began because a filthy, blood-drinking tyrant thought he could take Ocean Rover children for bloodslaves without reprisal, not because Ocean Rovers sacked coastal villages unprovoked. Ocean Rovers do not set foot on this filth your people wallow in. All attacks were carried out on slavers your dirter king sent into Raen waters.¡±

    Master Risk looked down his hooked nose at Twenty-six. ¡°I stood in the ashes of a village destroyed by your people. When they had raped and plundered as much as they wanted, they locked the women and children into a barn and set it on fire. When women shoved their babies out the windows to save them, the pirate savages crushed the infants with burning clubs.¡±

    ¡°Lies!¡±

    Twenty-six became the first of the new crop to be scourged in front of the entire year for disrespecting a master.

    ¡°An hour earlier, and he¡¯d have broken your record,¡± Risk told Grandmaster Heartless later.

    Heartless chuckled. ¡°I suspect he¡¯s a bigger threat to your Most Fights in the First Year.¡±

    ¡°That still stands? Whatever happened to the ferocity of youth?¡±

    ***

    Martial assessment took the twin weapons masters most of two days.

    Where the prince, Four, had breezed through the mental exercises and academic questions, his bladework was average at best. His life of luxury at court had left him slow, soft, and without stamina unless he used blood magic. He handled longsword, falchion, and rapier with familiarity, but no outstanding skill. Worst, his fighting lacked any semblance of aggression.

    Master Saint Galen finally goaded the panting prince into initiating an attack by swearing that if Izak ran him through, he would be allowed to stop and catch his breath.

    ¡°So you lied to him,¡± Saint Daven said when the twins were discussing it later.

    Saint Galen shrugged. ¡°It got him to attack. Besides, he couldn¡¯t run a dead fish through.¡±

    Twenty-six surprised no one with his aggression, and he handled a cutlass as if he¡¯d been born to it.

    They had hardly begun to circle when Saint Daven spotted the pirate¡¯s free hand curled around an invisible hilt.

    ¡°What do you usually fight with in your off-hand? Cudgel? Belaying pin? Dagger?¡±

    Twenty-six¡¯s sandy brows jumped, then returned to his suspicious scowl. ¡°A swordbreaker.¡±

    ¡°Been a while since Thornfield¡¯s had a good dual wielder. I¡¯ll get Master Smith to dig something up for you to practice with.¡±

    Later, Saint Daven conferred with his brother. ¡°I need to brush up on off-hand wielding. That foreign kid¡¯s going to be teaching me before long if I don¡¯t stay ahead of him.¡±

    ¡°Let me have a hack at him.¡±

    One pirate-fight later, Saint Galen came to the same conclusion. Twenty-six was sure to lead the year in combat, though everyone knew that officially it would be reported that the king¡¯s son held the top spot.

    What the delta brat, Nine, lacked in experience, was more than made up for in sheer bloodthirsty eagerness. The boy was as wild as a winter wind, joyously hacking and slashing without a thought to protecting himself or conserving energy.

    ¡°Might have the kingdom¡¯s littlest berserker on our hands,¡± Saint Daven told Grandmaster Heartless.

    Though the newest crop of prospective Thorns was smaller than normal, Grandmaster believed it would prove one of the best to come through Thornfield in years. Only one student had had to be turned away as unteachable¡ªa palsy in the hands couldn¡¯t be corrected or overcome¡ªand everyone who stayed had powerful reserves of blood magic.

    The trick, Heartless thought as he watched the assessments, would be teaching young men who had relied all their lives on such magic to push through without it. The worst grafted Thorn was miles better trained and more skilled than any soldier, mercenary, or assassin in the Kingdom of Night, but if he ever came up against a Child of Helat and thought he could rely on blood magic to save him, he was as good as dead.

 Chapter 16: A Berserker with Two Swords

    Life at Thornfield quickly settled into routine. Early evenings were spent schoolwide in rigorous weapon work. The third- and fourth-year students assisted the Masters teaching and sparring with the first- and second-years. After the midnight luncheon came more combat studies, first in pairs, then in larger groups led by the most senior students. Thornfield¡¯s fortifications, although in some places outdated, served as an excellent training ground for castle attack and defense.

    Izak did what he had to do to get by until the physical exertion portion of the day was over. Learning to hack a man open was never going to be his favorite subject, any more than learning to cook them alive from the inside out had been. More was the pity that it took up two-thirds of his night.

    Twenty-six went above and beyond what was required because overachievement was all he knew. His brief stint as a raed commander hadn¡¯t risen from putting forth minimum effort, and redeeming the blood debt wasn¡¯t going to either. Maybe if he¡¯d worked harder when he was still a Raen, the dirter attack would have turned out differently.

    Nine was agog at seeing the pirate practicing with both a cutlass and swordbreaker at once.

    ¡°You got two blades?¡± Subjects weren¡¯t Nine¡¯s strength¡ªsitting still long enough to learn numbers and letters was torture¡ªbut even Nine could do that math. One sword made you dangerous; two swords made you twice as dangerous.

    ***

    Saint Daven was overseeing sword drills when the smelly delta brat tugged on his sleeve.

    ¡°I gotta have two swords, me,¡± Nine said.

    There was no doubt that with a sword in hand the boy was a force to be reckoned with. Unfortunately, it was mostly Saint Daven who had to do the reckoning to keep Nine from killing another student accidentally or in a fit of temper. There was no way Saint Daven was going to put two blades in those grimy little paws.

    ¡°You can barely handle one sword,¡± he told the brat. ¡°Get back to your drills.¡±

    ***

    The next evening, Nine showed up in the bailey with a matched pair of dual swords.

    Saint Galen frowned. ¡°Where¡¯d you get those?¡±

    ¡°The other master last night said I cain¡¯t handle one sword, so I hafta learn two of ¡¯em.¡±

    ¡°And you believed him?¡± Saint Daven exclaimed when the story came out later.

    ¡°Those swords came from Master Smith!¡± Saint Galen snapped. ¡°They¡¯ve got his proof marks! Where else would he get them? Anyway, you said you were looking to train more dual wielders. I figured you picked the brat.¡±

    Saint Daven rubbed his eyes. He and Gale had barely been teaching for a year, and already a student had gotten the better of them. When word got out, the older masters were going to have a good hard laugh.

    ¡°All right, from now on, we don¡¯t alternate the nights we lead training. You lead one week; I¡¯ll lead the next. And if a student says one of us told them to do something, we check.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m sure that will work swell,¡± Saint Galen muttered.

    ***

    When Master Saint Daven came around the forge, asking Master Smith about the blades, Smith just shrugged his enormous shoulders.

    ¡°Maybe I gave them swords to the little cur, maybe I didn¡¯t.¡±

    To Smith¡¯s mind, there was tension between the other masters and himself. He was certain they looked down on him for having never been a Thorn¡ªhe had no blood magic; he¡¯d just shown up at Thornfield when the previous smith happened to be looking for an apprentice.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Master Smith hadn¡¯t given the dual swords to Nine, but he had a healthy appreciation for the mischief boys got up to, and doubly so when it tweaked the noses of the former Thorns. The boys were being raised up to die, after all; they could stand a little fun in the meantime.

    Before it came out that they had been played against one another by a student, the Saints took the matter to Grandmaster.

    ¡°Unless I¡¯m mistaken, you wanted more dual wielders,¡± Heartless said. ¡°Let the boy keep them. He¡¯ll regret making twice as much work for himself soon enough.¡±

    So Nine trained with dual swords. Pretty wasn¡¯t going to believe how dangerous her twin was now!

    ***

    Around dawn each night, blade training ended and the students of Thornfield split up for lectures. Everyone was required to drill courtly protocol, but that was where the blanket instruction ended. The most ignorant of the new recruits were put through a rigorous course of letters and numbers. The most educated sat through discussions on political sciences, antiquities, and arcaneries, with the remainder filling in the classes in between. If a man left Thornfield without an education, it would not be through any fault of the masters.

    ¡°Can you believe that pirate¡¯s in the advanced sciences?¡± Thankfully, Penuel-Denuel had been given the number Fifty-one so Izak didn¡¯t have to remember his name. ¡°He must¡¯ve captured a merchant ship with a priest on it and tortured reading lessons out of them.¡±

    Izak, who had made careful note of his fellow recruits¡¯ results during the educational evaluation, wasn¡¯t surprised about the pirate¡¯s advanced placement. He¡¯d scored exceptionally well.

    What surprised Izak was that dull-witted Fifty-one had been allowed to take the advanced lectures.

    But Izak was curious how a pirate who had received appraisals nearly as high as his own in everything but courtly etiquette and history could be dense enough to keep arguing with the masters. In the first week of lectures, Twenty-six was whipped twice more for disrespect¡ªonce for calling Master of Archives Risk a liar, once for saying the archivist who had taken down the histories he referenced was a liar.

    ¡°You know, you don¡¯t have to believe any of it,¡± Izak told his surly roommate when the pirate limped back to their room after the second scourging. They were the only ones there; Nine had been sentenced to scullery again for distracting other students during lectures. ¡°The masters just want you to parrot their nonsense back to them.¡±

    Twenty-six had gotten a roll of bandages from somewhere and was smearing them with salve. He stopped long enough to glare at Izak.

    ¡°To not call out the truth is to give a liar permission.¡±

    Izak shrugged. ¡°So give them permission. It doesn¡¯t matter who started what war a hundred years ago.¡±

    ¡°All systems of law rest on fault.¡± Awkwardly, the pirate began winding the salved bandages around his shoulders. His accustomed scowl twinged as one caught the raw edge of a wound. The variance in expression was gone so quickly that Izak could almost believe he¡¯d imagined it. ¡°If fault can be transferred based on whim, then it is meaningless, and so is the system built upon it.¡±

    It was the most Twenty-six had said to him since enrollment. Clearly, argument was the best way to snare the pirate in conversation.

    ¡°Every system is meaningless,¡± Izak said. ¡°Especially if you¡¯re born high enough or low enough. The folks in the middle, they¡¯re the ones who¡¯ve got to play the game or face the consequences.¡±

    ¡°One cannot be born above or below the laws of honor.¡±

    ¡°But one can be born without an interest in honor.¡±

    ¡°Interest does not matter. Everyone is subject to the ultimate judgment of the God of the Waves. His authority is the final system. No one escapes it.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s heresy, friend. There is no God of This or That. The strong gods own it all, praise their bloody, meddling fingers, and so on.¡±

    The bandages were bunching uselessly behind Twenty-six¡¯s back, and his yanks weren¡¯t doing anything to spread them out. ¡°You say every system is meaningless, yet you observe the system of authority imposed by your gods.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a complex man.¡± Izak hopped off his bed. ¡°You¡¯re doing a terrible job. Give me that.¡±

    He snatched the ball of bandages from his roommate, and Twenty-six rounded on him, ready to fight.

    ¡°Hit me if you want to.¡± Izak could heal a split lip or black eye in minutes. ¡°But we¡¯ve only got so much time before we¡¯re expected to serve dinner, and I doubt the seniors want you dripping pirate blood into their food.¡±

    On top of the training and lectures, first-years were heaped with chore work. They drudged in the stables, sculled in the kitchen, scrubbed the laundry, and served the meals for the entirety of Thornfield, the belowstairs servants included. If even one of them shirked a task or came late to it, the lot of them were given hours of extra drills as punishment. Izak¡¯s muscles felt watery enough at the end of the night without more abuse.

    Reluctantly seeing reason, Twenty-six turned back and let Izak get on with it.

    ¡°Why not let the healers fix you up?¡± Izak asked as he adjusted the bandages. ¡°Doesn¡¯t blood magic work on pirates?¡±

    ¡°Drinking blood is an abomination.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s an acquired taste, but drinking it isn¡¯t required for the blood magic to work on you.¡± Beneath the pirate¡¯s bleeding lash marks lay a set of much older scars. Izak raised an eyebrow. ¡°You really must be a slow learner. These scars look as if they came from a scourging, too.¡±

    ¡°They are of no concern to someone born without an interest in honor.¡±

    ¡°Have it your way.¡± Izak sliced off the cloth strip and knotted the ends. He tossed the leftover bandages to Twenty-six. ¡°Keep the spares. You seem like the kind of man who¡¯ll need them again.¡±

 Chapter 17: Hungry and Alone

    Pretty waited three nights after Brat disappeared from the gaol. On the fourth, the hunger pains were so bad that they woke her up. She must not have been sleeping long, because there were still tears on her face and in her hair. The rats hadn¡¯t yet smelled the moisture and come to lick it off.

    The child-coffin-sized brick chamber the twins called home was always pitch black¡ªit was so far underground not even the ghostlight could penetrate¡ªbut Pretty could see fine. It was bright light her eyes had trouble with. She hoped it was night out.

    Pretty didn¡¯t want to go aboveground. The Closes weren¡¯t safe, but they were safer, and they were twice as safe if you were two, Brat always said. There were narrow shafts where you could scamper if bigger, meaner kids or grownups came after you, and plenty of places to pop out onto the street, run around to another hole, then slip back home without being followed. If you had a good spot tucked away from drafts like Pretty and Brat did, then the Closes were a cozy haven in the winter and a cool retreat in the sweltering delta summers.

    But there wasn¡¯t no food down there. She couldn¡¯t drink rat blood like Brat did, and she didn¡¯t know how to sip medicine off people and animals even though her twin had tried over and over again to teach her.

    She had promised to hole up and wait for Brat, and Brat had promised to come back with food. She loved her twin and very nearly worshipped that endless swaggering optimism. But even she knew you couldn¡¯t trust a word Brat said.

    That was why Pretty had been crying. Brat wasn¡¯t coming back. The two of them had never been apart so long. Their cramped little home felt empty with only one twin in it.

    Pretty took off her headscarf, combed her long black curls with her fingers, then tied the scarf on more neatly. It was a proper headscarf, like the women and girls in the low streets wore. Brat had snatched it for her, supposedly off a merchant cart rolling up River Street from the docks, but more likely, given the fine hairs that had been caught in the knot, right off some girl¡¯s head while her back was turned. The fabric was greasy and threadbare, but it stopped the rats from chewing her hair like they did her twin¡¯s, and it had come from Brat trying to make her happy, so that made it beautiful.

    Her dress there wasn¡¯t much she could do about. It was getting short in the skirt, but not short enough yet that she had to find some trousers or leggings to go beneath.

    She crouched and made her way out of the chamber, down the angled shaft to the three-way. The center one stopped in the middle at a cave-in. The righthand shaft went to a chamber like hers and Brat¡¯s, but the boy who had been living in there had coughed himself to death last winter about halfway down the tunnel. Probably crawling for the Seep. Cats and close-rats went instinctively for water when they died. Every year, rag-covered bodies had to be drug away from the Seep or a fell miasma would collect there and kill a bunch more close-rats.

    She climbed down the rusty metal staples driven into the Clutch, a round room with an arched doorway half-buried by fallen bricks and washed-in mud from a century of flood seasons. That was their first line of defense from the adults who used the Closes. Most of them wouldn¡¯t chance crawling through that pinch point on their hands and knees, and if they were crazy enough to try it, bricks could be hurled down on their heads from the shafts above.

    There weren¡¯t a lot of adults in the Closes anyway. By the time they¡¯d grown, most of the lost children calling the Siu Carinal underground home had found something on the surface world that kept them from coming back. Hangman¡¯s nooses, whoring houses, and thug work were the most common. You had to be on the watch out for the adults who remained behind. Excepting the skeletal addicts, who could barely be bothered to move except to sniff out their next fix, the grownups in the Closes were dangerous.

    Pretty avoided them by avoiding the Windings, the long maze of switchbacks and gap-toothed doorways that used to be the buildings lining the main promenade of Old Siu Carinal. Anyone could hide in those, but most often it was big anyones.

    Brat always took the Windings because they were a more direct route to the market. But Brat could outrun anybody; Pretty couldn¡¯t. She took the longer way around, through a crumbling tunnelway to a big, arched room that the close-rats called the Echoes. Ancient pictures of unknown gods and demons covered the peaked ceilings high overhead, bouncing back every footstep and word in endless mocking voices. The adults in the Closes never went that way, and even most of the kids shunned it, because of the fearsome creatures depicted on the crumbling plaster.

    From the Echoes, it was a long crawl beneath a bath house, a boarding house, and a dead temperer¡ªwho only really worked in the month before the Carnival of the Dead, but whose business stank of corpses that were laid by year-round¡ªthen through a hole in wood skirting and down an alley.

    Pretty stopped behind a broken, turned-over wagon, watching the market. It was loud out there, and the breeze raised goosebumps on her skin. She shivered. People swarmed everywhere, real folks in real clothing.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    Folks with food. They were buying it from bakers or pigeon sellers or haggling over produce from farmers come in from outside Siu Carinal. Her mouth watered and her head went giddy for a second. She caught hold of the broken wagon axle before she fell and rubbed her face hard to try to wake up. Her stomach cramped painfully, punishing her for wanting what she couldn¡¯t have.

    No one noticed the dirty face under the dirty headscarf. All night long, she watched and prayed to the Cormorant that somebody passing by would drop a scrap. She¡¯d have to stay alert and run when it happened. Lots of close-rats would be watching for the same thing. If only she¡¯d been faster last time, she would¡¯ve gotten to that loaf of brown bread Brat had thrown her way.

    Pretty gulped. She would have to be braver, too. It wasn¡¯t just speed that had lost her their meal that night.

    She trembled from head to toe when she thought about running out there with all those grown above folks. An above kid might push you in the mud and spit on you or throw a rock at your head, but above-adults were worse. Much, much worse.

    Folks came and went throughout the night, but most of them kept their eyes and hands securely on their food.

    Near dawn, a drunken dockworker tripped and dropped the roasted pigeon carcass he¡¯d been gnawing on. Finally, her chance had come!

    But Pretty couldn¡¯t move. She shook, and her heart raced. Her fingers cramped around the broken wagon lever, though she wasn¡¯t sure whether she was trying to pull herself out into the street, hold herself where she was, or just stay standing upright.

    A stray dog sprinted out into the street and snatched the carcass. Immediately, a howling chorus of close-rats burst from an unseen bolt hole across the street and chased after the mutt, flinging stones and stabbing it with sticks. They were going to get the bird or they were going to get the dog, but one way or another, they would eat.

    Shivering and sweating, Pretty dropped back against the wagon. She was perversely glad she hadn¡¯t made it out there, but now what was she going to do? She had to eat. Her whole body felt like a hollow bone she was so hungry.

    Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes. Why was she always so scared? Why couldn¡¯t Brat have kept this one oath in their whole lives and come back? Why didn¡¯t the Cormorant ever send Pretty some invisible medicine, like he sent Brat?

    Pretty hugged her empty, aching middle, blinking hard and trying not to cry like she would in their safe little home chamber. She was so exhausted that if she fell to sobbing, she might end up dozing right where she was, and you never wanted to doze on the low streets.

    The ghost city and its ghost river were getting thin, fading as the black sky caught the early rays from the rising sun. Soon she¡¯d have to take off back into the Closes or get terrible burned.

    The last stragglers and latecomers were making their way through the carts and stalls¡ªriverboat hands just finished unloading cargo, buskers looking for a drink after a long night of playing for the promenades uphill.

    A flash of magenta caught Pretty¡¯s eye. A beautiful, flowing overskirt, draped like a sunset over the ruffled burning-sky orange of the underskirt beneath. A tall, graceful lady wearing rich uphill finery was leaving the grocer¡¯s cart with her purchase, a single heart-red apple in hand, as if she were too happy with it to put it in the basket over her arm.

    Pretty couldn¡¯t look away. She¡¯d never seen anything that beautiful on the low streets. It was like watching a blue moon moth crash into a mud puddle and flap around ¡®til it drowned.

    Didn¡¯t that lady know she ought to get out of there?

    As if she had screamed that last thought, the lady stopped suddenly and looked straight at Pretty.

    The lady smiled. Not the sort of predatory smile Pretty had seen on rich lords and ladies before. This smile was as graceful as the lady herself. Sad, too.

    The lady held up her red, red apple. Jiggled it a little. Then she held it out as if offering it to someone. With her empty hand, she beckoned.

    At me, Pretty realized. She¡¯s talking at me.

    All awe and hunger and frustration disappeared in a thunderbolt of pure terror. Pretty ran for her life.

    ***

    The next night, Pretty was even hungrier and more desperate. She couldn¡¯t stay in, even if that uphill lady had tried talking to her. Pretty slipped out and hid in the recesses of the alley, promising herself this time if somebody dropped something, she¡¯d be on it. She had to. She had to get something inside her guts.

    The lady was there again, swathed in finery of lavender and pearl. She was much earlier this time, meandering down Market Street, just her and her basket, talking to sellers and scrutinizing wares. She never did get bothered or accosted, which hardly made any sense.

    When the lady passed in front of her alley, Pretty hid in the ruins of the broke-down wagon, her heart thundering like a flood season storm. Blood rushed in her ears and pounded in her head so hard that Pretty almost fell over, but the fine lady didn¡¯t look her way.

    As she passed by, however, a red, red apple dropped from her basket and rolled over to bump against a broken spoke of the wagon.

    Pretty didn¡¯t move.

    The lady didn¡¯t look back. She strolled on, lavender skirts swishing in the ghostlight.

    A shout and the slap of bare feet on mud. Some other hungry eyes had seen the apple fall.

    Pretty¡¯s hand shot out like lightning and snatched the fruit into the hiding spot with her. Cries of treachery went up outside the wagon, and somebody started shoving broken pieces aside to find her.

    Cradling the apple close, Pretty scrambled out on her belly and crawled into the Closes, skinning up her knee and banging her head in her haste. She didn¡¯t stop to breathe until she was safe in her and Brat¡¯s little chamber.

    ***

    The apple was gone from stem to blossom end in seconds, but Pretty spent the whole day dealing with the flux and stomach cramps that came from eating after so long without.

    In spite of that, the food replenished something inside her, something she¡¯d been sure would die without her twin. She had needed food, and she¡¯d gotten it all on her own, and she hadn¡¯t been caught by anybody.

    Coming back to the market night after night, that was all she¡¯d had to do. Brat hadn¡¯t always succeeded, either, but try enough nights in a row, and food was bound to find you. Maybe that was Brat¡¯s secret.

    When she was sure she could make it as far as the market without dropping her stomach, Pretty was going back again.

 Chapter 18: The Prettiest Things

    Underneath the broke-down wagon was a good hidey-hole. Plenty of room for Pretty to stretch out on her tummy and watch the market through the cracked boards. She could see in every direction except to the left where the wagon seat blocked her view, and she was hidden from all the folks out there. She¡¯d been absent a few days, holed up and sick, but nobody had taken her spot.

    The fine lady showed up about midnight, while the market crowd was in full swing. Shimmering like a pigeon in a stormy gray dress trimmed with purple and green, she bought a small wedge of cheese and another apple. She strolled through the carts and stalls with her purchases, inspecting this and that, but nothing held her attention for long.

    Imagine having a different dress for every day like that¡ªand being daft enough to wear them in the muck that blanketed Market Street.

    The lady¡¯s eyes flicked toward the alley then away, so fast that Pretty almost missed it.

    Her heart jumped up to her throat before Pretty remembered she was safe under the wagon. Nobody could see her there.

    The fine lady turned away and headed uphill. She disappeared around the corner toward the promenades.

    Pretty breathed a sigh of relief and settled in to watch for food opportunities.

    Folks came and went, the savvy kind, who knew the low streets and never dropped anything or left it unattended long enough for quick hands to grab it. Pretty didn¡¯t mind watching folks when they couldn¡¯t see her. It tickled her, seeing the way some got all ruffled up with each other or how others touched and talked and admired but never could settle on buying a solitary thing.

    Then something covered the gap she¡¯d been looking through. The wagon wood creaked and groaned.

    Pretty tensed, the air trapped in her lungs.

    But nobody ripped the pieces of the wagon away to find her hiding beneath.

    Someone heaved a weary sigh.

    Pretty almost giggled out loud when she realized what had happened. Somebody had sat down on the overturned wagon.

    She rolled onto her back to look up at the flatbottom. The gaps there were hair thin, the boards well fitted, probably to keep goods like grain from spilling out, but narrow strands of ghostlight filtered through in places. Everywhere but right over where Pretty lay.

    ¡°It¡¯s going to be beautiful for the Carnival of the Dead, the weather,¡± a woman drawled. ¡°Think you¡¯ll go?¡±

    Were two people sitting up there? Pretty couldn¡¯t tell for sure. Maybe the speaker was standing there in skirts, blocking her view into the market while the one being spoken to was sitting on top. The sweet scent of flowers and spices drifted into the wagon.

    A rhythmic scraping sound came from above. Didn¡¯t put Pretty in the mind of scraped wood, though.

    ¡°I thought sure you wouldn¡¯t come back, me. I never meant to scare you.¡± The woman had a refined way of talking, almost like a rich uphill lady, but there was a hint of low street cadence in there. ¡°Hard to remember how frightening it can be down here once you get away.¡±

    Something dropped into the dirt by the skirts.

    Pretty craned her neck to see it: a red, red apple peel cut loose like a snakeskin. She swallowed hard, her pulse picking up speed.

    ¡°You¡¯re a very beautiful child under that dirt,¡± the woman said. ¡°It¡¯s a miracle you¡¯re still alive down here by the riverfront. You must know, sooner or later, you¡¯re going to get caught.¡±

    Pretty flipped back onto her stomach and scrabbled around until she could see the exit out the back of the wagon pile. Was the woman watching it? Was somebody waiting back there to snatch Pretty if she tried to run?

    But if she didn¡¯t try, wouldn¡¯t she get caught anyway?

    ¡°Might be you already been caught.¡± Another snakeskin of peel dropped. The sound made Pretty flinch. ¡°Might be that¡¯s why you had the sense to be scared of a stranger offering you something.¡±

    Pretty felt like she was going to drop her stomach and wet her dress all at the same time. She was trapped.

    ¡°It¡¯s hard, looking into the future, especially when you can¡¯t see far enough to find the next meal, but you surely noticed there aren¡¯t no women down in the Closes.¡± The crisp crunch of a bitten apple. ¡°You need to get out before the little boys you run with down there turn into men and you can¡¯t fit into them hiding spots you used to escape to.¡±

    Pretty was shaking, the quakes coming from deep in her belly and rattling her nerves all the way to her fingertips and toes.

    ¡°Might be you live the first time or three you get caught. Might be you don¡¯t.¡± Another crunchy bite and a sigh. ¡°Then you figure if you¡¯re gonna get hurt anyway, you may as well get paid for it. But you¡¯re like to be mangled up enough by then that only the nastiest whoring houses on the riverfront want you. A couple years filling beds down on the dockside and, if you aren¡¯t mangled when you went in, you will be when they throw you out.¡±

    The woman wasn¡¯t saying anything anybody in the Closes didn¡¯t already know. But Brat had promised that they wouldn¡¯t have to go through that.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°We ain¡¯t never gonna have no bad stuff again, us.¡± That was exactly what Brat had said. ¡°I swear it on my everlastin¡¯ soul, may the Cormorant strike me dead in the street.¡±

    Pretty scrubbed her eyes. She shoulda knowed. Nothing Brat said ever came true. Her chest bucked with silent, painful sobs.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want that to happen to you, child.¡± On top of the wagon, the woman¡¯s voice was soft, with a sad note bleeding through it. ¡°There¡¯s another way out, but you got to be smarter and you got to be harder. A girl who won¡¯t take a free meal just might be able to make it. I got out, me. Maybe you can too.¡±

    It was a long time before Pretty scooted out from under the wagon and into the alley.

    The fine lady sat there in her pigeon gray dress, slender, straight back toward Pretty, face looking out over the market. The lady¡¯s head cocked, the ostrich feather in her hair bobbing gently, but she didn¡¯t turn around when Pretty stood up. If she had, Pretty would¡¯ve darted into the Closes.

    ¡°I live uphill, me,¡± the lady said. ¡°Finest townhouse on the street. I¡¯ve dined with lords and ladies, thrown masques the snoots all tripped over each other to get an invitation to. I¡¯ve sat on the High Stand during the Carnival of the Dead¡ªoh, must be near onto ten years now. Men have fought duels over me. Real, courtly duels with swords, not fistfights. Two died. From close-rat to the most coveted hand in Siu Carinal, I done it.¡±

    ¡°Your dress.¡± Pretty swallowed. ¡°It¡¯s really something.¡±

    The lady laughed, a sound like a song. ¡°You ought to see my court gowns.¡±

    She did turn, then, slow and graceful like a willow waving in the breeze. Her face was fine boned and flawless, with the barest hint of wrinkles around her eyes when she smiled.

    ¡°What¡¯s your name, child?¡±

    ¡°Pretty.¡±

    The lady rose to her feet and swept a deep, effortless curtsey. ¡°Pretty, I¡¯m Athalia, the Daylily of Siu Carinal.¡±

    ***

    The Daylily of Siu Carinal was the most famous courtesan on the delta. Of the two men who had died fighting duels for her, one was a married lord, the other the heir to the wealthiest bloodslave sacramental in the southern holdings.

    Gossip had it that the mortally wounded sacramental son had clawed his way to kiss her feet one last time before finally giving up the ghost.

    It wasn¡¯t true, but Athalia knew better than to tell anybody so. Mystique made a plain woman beautiful and a beautiful woman divine.

    She held Pretty¡¯s grubby little hand as she led the girl uphill. The girl¡¯s suspicious eyes immediately picked out the pair of bruisers with swords who shadowed Athalia from a distance.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid, they¡¯re mine,¡± Athalia said. ¡°They won¡¯t touch you, and they¡¯ll make certain no one else does, neither.¡±

    Most often, the visible threat afforded by the silent, hulking eunuchs was enough to turn away trouble before it started, in the low streets or uphill.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got eight of them, me.¡± She caught Pretty peering around, trying to find the rest, and laughed. ¡°Not with me, child. They work in shifts. When we get back to my townhouse, I¡¯ll introduce you to the rest.¡±

    There were a lot of things she would have to introduce Pretty to before they were done. There was a lot more than street between the Closes and an uphill placement.

    ***

    A townhouse, it turned out, was a palace of brilliant colors and soft cushions. Everywhere Pretty looked were good-smelling bundles of cut flowers and dried herbs.

    ¡°Ring up a bath to the blue room, Orika,¡± Athalia ordered the woman who met them at the door, ¡°and send a platter as well. Nothing too rich for now, I think.¡±

    The introductions to the sword-wielding monsters went quickly. They didn¡¯t speak, just bowed in turn when Athalia said their names. Pretty was too overwhelmed to retain much information; their names slipped past her.

    ¡°Not conversationalists, them,¡± Athalia said, leading Pretty away from the huge warriors and up a flight of stairs to a room decorated all in blue. ¡°They haven¡¯t got no tongues, nor man-parts anymore. But for protection or retribution, a courtesan can¡¯t hire no better than the Silent Sisterhood. Ah, looks like your bath¡¯s near ready!¡±

    Pretty had never heard of a bath. She panicked when Athalia told her she had to take her clothes off, thinking she¡¯d fallen for the exact trap she¡¯d been trying to avoid.

    In response to Pretty¡¯s blind terror, the Daylily calmly backed away until she pressed against the door, motioning her servants to do the same.

    ¡°I won¡¯t make you do nothing, me,¡± Athalia offered soothingly. ¡°If you want, we¡¯ll leave the room while you wash. Usually, I have one servant comb oils into my hair and another to add hot water when the bath begins to chill. You can have all of that or none of it, as you like. Those rags you¡¯re wearing will have to be burned, though. They reek, and they¡¯re too small besides. Orika¡¯s bringing you something clean and closer to your size.¡±

    Athalia held mostly to her word, having her servants bring out a tall screen and waiting behind it while Pretty disrobed. But the little close-rat was happy they were still there when she tried climbing into the bath and burnt herself. She¡¯d never felt water hotter than a summer puddle before. Athalia had a servant add cold water until Pretty could stand it.

    Baths weren¡¯t so bad after all. Pretty nearly fell asleep in it, but woke up when her hostess asked whether she¡¯d finished washing yet. That required definition and a quick demonstration.

    Much later, when she was finished, there were warm linens to dry herself on and a long soft sleeping gown to put on and a platter of cold ham and pickled vegetables to eat.

    Pretty wasn¡¯t too sure she hadn¡¯t died of fright under the overturned wagon; maybe the Cormorant had taken her to paradise.

    She didn¡¯t have the courage to ask Athalia why she was doing all this.

    So instead she asked, ¡°What do I gotta do?¡±

    ¡°To get all this for yourself?¡± the courtesan asked, combing sweet-smelling attar into the girl¡¯s wet, snarled hair.

    That was close enough to what Pretty had meant. She winced as the comb caught in a tangle, then nodded.

    Athalia¡¯s eyes looked far away, down a street the girl couldn¡¯t see.

    ¡°Pretty¡¯s a nice name, better than most close-rats get. Me, I think it¡¯s a sign of how much better everybody already knew you were than them. But to get the kind of security, the kind of luxury you see here, Pretty isn¡¯t enough. Beautiful isn¡¯t either. You¡¯ve got to be something more. Exotic, mysterious, otherworldly¡­ Those¡¯re getting closer.¡±

    Pretty looked into the mirror at the woman¡¯s graceful curves and flawless face. She wondered what Athalia¡¯s name had been when she lived in the Closes.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to make you something higher than any of that, us,¡± Athalia said. She gestured to Orika, who took over pinning up Pretty¡¯s wet hair for the night. ¡°Something these river boys and lordlings¡ªnobody in the Kingdom of Night¡ªnever seen. That¡¯s going to take time and work. You may hate me by the time it¡¯s done, but when you¡¯re lounging in your own townhouse with a half a hundred admirers and food on the table every night and more gifts and gold than you can spend, you¡¯ll thank me.¡±

    She stepped back and appraised Pretty, now free of dirt and rags and the smell of the street.

    ¡°Flowers and jewels are all fine and good, but when we¡¯re done, you¡¯re going to be something beyond that. A beauty from another world.¡±

    Athalia shifted the mirror so Pretty could see herself better. The light reflected off her pale skin and seemed to disappear into her big, dark eyes.

    ¡°Seleketra,¡± Athalia said, ¡°demon daughter of the strong goddess, the face that felled a thousand kingdoms.¡±

 Chapter 19: Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

    Nights at Thornfield were full of sweat, chores, lectures, and hazing. Izak felt as if he went from moonrise to moonset searching for a chance to take a breath.

    Mandatory rest hours in the barracks were another story. The rest was needed¡ªno one could keep up such rigorous training without recovery time, and no one could draw indefinitely on blood magic to keep going. Some gambling and games of chance were available most days until the bedtime curfew. Then it felt as if the sunlight hours dragged their heels endlessly.

    The lonely slogs to nightfall nearly drove Izak mad. He lay awake thinking he would give up the crown all over just to hold a woman in his arms again. It had been almost two weeks since he¡¯d left behind all that sweet flesh in the public house, but it felt like he¡¯d abstained for a lifetime.

    Izak wasn¡¯t the only one suffering from insomnia. While the little runt snored in the bunk over Izak¡¯s, across the room, Twenty-six tossed and turned like a pig on a spit.

    The pirate¡¯s eyes opened the moment Izak climbed out of bed.

    Izak put his finger to his mouth.

    ¡°Don¡¯t wake the loud one,¡± he whispered, gesturing to Nine¡¯s bunk.

    Twenty-six spotted the fact that Izak was headed away from the chamber pot and toward the door.

    ¡°Where are you going?¡±

    ¡°To the village. Sandy Hells, or whatever it was called.¡±

    The pirate scowled¡ªthe only facial expression he knew how to make, so far as Izak had observed¡ªand sat up. ¡°You are not allowed to leave Thornfield grounds.¡±

    ¡°Light burn Thornfield,¡± Izak hissed. ¡°I¡¯m Teikru-blessed. If I don¡¯t get to a woman soon, I may die. Or perhaps I¡¯ll murder someone. The point is, I need to get out of this ugly herd of bulls and enjoy some beautiful feminine flowers.¡±

    ¡°Third- and fourth-years patrol the gatehouse.¡±

    ¡°If I have a lookout, I can make it past them. Help me, and I¡¯ll stand you all the women and drinks you could possibly want.¡± He would promise the kingdom, his right arm, and all the gold between Thornfield and Siu Rial if he had to.

    Twenty-six dropped back onto his bunk and turned his face to the wall.

    ¡°More for me,¡± Izak muttered, heading for the door.

    ¡°I¡¯ll go!¡± Nine chirped.

    Izak cringed. ¡°Go back to sleep.¡±

    ¡°No, I want to go with you. To the whores.¡±

    Some long-forgotten conscience balked at the thought of corrupting a child as young as Nine. In truth, he shouldn¡¯t care. There were whores younger than Nine out there, and boys younger than Nine visiting them.

    Still, he couldn¡¯t shut out his palsied scruples entirely.

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t know what to do with a woman if you had one. Get back in bed.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I would! Back in Siu Carinal, I had twenty women a day and that many drinks besides!¡± Twenty was the highest number Nine had learned so far and, as such, featured in most of his exaggerations.

    ¡°Shut up before you get me caught.¡±

    ¡°No, I¡¯m your lookout!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not leaving this room until dusk.¡± Izak couldn¡¯t believe he was caught up in an argument when he could be smoke stepping his way closer to the village. He could barely think past the clamoring in his groin and in his skull. ¡°It¡¯s the rule.¡±

    Nine puffed up with fury. ¡°If you can break ¡¯em, I can too!¡±

    ¡°Forget it!¡± Izak caught hold of the energy in the boy¡¯s blood and locked it in place. Nine wouldn¡¯t be going anywhere anytime soon.

    The runt flew into a helpless rage, cursing Izak and his ancestors all the way back to Khinet.

    Izak ignored him and slipped out the door.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    ***

    Twenty-six listened to the door ease shut behind Four and lay glaring at the stonework. Behind him, Nine stormed and cursed.

    Half a man couldn¡¯t feel desire¡ªhe couldn¡¯t feel anything but rage and grief and hate¡ªbut even if he had wanted a woman, it would have been his wife he longed for, not some filthy blood drinker who sold her favors to every dirter with a spare coin.

    Twenty-six pressed his forehead to the cool stone, weathering a wave of landsickness.

    He was growing used to the solid ground¡¯s deathly lack of motion, at least enough that the overwhelming nausea had faded. It only swelled now and again. Daylight was worse than night, as he was not moving while the land around him also did not move, and he had nothing to distract him from the sickness. He couldn¡¯t sleep through it. A lifetime sailing in the sun with only occasional overnight raids had attuned his body to sleep when darkness and anchors dropped.

    On days when he did manage to doze, nightmares¡ªdaymares?¡ªpainted the insides of his eyelids with blood and fire and corpse-white attackers leaping out of unnatural, billowing black smoke. In other dreams, he held Mehet or returned to the Raen greatship and embraced his father and mother and was hailed as a man fully proven.

    The latter dreams were much harder to recover from.

    Most days, he lay awake contemplating the chains he was being trained to take on and wondering how he would kill a king he was enslaved to. From what he had learned in the arcaneries lectures, he would not have a choice once he was grafted; the compulsion would not allow him to kill the king, nor would it allow him to let someone else do the job. He would die to protect the monster.

    In the weeks since his arrival, Twenty-six had studied the tides around Thornfield. Those were simple and predictable. The patrols were nothing more than senior students in rotation. A one-eyed lookout for a greatship would have made the dirter patrols seem like blind men.

    It would be so easy to break free, but he could not leave this prison. Whenever he considered escaping, the corruption embedded in his veins twisted and contracted, trapping him like steel bands.

    Take my Mark upon you.

    Rage swelled like the landsickness in his gut.

    He had chosen this. Steel bands and darkness and the stink of blood and dirt everywhere. Cursed. Disgraced. Corrupted.

    Trapped.

    Behind him, the door to the room opened and thumped closed.

    Silence.

    Twenty-six twisted to look over his shoulder.

    Nine was gone.

    ***

    Luck ran in Izak¡¯s favor. He made it out of the barracks without waking another soul and met no late-day wanderers in the courtyard. The patrol at the gatehouse was made up of a pair of fourth-years Izak had observed to be particularly secure in their abilities¡ªso secure that they frequently fell into laxness¡ªand a few easily led third-years. Today, the elder group had convinced the younger to pass their guard playing dice.

    They would fit in well at the palace.

    Izak stopped in the shade of the gatehouse and eyed the thornknife graveyard beyond. The strenuous nights of training and choring had required constant streams of blood magic to keep him moving, and a smoke step in broad daylight would normally have cleaned him out.

    But here again luck smiled on him. The coast¡¯s fitful weather had turned; the sun was hidden behind dark thunderheads. Out on the beach, the endless din of the crashing surf had risen to quite a commotion.

    He glanced the way of the dice players, absorbed in their game.

    Before he took a step and disintegrated into smoke, however, he heard a shrill shout.

    ¡°There Four is, over yon! He¡¯s fixing to run, him!¡±

    ***

    Izak glared at the traitorous Nine. He wished he could throttle that snitch¡¯s scrawny, dirty neck.

    All around the bailey, his glower was mirrored on the puffy, sleepy faces of his fellow Thornfield students and several of the masters. The whole school had been dragged out of bed to witness that there would be no distinction between prince and commoner inside these walls. At least not when it came to punishment.

    ¡°Either I go with you, or you don¡¯t go nowhere,¡± the little churl had hissed when the foreign Master Malice had led Izak past. Even now, Nine beamed in triumph from his place amongst the bigger students.

    Grandmaster Heartless stepped forward.

    ¡°Four left the grounds of Thornfield without authorization. He attempted to entice two more first-year students into flouting the same rule. As such, he will receive twenty lashes.¡± The grandmaster¡¯s pale blue eyes cut to a face in the crowd. ¡°In addition, Twenty-six, who had full knowledge of Four¡¯s plans, did nothing to stop him, nor did he alert the masters. His consent to this blatant disregard for the rules has earned him ten lashes.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a crock of rot!¡± Izak snapped. ¡°He had nothing to do with this! I acted alone!¡±

    ¡°It would not have been possible for you to act if he had stopped you.¡± Grandmaster gestured at Master Saint Galen to proceed.

    The gold-eyed whipmaster went to pull Twenty-six out of the crowd, but the pirate shook him off and stalked to a place beside Izak under his own power.

    ¡°This is a bald-faced miscarriage of justice,¡± Izak argued.

    ¡°In the eyes of someone who is not interested in honor, perhaps,¡± Twenty-six said.

    ¡°Shut up, this isn¡¯t some legal sciences lecture to be picked apart and debated. Going to the village wasn¡¯t your idea.¡± Izak rounded on the grandmaster. ¡°I am fully and solely responsible.¡±

    Twenty-six didn¡¯t bat an eye. ¡°A man is responsible for the actions of the invalids on his watch.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m trying to¡ªYou¡¯re calling me the invalid? I¡¯m trying to keep you from being whipped unnecessarily, you ingrate savage!¡±

    ¡°Which proves you are incapable of making wise decisions. Even your dirter Masters know that to diffuse the consequences of wrong is ultimately more harmful than allowing a man to suffer the full broadside for his actions.¡±

    Seeing he was getting nowhere with his roommate, Izak turned to Grandmaster Heartless.

    ¡°Fine. If he insists on taking responsibility, then let the savage have his way. Give him all thirty lashes.¡±

    The pirate¡¯s scowl deepened. ¡°Yes, and allow the invalid to continue in his blissful foolishness.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s late, and we elderly don¡¯t resist the sun the way we once did.¡± The grandmaster squinted up at the pale gray light filtering through the cloudy sky. ¡°Give them thirty lashes apiece, Master Saint Galen, then send the students back to bed.¡±

 Chapter 20: A Rock in a Pond

    Twenty-six¡¯s previous lash marks tore open again, but he remained standing under his own power. He may only be half a man now, but that was still more man than these dirters. Four was on his knees before half the scourging was complete. He had to be supported by two other students for the remainder.

    A heavy afternoon rain fell as the dirters returned to their barracks. Four was deserted to lie bleeding and shivering in the mud.

    Twenty-six caught Nine by the skinny wrist before the boy could sprint away. The motion sent pain flaring through the torn flesh in the Ocean Rover¡¯s back, but he ignored it.

    ¡°Take his arm.¡± Between the two of them, they managed to drag the taller Four to their room and deposit him on his bunk.

    Twenty-six went to the narrow window and looked out at the rain-spotted whitecaps as they crashed on the rocky shore, then returned to his bunk. He needed another pot of salve, but he had enough to keep the bandages from sticking to his wounds, at least for one day.

    Four groaned. ¡°I¡¯m going to need blood. Which one of you volunteers?¡±

    ¡°You shoulda stoled some medicine from the masters,¡± Nine said.

    ¡°I oughta take some outta your hide, me,¡± Four imitated the boy¡¯s high-pitched drawl. That seemed to use what little energy he had left, however, because he dropped his head forward onto his bed. ¡°Go to the healers and fetch two wineskins full of blood.¡±

    ¡°Two?¡±

    ¡°Haven¡¯t you learned to count that high yet?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Course I have! I ain¡¯t no dummy, me!¡± Nine stalked to the door. ¡°I woulda knowed to take me with you when you went. Better get that straight in your head afore next time.¡±

    ¡°Easier to cut out your tongue. Then you can¡¯t tattle.¡±

    The door slammed behind the boy.

    Twenty-six set to binding his own wounds. Dirters had no control over their emotions. They were all children.

    ¡°Why carry me back?¡± Four asked.

    Twenty-six ignored him.

    ¡°I know you can hear me. You¡¯re a stubborn savage, but you¡¯re not deaf.¡±

    Twenty-six shifted an errant bandage. ¡°Why did you intervene when the grandmaster judged that I should be whipped?¡±

    ¡°Because it was wrong. I made my decision, only I should have been liable for it.¡±

    ¡°You claim fault and expect the consequences to fall accordingly.¡±

    Four made a disgusted noise. ¡°Don¡¯t think this means I care about your silly systems of judgment or laws of honor.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re not mine.¡±

    ¡°They aren¡¯t your pirate god¡¯s, either. That¡¯s nothing but piss in the wind. Keep spouting it, and it¡¯ll come back all over you. Twice as bad, if the strong gods hear you.¡±

    I was Raen. I do not fear death or dirters, and ¡°I do not fear dirter gods. If they can¡¯t hear me when I speak this plainly, then they are not gods.¡±

    The door banged off the wall, kicked open by Nine. He¡¯d come back with a single wineskin.

    ¡°Healer Prime told me you couldn¡¯t have none on account a¡¯ you¡¯re s¡¯posed to be learning to do blood magic without, but I snatched this whilst he was turned away.¡±

    Four grimaced. ¡°Smart thinking, runt. Get all three of us scourged.¡±

    ¡°Nah, they ain¡¯t borned a soul yet that can catch me stealing.¡± Nine dumped the wineskin onto Four¡¯s bed. ¡°Once I even snatched a pair of smallclothes off¡¯n a gal right afore her beau could talk ¡¯em off. They neither one seen me.¡± Nine cackled. ¡°Got a mighty surprise later on, them.¡±If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°Let me guess.¡± Four winced as he sat up. ¡°Her smallclothes were salk, too?¡±

    ¡°Shiniest you ever seen.¡±

    The stopper squelched, and the stink of blood filled the room. Sudden sickness rose in Twenty-six¡¯s gut that had nothing to do with the dead, motionless earth beneath his feet. The pale, dead flesh of a monster crammed in his mouth. The corruption pouring down his throat and setting his blood on fire.

    Twenty-six tied off his bandages and cut them, fighting back the urge to retch.

    ¡°They were probably from your importer Juan.¡± Four¡¯s amused voice clanged in Twenty-six¡¯s head. The peak of the dirter¡¯s throat bobbed as he took a long draught of blood. He sighed and wiped his mouth. ¡°Don¡¯t you hate it when your salk smallclothes get snatched, Twenty-six?¡±

    ¡°What is salk?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Course a pirate don¡¯t know salks,¡± Nine said, rolling his eyes.

    Four gulped down more blood, then wiped his mouth with his hand and held out the skin. ¡°Drink some of this. I¡¯m not great at healing others, but if we¡¯ve both got the same blood in our bodies, I can start repairing your wounds.¡±

    Twenty-six shrugged his shirt on and went back to the window. Stormy gray afternoon would soon give way to a red dusk. Two hundred yards from the walls, the waves crashed against the sand and rocks. Out past the sand bars, high seas.

    Out of reach.

    ¡°Wounds heal fastest in the sun and the salt,¡± he said finally. All of it, out of reach.

    ¡°Is that how you healed those old scars on your back?¡±

    Four could not understand, no blood drinker could. Those stripes had been a mark of pride, of wisdom, of rising to command. A raed commander without stripes was not one who could be trusted to lead and could certainly never be trusted to give out just punishments to wayward raedrs.

    ¡°You have never been scourged before.¡± Twenty-six was not blind. He¡¯d noticed how the other young men and boys fawned over Four, as if speaking with him gave them special status. His roommate was someone of high standing within dirter society.

    ¡°I certainly have now,¡± Four said. ¡°Don¡¯t know why you put up with this two times a week.¡±

    Twenty-six didn¡¯t put up with the dirters¡¯ scourgings. Holding to the truth in the face of their lies was only a minor way he could redeem himself for his failure on the beach, his failure as an Ocean Rover, as a man.

    ¡°I never been scourged, me,¡± Nine said proudly, hauling his skinny body up onto the upper bunk. ¡°And I won¡¯t never be.¡±

    Four snorted. ¡°Wait ¡¯til they find out they¡¯re a skin of blood short and you¡¯re the only one who went to the healer¡¯s since it went missing.¡±

    ¡°Having now suffered the lash, how many lashes would you give a man who attempted to leave as you did?¡± Twenty-six asked Four.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t coop up an army of horny young men in a cage for years on end in the first place. I¡¯d build a whoring house right next to the battlements and keep in good standing with the madam. She couldn¡¯t possibly have a better customer base.¡±

    ¡°If you had to assign a punishment.¡±

    ¡°If I absolutely can¡¯t get out of it, one lash for disobedience,¡± Four said. ¡°For actual crimes, five or ten. Never so many as thirty.¡±

    ¡°Not even for a rapist or the murderer of a child?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve got a headsman in every city, why waste the evening scourging the repugnant scoundrels when I could just execute them and enjoy the rest of the night with a beautiful woman and a jug of port? Unless I hated whoever they had murdered. Then¡ª¡± He made a gracious, forgiving gesture, but winced as it pulled at his healing wounds. ¡°¡ªthey can go with my blessing.¡±

    Not There is a headsman in every city, but I¡¯ve got a headsman in every city. From the blood drinker titles and ranks Twenty-six was being forced to learn in their courtly lessons, Four could only hold a handful of titles to make such a claim.

    ¡°You would have mercy because you know what it feels like to be scourged?¡± Twenty-six asked.

    Four scoffed. ¡°You want me to say that I would be merciful because I know their pain? I wouldn¡¯t. The system that would punish them is just another idiotic construction. I wouldn¡¯t hold myself to it, so I wouldn¡¯t hold another man to it, either.¡± Four flashed a smile that showed dimples like stab wounds beside his mouth and like channels high on his cheekbones. Twenty-six had seen him use it on the other students when he wanted an ally. ¡°I can give you a place high enough to flout authority, too, if you care to join me.¡±

    Even if it were a jest, who but a man in line for the blood drinkers¡¯ throne would think about wielding influence like that?

    Nine leaned over the edge of the bunk and said sleepily, ¡°I¡¯m good at flouting, me. Once I flouted twenty sheriffs so bad they went running, a-hoopin¡¯ and a-hollerin¡¯.¡±

    ¡°Fine, you can join too, Nine. We three will thumb our noses at Thornfield¡¯s rules.¡±

    Twenty-six shook his head.

    ¡°Why not?¡± Four demanded. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯ve already fallen in love with your Kingdom of Night overlords.¡±

    ¡°I have no overlords,¡± Twenty-six spat.

    That used to be true. But now he was Marked, sold to a dirter master by his own cowardice. He tamped down the hurricane anger until he could speak without shaming himself.

    ¡°Why do you work so hard to convince me that your way of thinking is correct?¡±

    ¡°You said I wouldn¡¯t get past the patrols on the wall, not that I couldn¡¯t get out of Thornfield. You know a way out of this prison¡ª¡± Four grinned his allying grin again. ¡°¡ªand if I get you on my side, you¡¯ll tell me what it is.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Zat true?¡± Nine yawned. His blinks were rapidly sailing toward sleep, but he was trying hard to keep up with their conversation. ¡°Do you really know a way we can get out, ya pirate scum?¡±

    Twenty-six didn¡¯t know a way past the patrols¡ªFour had overestimated¡ªbut he did suspect one. He just couldn¡¯t test it for himself because any time he considered it, the Mark took hold and stopped him.

    The dirter king¡¯s son was asking him how to escape. There was an answer in this, somewhere.

    And if I can get you on my side, you¡¯ll tell me what it is.

    ¡°How well do you swim?¡± Twenty-six asked.

    Four grinned. ¡°Have you ever thrown a rock in a pond?¡±

 Chapter 21: The Fools Route

    King Hazerial¡¯s return to Siu Rial was greeted with raucous cheering in the streets. News of his victory over the pirates had traveled quickly, along with stories of the savages¡¯ prince swearing loyalty to the King of Night and being paraded in a cage cart through every city between Siu Jinial and Thornfield. The war on the pirates was proceeding exactly as every peasant and commoner knew it would in the powerful hands of the strong gods¡¯ chosen ruler.

    In celebration of the victory and before the coming winter, a royal progress to the eastern lands was scheduled. By sunrise, every wagging tongue in Siu Rial agreed a dark cloud was headed for the Cinterlands and what remained of the rebellious House Mattius had better brace itself for stormy weather.

    Etian suspected there was more afoot than a simple reassertion of dominance in the farthest-flung reaches of the kingdom. As if to confirm this, the night Hazerial returned to Castle Sangmere, the crown prince was summoned to the king¡¯s private chambers.

    The king¡¯s armor bearer was busy removing the gleaming ceremonial pieces from His Majesty. Bloodslaves came and went, drawing a steaming bath for the road-weary liege, but Hazerial had ignored them, knowing nothing he said would leave these four walls on their tongues. The armor bearer was a former Royal Thorn who had been rendered deaf and mute for this post, and the bloodslaves had no more will than the furniture.

    ¡°House Skalia.¡± Hazerial jumped straight to the point. ¡°You know them?¡±

    Etian nodded, glad the king wasn¡¯t in the mood to waste time with idle chat. ¡°Lord and Lady Zinote. They hold the counties northwest of the Cinterlands.¡±

    ¡°They will host the royal household before we progress to House Mattius. There¡¯s to be a tournament. You will pit your sword work against Skalia¡¯s guard, then you will put on full display everything you¡¯ve learned of the royal blood magic.¡±

    ¡°It will be as Your Majesty says.¡±

    Hazerial assessed him, perhaps seeing the questions through Etian¡¯s smoked lenses. ¡°We give you leave to speak your mind.¡±

    ¡°Has Your Majesty received word of a threat from House Skalia which calls for such a display?¡±

    ¡°A Josean-blessed king presumptive should know that keeping overwhelming strength always before the subjects¡¯ eyes averts threats before they bud,¡± Hazerial said.

    ¡°Then this visit is merely to preserve their loyalty?¡±

    Of course not. Etian knew before he asked that it wasn¡¯t. The Eketra-blessed king never did anything without myriad reasons. Hazerial was the embodiment of the strong goddess¡¯s bloody web of the Thousand Strands.

    ¡°Four years ago, the crown entered betrothal negotiations with House Skalia,¡± Hazerial allowed. ¡°You¡¯ll wed Zinote¡¯s daughter when they¡¯re settled.¡±

    ***

    That night, Etian trained with the Thorns who had returned from the coast with his father, two- and three-on-one. As he fought, he considered the news of his betrothal the way he would have studied an enemy before the attack.

    According to the Royal Archives, Izakiel had been betrothed five times. The first had ended with the infant future bride¡¯s death. Not necessarily suspect, as it had come in a summer of plague. Two more ended in the absorption into the Kingdom of Night of the states their families ruled. No need to keep rival rulers¡¯ daughters under contract after they had sworn their lands, tributes, and allegiance to the king. The fourth had killed herself, but that was widely attributed to an unstable bloodline. The fifth had tried to run when her family was sent to the priests and had been torn apart by attack dyre.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    The betrothal of Lord Zinote¡¯s daughter to Izak had been under discussion since just after the Cinterlands Rebellion, according to the Archives, but it had been moving slowly. Apparently, Hazerial¡¯s chancellors disagreed with the head of House Skalia on the value of his only child.

    Slated as Etian had been to serve his brother until death, the second prince had never been a part of the marriageable royal family. He, like everyone else, had assumed he would die unmarried, probably violently, while protecting King Izakiel VI.

    It made sense that the crown prince¡¯s betrothal contract would be transferred to Etian the moment Hazerial had designated him as next in line for the throne. A quickly produced son, with a future Commander of the Royal Thorns on his heels, would ensure that House Khinet retained its hold on the throne. Additionally, the Skalia holdings sprawled across eight counties and included one of the largest standing armies in the kingdom.

    Even with all that in mind, Etian couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that the betrothal was suspect. It put his back up in the same way a trap laid by an opponent always did during a sparring match or on the tournament field.

    When the matches were finished, and the Thorns and prince were toweling off, Etian found Vorino, his former sword tutor. While Gander and Ruis would be more than happy to try their hand at strategy, between them, neither was particularly discerning. Vorino was an excellent strategist, not to mention he had a background in noble affairs. The sword tutor had been born the illegitimate child of a chancellor and raised as part of the household until the sentimental old man died and his legitimate sons shipped Vorino off to Thornfield.

    ¡°May I put a scenario to you?¡± Etian asked him.

    ¡°Try me.¡±

    Etian shrugged on his shirt and tucked in the tail. ¡°You¡¯re a wealthy lord whose heir just died. Your second son is of age. Do you marry him off immediately to the first candidate you can find, or do you wait a few years to make certain you¡¯ve secured the best alliance for your house?¡±

    ¡°Sounds like you want me to say you wait.¡± The Thorn scrubbed his wet hair with the towel. ¡°But if I had an urgent enough circumstance looming to consider the first option at all, I¡¯d probably hop that kid into bed with the first girl of his status I could rope into a contract.¡±

    ¡°So you choose the fool¡¯s route?¡±

    ¡°Fool, maybe.¡± Vorino grabbed a bottle of wine from the nearest table and took a swig. ¡°But maybe preventative of another kind of foolishness. Say, the new heir¡¯s been under skirts that might ruin your family and divide inheritance. Or there¡¯s an unmarried washer lady with a slightly older son who looks a lot like me, the lord, and is suddenly championing his claim to my holdings over the unmarried heir¡¯s.¡±

    Etian frowned, the list of possibilities sparking his instincts off in another direction.

    ¡°Or if your dead son had taught you a lesson about how hard it is to control a man with no wife and offspring?¡± Control the battlefield and you control your opponent. Control was the treasured weapon and weakness of the Eketra-blessed.

    Vorino tipped his head as if acknowledging a hit. ¡°Maybe a smart man takes it a step further and bumps off the older boy to make sure he¡¯s got the second under control.¡±

    ¡°But if the second knows what you did, he can avoid falling into the trap.¡±

    ¡°Sounds easy, doesn¡¯t it?¡± Vorino returned the wine bottle to the table.

    Etian¡¯s mind raced through scenarios. The lord¡¯s heir could enhance security for his wife and children, or keep distance and coldness between himself and his wife, even avoid producing offspring¡­

    Or kill the lord before the lord had his hooks in the son?

    Without the Blood of the Strong Gods in his veins, no man could equal the King of Night, and Etian wouldn¡¯t receive the Blood until Hazerial lay on his death bed. Although Hazerial had found his way around that, using his grafted brother Ahixandro against their father.

    The Royal Archives held no account of their method¡ªtoo dangerous to record something like that and leave it for just anybody to learn from¡ªbut it was an option to keep in mind.

 Chapter 22: Tentative Allies

    Izak swam as well as any other prince who had only ever splashed around in a palace bath. He understood the basics¡ªclose your eyes, flap your arms, don¡¯t try to breathe while you¡¯re underwater¡ªbut the finer points he was fuzzy on.

    Thornfield had a narrow bathhouse inside the shed behind the keep. The long, narrow, thigh-deep bath was fed by a siphon that brought water up from the freshwater aquifer below Thornfield. Water poured from a spout into the trough, which was banked on either side by a bed of coals tended by the first-years. To avoid returning contaminated water to the aquifer, a series of gated drains had been built into the lowest point of the slightly sloped bath. When the slide was pulled each morning, the dirty water drained. Then the spout was opened and the bath refilled, ready for bathers the next night.

    It wasn¡¯t the steaming luxury Izak was used to, and it lacked the beautiful attendants to scrub his back, but he made use of it regularly.

    Twenty-six did as well, but the pirate preferred to bathe late in the day, when the rest of the students and masters had gone to bed. In fact, he had volunteered for bathhouse cleaning duty so that he was always the first to wash in the new water. Despite Izak¡¯s assertions that it was obviously untrue, Twenty-six held to the strange notion that bathwater was tainted the moment someone climbed in.

    Nine maintained that, clean or tainted, water was bad medicine one oughtn¡¯t fool with. He never used the bathhouse, but when he heard what his roommates were planning, he suddenly couldn¡¯t live without being involved.

    Izak wanted the runt to take a blood-oath first that he wouldn¡¯t turn them in to the masters.

    Nine scowled. ¡°Blood-oath me that you ain¡¯t gonna lock me up and leave me behind again!¡±

    ¡°Fair enough.¡± The prince borrowed a sword from the storage shed in the bailey and sliced his palm open.

    The runt took the sword without hesitation and did the same. They shook hands, smearing the blood and Nine¡¯s ever-present layer of filth into their open wounds, much to the pirate¡¯s disgust.

    When the students had been released from training for midnight luncheon, the trio waited for the bailey to clear, then made their way to the back of the bathhouse.

    From the rear wall, the bath¡¯s drain flowed into a culvert that carried Thornfield¡¯s wastewater out of the bailey and into the inlet between Thornfield and the mainland. A grating had been built beneath the battlements to prevent creatures larger than the crabs that collected there from swimming in, but the bars were corroded by the constant mixing of salt water and fresh. The pirate swore he had seen a ray¡¯s wings break the surface there once, a beast too large to have fit through the grating if the bars continued beneath the water.

    Four looked at the culvert in dismay. ¡°You want me to dive beneath that sludge and find out if the grating has rotted away enough to slip through?¡±This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    It looked particularly thick just then. The tides were down, so no waves were flowing in and pulling waste out. Even Nine wrinkled up his nose at the stink.

    ¡°Not until late in the day,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°While I see to the bathhouse duties, you will check the grate, then wash the filth from yourself. Then I will drain the bath and refill it with clean water.¡±

    Izak grimaced. ¡°Why don¡¯t you check it?¡±

    ¡°I am not invested in the results. I do not care if you make it to the village or die of lack of female company, as you claim you will.¡±

    ¡°And we can¡¯t do this after you¡¯ve taught me how to swim?¡±

    ¡°What is the point of teaching you if there is no opening?¡±

    For a split second, Izak seriously wondered whether a day in a woman¡¯s arms was worth it.

    Stupid question. Of course it was.

    ***

    ¡°It¡¯s only a half-grating!¡± Izak reported happily later that day, when he found Twenty-six alone in the bathhouse. Sick-smelling sludge dripped from his hair and clothes. ¡°Reaches down to about this far off the culvert bottom¡ª¡± He measured the distance with his hands, about two feet. ¡°¡ªthen nothing.¡±

    ¡°You need to bathe,¡± Twenty-six said, backing off a step.

    Izak grinned. ¡°Forget bathing, let¡¯s go! Right now. No one¡¯s in the bailey, and the patrol just passed by on their rounds. We¡¯ll have all the time in the world.¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Why not?¡±

    Twenty-six stopped scooping the ashes from the coal bed. ¡°Because I do not custom prostitutes. Because you cannot swim. Because you were scourged less than seven days ago for trying to leave, and the patrols will keep a weather eye for at least another seven days. Because the wind is blowing a squall ashore. Choose one and let that be the answer.¡±

    ¡°Fine, but I can¡¯t wait long.¡± Izak started stripping his filthy clothing off and dropping it onto the floor in loud, wet smacks. He climbed into the bath, a cloud of grime swirling away from him as he sank into the warm water. ¡°Tonight, after lunch and before second combat training, you start teaching me to swim.¡±

    Twenty-six stopped scooping ashes and stood, his gray-green eyes locking on Izak¡¯s. The pirate always kept a stern expression in place, but there was something deadlier than usual in his glare.

    ¡°I do not take orders from any dirter.¡± As if he would cut Izak in half if only he¡¯d had a sword in hand.

    Izak smiled and raised his hands to show he was no threat. Also to catch hold of the energies in his roommate¡¯s blood and stop him where he stood if he had to.

    ¡°See? I can¡¯t even think, I¡¯ve been celibate for so long. What I meant to say was, ¡®Twenty-six, won¡¯t you begin passing on your vast and brilliant swimming wisdom to me tonight?¡¯ I promise my manners improve after a night of debauchery.¡±

    The bathhouse door banged open, admitting Nine. The runt had been sentenced to the kitchens again for talking and generally distracting other students during lectures, and had only just finished with the extra duties.

    ¡°Didja figure out¡­¡± Nine trailed off, looking from Izak to Twenty-six. His eyes lit up as he sensed the electricity crackling in the air.

    ¡°Are we gonna brawl, us?¡± The runt had become particularly fond of scrapping with the other twelve- and thirteen-year-old new recruits, and he was always looking for an excuse outside training to fight with bare knuckles, as that wasn¡¯t a flogging offense.

    Izak ducked under the water to scrub the filth from his face, then surfaced, spouting water from his mouth and nose.

    ¡°Of course not,¡± the prince said, pushing wet hair off his forehead. ¡°I was just thanking Twenty-six for tonight¡¯s upcoming swimming lesson. And he was reminding me not to get too cocky out there or he¡¯ll let me float out to sea.¡± With exaggerated casualness, Izak dug grit and sludge from his ears. ¡°Did I understand that correctly, Twenty-six?¡±

    After a moment, the pirate nodded. ¡°We understand one another.¡±

 Chapter 23: Brothers

    The swimming lessons took place on the opposite side of Thornfield from the culvert they intended to use, directly in front of the gatehouse.

    The first time the pirate crossed the beach and stepped into the surf, the patrols raised the alarm. Never mind that the former crown prince accompanied him and their scrawny roommate lounged on the beach, winging shells at them. The foreigner was doing something strange; the masters had to be notified.

    ¡°The keep at the Lake Onicas Hunting Lodge is half underwater in the flood season and a quarter underwater out of it,¡± Izak supplied smoothly when they were dragged before the grandmaster. ¡°I¡¯ve never learned to swim, because I never thought I¡¯d be the one defending it. Recent events, however, make it clear that it would benefit me and my future master if I take an interest.¡±

    The lessons were allowed to continue.

    As always, Izak was a fast learner, and given the urgency of this particular focus, he was even more dedicated to Twenty-six¡¯s lessons than he was to most subjects.

    The same could not be said for Izak¡¯s nightly training. He showed the same apathy for sword work at Thornfield that he¡¯d shown growing up. Vorino had allowed him to give up the art entirely, since he couldn¡¯t force Izak to make an effort and since it had been assumed that the elder prince would never need to handle a blade unless he wanted to.

    Thornfield¡¯s weapons masters had no intention of allowing him to give up, however. The twins watched Four¡¯s lazy bladework night in and night out. When backed into a corner, the prince could defend himself, but he never put forth more effort than he absolutely had to to avoid injury.

    Saint Daven and Saint Galen switched Four from falchion to rapier to saber to longsword to bastard sword, searching for something that would get his blood pumping. The prince¡¯s lackadaisical attitude only worsened. He was skilled enough to get by with any sword, but he had no interest in honing that mediocrity into something more.

    The first-years had been at Thornfield for a little over a month when Fifteen, a rustic from the Sharsena Hills, was run through by Forty-three, a wild-eyed low street boy.

    Saint Galen heard the cry and looked up from helping a senior with a complicated parry. Across the bailey, a double-edged shortsword wobbled in Fifteen¡¯s gut. The low street boy shrieked and stepped on his practice partner¡¯s chest, trying to yank the sword out.

    The weapons master darted through the crowd of swinging swords. ¡°Nine, go get Healer Prime!¡±

    At the urgency in Saint Galen¡¯s voice, the runt bolted toward the healer¡¯s shed like a loosed arrow.

    ¡°Stop that!¡± Four, who had been sparring nearby, dropped his rapier and shoved Forty-three away from the impaled rustic. ¡°You¡¯re making it worse.¡±

    Saint Galen skidded to a stop beside Fifteen. Cursing, he crouched and inspecting the injury. A hole in the gut that big would most likely prove beyond the help of blood magic. Smelled as if it had pierced the bowel, probably from Forty-three jerking the blade all over the place in his panic.

    The prince was still standing over them, holding the wild-eyed low street boy back. Four¡¯s face was nearly as gray and bloodless as the dying man¡¯s.

    ¡°Over here!¡± Nine rushed back in, nearly bowling the other two over.

    ¡°Stand aside!¡± Healer Prime bellowed. A pair of underlings placed a stretcher in the dirt beside the farm boy.

    With swift efficiency, Fifteen was whisked away to the healer¡¯s shed, where he would be given a series of drinks to hold the pain at bay while Prime decided whether he could be healed. If not, he would be mercifully put out of his misery to spare him the slow, suffering death of a gut wound.

    ¡°It¡¯s over,¡± Saint Galen told the shocked crowd of students. In his opinion, the only thing to do when disaster struck was to keep moving before you realized how much it hurt. ¡°Get back to your training. Move!¡±

    Fifteen was given the coup de grace the following evening.

    The tragedy brought unintended enlightenment, however. Saint Galen had seen a crack in the prince¡¯s bored, lazy veneer.

    To test his theory, Saint Galen tried a new tactic with Izak that night.

    He paired off the rest of the students, keeping the experience level sufficiently widened in the early drills to make sure the older and more experienced students could teach their younger counterparts.

    Except for Four, who he took aside to work with alone.

    Using a longsword to match the one the prince was practicing with that night, Saint Galen pushed and bullied the prince around the bailey, not giving him an inch. Four¡¯s cool boredom with the training was gone, replaced by a twisted expression somewhere between constipation and disquiet.

    ¡°Come on, you chicken gizzard,¡± Saint Galen snarled, thwacking Four¡¯s pitiful blocks aside. ¡°Hit me like you mean it. What are you, afraid of me? Hit me like I¡¯ll leave you alone if you lay me open. Stick a sword in my gut, and I¡¯ll let you have the rest of the night off.¡±

    Four winced, his face turning ashen again.

    Saint Galen had to back the prince up against a wall before he would do any convincing fighting, and even then the strikes seemed to be intended to hold the older man off rather than actually make contact.

    Having seen all he¡¯d needed to, the weapons master cracked the back of Izak¡¯s hand with the pommel of his sword, snapping a few bones and knocking the prince¡¯s blade to the dirt.

    ¡°Heal that up and practice with your off-hand for the rest of the night.¡± A broken bone would be the work of only a day or two for someone born with the royal blood magic.

    ¡°Four¡¯s scared he¡¯s going to hurt someone,¡± Saint Galen told his twin late that day. ¡°And as lazy as he is about training, he probably will at some point. He¡¯s got just enough skill get by for now, but the rest of his class is going to leave him behind by the end of the year.¡±

    ¡°He needs a weapon he doesn¡¯t already think he knows,¡± Saint Daven said. ¡°Even better if it puts distance between him and his opponent, makes it feel less deadly.¡±

    The next night, Saint Galen showed up to the bailey with a swordstaff.

    ¡°Four, get over here.¡± The weapons master held out the staff, displaying the long, spearlike wooden shaft and thick, two-edged blade attached to the end. ¡°Ever used one of these before?¡±

    The blade was pitted with age everywhere except for the edges, which Master Smith had whetted just before sunup for him. Swordstaves had fallen out of fashion along with their less deadly cousins, the quarterstaves. There might be a shepherd or two out in the far-flung reaches of the kingdom who still kept a good long stick with a blade on the end for dyre and bears, but it had been a while since the weapon had seen any use at Thornfield.

    ¡°Is it some sort of harvesting tool?¡± Four guessed.

    ¡°With that haft?¡±

    The prince smirked, clearly annoyed that he didn¡¯t already know the answer. ¡°I¡¯ve seen farmer¡¯s scythes with handles twice that long. Halberd?¡±

    ¡°Swordstaff.¡± Saint Galen handed over the weapon. ¡°Should keep you from getting blood on your skirts.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    With the butt on the dirt, the shaft came up to Four¡¯s cheek, the blade topping out a few inches over his head. It would extend his reach by an entire body length at its farthest, which was nothing to laugh at considering the prince was already taller, with greater reach, than most of the students at Thornfield.

    It was also a weapon Izak had never trained with before and which none of his skills translated to. He would have to learn an entirely different style of fighting to wield the staff. The switch would require all his attention just to keep up with the rest of his class, who already had a month¡¯s practice with their blades.

    In just a few weeks, Four¡¯s progress with the swordstaff proved the impulse was the right one. He trained harder than he ever had before, put forth more effort.

    He never said it, but Saint Galen could see that the prince felt right with the staff in his hands. He wielded it like a part of his body that he¡¯d only just discovered. The way Gale wielded a whip or Dav wielded a hatchet sword.

    Perhaps staves would come back into fashion.

    ***

    Hazing was a major portion of life for Thornfield¡¯s first-years. Everything from being beaten by older students to being tripped during the meal service or being thrown into the pig wallow out back of the stables.

    Izak laughed off most of the abuse, believing his tormenters would grow bored with him if he treated their attacks as nothing more than a good joke. Bruises and split lips healed fast enough with blood magic, and though he absolutely hated getting dirty, he gave it his best effort never to let that show, knowing that would only spur the upperclassmen¡¯s pranks to more disgusting depths.

    It was in Nine that the upperclassmen found an unexpected ally. The scrawny boy joined in on the hazing with bloodthirsty enthusiasm, thrashing other first-years along with the older students and cackling at the multitude of embarrassments visited upon them. Nine even offered suggestions when fourth-years too mature for or indifferent to the traditional hazing would have let off a potential victim off without incident. The little brat was eerily good at knowing what would most discomfit a person.

    ¡°Dunk his face in the muck barrow!¡± Nine hooted gleefully. ¡°Four hates getting dirty!¡±

    Passing only steps away from said barrow, just outside the stables, Izak¡¯s easy grin froze solid.

    ¡°Nine, I swear to the strong gods¡ª¡±

    ¡°Get it on his hands, too!¡± Nine advised. ¡°He gets all sortsa riled when his hands is filthed up!¡±

    ¡°I know where you sleep, you little parasite!¡±

    Izak ended up covered in manure to the elbow, but, thankfully, the students doing the dunking didn¡¯t have the guts to shove the son of the king in head-first.

    After Nine let Izak¡¯s secret disgust for getting dirty slip, the word passed around the school, and the prince found himself regularly splattered with handfuls of dung, mud, and rotten food. When one only had two pairs of clothing to alternate between laundering days, getting dirty was infuriating.

    Thus he found himself on the beach, washing dung from his shirt in the surf while he waited for Twenty-six to show for the daily swim lesson.

    ¡°Let me sleep in your bunk and I¡¯ll tell ¡¯em you never did care about no dirt,¡± Nine said.

    ¡°I would rather take a mule kick to my nethers.¡± Izak scrubbed at the greenish-brown stain. He¡¯d seen washerwomen doing this before and always thought it looked quaint and peaceful. It wasn¡¯t, especially not when the cause of one¡¯s toil kept pestering one. ¡°The damage is done anyway. First foundation laid remains.¡±

    Nine stopped hucking starfish and shells into the ocean. ¡°Remains what?¡±

    ¡°Forever. It¡¯s a proverb. It means people believe the first thing they hear about you and won¡¯t listen to anything else, even if it¡¯s true.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s a foundation?¡±

    ¡°The base you build everything else on top of, like the initial piece of construction for a palace or guild hall.¡±

    Nine considered that for nearly a full second, which, from what Izak had seen, was a long time for the kid to think about any one thing.

    He shrugged bony shoulders. ¡°So you just make ¡¯em into closes.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Closes. You know closes! When they build a new city on top a¡¯ the old streets and close ¡¯em all in?¡± He demonstrated by stacking a sand dollar on a shell on another shell. ¡°That¡¯s what you do with old foundations. Make ¡¯em into closes.¡±

    It wasn¡¯t bad advice; it just came from a bad advisor.

    Izak wrung out his shirt. ¡°And how exactly do I do that?¡±

    Twenty-six came through the open gatehouse to join them. He had escaped the dung-throwers in the bailey but had an impressive goose egg growing over his left brow. Attempts at hazing on the pirate usually devolved into beatings, however they began.

    The patrols on the gatehouse watched him cross the beach, still alert for treachery despite the fact that it had been over a month since their first lesson.

    ¡°We tell ¡¯em Twenty-six here hates gettin¡¯ his drawers dropped in front a¡¯ folks,¡± the runt suggested cheerfully. ¡°Them big lads¡¯ll forget all about how prissy you are and take to botherin¡¯ him instead.¡±

    ¡°How well do you breathe underwater, Nine?¡± Twenty-six asked without looking away from the ocean.

    ¡°He does have a knack for finding that one nerve and striking it with all his might, doesn¡¯t he?¡± Izak assessed his work. The stain wasn¡¯t coming out. Whichever horse, mule, or pig had made it must have eaten a troughful of dye. ¡°Do you know what loyalty is, Nine?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Course I do!¡± Nine thumped a fist on his narrow chest. ¡°I got loyalty to the marrow, me. Once thirty-nine sheriffs laid a trap for me and dragged me into their torture chamber¡ª¡± Thirty-nine was the boy¡¯s new highest number; he was having trouble mastering forty. ¡°¡ªbut no matter how they agonized me, I never did tell ¡¯em my sister Pretty was the one who laughed at that fancy lady in the street. All us close-rats got gobs of loyalty.¡±

    ¡°That must be nice. There wasn¡¯t much loyalty where I came from.¡± Izak laid his shirt out to dry on a log of driftwood, then began stripping down to his smallclothes. ¡°I tried to show some to my siblings, but I¡¯m not sure whether it did any good. I hope it did.¡± Of course, hoping was about as useful as praying to the Blasphemous One. ¡°But the former captain of the Royal Thorns told me once that loyalty was the most important part of his job. Loyalty to his king and to his brothers-in-arms.¡±

    ¡°Whose arms was his brothers in?¡±

    ¡°¡®Brothers-in-arms¡¯ means the men he fought alongside, the other Thorns grafted to the king. The point is he would never have betrayed his brothers to the enemy. Just like you didn¡¯t betray your sister.¡±

    Nine¡¯s eyes were huge. ¡°That¡¯s bad medicine, betrayin¡¯. It heaps up on whoever does it.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s disloyalty,¡± Izak agreed. ¡°Like what you did, telling those fourth-years that I didn¡¯t like getting muddy.¡±

    ¡°You lyin¡¯, rotten fish guts!¡± Nine roared. ¡°I ain¡¯t never betrayed nobody, me!¡±

    ¡°Then what do you call it? You betrayed information to our enemy. Light, Nine, you even suggested we both betray Twenty-six, and you¡¯re not under torture from anyone! We¡¯re brothers, Nine¡ªyou, me, and Twenty-six¡ªbrother Thorns, brothers-in-arms, brother roommates¡ªand you betrayed us.¡±

    Tears of fury and shame streaked the younger boy¡¯s red face. A sudden wail erupted from Nine, making Twenty-six shift uncomfortably and turn away to finish stripping down to his smallclothes.

    Izak cringed. He hadn¡¯t expected the bloodthirsty little runt to take the indictment that hard.

    ¡°I never meant to be a betrayer, me!¡± Nine threw his bony arms around Izak¡¯s neck, smearing snot and tears on his chest. ¡°Don¡¯t hold it to my account, Four! Swear you won¡¯t!¡±

    Before Izak could promise and pry the boy off him, Twenty-six broke in.

    ¡°What will it profit him to make an oath if you¡¯re only going to betray him again?¡±

    ¡°I never will, may the Cormorant strike me dead in the street if I¡¯m a-lying! Now you swear, Four!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re forgiven,¡± Izak said, finally breaking the boy¡¯s armlock around his throat and shoving the oozing runt onto his backside in the sand. ¡°For Teikru¡¯s sake, Nine.¡±

    ¡°Swear you don¡¯t hold it to my account!¡±

    ¡°I swear I don¡¯t hold it to your account.¡±

    Nine sniffled. ¡°May the Cormorant strike you dead in the street if you¡¯re a-lying?¡±

    ¡°All that and more,¡± Izak said. Then he smacked Nine on the back of the head. ¡°Just stop blubbering. Light.¡±

    ***

    Nine had never had brothers before.

    A sister was good, and you couldn¡¯t get a better one than Pretty, but she took a lot of taking care of. Just look at how long it was going to take to become a Thorn and get gold and buy an uphill placement to get her out of the Closes.

    Brothers like Four and Twenty-six were good medicine as far as Nine was concerned. Sometimes they were plumb fools, but mostly they took care of themselves.

    The number nine was good medicine, too. You only had to hear it to know that.

    Nine, Four, Twenty-six, and Pretty. Taking care of a sister would be a lot easier between three brothers.

    ***

    ¡°How did you know that bilge rat would care about loyalty and betrayal?¡± Twenty-six asked as he and Izak waded through the waves to the deeper water.

    Izak shrugged. ¡°I didn¡¯t. He¡¯s always hanging around us, though, trying to do what we do. He must see us as something besides shields from a beating when the older students come around.¡±

    ¡°It was a wise course of action. He will do anything you say now.¡±

    Something squirmed in Izak¡¯s gut. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean it as mercenary as all that.¡±

    ¡°But you do not believe in the worth of honor, so you can¡¯t believe in the worth of loyalty.¡±

    ¡°Of course I do.¡± Izak slapped at the wave buffeting his stomach. ¡°I wasn¡¯t lying to Nine or manipulating him.¡± Burn it all, why should he have to explain himself? Any direct descendant of Khinet was assumed to be a grand puppet master¡ªand yet, that was something Izak had never aspired to. ¡°A brother owes loyalty to his siblings.¡± He made the effort and was able to laugh. ¡°A man who would murder his brother is beneath contempt.¡±

    Twenty-six had stopped moving forward. ¡°Murder?¡±

    Well. How was that for a slip of the tongue?

    ¡°It¡¯s a short step from betrayal to murder.¡± Izak turned back to survey the walls and change the subject. The patrol on the gatehouse watched them as if they would be capable of intervening if Izak and Twenty-six suddenly turned tail and swam out to sea. ¡°Do you think our lessons are accepted enough yet to try a day out?¡±

    Twenty-six shook his head. ¡°You are still not skilled or strong enough to swim as far as the dunes around the thornknife graveyard.¡±

    ¡°And I suppose the only cure for that is practice and exertion.¡± Izak sighed with exaggerated sadness, thinking again of the soft skin waiting for him on the opposite end of the spit of sand. Miles away, and yet it might as well be on the other side of the world. ¡°Well then, let¡¯s get to it.¡±

 Chapter 24: Negotiations

    The royal progress crawled eastward, its endless carriages, carts, horses, and ox churning the highways into mud pits. Etian had no shortage of invitations from royal hangers-on, but sitting in a coach for hours on end rankled, no matter the company. He practiced his horsemanship on many of the nights, racing mounts and staging horseback combat with the king¡¯s Thorns who hadn¡¯t drawn carriage duty. Other nights, he exercised his bowmanship with the grooms and woodsmen, taking small game and, once, a hart from the local underbrush, while the second half of the royal train was digging itself out of roads made impassable by the first half.

    Though Etian didn¡¯t realize it, he was a favorite among both the royal guard and the palace¡¯s rougher laborers. King Hazerial was a distant, deadly, unknowable figure. Izakiel had been a jovial catastrophe preparing to inflict himself on the kingdom.

    There had been a celebration in the stables when Etian had been promoted to Crown Prince in his brother¡¯s stead. Sure, lots of folks sighed what a shame it was that the ancient law of birth order set in place by Khinet himself had to be overturned to make it happen, but a solid Josean-blessed king was infinitely preferable to the caprice of Teikru¡¯s favorite son. There were still some trembling, toothless elderly who remembered Lareana I, the queen regnant who had caused so much infighting and turmoil with her endless suitors and consorts. Better to avoid a reign led by the god-goddess¡¯s whims altogether.

    Lord Zinote and his standing army met the royal train at the border of his counties, under pall of a heavy rain. Scores of sworn knights shivered in full armor, each backed by corresponding complements of dripping soldiers. Forest green and ice-white banners of House Skalia hung sodden.

    The passage through the holding to Zinote¡¯s mansion did even more to damage the roadways. The peasants had to make new paths to market or risk losing half their goods in the muddy swamps their lord had created in his attempt to show both deference and military might to the king.

    ***

    The Zinote manse, fittingly named The Overlook, was located on a bluff overlooking the wide Salt River and had been constructed only twenty years before in the new palatial style, filled with tiled floors and long, open rooms made to look even larger by mirrored walls. Its furnishings were as luxurious as Mistfen Palace in Siu Carinal, all lacquered wood and velvet cushions.

    Etian had read a communique from House Skalia in the Royal Archives from the middle years of construction. In it, Zinote requested Thorns to protect him against traitorous vassals across two counties. The financial and agricultural records from the corresponding years told the rest of the story¡ªbuilding their lord¡¯s mansion had bled the counties dry.

    The king had granted the lord¡¯s request, and the following year¡¯s records showed new vassals managing the lands in question. No more threats of uprising reared their heads while construction was completed.

    Due to the rain and the massive escort slowing the royal caravan¡¯s already laborious progress, the company arrived at the Overlook late in the morning. Given the hour, Zinote suggested postponing the tournament until the king¡¯s combatants had had a few days to rest, but Hazerial assured him that would not be necessary for his champion. Although Etianiel was a new student of the royal blood magic, the prince¡¯s lifetime of rigorous training had left him capable of outperforming the most well-rested fighters.

    Apologies were made for impugning the crown prince, and the tournament was set for the following day. The stands had already been constructed in advance of the royal household¡¯s arrival, so carrying on with the festivities was only a small matter of informing the local competitors, the bands scheduled to perform, and the cookstaff that their outdoor hog roast had been moved up.

    By midday, the royal visitors had bathed and settled down to the welcome feast with their hosts.

    Zinote¡¯s pair of Thorns, in their accustomed spot behind their lord¡¯s seat, were swallowed up by Hazerial¡¯s full complement of fifty-two Royal Thorns and the mad queen¡¯s six.

    The House Skalia Thorns looked faded and worn in the face of their royal counterparts. Though both men were fit and imbued with the sharp-eyed intensity of all Thorns, they were sunk deep in middle age, unretired because Zinote knew the king would not grant him another set. The king¡¯s guard looked like a herd of fresh, high-headed stallions next to the older swordsmen, none of them over thirty and few of them likely to see it posted in the palace.

    Jadarah¡¯s Thorns were the freshest of the lot¡ªher guardsmen rarely saw twenty-five. The mad queen tired quickly of her toys, and Hazerial gifted her with replacements like an indulgent kennel master tossing treats to a favored dyrehound.

    The life expectancy for Royal Thorns was low, but there was an endless supply of replenishments to choose from.

    The foolishly proud Zinote could not bring himself to give another man the head seat at the high table, nor could he openly jilt his king, and so he had compromised by having his staff lay place settings for eight. Hazerial and Zinote shared the central position, with Lady Zinote and Queen Jadarah to Hazerial¡¯s right, and Princess Kelena stuck to her mother¡¯s side. To Zinote¡¯s left sat the crown prince, Zinote¡¯s daughter, and finally the lord¡¯s steward. In that way, it might be considered pure chance that there was no exalted focal point of the feast rather than a struggle between a lord¡¯s aggrandized self-image and his need to belly crawl to keep lands and family and head firmly attached.

    The food was excellent¡ªfatted calf garnished with bitter herbs, crow stuffed with late peas and carrots, spit-roasted piglets, fish fresh from the river only a few miles away, creamed turnips, mushrooms and onions in butter, elaborately decorated tureens made of crusty bread that held seas of delicate soups.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    Etian didn¡¯t mind the seating arrangement. Zinote was too busy fawning over the king for the prince to need to pay attention to the lord, and the acoustics in the feasting hall allowed Etian to catch a good deal of the hunting and war stories being traded by the knights and soldiers at the low tables.

    Although he should probably make an attempt at conversation with the young woman beside him. It would be smart to have an established base if their marriage contract was upheld.

    The problem Etian faced was the same one he¡¯d had in opening moves with Kelena¡ªnamely, wondering what lords¡¯ daughters talked about.

    He was about to ask whether her family staged hunting parties, knowing they did, and whether she rode out with them, which he couldn¡¯t even begin to guess. He stopped suddenly, realizing he had no idea what the girl¡¯s name was.

    He didn¡¯t recall coming across it in his scouting reading. She looked close to his age. At sixteen years old, she wouldn¡¯t have been alive during the construction uprising, and she hadn¡¯t been mentioned in any of the agricultural or financial records for the counties. Assuming the girl was a pawn in the king¡¯s unfathomable game rather than an active player, Etian hadn¡¯t bothered gathering any intelligence on her.

    More fool him.

    He opened his mouth to ask what her name was, but she cut across him before he could speak.

    ¡°Don¡¯t bother.¡±

    Etian blinked. ¡°Excuse me?¡±

    ¡°Your father is here to strongarm my father into signing the marriage contract for a pittance, because, one assumes, the previously hinted at betrothal bribery has all gone to the war in the north. My family estates will be added to the royal holdings when I inherit, building up the crown¡¯s coffers even more and proving an excellent return on a tiny investment.

    ¡°Meanwhile, I¡¯ll be your brood sow, produce a son or two, and then either be banished, accused of some idiotic treachery and executed, or die in a tragic accident, leaving you conveniently free to seek out a nubile new child queen.¡±

    In an evenly matched fight, the one who scored the opening hit nearly always came out the victor. Usually, that was him.

    This young woman, however, hardly paused her scathing opening volley to take a breath. She glared out over the filled feasting hall, her ice-blue eyes fixed on the family banners swaying against the back wall.

    ¡°So, if it please Your Highness¡ª¡± She twisted the request with bitterly ironic obsequiousness. ¡°¡ªlet us forgo the sweet talk and pretense. Tell me when to open my legs and when you¡¯re done. In return, I¡¯ll tell you when there¡¯s an heir. We can ignore each other the rest of the time.¡±

    Etian hadn¡¯t given Zinote¡¯s daughter more than a cursory glance before, but she¡ªwhatever her name was¡ªwas actually quite beautiful. Her eyes were a blue nearly as pale as the icy trimmings on her dress, and a sliver of white showed beneath her irises. Her hair was a pale, frozen yellow rarely seen on Children of Night.

    Realizing he was staring, Etian pretended to adjust his lenses while he wiped the dumbfounded expression off his face.

    ¡°Do you think I¡¯ll need to know your name to get on with all that?¡±

    Pale brows jumped in outrage before returning to an icy frown. He had scored a hit.

    ¡°Royal Sow should suffice,¡± she bit out.

    ¡°And I suppose you¡¯ll address me as the Royal Boar?¡±

    Another hit. He attacked before the ice princess could counter.

    ¡°Of course, you¡¯re welcome to call me Etian, if you would rather. Most people did before my brother was disinherited.¡±

    ¡°Many felicitations on your crown. I trust your backstabbing arm is not overworked?¡±

    Etian suppressed a smile. ¡°Felicitations on your upcoming nuptials, Lady Sow. If the strongarming works, that is.¡±

    ¡°I suppose we¡¯ll know after the tournament. Exactly how many of my family¡¯s men are you planning to murder?¡±

    She moved fast. Etian stepped up his tempo to outpace her.

    ¡°I thought six or seven should be enough for the first night.¡±

    ¡°In that case, I fear I shall be indisposed and unable to attend.¡±

    ¡°Think you¡¯ll get away with it?¡±

    She sniffed. ¡°I get away with anything in the bounds of my father¡¯s lands.¡±

    ¡°That explains why you¡¯re being such a sore loser about this marriage contract¡ªyou¡¯re spoiled.¡±

    ¡°I did not lose!¡± Fuming made her pale eyes lighten until they were nearly clear. Had he thought she was beautiful? Girls at court were beautiful. She was gorgeous.

    ¡°I, at least, have the grace to admit when I¡¯ve been beaten.¡±

    ¡°If royalty suffers defeat, it is because they were not smart or fast enough to change the rules in their favor.¡±

    A hit to her.

    Etian laughed. ¡°I can¡¯t contradict you there. The best I can do is change the rules in my favor. Tell me your name and I¡¯ll change my tournament plans: no deaths by my sword.¡±

    ¡°But many by another weapon?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been ordered by His Majesty to make a show of the royal blood magic. I can try not to kill anyone with it, but I can¡¯t make promises. I¡¯m not yet practiced enough with spells to be certain of the same precision as the sword.¡±

    ¡°Naturally, there will be no way for me to discern between accidental deaths and intentional ones?¡±

    He considered this. ¡°No, I don¡¯t think there is a way. Though I¡¯m told I have a very obvious pout when I fail at something.¡±

    Her eyes narrowed. Even thinned like that, the slivers of white showed beneath her irises.

    The answer came to him.

    ¡°There¡¯s a specific guardsman you¡¯re worried about,¡± he guessed.

    ¡°One man with a sword is much the same as every other.¡±

    ¡°Except for this one.¡± Etian did a quick search of the knights and men-at-arms and found one square-jawed man of about twenty downing ale and glaring up at the lord¡¯s daughter from beneath heavy, lowered brows. No chivalric insignia, so just a common soldier. ¡°You love him.¡±

    ¡°I do not love.¡± She turned her icy gaze to the opposite side of the room from the man in question.

    The soldier looked like a brawler, puffed-up ear and squashed nose. Everyone but Thorns had been required to remove their weapons in the king¡¯s presence, but the man had the breadth of chest and arms that came from years of swinging a greatsword.

    ¡°I won¡¯t kill him.¡±

    Not even a twitch. ¡°Kill whom?¡±

    ¡°I am going to have to beat him, however. You know as well as I do that the newly crowned prince can¡¯t lose some rural tournament to a nobody, even for the sake of his future wife. If you don¡¯t want him to be maimed for life, tell your paramour to stay down when I put him down.¡±

    Etian had fought enough different types to know that the odds of a man who looked like that listening to such a plea were infinitesimal, but she could try. Maybe an ice princess would succeed where lesser women would fail.

    ¡°I don¡¯t love either,¡± he told her. ¡°I can¡¯t see a point to it. I¡¯m not likely to be an affectionate husband, but I will be an effective one. Perhaps that will make us a good pairing. You seem like you¡¯ll be an effective queen.¡±

    ¡°Of course I will.¡±

    ¡°Then I swear by Josean never to put you away, either by death or banishment. Women with minds like swords are rare among the nobility. I would have to be a simpleton to spurn such a valuable weapon.¡±

    ¡°Any man would.¡±

    ¡°Even if she is a spoiled brat who won¡¯t tell me her name.¡±

    Her chin rose haughtily. ¡°Pasiona.¡±

    Her admission was a sheathed blade. Etian responded in kind.

    ¡°It¡¯s a beautiful name for a queen.¡±

 Chapter 25: A Fools Offer

    Etian swept through the first night of the tournament with little trouble and, as promised, without causing any House Skalia casualties. There were casualties¡ªa lower-ranked knight took a broken lance through the weakened gorget during the jousting displays and hemorrhaged on the field; another fighter was hit on the temple and expired quietly while the healers worked on what they believed were more urgent injuries¡ªbut Etian hadn¡¯t been involved in either death.

    Pasiona watched from beneath the fluttering canopy of the royal stand, a frozen observer, as Etian dispassionately ripped away swords, kicked feet out from under, and generally took apart her father¡¯s best combatants.

    He had wondered whether Lord Zinote would order his men to lose in order to please the king. That had happened in a tournament when Etian was young. It had infuriated him so much that he¡¯d flooded the field with his opponents¡¯ blood until it became obvious that if anyone wanted to survive against the child terror, they would have to fight for real. That was when they began speaking of him as the second coming of Josean.

    Zinote¡¯s tournament held no hint of similar playacting. His men were well-trained and powerful, some of the best Etian had fought, excluding the Royal Thorns. Of course, as his father¡¯s Thorns could only defeat Etian when they worked in pairs nowadays, and Zinote wouldn¡¯t allow his shabby middle-aged Thorns to compete, the local soldiers stood no chance against Etian.

    On the second night of the tournament, in the final sword match, Etian met the boyfriend, Darios of Thivera.

    Darios was uglier up close. After his name, the herald read out a host of triumphs from the previous year on the northern front. In another life, Etian would have learned from the battle-hardened warrior, but before the match even began, he could see that nothing short of the crown prince¡¯s death would salve Darios¡¯s fury enough to make him an ally.

    Pasiona ignored both fighters equally when they saluted the king and lord. Her ice-blue eyes skimmed the crowd as if she were bored with the proceedings.

    Etian couldn¡¯t blame her. He already knew how the match with Darios would go.

    The flag dropped. The mad-eyed brute charged. Reckless, unthinking. All his battle prowess swept away by the surge of emotion. A fight that could have been incredible, absolutely wasted.

    Etian ducked under the wild swing of the greatsword and hooked Darios¡¯s foot out from beneath him. Darios hit the trampled, muddy grass on his face. Etian placed the point of his sword against the back of the man¡¯s neck.

    Matches were decided by the deathblow, but tournament rules left it up to the fighters whether that deathblow was a literal one or an agreed-upon simulacrum. Darios couldn¡¯t continue fighting from this position, which was why Etian had chosen to drop him forward rather than onto his back. It bettered the chance that he could keep his promise not to kill anyone.

    ¡°Prince Etianiel!¡± the herald cried in triumph.

    Polite cheers from the crowd. A one-sided match didn¡¯t provide much excitement. Maybe the next pairing would be better.

    Etian saluted the king and made to leave the field.

    A wounded animal roared behind him. Running boots thumped and squelched on muddy ground. The wind whistled around the raised greatsword.

    Etian spun and slapped the blade aside with his bare hand, then cracked Darios in the jaw with the cage hilt of his falchion. Flecks of spittle and blood speckled his lenses.

    The blow startled the rampaging bull, but didn¡¯t stop him. With a battle cry, Darios arched his huge blade upward at Etian¡¯s thigh. Etian met steel with steel, redirecting the attack harmlessly.

    Darios hacked and slashed and roared like a cornered bear, tears pouring down his stubbled cheeks. He either didn¡¯t care or was glad to know that he was attempting murder and suicide at the same time.

    Etian parried until he saw an opening, then sheathed his sword. In one swift move, he snatched the wounded bear¡¯s closest arm and, with a sharp twist of his upper body, snapped the elbow backward with a meaty crunch.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Darios swung the greatsword one-handed; the pain had yet to catch hold of the brute. Etian ducked inside the swing, caught Darios¡¯s other arm, and repeated the destruction. Then he kicked the weeping warrior to his knees and stepped away.

    ¡°Pasiona,¡± Darios whimpered to the trampled, muddy grass. ¡°My heart and soul, my everything.¡±

    Royal Thorns flooded in to take control of the incapacitated fighter.

    All around the field, the spectators burst out in shouting and applause. The royal stands were in chaos. Jadarah cackled while Kelena looked on, white-faced and trembling, and Lady Zinote cowered away from the mad queen. Lord Zinote roared orders to his men and assurances to his king that this was an outrage he never expected. A common lout of a soldier fixated on his daughter! She certainly would never have encouraged such lowborn attentions! And to attack the crown prince while his back was turned! Well, this disgusting behavior would be rectified, oh yes¡­

    Through the blood on his lenses, Etian watched Pasiona. In the moonlit afterglow of battle, she was gorgeous, an unfeeling alabaster statue. As her lover was being dragged off the field, not a flicker of emotion crossed her face.

    Etian wondered if it was possible that he could love after all.

    ***

    With the tournament over, the mood in the hall was festive to the point of raucousness, the drinking and music lasting late into the afternoon.

    ¡°Where is your trophy?¡± Pasiona asked Etian during the feast.

    After the disastrous championship match, Zinote¡¯s wife had presented him with the tournament¡¯s swordplay cup. He had no idea where that useless bit of metal had gone.

    ¡°An attendant or thief somewhere has it. Your boyfriend didn¡¯t listen when you told him to stay down.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t tell him to stay down, I told him if he was going to keep fighting to make certain he died in the attempt.¡± Pasiona fidgeted some roast capon around her plate. ¡°You didn¡¯t kill him.¡±

    ¡°I promised you I wouldn¡¯t.¡±

    She paused. ¡°He wanted me to run away with him.¡±

    ¡°You chose not to endanger your family.¡± Etian caught her slash and redirected it. ¡°Did you want to say yes?¡±

    ¡°Who cares for wants?¡±

    His next move was a wild gamble, but instinct told him it was the right one, and since gambles should be undertaken without hesitation to have any chance of success, he lunged without second guessing.

    ¡°Usually I don¡¯t,¡± he admitted. ¡°I never thought I would live a life where mine would matter.¡±

    Pasiona laughed icily. ¡°I know mine won¡¯t, and I¡¯ve never been stupid enough to wish otherwise.¡±

    Except while you were in his arms?

    ¡°I¡¯ve had half a hundred noble daughters throwing themselves at me since I was made heir to the throne,¡± Etian said. ¡°If I¡¯d been forced to marry one of those idiotic peahens, I wouldn¡¯t have been very happy about it either. I know I wasn¡¯t your first choice, but you are mine. If you ever want something, as long as it doesn¡¯t interfere with or harm the kingdom, I¡¯ll get it for you.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a fool¡¯s offer.¡± She looked at the empty seat down amongst her father¡¯s fighting men. When she went on, every word was drenched in irony bitter enough to taste. ¡°Can you bring a brute commoner back from the dead?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s not dead. At least, he shouldn¡¯t be.¡± They could likely step outside and hear his screams. ¡°Your father commanded them not to kill him.¡±

    To assure he wouldn¡¯t fall out of Hazerial¡¯s favor, Lord Zinote had ordered Darios of Thivera be made a cautionary tale for any man entertaining the idea of falling in love with a lord¡¯s daughter under royal marriage negotiation. When the priests were finished with him, whatever was left would be a living horror.

    ¡°Then kill him,¡± Pasiona said.

    Etian waited for her to make out as if she were joking. She didn¡¯t.

    ¡°That¡¯s what you want?¡±

    She sipped her wine. ¡°It¡¯s what he¡¯s begging for by now, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±

    If Darios of Thivera could still beg.

    ¡°What he wants and what you want may not be the same thing. I meant it when I said I would grant whatever you wanted.¡±

    ¡°He won¡¯t¡ª¡± The ice in her voice cracked. She fussed with her shimmering dress, pretending to find crumbs to sweep away. When she spoke again, she had herself back under steely control and had unknowingly won the crown prince¡¯s complete and utter devotion. ¡°What he wants and what I want are the same in this case. No warrior soul can abide living forever disgraced and maimed, he told me once.¡±

    At the next available opportunity, Etian excused himself from the feast. Pasiona stayed until the bloodslave nearest her ran out of wine.

    ***

    As long as Etian had his lenses on, he was a fair shot with a longbow, and his aim was in top form after the days and nights hunting with woodsmen on the road.

    On the lonely tournament field, an impromptu altar had been erected, a stake at its center. The ghost city hanging above the lord¡¯s manor was nearly invisible in the daytime sky, but the strong gods did not discriminate between day and night. Blood was blood.

    The priests¡¯ motions formed a simple enough pattern, diving into their carrion for minutes at a time, then swooping away again all at once, like a murder of excitable crows.

    A clear shot to the target opened. A bowstring twanged from deep in the cover of the lord¡¯s forest some two hundred yards away.

    Etian put an arrow through Darios of Thivera¡¯s broken heart, pinning him to the blood-soaked stake.

    ***

    The royal wedding was set to take place in the City of Blood that coming spring, ostensibly to give the bride time to plan a grand spectacle, but in truth to make certain no child was born to the future queen dubiously early.

 Chapter 26: First Test

    Izak was going insane. ¡°I can swim now, and the whole school looks out the gatehouse when they hear about swimmers, masters included. Let¡¯s slip out the back this afternoon, while everyone¡¯s asleep.¡±

    Twenty-six assessed the whitecaps through the archer loop. ¡°Next week.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t wait a week! It¡¯s been two months since I last saw a woman.¡±

    ¡°She will be the last woman you ever see if you swim this afternoon. The tides and the weather will turn when the moon changes. That is next week.¡±

    Izak paced. Teikru¡¯s blessing was killing him. He could hardly think about anything else. It was like an endless high-pitched whistle or a constant ringing in his ears. Even when he fell into bed exhausted from training, he tossed and turned and woke the next evening even more desperate.

    ¡°The pirate¡¯s right,¡± Nine said. ¡°Better not tempt the moon. She¡¯s good medicine ¡¯til you do her foul.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re scared to even touch water. There¡¯s no way you¡¯ll be able to swim out with us, so you don¡¯t have a say in the matter.¡±

    Nine flared up like a tinder bundle. ¡°You said we three¡¯d go! We¡¯re brothers, us, and we¡¯re going together! That was the deal!¡±

    ¡°How?¡± Izak demanded. It felt perversely good to spread his bad mood around. ¡°You can¡¯t swim. You don¡¯t even bathe.¡±

    ¡°There ain¡¯t no reason to clean off when you¡¯re just fixing to get dirty again!¡±

    ¡°What if you drown? I thought water was bad medicine.¡±

    ¡°The pirate scum¡¯ll swim me on his back.¡±

    ¡°No, I won¡¯t. I am not going.¡±

    Izak rounded on Twenty-six, mouth agape. ¡°What do you mean you¡¯re not going?¡±

    ¡°I cannot leave the grounds.¡±

    ¡°The sea¡¯s not Thornfield grounds, and you swam around in that,¡± Izak argued. ¡°We both did. We¡¯ve been planning this outing for a month. Didn¡¯t you once think that you should mention you weren¡¯t going?¡±

    ¡°My intentions are none of your concern.¡±

    ¡°They are when they interfere with something this vital! Is this about being too good for whores again? Because I can promise you, you¡¯re not.¡±

    But the pirate wouldn¡¯t budge, and he wouldn¡¯t explain.

    Izak tried a different tactic. ¡°You¡¯ve got to at least swim out as far as the thornknife graveyard. Even Grandmaster considers that part of the grounds. What if you don¡¯t, and I get a cramp and drown?¡±

    ¡°What if we get a cramp and drowned,¡± Nine corrected him.

    Izak wasn¡¯t proud¡ªhe couldn¡¯t afford to be after this long. He seized the opportunity Nine presented.

    ¡°Exactly. If Nine drowns because he can¡¯t swim and I can¡¯t carry him, you¡¯ll be at fault. You admitted as much when you took the scourging for not stopping me last time. Do you want our deaths on your shoulders?¡±

    ¡°Dirter deaths do not concern me.¡±

    ¡°But fault does, and so does honor.¡±

    Twenty-six looked out at the waves again.

    Clearly not seeing the knife-edge their roommate was teetering on, Nine opened his mouth.

    Izak held up a hand to silence the runt. Which of the pirate¡¯s worst traits would win¡ªhonor or obstinacy?

    It was a hard-fought battle.

    ¡°I will go with you as far as I am capable of going,¡± Twenty-six conceded at last.

    Izak grabbed the pirate by the shoulders and shook him. ¡°I could kiss you!¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t.¡±

    ***

    The swimming lessons had not been for Four¡¯s benefit alone. Unbeknownst to the prince and their scrawny shadow, Twenty-six had been using the time in the water to test the Mark. He could swim as far out as Four dared go¡ªas long as he was swimming for the sake of teaching or simply for exercise. When his intentions shifted to escape, the corruption in his veins turned to a stone fist, holding him in place.

    Four had noticed him sink once, but had assumed the pirate was just going under to show off that he could dive without holding his nose, which Four still could not accomplish without snorting water. It had taken Twenty-six until he hit sandy sea floor before he could reorder his thinking and kick safely to the surface.

    Distance was not his prison, intention was.

    And yet, strangely enough, fantasies of repaying the dirter king¡¯s blood debt did not cause him any ill effects. He could crash and parry through a sparring match, imagining he was hacking off the king¡¯s limbs, without faltering. He could plot and train with the intention of one day using it all against the king and never feel that stone fist close.

    Was it because he had no intention of killing the boys and men he fought? Could the Mark perceive that honor would not allow him to cut down someone who was not trying to kill him? That even now, surrounded by dirters and separated from the God of the Waves forever, he couldn¡¯t bring himself to murder senselessly?

    The trip to the village down Thornfield¡¯s key would be the test, both of his distance hypothesis and of his ability to reef his sails until the wind was right.

    He glanced out at the gray, gloomy day and pounding surf. He¡¯d done the calculations a hundred times by the sun and the waves. There were a handful of days before the storm season took full hold; in that transitional stretch, rain would fall but the currents would not pose too great a threat.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    This was the time for greatships to return to Cryst¡¯holm. Time for the reunion of raedrs with their young families, the greeting of old friends, feasting, celebration, and trade.

    How many tribes had made it back already? How many had been destroyed by the blood drinkers¡¯ unnatural black cloud? What if Twenty-six and the women, children, and elderly who had remained in the floating oceanic city through the raiding season were the only Ocean Rovers left in this world?

    What if, somehow, the dirter king had found that safe haven? What if Twenty-six was the only one of his people left?

    ¡°The second or third day of next week,¡± Twenty-six promised his roommate. ¡°That is the day for our expedition.¡±

    ***

    ¡°We can¡¯t all go to the bathhouse at the same time,¡± Izak argued on the day in question. ¡°And everyone will be suspicious if they see Nine going where he never dared go before.¡±

    ¡°I dare anything, me. Just not fool stuff. ¡¯Sides, it¡¯s heaps more suspicious if I don¡¯t go with.¡±

    ¡°What in the name of Khinet makes you think that?¡±

    Nine shrugged. ¡°¡¯Cuz I¡¯ll just tell everybody.¡±

    Dealing with the boy made Izak feel as if he were working out a riddle. You have a sack of grain, a hen, and a fox on one side of a creek. You can only carry two to the other side at a time. In what order do you carry them so that nothing eats anything else?

    The dirty little runt had become Izak and Twenty-six¡¯s staunchest defender against hazing, turning aside any senior students with suggestions to snatch up other first-years or, failing that, threats to whup ¡¯em blind if they laid a finger on his brothers. Yet Nine saw nothing wrong with tattling on those same so-called brothers to the masters.

    Trick question. The grain¡¯s actually an enchanted monster¡ªit eats both your hen and fox, then gobbles you up when you get back.

    In the end, they sent Nine to the bathhouse first to wait, so he could be certain he wasn¡¯t being ditched.

    ¡°If¡¯n somebody sees me, I¡¯ll say I¡¯m lookin¡¯ for somebody to whup,¡± Nine promised. ¡°Everybody¡¯ll believe that.¡±

    Izak went next, a little later than his regular bathing hour, but not suspiciously so. He hung around gossiping and supposedly relaxing in the bath until the last of his fellow bathers left for the night.

    The coals had burnt down by the time Twenty-six arrived, and the water had taken a turn for the cool. While Izak climbed out and spent forever drying off and dressing and making up excuses not to leave yet, the pirate went about his work: letting the dirty water drain, rinsing the bath, then scooping spent ashes from its coal banks, rebuilding the fire, and refilling the trough.

    The rain the pirate had predicted was clattering on the thin slate roof, but no errant gusts blew through the open door to suggest they would face a dangerous storm. No surprise bathers blew in either. Thornfield¡ªexcluding its hunched, soaked patrols on the wall and Nine, who sat outside just beneath the shelter of the bathhouse¡¯s tiny portico¡ªhad gone to sleep for the day.

    The pirate and the prince stepped outside and waited for a fourth-year on patrol to pass over the closest portion of the wall. As the dripping fourth-year headed toward the gatehouse, the trio crept around the corner to the culvert.

    ¡°Last chance to stay behind,¡± Izak told Nine, bundling his Thornfield-issue clothing. He jammed the wad of fabric through the grate onto the sandy, silty shore that had grown up along the side. ¡°You won¡¯t have to walk miles in the rain or suffer the water¡¯s bad medicine if you stay here.¡±

    Nine grinned. ¡°Oh, I ain¡¯t going in the water.¡±

    ¡°Then how are you planning to get to the other side of the wall without being seen? Walk through?¡±

    ¡°Nah, like this.¡± The runt slipped an arm through the grate, wiggled his head through, and followed with one shoulder, then the other. There was a moment of concern when his backside caught¡ªon three square meals a day and with all the scraps he could steal, the close-rat was starting to fill out¡ªbut with a little grunting and shimmying, he fell out the other side.

    Nine stood up and gave them a smug grin.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be burnt,¡± Izak muttered.

    Twenty-six¡¯s silent frown agreed. Both young men had been too large for too long to have considered the grating as a viable exit above-water.

    ¡°If we get caught, we¡¯ll bargain with information,¡± Izak said, struck by inspiration. ¡°The secret way to defeat Thornfield in return for a scourging deferred. An army of children can get through here. Or dwarves.¡±

    ¡°An army of men can slip beneath the grating,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°They do not all have to be malnourished like Nine.¡±

    ¡°Stand around jawin¡¯ your jokes. Meanwhilst, I¡¯m halfway to the whores, me.¡±

    Instead of waiting for them to make it to the other side, Nine snatched up the men¡¯s bundled clothing and sprinted away from the muddy culvert toward the dunes that surrounded the thornknife graveyard. The mounds of sand were hulking shadows in the distance, half obscured by the rain.

    Izak cursed. This went completely against their plan for the pirate to carry the runt through the inlet on his back. Nine was endangering the entire operation simply to avoid the water.

    ¡°If that runt gets us caught,¡± Izak growled.

    ¡°He is far enough ahead that if he draws attention, we can slip back through the culvert before the patrols realize we are out,¡± Twenty-six said.

    ¡°He took our clothes.¡±

    The pirate cursed. ¡°Then we are committed.¡±

    But no cries of alarm went up. In a trice, Nine disappeared behind the dunes.

    Izak and Twenty-six slipped under the slimy half-grating. On the other side, they sank to their chins in the surf and felt their way out into deeper water, the rain plinking across the surface.

    They dove beneath the rain-pocked waves, pushing along underwater. Izak¡¯s lungs gave out about the same time as fear that he¡¯d gone off course and lost Twenty-six forced him to the surface.

    He popped up, snatched a breath and glanced around as they¡¯d practiced, then dove beneath again. Thankfully he hadn¡¯t veered far off course at all. Twenty-six was lengths ahead of him but slowing down to compensate. With a few hard kicks, Izak caught up.

    Couldn¡¯t leave Thornfield, indeed. What a crock of pirate rot.

    ***

    Twenty-six¡¯s every thought was focused on getting his roommates to the village. Nothing but getting the dirter prince to his dirter whores. He wouldn¡¯t allow himself to waver even enough to think of this as the test of the Mark.

    They reached the dunes at the graveyard, swam another hundred yards, then stopped to wash the stench from the culvert away with the soap he had brought from the bathhouse.

    Twenty-six checked the distant walls for patrols looking in their direction, then nodded to Four. The two of them hustled ashore, ducking unseen between dunes.

    ¡°You ugly fishies must be lookin¡¯ for these,¡± Nine said, holding out their clothing bundles in the falling rain. ¡°I kept ¡¯em dry, me. Now ain¡¯t you glad you brung your brother?¡±

    Four snatched his clothes away and flicked the boy¡¯s ear. ¡°That¡¯s for not telling us you were going to steal off and leave us stark naked.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re the only silt brain that ain¡¯t dressed!¡± Nine rubbed his ear. ¡°Even the pirate scum¡¯s got enough sense to keep his unders on, in case a shark come along lookin¡¯ to bite off a dangler.¡±

    From the look on Four¡¯s face, sharks were a prospect he hadn¡¯t considered.

    ¡°Perhaps in the future, it would be best to wear something on the swim,¡± he admitted. ¡°Wet smallclothes could be shed in the graveyard. But there¡¯s the larger question of how we access dry clothing once Nine gets too fat to squeeze through the grating and carry our things.¡±

    ¡°He will not fit through the bars much longer,¡± Twenty-six agreed as he dressed.

    Nine cursed them both, but the fact remained that unless he outgrew his fear of water, he would soon be too large to sneak out of Thornfield.

    There was an ancient stone relic box about ten rows away, stuck in amongst the older, cruder thornknives. Twenty-six knelt beside it and pried it open.

    A rib cage, a talisman, and a few moldered scrolls. More than enough room for two changes of clothing.

    ¡°Brilliant. We¡¯ll bring an extra set apiece next time,¡± Four declared, looking over Twenty-six¡¯s shoulder. ¡°We can wear the same clothes for a few days, then acquire replacements on the day we do the washing for the upperclassmen. Students are always coming up short of bits and pieces after laundry day.¡±

    ¡°That is a good strategy,¡± Twenty-six said, surprised. The prince could be a fairly intelligent problem-solver when he wanted to. Especially when that problem stood between him and the dirter whores he never stopped talking about.

    ¡°Try not to sound so shocked. It¡¯s insulting.¡± Squinting into the rain, Four gauged the shade of the stormy gray sky. ¡°We¡¯ve only got so many hours until sunset, men, and I don¡¯t mean to waste them on your company. Paradise awaits.¡±

    With that, Four burst into a cloud of smoke and reappeared a hundred yards down the beach.

 Chapter 27: Boys Will Be Boys

    Izak arrived at the public house first, pushing his final smoke step to its limit, but Nine was only a few spans behind him. The little runt was faster than he¡¯d expected.

    The pirate stalked in almost late enough to miss Izak leading the eldest of the publican¡¯s daughters, Danasi, up to the lodge rooms. Izak had tried engaging the younger daughter as well¡ªher name escaped him¡ªbut she was too entertained by the dirty Nine claiming in his loudest Siu Carinal speak that he could drink any man or beast under the table. She brought the boy clay cup after clay cup of ale and giggled as he downed them.

    ¡°I was beginning to wonder if we¡¯d lost you,¡± Izac said.

    Twenty-six shook his head.

    ¡°Nine¡¯s tracks were easy to follow,¡± he said, slightly winded.

    Izak started to mention that running long distances must not be a popular pastime on pirate ships, but stopped when he noticed Twenty-six¡¯s scowl coming to rest across on the pub girl laughing with Nine.

    Protest though the pirate might about not stooping to prostitutes, it had to have been a long two months for him, too.

    ¡°Best of luck to you, friend,¡± Izak said, smirking as he passed. ¡°You might be able to get her alone, but you¡¯ll have to pry her away from the runt first.¡±

    Twenty-six¡¯s customary scowl deepened. ¡°I do not want a dirter whore.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re not technically whores. This is a pub, not a whoring house.¡±

    Danasi was pulling Izak toward the stairs. He went, but twisted his upper body to keep talking to the pirate.

    ¡°Keep an eye on Nine, will you? We¡¯re burnt if he gets too drunk to function this evening.¡±

    ***

    Dirters flowed in and out of the public house throughout the day, clothing sprinkled with rainwater and sweaty from a long night¡¯s work. In late afternoon, the last drunk was set outside.

    The dirter who ran the place wanted to kick out Nine and Twenty-six, too, but relented when his younger daughter Casia said they were waiting for their friend to return with her sister. Nine, very drunk by then, howled with laughter and started up a gratuitously disgusting song.

    Twenty-six stared into the clay cup of small ale the dirter whore had brought him, not trusting it to be clean enough to drink.

    He had made it this far, which he estimated at about seven miles from Thornfield as the dirters calculated distance.

    Could he go as far as the dirter king¡¯s refuge if he thought of nothing on his way?

    Lack of information made that a worthless line of consideration. He had no idea where the royal mooring place was, what its defenses were, or where the king would be within it.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    What he did have was a prince who knew.

    More persistent was the commonsense issue: if he were found absent, Thornfield would raise alarms and send messenger birds flying to the king. If the dirters used birds to carry messages; human messengers running or riding if they did not.

    It wasn¡¯t a stretch of the imagination to assume that if the Mark could sense his intentions, then it could also lead the king to him wherever he fled.

    However, there was one time a year that the king might come to him. Every spring, Twenty-six had learned, the king came to Thornfield to graft the best among the most senior class; the dregs went to dirter nobles who had ingratiated themselves with the crown the rest of the year.

    No matter how Twenty-six studied his options, the grafting ceremony seemed like his only chance at killing the king and redeeming the blood debt.

    From the courtly manners lectures they were forced to endure, Twenty-six had gathered that several Royal Thorns were always present with the king. The question, then, was whether Twenty-six was fast enough to kill the monster while an unknown number of men who had trained for years and been magically enhanced to stop assassins tried to kill him.

    In their combat training, Twenty-six could best a fourth-year once out of three matches. But against either of the gold-eyed twins who served as Thornfield¡¯s weapons masters and were as near as Twenty-six could fight to a full Thorn, zero out of three. Against a contingent of men like them, he would be dead before he raised his cutlass.

    Would that be true if he attacked during his own grafting? From what he¡¯d been taught of the ceremony, he would be asked to kneel, held in place by two classmates he named as his seconds, then the king would drive a wooden knife into his heart, enslaving him with unbreakable magical chains.

    Twenty-six had seen the thornknives in the graveyard and on the belts of the masters who had been retired from service. They were daggerlike, shorter than his swordbreaker, less than two hands in length. The king would have to stand close to stab one into a man¡¯s chest.

    If Twenty-six struck the moment before the king did, he had a chance. If the Mark would allow him to strike, which logic said it would not.

    Twenty-six shoved the dirty cup of small ale away and stood. ¡°Nine, it is time to leave. Go get Four.¡±

    The whore pouted. ¡°But we were having so much fun!¡±

    ¡°Yeah, ya prite-rat scum!¡± Nine slurred. ¡°Prirate. Prie¡­ We¡¯re havin¡¯ fun, us. Leave¡¯ss¡¯lone er I¡¯ll whup ya a dose of real bad medishine.¡±

    Twenty-six dragged the runt off the bench. Nine promptly fell down.

    One of them was going to have to carry him back.

    Leaving the drunk child behind, Twenty-six jogged up the steps and hammered on two doors before Four finally answered the third. The prince was reluctant to leave, but he saw reason and dressed.

    The publican stopped them at the door, a thick cudgel in hand.

    Four grabbed Twenty-six by the shoulder and spun him away from the dirter for a conference.

    ¡°See if this will cover it,¡± he hissed, dropping a handful of jeweled rings and gold coins into Twenty-six¡¯s hand. ¡°It¡¯s all I brought to Thornfield with me. If it¡¯s not enough, you¡¯ll have to tell him to apply to the treasury for reimbursement. They usually handle my outstanding notes.¡±

    The publican¡¯s jaw dropped when he saw the gold coin, but he recovered quickly and claimed that would just be enough to pay for his daughter¡¯s virtue and all the ale they had swilled.

    Twenty-six paid the dirter without haggling, then he and Four dragged Nine out into the downpour.

    ***

    The trio made it back to Thornfield¡¯s curtain wall under a squall of booming thunder and splattering sleet. Nine was passed out cold. Twenty-six had had to swim one-armed while using the other to keep the drunken boy on his back.

    At the culvert, they shoved Nine under the grating, scraping the runt¡¯s nose, but barely waking him long enough to choke on the water. Twenty-six checked that the coast was clear, then Izak piggy-backed Nine to their barracks.

    The patrols¡ªlazy on the final watch of the gloomy day and loath to go out in the pelting, icy rain that heralded the beginning of a stormy autumn¡ªnever saw a thing.

    Master Smith saw it all from the door of the bathhouse after his habitual early wash, but he only snorted and murmured, ¡°Boys will be boys.¡±

 Chapter 28: Rain Red

    Sitting atop a terraced hill, Blazing Prairie, the House Mattius residence, was a sprawling estate bejeweled with glimmering windows of leaded glass in fiery reds, oranges, yellows, and blues. Besides being visible in the daytime for miles across the grassland, like a smokeless fire, Blazing Prairie¡¯s claim to fame was that at night, no trace of ghostlight mirrored it in the sky, a novelty for such a grand old residence. The ghost city of Siu Baital, a day¡¯s ride to the southwest, was a favored view from the estate¡¯s natural hot springs.

    Word traveled well ahead of the royal progress about the bloody end to the tournament held at House Skalia. Implications were that something similar would take place at Blazing Prairie when the king and his newly appointed heir arrived.

    The current lord of House Mattius, a man in his early thirties named Clarencio, was the only son of the late Cinterlands rebel. King Hazerial had bestowed the title on him after he had alerted His Majesty to his father¡¯s treason. In fact, Clarencio had gone so far in his quest to inherit that he¡¯d led his father¡¯s arrest himself.

    Lord Clarencio met the train of wagons, carriages, and horsemen at the border of his holdings as Lord Zinote had, but the Lord of the Cinterlands brought no army with him, just a carriage and footmen.

    Etian expected a bootlicker of the highest order, but Clarencio didn¡¯t simper. When the crown prince was presented, the lord gave him no more than the requisite bow and a cool smile.

    ¡°I don¡¯t ride. Bad leg.¡± Clarencio tapped his boot with his walking stick to indicate the limb in question. ¡°However, Your Majesty and Your Highness are welcome to join me in my carriage, as it please you.¡±

    In spite of the beautifully cold, clear night, Etian had been ordered to attend the king in the lord¡¯s carriage. He climbed in behind the older men¡ªClarencio¡¯s entrance was something of an achievement, given his rail-stiff leg¡ªand sat in a corner where he could observe them both.

    Etian guessed that he was there to double the intimidation in case the lordling harbored any rebellious ideas of his own. The interior of the carriage was too small for a sword swing, but the royal blood magic was a better weapon in close quarters anyway. More precise.

    The carriage lurched into motion. Clarencio didn¡¯t begin orating on the barbaric treatment of the natives or the dyre as his father had been known to do, nor did he seek a subject which showed he had memorized Hazerial¡¯s interests by rote and was eager to engage them. The Lord of the Cinterlands seemed perfectly content to allow the miles to roll by in silence.

    Silent, but not uneventful. The air pressed close while the opposing sides studied one another.

    ¡°It was brought to our attention that you haven¡¯t attended the Hall of Law in nearly a year,¡± the king finally initiated.

    Clarencio nodded. ¡°I¡¯ve had a run of bad health that prevented long-distance travel. My representatives have been carrying out their duties satisfactorily in my stead, I hope?¡±

    ¡°We prefer the true heads of our noble houses present whenever possible.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll see that I¡¯m there in the future, Your Majesty.¡±

    Hazerial pressed the narrow advantage. ¡°You petitioned the crown with a marriage contract several months ago.¡±

    The heavy drape over the window closest to Clarencio came unsnapped at a corner, allowing in a burst of cold air.

    ¡°Never stays closed, that one.¡± The lord thumbed the snap shut again. ¡°I was informed that Your Majesty¡¯s wisdom was to reject the contract, and so I terminated negotiations.¡±

    ¡°Remind us which house you sought to engage.¡±

    ¡°Our neighbors, House Agata. Mosole has a few unmarried daughters left, and I¡¯m becoming an old man. After that last bit of poor health, it seemed prudent to produce an heir.¡±

    The king nodded. ¡°The girl would come with a hefty dowry, as well.¡±

    ¡°I was more interested in their exports,¡± Clarencio said.

    House Agata held the counties south of House Mattius¡¯s. Excellent horse country. Their stables bred mounts for the crown as well as the wealthiest nobles in the kingdom.

    All of that would be wasted on a man who couldn¡¯t ride, however.

    House Mattius was surrounded by prairieland that grazed healthy, hearty livestock and supplied the crown with much of its yearly grain, but its prosperity lay mainly in the mining done in the rocky hills of its southwestern counties. For the last hundred years, all the iron ore in the Kingdom of Night had come from House Mattius¡¯s mines, making them precariously independent of the crown and its favor.

    And they would remain independent of the crown until the ore ran out. That explained the marriage request. Clarencio¡¯s people must have found a vein along their southern border stretching into House Agata¡¯s land, or at the very least have hope that they would find one. If the Cinterlands mines stopped producing and had no fresh veins to delve into, the crown might finally bring House Mattius to heel. By denying the marriage, Hazerial had been tightening the leash.

    No indications of such a drying up had appeared in the Royal Archives yet, but Etian knew that a wise steward would mete out the ore evenly through the years while stockpiling the rest to prepare for just such a day.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    ¡°Have you no illegitimate children you might seek to establish?¡± Hazerial asked.

    ¡°None that lived past infancy.¡±

    ¡°We assume this is due to the father¡¯s poor health?¡±

    Clarencio twisted his walking stick in his hands. ¡°Unfortunately, it seems so. My parents also lost several infants between myself and my sister. My sister had no indication of sharing my condition, but her offspring did. She died in childbirth, and the babe not long after.¡±

    Etian glanced toward the king, wondering if this information was new to him. None of it had been recorded in the Archives, but it would have given Hazerial an easy reason to deny the lord¡¯s request to marry.

    Hazerial showed no surprise. ¡°After much consideration, we are now prepared to grant your request to wed.¡±

    Clarencio¡¯s dark brows jumped. Had Etian been in the crippled lord¡¯s seat, he would have positioned himself for the follow-up strike, but clearly the Lord of the Cinterlands was unfamiliar with his king¡¯s fighting style.

    ¡°You are very gracious, Your Majesty. I will inform Lord Mosole immediately.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t bother.¡± Now that Hazerial had the lord where he wanted him, he struck. ¡°You won¡¯t be marrying a member of House Agata. If you still wish to marry, you will enter a contract for our daughter, Princess Kelena.¡±

    ***

    Jadarah was furious.

    ¡°You would rip her out of my hands? My own child?¡± She beat her chest. ¡°You gave her to me!¡±

    Hazerial stood at a huge window in Blazing Prairie¡¯s royal suite, looking southward toward the distant ghost city that indicated Siu Baital. With the House Mattius estate¡¯s eerie lack of ghost city, the view stretched uninterrupted for miles in every direction and upward an awful infinity.

    Jadarah stalked to the window and ripped the curtains closed. She hated seeing the dark autumn sky hanging empty like some awful looming threat. The strong gods were quiet here, their voices swallowed by all those frozen hateful stars.

    Slowly, Hazerial turned to regard her. ¡°I gave the girl to you to seed. What have you been doing all this time?¡±

    His face was boredom and ice, and that made her anger burn all the hotter. She wanted the frozen king to meet rage with rage. She wanted shrieking and howling and violence in the bedchamber to match the shrieking and howling and violence in her.

    ¡°And what if she can¡¯t bear the seed?¡± Jadarah demanded. ¡°What if that little nothing miscarries all your carefully laid plans? Then will you crawl crying to me?¡± She wrung her hands dramatically. ¡°¡®Oh, all my precious plotting and scheming! If only I¡¯d given you time to do it properly, Jadarah,¡¯ you¡¯ll wail, ¡®if only, if only, if only!¡¯ You child-stealing, selfish beast!¡±

    ¡°How much time with the child will seal it and stop you clucking about this?¡± he drawled.

    Without even considering the question, she hurled a number at him. ¡°She cannot be properly prepared in less than five years!¡±

    With a dispassionate grunt that made Jadarah gnash her teeth, Hazerial crossed to the bed where clean robes had been laid out and began to dress for the midnight meal.

    ¡°You¡¯ll have her while the lord of House Mattius follows court. He can¡¯t possibly ask to withdraw before a year is up without insulting the crown. He¡¯ll plan to leave in one, but by then, he¡¯ll be trapped for at least three.¡±

    ¡°A year?¡± Realization dawned on Jadarah¡ªshe wasn¡¯t the only one having trouble hearing the strong gods in the Cinterlands. ¡°Does the great Hazerial need a whole year to snare the lowly crippled lord in his web? Can it be that the cunning King of Night cannot find the correct manipulation point to lever the cripple into place? Did Eketra forget to tell her favorite king the cripple¡¯s weakness?¡±

    Jadarah cackled and clapped her hands, the bone beads in her hair laughing along with her like a chorus. Oh, it must be driving him insane! Without that key piece of manipulation, Hazerial was left staring at a lock he couldn¡¯t open, and no matter what was locked away from him, it would be the only thing he wanted.

    ¡°I know your tiny mind can only understand the concept of maneuvering one thread at a time,¡± Hazerial said, irritation bleeding into his voice and filling her with glee, ¡°but it¡¯s rarely so simple as that. I am closer than any other Chosen of the Strong Gods has ever been. Webs upon webs must be woven together now, and not a single strand must be mistimed.¡±

    ¡°A year?¡± Jadarah slunk up behind her frozen king and purred in his ear. ¡°Dangling just outside mighty Hazerial¡¯s reach for a whole year, the crippled lord doing whatever the crippled lord pleases? What might the cripple accomplish in that much time, Hazerial? What might he do without your puppet strings to march him along?¡±

    With a flick of his arm, Hazerial carelessly swatted her across the room. The sharp protrusions of her spine scraped painfully against the scrollwork of a settle¡¯s armrest, and Jadarah cried out in pleasure at the flare of agony.

    The door to the antechamber rattled. A fist thumped on the wood, and a male voice shouted, one of her toys demanding to be let in.

    A grin curled her sumptuous bloodred lips.

    If Hazerial touched her again with the Blood of the Strong Gods, that door would crash in, and the slaughter would begin. By sunrise, she would need a new set of Thorns. She lost a lot of excellent toys to Hazerial¡¯s rough play. No matter that he wouldn¡¯t kill her, no matter that her Thorns could feel her throbbing with desire. Their grafting forced them into defending her from harm, whether or not she loved and courted and sought that harm.

    All that powerful manflesh strained to breaking, torn to pieces, spilling their blood, bowels, and tears all over these nice clean flagstones, all for her. Excitement pounded through her veins, drowning out the strong gods¡¯ silence with its heady thrill.

    Her Thorns would feel that, too. It was a side effect of the grafting Jadarah had discovered with her first set of sword boys. She felt every sensation they did as if it were her own, and they hers. They had writhed in the bloody mess as they died, whimpering in pain and pleasure while she and the frozen king writhed on the growing pile of corpses. The confusion, fear, and disgust that prefaced their death throes were delicious.

    Licking her lips, Jadarah decided it had been far too long since her last slaughter.

    Boots and shoulders battered the door, her toys sensing the growing danger.

    ¡°You can do better than that, Hazerial.¡± She lifted the skirting of her dress and dragged her jagged nails across the flesh of her thighs, opening bloody furrows. ¡°Please the strong gods. See if you can break another queen.¡±

    The shouting in the antechamber increased in intensity, and the beating on the door turned into the hack of a blade. The portal wouldn¡¯t hold much longer.

    Hazerial scowled at her, but desire burned in that cold, contemptuous glare. She knew it was no simple thing for a man to say no to her, and it was just as complicated to say yes. That was what kept dragging them back.

    ¡°Whatever it takes, finish the girl¡¯s preparations within the year,¡± Hazerial ordered as he began removing the clothing he¡¯d just put on.

    The upper panel of the door splintered with a wooden crackle. Panicked eyes and flashing steel were visible through the narrow aperture. The sword chopped into it again, throwing slivers onto the rug.

    ¡°I want this room to rain red,¡± Jadarah said. ¡°Give me what I want, and you can have her.¡±

    Hazerial closed the space between them in a stride and grabbed the queen by her slender throat.

 Chapter 29: Josean-Blessed

    A hunt was organized the night after the royal train arrived at Blazing Prairie, but not like the noblemen¡¯s hunts Etian had joined before. Lord Clarencio didn¡¯t ride, and apparently, he didn¡¯t use dyrehounds either.

    ¡°We don¡¯t keep them on the estate. Our gamesmen will beat the bushes to rustle something up.¡±

    The lord seemed made of easy, inoffensive explanations. No accusations of barbarism, though he must have some opinions on the subject, since he¡¯d been raised by the man who had lobbied to abolish the pit houses and free the dyre.

    In the short time since their arrival, Etian was already sick of Clarencio¡¯s lack of attack or retreat. If he wanted to defy the king like his father had, then he should. If he wanted to lick the king¡¯s boots, then by the strong gods, why didn¡¯t he just get down on his hands and knees and do it already?

    For the hunt, Etian had been loaned a high-headed mahogany stallion from one of the Agata¡¯s hunting lines, and he was eager to let the beast run. More than that, however, he wanted to force some sort of definitive statement from Lord Clarencio.

    So, he rode at a sedate pace alongside Clarencio¡¯s strange hunting buggy. The contraption was similar to a racing trap, barely wider than the trotting horse that pulled it, with only the seat, footboard, and traces required to drive, no spare leather or wood that could get tangled in forested areas.

    Clarencio noticed Etian studying the lines of the buggy.

    ¡°I had my stablemaster design it.¡± The lord smiled. ¡°One must make certain concessions if one is crippled and wants to keep up with his peers.¡±

    ¡°Depends on how one defines keeping up,¡± Etian said. The majority of the hunting party had moved ahead, following the gamesmen as they beat the golden stands of tall grass and bramble patches.

    Excited shouting. Both men craned their necks and Clarencio stretched up in his seat to see over the next swell in the land. A hail of arrows flickered across the night sky, most of them missing the escaping pheasant.

    Etian nocked an arrow and drew. The bowstring twanged. His arrow was the only one in the flight that hit the bird. Immediately, a handful of braggarts in the main body of the hunting party began good-natured arguments about which one of them had killed it.

    Clarencio gave a low whistle. ¡°Impressive. With the crosswind, too.¡±

    The stallion sidled restively, bumping the bow against Etian¡¯s glasses. Etian brought his mount back under control and corrected the sliding lenses.

    ¡°I checked your birth records before I left Siu Rial,¡± the prince said. ¡°We¡¯re both Josean-blessed. Let¡¯s dispense with the pleasantries the rest of them observe.¡±

    Clarencio chuckled. ¡°Fair enough, but without the pleasantries, what do we have to say to one another?¡±

    ¡°Start with why you wanted to join House Mattius and House Agata.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s an easy one. House Agata¡¯s been stealing stock from the horse nomads across border for years. I was going to stop them.¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t want them for access to ore veins you¡¯ve found stretching onto their land?¡±

    ¡°That, too. As the old swordmaster wrote, ¡®Never take a step without at least two reasons.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Except to block a deathblow,¡± Etian countered. ¡°Are your mines depleted?¡±

    ¡°Not yet, but a smart man would have a contingency in place, don¡¯t you think?¡±

    ¡°A contingency that disappeared yesterday on the carriage ride.¡±

    Clarencio shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ll come up with another.¡±

    ¡°What does it matter to you if the Agatas steal stock from the nomads?¡± Etian asked. ¡°They aren¡¯t Children of Night.¡±

    ¡°House Agata isn¡¯t just taking horseflesh. They enslave the men to work their herds and train their beasts, and they keep the women and children as insurance. If a man displeases them somehow¡ªsay, demanding enough to eat or getting too sick to work¡ªthey chop off his wife¡¯s or child¡¯s arm.¡± The lord shot the crown prince a scornful grin. ¡°It¡¯s very effective, but short-sighted. What will they do with a generation of armless young men?¡±

    ¡°A smarter man would have saved the boys from dismemberment, focused it on the women and girls. But that isn¡¯t why you care, either, is it?¡±

    ¡°No, it isn¡¯t,¡± Clarencio agreed. ¡°They could more easily buy horses from the nomads, then turn around and sell them for double what they paid. They¡¯re bleeding gold for housing and food¡ªsuch as they see fit to provide for their slaves, anyway.¡±This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    Etian caught the thrust of his blade that time. ¡°Honest trade with the nomads. Because that¡¯s what a good man would do.¡±

    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t even take a good one, just one not wholly evil.¡±

    This was sounding very similar to Izakiel when he got drunk and wanted to argue. No wonder that scornful smile had seemed so familiar. Imagine a Josean-blessed Izakiel. The blood magic tutors would have died with joy.

    And Etian would only have seen the throne from behind while he guarded it.

    To get a better measure on the man, Etian changed tempo.

    ¡°My sister is less than half your age.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve known older men who married younger girls.¡±

    ¡°Your mother was a child bride.¡±

    ¡°So was yours.¡± The lordling studied the distant hunting party. ¡°Your Highness is sixteen now? You¡¯re a year older than the former Queen Isia ever got.¡± Clarencio smirked sidelong at Etian. ¡°You see, you¡¯re not the only one who studies his opponents before they step onto the battlefield.¡±

    ¡°You would have been better served to study my father. Then you would have seen his revelation about your marriage request coming.¡±

    Clarencio hmmed thoughtfully. ¡°I¡¯ve studied the king, but I have yet to stumble upon a reason he would chain his daughter to a man who might never produce an heir healthy enough to live past childhood. Any insight you¡¯d care to share?¡±

    ¡°The lack of an heir would prevent any conflicts over succession.¡±

    ¡°Which we both already know is too simple an answer. If a Josean-blessed swordsman only takes a step when he has at least two reasons, then an Eketra-blessed king won¡¯t do it for less than five.¡±

    ¡°To watch the House Mattius line die out, then,¡± Etian suggested. ¡°The crown absorbs the mines and other assets, then establishes a more tractable lord to manage the land and peasants. Or do away with that altogether, set up a warden over the mines, and start sending prisoners to work them.¡±

    ¡°At best, we¡¯re up to four reasons.¡±

    No, they were up to four guesses, and likely those were all just benefits next to what Hazerial was truly after. They could speculate all night and only dance around the truth.

    ¡°It¡¯s not the blade you see coming that kills you,¡± Clarencio muttered. He was paraphrasing the old swordsmaster¡¯s writings again, but that was more or less what Etian had been thinking.

    Ahead, the gamesmen set off, crashing through the brush with their beating sticks, the hunting party following along.

    Etian nudged the stallion into motion. With a tap of the reins, the trotter pulled the lord¡¯s buggy alongside.

    They had been looking at the matter as if it were a battlefield map, Josean¡¯s blessing leading them to think in terms of resources and terrain and manpower. What value would Eketra see in this maneuver? Knowledge, control, and dominion were her currencies.

    Etian cast a glance over at Clarencio as he maneuvered his buggy around a tangle of brambles. The answer might have more to do with the Lord of the Cinterlands than it did with the Cinterlands themselves.

    ¡°There wasn¡¯t any mention of your leg in the records,¡± Etian said.

    ¡°Distinctive gait, isn¡¯t it?¡± Clarencio raised his voice a little to be heard over the rustling of the wheels in the tall grass. ¡°At the risk of sounding like a has-been who can¡¯t let go of past perceived glories, I made quite the fencer before I happened upon it. I doubt I would have been anything next to the second coming of Josean,¡± he said, tipping his head in acknowledgement of the present company, ¡°but I trained with my father¡¯s Thorns and managed to best them from time to time. It was one of them who gave me this souvenir. Hamstrung me the night of the massacre. The leg healed like a stone pillar.¡±

    Etian didn¡¯t bother to keep the skepticism from his expression. A Thorn couldn¡¯t harm a member of his master¡¯s bloodline; his grafting wouldn¡¯t allow it. Except in two potential cases.

    ¡°It¡¯s common knowledge that you assisted the Royal Thorns the night of your father¡¯s arrest. Are you implying that you actually raised your blade against him?¡±

    Clarencio smiled. ¡°Is that too much of a stretch for your imagination?¡±

    ¡°Not if you wanted to appear loyal to the king. Your father¡¯s Thorn might have inflicted the injury to make your claim more credible, thereby protecting you and fulfilling his grafting.¡±

    ¡°I concede the possibility, but that isn¡¯t what happened.¡± Clarencio shoved the boot of his working leg against the footboard to push himself back onto the buggy¡¯s narrow seat. ¡°I agree with my father¡¯s policies on ending brutality to the nomads, abolishing dyre sport, and ending the bloodslave trade. What I disagreed with were my father¡¯s methods. After decades spent arguing himself blue in the face, he gave up trying to change the laws. Decided a coup was the solution. A coup he would put it into action by stealing three young men and magically enslaving them to himself.¡±

    ¡°If you¡¯re going to vilify becoming a Thorn, you¡¯ve chosen the wrong audience.¡± Etian guided the stallion around a hole where the head of a stream had cut a muddy opening in the waves of tall grass only to disappear beneath the ground again a few feet later. ¡°If not for a last-minute change of plans from the strong gods, I would be preparing to be grafted to my brother right now. I gladly would have died for him. I still would.¡±

    ¡°Trust me when I say I understand the sentiment. If I could¡¯ve saved my sister, I would have done it in a heartbeat.¡± Clarencio watched the gamesmen chopping at a small stand of fragrant sumac. ¡°I won¡¯t argue about your noble intentions. Duty is a high calling. All I¡¯ll say is I don¡¯t agree with any man being born in chains to another man, no matter how our ancient ancestors did it. We all ought to be our own masters, as Khinet was.¡±

    ¡°None of that explains why you would turn on your father.¡±

    ¡°He set aside his convictions, believing that the ends would justify his means. I believe the means should be judged even more harshly than the ends, because in them our true nature is revealed. As the old swordmaster wrote, ¡®What good is it if I win the war but lose my soul?¡¯¡±

    ¡°¡®Victory at all costs is the ultimate defeat,¡¯¡± Etian supplied the rest of the proverb.

    ¡°And defeat is one thing no Josean-blessed warrior can stomach,¡± Clarencio said. ¡°Better to be a crippled and idealistic winner than a hale and jaded loser, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±

    Etian didn¡¯t get a chance to answer. A bevy of quail burst out of the red-tinged sumac leaves and took wing.

    The crippled lord let the reins drop across his stiffened leg. In one practiced motion, he drew his longbow and shot.

    A cry of excitement went up as a pair of fowl tumbled from the sky, pinned together by a single arrow.

 Chapter 30: The Idealistic Winner

    ¡°The queen requires blood and flesh for the princess¡¯s training,¡± King Hazerial told Clarencio that morning at supper.

    ¡°Has Your Majesty considered using some of the nobles he saw fit to bring with him?¡± the lord suggested innocently before cutting into the fowl on his plate.

    Hazerial went on as if he hadn¡¯t spoken. ¡°House Mattius will supply the queen with the number of bodies the yearly tribute has been lacking since your instatement.¡±

    It felt as if a quail bone lodged in Clarencio¡¯s throat. Like the outrageous taxes he paid to the crown each year, the number of men he sent to the body tax were always correct. His father had been meticulous in his dealings with Hazerial; out of necessity, Clarencio was perfect beyond reproach. At times, when the exact calculation for the yearly levy came out to a fraction, he had been tempted to send body parts. He always reigned in the impulse, knowing mockery from the son of a traitor would not be well received.

    Hazerial¡¯s mention of insufficient levies was obvious nonsense. An apparently petty show of power. The question was how this bullying fit into the Eketra-blessed king¡¯s overall plan.

    Clarencio took a sip of wine before responding. ¡°If Your Majesty would be gracious enough to remind his subject how many that comes out to¡­¡±

    ¡°Deliver fifty men of your holding to the queen by dusk.¡±

    House Mattius didn¡¯t owe the crown one man, let alone fifty, but there was no way to skirt the king¡¯s direct order. Like his father before him, Clarencio sent only volunteers to fulfill the yearly body tax¡ªthere were no shortage of bored miner¡¯s sons and farm boys desperately dreaming of adventure and fortune¡ªbut that was with twelve months to prepare for the next collection date.

    Horror stories of the mad queen¡¯s bloody rituals had circulated even as far out as the Cinterlands, but if the bodies his staff had cleaned out of the royal suite that evening were any indication, those gory fictions were nothing compared to what Jadarah could do when she put her mind to it.

    It certainly made one wonder what she might be teaching his future wife to do.

    The only certainty was that the fifty men he handed over to her wouldn¡¯t leave Blazing Prairie in one piece. He couldn¡¯t ask anyone to give themselves up to that.

    ¡°Consider it done, Your Majesty.¡±

    Clarencio beckoned to his elderly steward. Jarik would have to send riders to turn the condemned men out of every gaol in his holdings and hope that was enough.

    As the steward left to carry out his orders, Clarencio looked down at his unfinished meal. He couldn¡¯t eat another bite with all that idealism and means to ends he¡¯d spouted to the crown prince sticking in his craw.

    ***

    Kelena stood as still as a pressed flower in the middle of the bedchamber, while the autumn sun slowly shifted the shadows on the floor. Her feet and back ached. The fire in the hearth burned low, her breaths getting easier to see as the air became chillier.

    Blazing Prairie wasn¡¯t as ornately appointed as the Zinote mansion had been, but her chamber here was larger, and the beautiful bedstead had been laid with furs just for her. There was a lump at the foot where a thoughtful servant had shoved a firepan under the blankets to warm it for her arrival.

    She shouldn¡¯t even be looking at the bed. Mother always knew. To do something unforgiveable like wish for luxury she didn¡¯t deserve would only make things worse¡ªand there were already consequences coming. On days when Mother forgot to lock Kelena away, there were always consequences.

    The narrow wardrobe in her chamber stood open against the north wall. She should climb in, cram herself against the frosted-covered wooden panel that butted up against the cold north wall, and pull the door shut. If she yanked it hard enough, it might even have locked on its own. Would that be the right thing to do?

    No! Imbecile! Her mother would know she had stood in the middle of the floor wishing for the bed before getting into the wardrobe. If Kelena were going to get into the wardrobe on her own, she should have done it immediately. Whatever she did now, there would be consequences.

    Sometimes there were consequences even after she was locked away for the day in some cramped, close, suffocating hole. As ugly and stupid as Kelena was, all consequences, no matter how awful, were deserved.

    So she was stuck in the center of the chamber, rigidly still, waiting for her mother to punish her for once again failing at the simplest of possible tests. She was so stupid that she couldn¡¯t even understand what these tests were for.

    At least she would be able to move again when Mother came. She wouldn¡¯t be paralyzed with indecision and fear anymore. That burning pain in her shoulders would ease with movement, and the pain in her legs would lessen if they changed positions. Anything but more waiting would be a relief.

    Before Izakiel had left, it had been easier for Kelena to pretend that she wasn¡¯t as awful as she knew she was. He never believed anything Mother said. Sometimes he could even make it sound as if the queen were wrong. Mother hated him, but he was Kelena¡¯s hero. Izakiel wasn¡¯t afraid of anything. Just thinking about his courage almost made her feel brave enough to take a step.

    The chamber door opened.

    Kelena flinched. Mother.

    The sun outside those tall windows barely touched the western horizon. Mother must have been summoned by Kelena¡¯s traitorous thoughts of her older brother¡ªwithout sensing those, Jadarah would still be soundly asleep until midnight.

    The queen swept into the room, bringing a cold draft and the smell of death and gore that evidenced her zealous dedication to the strong gods. An outsider would have pegged the mother and daughter at close to the same height, but in Kelena¡¯s estimation the queen towered over her, a monstrous thunderhead crackling with power.

    Kelena trembled from head to foot, unsure whether to collapse with fright or burst into tears.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°What are you doing in the middle of the floor?¡± Mother snapped. ¡°Idiot child, were you there all night? Are you too stupid to get into your own bed? Do you need an attendant to do everything for you, like some sort of invalid? Wipe that disgusting snivel off your face before I tear it off! I don¡¯t know why I expect an empty little nothing to have a brain when she has nothing else. Come with me.¡±

    Mother stopped in the doorway. ¡°Well, Nobody, do you have enough sense to follow me yourself or do I need to drag you by the hair?¡±

    Kelena shook her head and hurried to follow. On her first step, her leg, stiffened from a night of rigid motionlessness, buckled. She collapsed.

    She looked up in horror at her mother.

    ¡°Roll your big, ugly, cow eyes around all you want, you empty little dunce. No one¡¯s going to step in now and clean up your mess. Who do you think would help you, anyway? Tell me, what fool would care about something that¡¯s not even human?¡±

    Silence. The queen was waiting.

    Kelena tried a few times to stammer out an apology, but she could hardly force a sound through her throat.

    ¡°Shut up!¡± Mother shrieked and slapped her mouth. ¡°Not even the strong gods care about you. You don¡¯t exist to them. You don¡¯t exist to anybody! No one cares about an inhuman little nothing. Are you thinking Izak will come to your rescue? That backbiting crotch louse? What did he tell you? That if you pleased him often enough, he would kill me? Or was it your latest lover boy, the blind prince? They¡¯re lying to you, telling you whatever you want to hear, because they know all you are is a shell, an empty shell, only good for one thing.¡±

    Desperately, Kelena shook her head. Her fists formed white-knuckled balls against the flagstones. She wished she could cover her ears and scream that her mother was wrong¡ªwrong about Izakiel, wrong about Etian¡ªwrong, wrong, wrong!

    Mother grinned.

    The blood felt as if it were draining from Kelena¡¯s heart when she realized she had shaken her head at Mother. How could she dare? A stupid nothing like her telling Mother that she was wrong?

    Shuddering, Kelena squeezed her eyes shut tight, bracing for another slap or worse.

    Warm, stinking arms wrapped around her trembling body.

    ¡°My empty little baby.¡± The queen¡¯s breath was hot against Kelena¡¯s hair. ¡°No one¡ªabsolutely no one¡ªcares about you but me. Not the strong gods. Not Izak or Etian or Hazerial. If they cared, they would be here. But who is here, little stupid one, little hated one, little nothing? Who is here with you?¡± Venomous red lips kissed Kelena on the forehead, and the arms squeezed gently. ¡°I am.¡±

    Kelena was so bewildered at the sudden switch to affection that she burst into tears. Mother patted her back, shushing sweetly, until the outburst was under control.

    ¡°Come, my nothing child.¡± The queen pulled Kelena to her feet. ¡°Come with Mother, come now.¡±

    She led the bewildered princess through the sprawling estate, down, down, down, into underground rooms that smelled of damp disuse. They passed winter stockpiles and aging wine, the queen still beckoning downward, to caverns that had once served as storerooms but had been replaced when the residence overhead had been expanded.

    Someone was standing up ahead with a torch.

    Mother chuckled and broke into a skip.

    The waiting person was the Lord of the Cinterlands, leaning on his walking stick. He glared at their approach, his dark, handsome features pulled into a scowl. He looked as if he could barely contain his hatred for the empty little nobody coming his way.

    The queen pranced to a halt and Kelena stopped just behind her, safely shielded from the angry lord. The echo of their footsteps carried on without them. It sounded like murmuring.

    ¡°Where are they?¡± Mother demanded.

    Lord Clarencio stepped aside. The torch illuminated a grating in the sloped floor. Inside, Kelena saw the source of the movement and murmuring.

    ¡°Fifty men,¡± the lord growled.

    Kelena¡¯s throat ached with a silent scream. She hadn¡¯t thought they would continue training here, so far from any high place or ghost city. She would take all the consequences she deserved and more if only she could avoid this.

    The queen¡¯s smile said that she knew that, too.

    Mother pulled open the grating.

    ¡°Get in.¡±

    ***

    Under normal circumstances, Hazerial preferred to keep the early part of his night to himself, tending to his toilette, breakfasting alone, then reading communiques which had made it past his chancellor. When the request for an urgent audience came from the lord of House Mattius, however, Hazerial felt the attention of his favored strong goddess turning his way.

    Eketra was sending him opportunity.

    ¡°Show him in.¡± Hazerial set aside the latest report on the war with the pirates. It was the same as always¡ªrequests for more men, more bloodslaves, more provisions, more funding for the war that should have been filling the royal treasury to bursting.

    The tap of the man¡¯s walking stick on the stone announced his arrival before he appeared in the doorway. His expression was dark, eyes burning, posture tense. The aura of suffering hung about him like a cloud, though it was too faint to be his.

    Hazerial smiled. Somebody was in a high temper.

    The traitor¡¯s whelp remembered to bow at least. ¡°Your Majesty, may I make a request of the crown regarding the marriage contract?¡±

    ¡°Our secretary is drafting it now,¡± Hazerial said.

    ¡°If it pleases the king, I would like to request that the wedding take place immediately.¡±

    Hazerial leaned back in the chair and studied the lord. Flecks of gore clung to the younger man¡¯s carefully shined boots and blood splashed the left leg of his trousers. Evidence of the fifty men he had delivered, no doubt. Jadarah had capered off to collect them when word of their arrival came. Perhaps that was at the root of this sudden attitude shift.

    ¡°We cannot possibly take our beloved daughter from her mother yet. She is barely out of the nursery. To say nothing of her apprenticeship to the queen. Kelena is an instrument of the strong gods and must be trained to reach her full potential. She will need at least ten more years under her mother¡¯s wing.¡±

    The grip on the walking stick tightened. ¡°Forgive my misunderstanding, Your Majesty, but last night it seemed as if the wedding was settled for next year.¡±

    The web was taking shape, somewhere just beyond what Hazerial could see. Grisly puppet strings twisted into the shape of a noose.

    ¡°And you agreed to be present with the court during your betrothal period,¡± Hazerial said. ¡°Where we are, there our daughter is also. You need not fear her extended absence.¡±

    It was a delicious thing to watch one of the Josean-blessed struggling to force himself to give up the source of his weakness.

    ¡°Your Majesty, your daughter finds her training¡­distasteful.¡±

    So the son of the traitor had an even worse bleeding heart than his father. The disease got more severe by the generation, it seemed.

    ¡°When her training is completed, she will no longer feel that way,¡± Hazerial said.

    ¡°Is there no way to release her from it? Surely the strong gods have enough instruments.¡±

    ¡°Which do you question¡ªtheir will or the will of your sovereign?¡±

    ¡°Neither, Your Majesty. I apologize that my ignorance makes it seem so. Without a proper high place, my family¡¯s connection to the strong gods has always been limited. And, I admit, I¡¯ve never seen a child treated in such a way.¡±

    With a gracious nod, Hazerial pretended to understand Clarencio¡¯s misgivings.

    ¡°We will not rip our daughter from her mother¡¯s loving arms so soon. However,¡± he let the bloody noose settle around the young lord¡¯s neck, ¡°we may make certain concessions for our future son-in-law. Especially in the Hall of Law, where we believe your family¡¯s interests have frequently lain in the past.¡±

    The tip of the walking stick dug into the stone as the young lord wrestled with one principle versus another. How would a Josean-blessed man weigh one little girl he had no control over against all the people his father had always gone on about, whose lot in life it appeared he might be able to affect?

    Clarencio met Hazerial¡¯s stare. ¡°I live to serve Your Majesty, but I am thirty-one years old, and my line is prone to sickness. It would be folly of me to wait ten years before attempting to produce a legitimate heir.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps if your presence benefits the crown sufficiently, the betrothal period might be shortened. One might presume that for each act of assistance you provide, months¡ªor even years¡ªmay be subtracted.¡±

    ¡°And my future wife¡¯s training?¡±

    Hazerial smiled at the sight of a man pulling his own noose tight. ¡°There is every chance the strong gods will decide they have enough instruments by then.¡±

 Chapter 31: One Good Eye

    The first indications that Thornfield had made a mistake in admitting Nine came six months into training, when he began to get the hang of sword work beyond vicious chopping that would make a woodsman blush.

    Nine¡¯s bald spots had grown back in, and the hair was even starting to take on a lustrous brown color. He was gaining weight, and he often complained of the splintering pains in his legs that heralded growth. With regular meals, malnourished brats from the low streets tended to catch up to the height they ought to be quickly. When their growth and eating evened out, whatever strange habits they¡¯d created in their awkward stages could be corrected and their newfound fat could be replaced with muscle.

    But one deadly habit caught the weapons master¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°Stop!¡± Saint Daven caught Nine¡¯s wrist mid-hack. He raised a hand and smacked the boy in the face.

    ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± the boy shrieked.

    ¡°Then stop me.¡±

    A dozen more times proved Nine couldn¡¯t. It also brought the truth pouring out in a tearful, furious tantrum.

    Saint Daven went directly to Grandmaster. ¡°Our little berserker¡¯s blind in his right eye. Sounds like an infection did it.¡±

    Grandmaster frowned. ¡°Did he say how long ago he lost sight in it?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t think to ask.¡± Nine might have mentioned it for all the young weapons master knew, but understanding that heavy Siu Carinal accent was doubly hard when the boy was worked up.

    ¡°Take him to Healer Prime immediately. If we¡¯re lucky, he can do something about it.¡±

    The second, calmer relation of Nine¡¯s tale of his injury included seventy-eight dockworkers, every one of them trying to beat his skull flat. He¡¯d come off the better of them, though.

    ¡°Ain¡¯t nobody took a notion to come after me nor Pretty since,¡± he concluded proudly.

    Healer Prime was only half listening as he examined the boy¡¯s eye. ¡°And how long ago did you say you were hit?¡±

    ¡°Back in flood season, that was. The moon was hiding behind the ghost city, so I knowed that night was gonna be bad medicine ¡¯fore I ever left the Closes.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing I can do for it after this much time,¡± Healer Prime told Grandmaster in his study late that afternoon. ¡°Even with royal blood magic, that eye will never see again.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s it, then. He may learn to compensate somewhat, but a soldier with half a field of vision will always be at a disadvantage,¡± Grandmaster Heartless said. ¡°Nine will be dismissed at dusk after he¡¯s breakfasted.¡±

    Saint Daven understood that Thornfield couldn¡¯t stoop to producing subpar Thorns. Every man who was grafted had to uphold the martial excellence of the order, because any one of them could be called upon to guard the king. Boys who couldn¡¯t keep up with Thornfield¡¯s demanding standards were sent back out into the world to deal with the consequences they thought they¡¯d left behind.

    ¡°Shame to waste that much piss and swagger,¡± Saint Galen said, chewing over the news with him late that day in their shared room in the masters¡¯ tower. ¡°The kid goes after everybody he fights like he believes his own stories.¡±

    ¡°Almost as bad as Cutter was.¡± Saint Daven tapped the blade of an old dagger on his knee without really noticing he¡¯d brought it out. His sword Wild had been melted down for scrap after Lord Paius¡¯s death and his thornknife had splintered when his soul shattered, but the dagger he¡¯d held onto. ¡°Fast as oiled lightning, too. In a few years, he could¡¯ve had the skill to back up that mouth.¡±

    The grandmaster was right, of course. A half-blind Thorn could never be an effective shield between his lord and danger, no more than a half-mad, disgraced Thorn could.

    ***

    Grandmaster Heartless was on his way into the great hall for breakfast the next evening when Saint Daven confronted him.

    ¡°Give me a month of extra lessons with the little berserker,¡± he said. ¡°Let me see if I can negate his eye as a weakness. If he¡¯s not better than a man with two good eyes by then, I¡¯ll kick him out and reimburse His Majesty for the room and board.¡±

    Grandmaster¡¯s bushy white brows drew down in a glower. ¡°I didn¡¯t make my ruling lightly, Master Saint Daven. This isn¡¯t a game of wagers. We¡¯re talking about a boy¡¯s life.¡±

    ¡°I apologize, Grandmaster. I didn¡¯t mean any disrespect, but it seems like a waste to me. Nine¡¯s got more potential than half his class. He¡¯s got the blood magic and the willingness to learn, and he was skilled enough to keep us in the dark about his eye for this long. There¡¯s the chance that, with the right tool set, he could cancel out the disadvantage.¡±Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    Grandmaster glared into the younger man¡¯s gold eyes, but Saint Daven didn¡¯t look away.

    It was the first time since the broken Thorn¡¯s return to the school that he¡¯d shown a flicker of interest in anything. The mad young man might be the best fighter the school had ever produced. Heartless had feared he¡¯d been completely ruined by the cruel hand of fate¡ªuntil this very moment when, it seemed, Saint Daven had decided to come back to life.

    ¡°They¡¯re all going to die, Grandmaster,¡± he said in a low voice. ¡°If Nine can fill a gap in defenses in the meantime, why waste him? It might be an unpardonable offense to give the king less than the best, but a private posting with some minor noble? Surely the berserker could manage that until the king came for his lord.¡±

    ¡°Not every lord turns on the king,¡± Heartless said.

    But many were accused of it. The results came to the same.

    Grandmaster perused the hall, boys and men scattered around the tables, as many empty spots as filled ones. Less than half the number the school had housed in Heartless¡¯s day, and dwindling more every year. Boys with blood magic were getting fewer and farther between, while the demand for Thorns stayed the same.

    ¡°If he doesn¡¯t meet and exceed Thornfield standards by the tournament next month, he¡¯s gone,¡± Grandmaster said.

    Saint Daven bowed. ¡°Thank you, Grandmaster.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t thank me yet.¡± Heartless spotted Nine at a table, eating everything he could get his hands on. ¡°You promised remuneration for his room and board if you fail. You¡¯d better hope he doesn¡¯t. I doubt your purse is deep enough to cover a full month.¡±

    ***

    ¡°I cain¡¯t go on whore trips no more, me,¡± Nine announced sadly to his roommates. They had been back to the village three times in the last six months, but in that time, Nine had become a dedicated drinker. ¡°The masters¡¯re making me do extra sword lessons in the daytime on account a¡¯ my bad eye.¡±

    ¡°Your lard wasn¡¯t going to fit through that grating much longer anyway.¡± Izak looked up from his book. ¡°Bad eye, you say? What happened to it?¡±

    Sighing, Nine climbed up onto his shelf bed and flopped down. The wood crackled under his recently added weight. He wasn¡¯t fat, but he had gone from skeletal to awkwardly lumpy, and the bed had been rickety to begin with.

    ¡°Riverboat-load a¡¯ broke-free bloodslaves got after me. ¡¯Bout a thousand, I reckon.¡±

    Coming from Nine, the lack of gory details and the missing last-minute rescue of his twin were tantamount to a cry for help.

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t tell me anything about your eye,¡± Izak prompted.

    ¡°It don¡¯t see no more!¡± Nine exploded. He leaned over the edge of his bed and waved a hand in front of his face for emphasis. ¡°It got all dark, then it just went away! I didn¡¯t know I was s¡¯posed to have both eyes so¡¯s I could fight.¡± He flopped back over and kicked the ceiling. ¡°I was fighting fine with just one. That fool master had to get bothered about it¡­¡±

    ¡°Partial blindness explains why you always turn your head,¡± Twenty-six said, leaving the archer loop to join the conversation.

    ¡°Huh.¡± Izak squinted up at the runt, tapping his chin. ¡°I never thought about it, but you do. Every time you look me in the eye, you cock your head right.¡±

    ¡°No, I don¡¯t!¡± The runt was doing it right then. A sort of quarter-turn and a slight angle that must present him with a better view from his left eye. ¡°And worse, if¡¯n I don¡¯t take these extra lessons, they¡¯ll toss me out! Being a Thorn was s¡¯posed to get me a bunch a¡¯ gold and a uphill placement for us. She¡¯s gotta get out of the Closes, Pretty,¡± he said earnestly. ¡°They¡¯re dangerous for girls.¡±

    Izak looked at Twenty-six to see if he would mention that this sister was probably already dead. For once, the pirate kept his unnecessary bluntness to himself.

    ¡°Extra lessons will make you a better warrior,¡± Twenty-six said, ¡°and if you become the best warrior at Thornfield, you will be grafted to your dirter king. That will lead to more gold, won¡¯t it?¡±

    Clearly Nine hadn¡¯t considered that. ¡°Yeah, maybe so!¡±

    ¡°And maybe by the time your extra lessons are complete, you¡¯ll have worked off some of that extra lard,¡± Izak added, going back to his reading.

    ***

    Saint Daven¡¯s idea for saving Nine¡¯s place at Thornfield had very little to do with the boy¡¯s sword work and everything to do with his style of attack.

    ¡°A blind berserker won¡¯t last long,¡± he explained on their first day of extra lessons. ¡°One counter from the wrong side and you¡¯re dead. We can¡¯t change your vision, so we have to change theirs. What I¡¯m going to show you¡­ Maybe you¡¯ll get the hang of it. Odds are you won¡¯t. We have a month to find out.¡±

    Nine puffed up. ¡°I¡¯ll do it in half that, me. What is it?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re going to use the blood magic to disappear.¡±

    ¡°I seen that once.¡± Nine made an exploding motion with his grubby hand. ¡°Poof, into smoke.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re talking about disincorporation. Smoke stepping is a technique of royal blood magic. The royal family can do it, and the king can even move others great distances along with him, but smoke is still visible. You¡¯re not going to be.¡±

    ¡°But I seen somebody do it afore, and I¡¯m a fair study, me.¡±

    Saint Daven slashed a hand through the air. ¡°Forget about that. You can¡¯t smoke step¡ªyou don¡¯t have the royal blood magic. Making yourself invisible is entirely different. You can still be wounded; you can still be killed. But if you get it right, you can¡¯t be seen. That¡¯s where you¡¯ll get your advantage.¡±

    The Royal Thorns who had survived the massacre in the Cinterlands would give anything to know how Saint Daven had killed so many of their brothers¡ªhis brothers¡ªbefore his lord and his fellow stolen Thorns were dead. But the truth was, most of them probably couldn¡¯t do anything with the answer if they knew how he¡¯d done it. It took a certain kind of mind to use blood magic that way.

    Saint Daven never talked about the Cinterlands Rebellion. He didn¡¯t want to now. But there were things the kid needed to understand to pull this off.

    ¡°Before we get started,¡± he warned Nine, ¡°you need to know that if you tell anyone what I¡¯m about to tell you, I¡¯ll kill you.¡±

    Whatever Nine saw in his face then must have scared the kid, because Nine¡¯s twin swords flashed up between them.

    ¡°I don¡¯t spread no tales, me!¡± the boy blustered. ¡°Anyhow, if you¡¯re fixin¡¯ to take after me, that¡¯s the last fixin¡¯ you¡¯ll ever do.¡±

    Saint Daven nodded. ¡°Good. We understand each other. Let¡¯s get to work.¡±

    Then he disappeared.

 Chapter 32: Autumn Tournament

    Twice a year, Thornfield pitted the students against their own classes in a mock tournament. This determined ranking, and for the seniors, ranking was everything. The best-ranked Thorns in any class were almost always grafted to the king. On only the rarest of occasions was Hazerial known to give away his best potential Thorns.

    Although the masters hammered the honor and pride of their order into the students¡¯ heads night in and night out, it was well known that Royal Thorns gained the most fringe benefits. They had dozens of fellow Thorns to ease their workload and often received whole days off from guarding the king and royal family. While they were on guard, there were usually so many of them in one place that it wasn¡¯t unheard of to spend days gambling and telling stories with only the occasional high-alert situation. Beautiful women from cities across the kingdom warmed their beds, and many Thorns enjoyed supplementary income from wealthy, off-the-record patronesses as well.

    Private Thorns could expect to be grafted with two fellow Thorns at most, which severely cut down on¡ªif not altogether eliminated¡ªtheir recreation time. They also had the constant threat of their masters being charged with treason, heresy, or looking at the king the wrong way hanging over their heads. No Thorn could allow their master to walk into harm, which meant fighting to the death when the arrest was attempted.

    As far as anyone knew, Saint Daven was the only Thorn who had survived his master¡¯s death, and the messy rumors swirling around the incident were enough to keep any Thorn in his right mind from hoping to join that small fellowship.

    So while Royal Thorns rarely lived long enough to be retired, they got enough enjoyment from their short stints at the palace and heard enough horror stories about their private counterparts that they weren¡¯t complaining.

    Thornfield¡¯s mock tournaments were holidays for the students. All lectures and training were suspended for two weeks¡ª¡°Extra lessons not included,¡± Grandmaster broke the news to the outraged Nine¡ªwhile the students gathered around the bailey to watch the matches, cheering, shouting advice, and analyzing mistakes from the sidelines.

    Even the masters got caught up in the festive atmosphere, forgetting that the game was essentially deciding which boys would live fast, luxurious, short lives and which would live potentially slow, torturous ones. The betting in the students¡¯ quarters was nothing compared to the money changing hands between the masters.

    First-years, as they were generally less skilled and less exciting than their older counterparts, fought their bracket out first, usually concluding in a short few days.

    Twenty-six swept his initial matches, all against much larger opponents. Dirters were tall, but most of them had only half a year¡¯s experience with steel weapons. They didn¡¯t stand a chance against an Ocean Rover who had cut his teeth on a cutlass and swordbreaker.

    Izak shocked everyone when he took all of his first matches as well. In truth, he had considered losing early on so he could relax and watch the rest of the proceedings, but it would have been too obvious. Losing to rustics twice his width and low street psychos half his height, all of whom had never held a sword before coming to Thornfield? Unconscionable.

    Penuel-Denuel¡ªbetter known to Izak now as Fifty-one¡ªwas the toughest opponent he faced in those early rounds. The bastard had been trained in the saber for years, idly at first, then more strenuously as it became glaringly apparent that he wouldn¡¯t be made legal heir.

    From the beginning of their match, it seemed clear to the spectators that Fifty-one would rout the former crown prince. He drove Four across the bailey with a series of perfectly placed slashes and aggressive footwork that had the prince struggling to keep up. The smart money was on the bastard of West Crag.

    Then came a split second of hesitation. The crowd murmured. Had Fifty-one turned his ankle on a loose stone? Caught a bit of dust in his eyes?

    The bastard lurched into motion again, but too late. Four sidestepped, deftly slipping his staff between the bastard¡¯s calves.  With a twist, he collapsed Fifty-one¡¯s stance and dropping him to one knee on the sandy ground. Four whipped the sword end around and rested its blade across the back of Fifty-one¡¯s neck.

    Rumors began immediately that Fifty-one had lost intentionally to his prince, but the dumbfounded look on Fifty-one¡¯s face was enough to tell Twenty-six and anyone else with half a brain that he¡¯d been beaten outright.

    When Four offered Fifty-one a hand up, the loser threw back his head and laughed. He grabbed the prince¡¯s hand and was hauled to his feet. After the winner was declared, Fifty-one hung around with Four, laughing and bemoaning his loss alternately with his smug-looking conqueror.

    Twenty-six had been trained from childhood to spot the nuances of a skirmish. He dismissed questions of turned ankles and vision impairments immediately; the bastard had suffered neither. There was a single glaring point that no one in the crowd around Twenty-six was mentioning¡ªFour hadn¡¯t used his swordstaff until the end of the match.

    Four was unused to relying on weapons. Instead, the bastard¡¯s hesitation must have come as a result of some blood magic treachery.

    The masters had announced before the matches began that there were no rules for engagement except that the only blood magic allowed was what each fighter brought with them into combat¡ªno theft from the spectators.

    And yet Four hadn¡¯t resorted to the tactic immediately. He had waited until he¡¯d nearly lost, either because the attack required time to prepare or specific placement to activate. He may even have gone into the match hoping to win without using blood magic, then realized he could not.

    Whatever it was, when Twenty-six fought Four¡ªand it looked certain that they would fight, the way the bracket was falling¡ªhe would have to finish Four quickly to avoid the unknown attack.

    ***

    Nine did much better than anyone expected in the first-year bracket, tearing his way through foes much larger and more experienced than he was, much to his bloodthirsty fellow younger students¡¯ delight.

    The little berserker hacked and slashed and swung his twin swords like a whirlwind, taking all sorts of nonlethal damage while chopping through the best-laid of defenses. He was like a tiny blood-fevered bull that had to be hacked to pieces to be stopped. Then, when it was least expected, Nine would appear exactly where he needed to be, with swords to neck and spine, breastbone and gut, or groin and throat. No one saw how he got there. A trick of speed and chaos, the older students speculated, some misdirection in all that wild animal flailing.

    When the boy finally lost to Four, in what would have been the finals of a real tournament, Master Saint Daven was the only one disappointed in Nine¡¯s showing.

    ¡°He can stay on,¡± Grandmaster remarked, picking up the thread of their month-old conversation as if no time had passed. ¡°He bested every comer but the prince. Results like that cannot be dismissed.¡±

    Saint Daven wasn¡¯t impressed. ¡°He should¡¯ve made it to the championship fight. He¡¯ll have to continue the extra lessons.¡±

    ¡°I leave that to your discretion. Keep this up, and you might just make a Royal Thorn out of a half-blind child.¡± Grandmaster watched the boy animatedly reliving his fight with his friends. Rather than being hurt and embarrassed by the loss, Nine was talking the ear off of his roommate, the former crown prince, seemingly ecstatic at how handily he¡¯d been beaten.

    Unlike many of the younger Thornfield masters, Heartless never lost sight of the true goal in the festive air of the mock tournaments. He had returned dozens of his brothers¡¯ thornknives during his service. He could never forget that the boys rehashing their wins and losses today would tomorrow be the thornknives filling the graveyard outside the walls.

    He was raising these boys to die. A few might survive, as he had, as the masters of Thornfield had, but most wouldn¡¯t.

    There was a reason they called each year of prospective Thorns ¡°crops.¡± They were there for a season and then cut down.

    ***

    The first-year championship fight came down to Four and Twenty-six. By then all suggestion of the prince winning by deference to noble blood had run aground. The prince was capable of something the best fighters in their year could not defend against. That was the only explanation.

    None of Four¡¯s opponents would go so far as to describe his tactic for defeating them. Twenty-six rarely spoke to his fellow students unless required by necessity, but he heard others asking Four¡¯s defeated foes what he¡¯d done. Their answers were vague, embarrassed.

    ¡°But I would have won otherwise,¡± they invariably claimed, ¡°Four told me so.¡±If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    And Four always backed them up. ¡°I¡¯m nowhere near as talented at fighting as he is. I cheated. Simple as that.¡±

    But Four never said how.

    As they moved to the center of the bailey for the final match, Twenty-six kept an eye on his opponent. Prepared, but not tense; watchful, but not so eager that he rushed to counter every twitch. Four¡¯s claims about cheating might in themselves be a distraction. A smart man with enough foresight and time could set such a thing into motion for the sake of intimidation or misdirection.

    Master Fright raised a hand between them, the embroidered kerchief hooked in his fingers fluttering in the faint night breeze.

    ¡°Both parties ready?¡±

    Four grinned and leveled his swordstaff. ¡°I¡¯d say, ¡®may the best man win,¡¯ but odds are I¡¯m going to.¡±

    ¡°Talk is useless.¡± Twenty-six scraped the flat of his cutlass down the length of Four¡¯s blade. Steel hissed against steel. ¡°Speak with your weapon.¡±

    He¡¯d never fought against a spear before. The only spears on Ocean Rover ships were short, sturdy harpoons used for hunting sea creatures. Otherwise, the quarters were too tight for a long, thrusting weapon to be effective. From what he¡¯d seen of Four¡¯s bouts and training, however, the reach and momentum of the swordstaff were its strengths. Inside its arc, he could avoid the blade at the end and mitigate the momentum of the swing.

    ¡°Fight!¡± The kerchief snapped aside.

    Twenty-six whipped his cutlass wide, smacking the staff out of the way. Four lurched onto his back foot and spun the staff, but Twenty-six was already too close for the stick to hit him with any force. The swordbreaker¡¯s serrated edge naturally filled in where the cutlass had been, racing for the prince¡¯s throat.

    Four¡¯s eyes widened in shock. Perhaps the prince had expected caution seeded by the duplicity he¡¯d been heralding at every turn. Time must be the secret, then, to whatever blood magic Four needed to win.

    The swordbreaker was a breath from Four¡¯s throat, the cutlass swinging back to join it.

    ¡°My husband.¡± Mehet pressed a hand to his cheek, her forehead to his. Her teal eyes glittered like gems. ¡°My raedr.¡±

    The cutlass and swordbreaker crashed against wood.

    ¡°Light burn me, who is she?¡± Four whipped his swordstaff, throwing off the heavy steel weapons. ¡°Tell me you¡¯ll introduce us, Twenty-six.¡±

    Twenty-six spun around the thrust of the staff. His cutlass hissed through the place where Four stood and hit nothing.

    ¡°Araam?¡± Mehet¡¯s arms slipped around him and pulled him closer. She smelled like saltwater and perfumed oils, and she was soft, so soft. She moaned. The sound made his throat go dry and his heart pound like a storm surf on hidden rocks. ¡°My Araam.¡±

    Four whistled from nearby. ¡°She¡¯s gorgeous. For Teikru¡¯s sake, what are you waiting for?¡±

    Araam¡ªno, he was Araam no longer¡ªTwenty-six crashed into Four.

    Except Four was already gone again. Or maybe he¡¯d never been there.

    Twenty-six was in Haelbringr¡¯s cabin, tangled in silken sheets and warm furs and the arms of his laughing, beautiful wife¡­

    No. Mehet was dead, gone to the depths with her burning wedding vessel. He was in the Thornfield bailey. Fighting.

    Fighting who?

    ¡°Kill me and my Mark will lift,¡± the blood drinker king purred. ¡°Kill me and return to your precious pirates victorious.¡±

    Araam¡ªTwenty-six¡ªsomeone drove the swordbreaker into the dirter¡¯s heart.

    No. There is no dirter king here, no Mehet. I am fighting Four.

    ¡°You were fighting Four.¡± The king¡¯s face shifted, narrowed. His hair darkened, his eyes lost their fathomless frozen-mud sheen, and two sets of dimples appeared in a smiling face. ¡°Now you¡¯ve lost to Four, I¡¯m afraid.¡±

    Twenty-six lay sprawled in the sand. The prince stood over him with the blade of the swordstaff resting on his sternum. Around the bailey, men and boys cheered. The sudden clearing of his head was nearly as disorienting as the illusions had been.

    Four spun the staff up and set its butt in the dirt, then reached out a hand to offer Twenty-six help up.

    The cutlass had been smacked away or dropped, and blood poured from a stab wound in Twenty-six¡¯s palm that would no doubt match Four¡¯s blade, but the swordbreaker was still clutched in his opposite hand. The urge to grab Four by the arm and yank him down onto its serrated blade roared inside Twenty-six. His muscles shook with the desire to kill.

    It was the Mark that stopped him, that fist of stone locking him in place.

    Twenty-six forced the hatred and rage down into that boiling maelstrom in his chest. When he could move again, he stood, ignoring Four¡¯s offer of help.

    ¡°I told you.¡± Four let his hand drop and shrugged. ¡°I cheat.¡±

    ¡°Losses are more informative than victories,¡± Twenty-six said, looking into the dark eyes of his roommate, the son of the monster.

    ***

    Despite Nine¡¯s complaints, the weapons master wouldn¡¯t allow the runt to skip out on his extra sword lessons, so when the festivities were finished for the night and the crowd broke up, Izak returned to their room alone.

    Twenty-six made it back to the room hours later, when the sun had already begun its climb up the eastern side of the sky. Ignoring Izak, the pirate went straight to the archer loop and stared out at the lightening surf.

    ¡°She really was gorgeous.¡± Izak sat up on his bed and leaned against the stone wall. ¡°I¡¯d give both my eyes for a day in the arms of a beauty like that. Take my ears while you¡¯re at it. Who is she?¡±

    The pirate¡¯s shoulders and arms twitched, then froze. He stood in silence for several long minutes.

    Most of Izak¡¯s opponents had laughed off his attack because their fantasies were too embarrassing or too predictable. Nine¡¯s had been outrageous, on level with the larger-than-life stories he loved to spin. Getting to watch the ridiculously one-sided battle unfold before his single working eye and getting to run his grubby hands through imagined piles of gold had tickled the runt to no end.

    Twenty-six wasn¡¯t laughing. After what Izak had seen, the prince hadn¡¯t expected him to be.

    ¡°Can you not tell?¡± Twenty-six¡¯s voice was strained, either holding back fury or forcing the words past it.

    ¡°I saw the girl¡¯s mouth moving, but I couldn¡¯t hear what she said,¡± Izak admitted. ¡°I¡¯m not a true mind reader. That little trick just vomits back at you what¡¯s most often on the surface of your mind.¡±

    ¡°Are there true mind readers among your people?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you if you tell me.¡±

    Twenty-six went silent.

    Was he considering whether the trade was worthwhile? Better throw the pirate some treasure up front.

    ¡°There must be true mind readers somewhere,¡± Izak said. ¡°I¡¯ve read about them, and I don¡¯t believe they¡¯re entirely fictitious. If I can use blood magic to scrape your mind for its fondest imaginings, then someone must be able to hear or read the thoughts in there.¡±

    After another stretch of silence, Twenty-six said, ¡°The woman was a heroine among our people. Someday her epics will be sung across every wave in the ocean.¡±

    Izak grinned. ¡°I wish more Kingdom of Night epics were about beautiful women with that perfect, all-over glow. Not a hint of white on her. Do your women bask naked in the sun to brown like that? Better yet, do your men get to watch while they do?¡±

    Again that strained, frozen posture.

    ¡°Aha,¡± Izak said. ¡°More than just a famous story for pirate boys to put themselves to sleep with, isn¡¯t she?¡±

    ¡°If I could kill you, you would be thrice dead by now,¡± Twenty-six finally forced out.

    ¡°Who is she really?¡±

    ¡°Can your king create illusions as you can?¡±

    ¡°Another trade of information, you say? That¡¯s fair. I don¡¯t know if the king can do that particular trick. I can only do it to people I¡¯ve been around a while. There¡¯s a certain level of foreknowledge required. Just enough that I can probe around in your head, which takes less intimacy than one might guess. Minds are surprisingly defenseless. Of course, it¡¯s worthless against an enemy I¡¯ve just met. I imagine King Hazerial has something much more effective up his sleeve.¡±

    When the pirate made no move to fulfill his side of the trade, Izak prompted him with, ¡°And the golden beauty of the waves was¡­?¡±

    Twenty-six was shaking now, a tremor so faint that it would have been imperceptible if not for the slight movement of his sandy hair, which in the past several months since their arrival at Thornfield had grown longer than fashion dictated.

    ¡°Come on, Twenty-six,¡± Izak cajoled. ¡°How are you going to get enough information to murder the king unless you uphold your end of the bargain?¡±

    The frozen posture disappeared. The pirate whirled to face Izak, suspicion narrowing his gray-green eyes.

    Izak nodded. ¡°I saw him, too, and I can add sums as well as the next man. Better, usually. Who was she?¡±

    ¡°Why do you care?¡±

    ¡°Call it an idle fancy, call it rubbing salt in the wound. Whatever it is, I¡¯m not giving you anything else until I know.¡±

    The stubbornness reared its ugly head. ¡°I need nothing from you.¡±

    ¡°I beg to differ. You want Hazerial dead, but you don¡¯t know how to kill him. I may only have known you for half a year, but even I know that when a pirate sees an opening, he attacks. Instead, you hesitated. You were scared.¡±

    ¡°I fear no death or dirters.¡±

    ¡°My father is both, and you should certainly fear him.¡± No flicker of surprise there, so the pirate had already guessed or been told who Izak was. ¡°Who was the girl?¡±

    ¡°Woman.¡±

    ¡°Woman, then. Who was she?¡±

    ¡°Tell me how one kills such an abomination as your king.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. If that were common knowledge, do you think I would be languishing here at the wrong end of the world?¡±

    That gave the pirate pause.

    ¡°You would have killed your own father?¡±

    ¡°Of course not! Do I strike you as suicidal? But I certainly would¡¯ve milked the knowledge for all it was worth so I could stay in Siu Rial.¡± Izak frowned. ¡°Though he probably would¡¯ve killed me for that.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Well, one way or another, if I knew how to murder the Chosen of the Strong Gods, I would already be dust. So you see, I¡¯m worthless to you, just like she is.¡±

    Twenty-six started to protest, but Izak bulled ahead. ¡°She stopped you from winning today. Let go of her, and maybe I won¡¯t be able to use her against you next time.¡±

    Izak expected more of that frozen rage, but it didn¡¯t rear its head again. Twenty-six glared for a long, long minute. Then something shifted behind those gray-green eyes.

    ¡°Your people murdered her,¡± the pirate said. ¡°But she fought to the death and beyond. She is a heroine, worthy of her place in paradise.¡±

    More or less as Izak had guessed, then. ¡°And you¡ªher lover? admirer? unrequited lovesick devotee?¡ªwhere were you?¡±

    ¡°I failed her and my tribe. That is all that matters.¡±

    ¡°So you¡¯ve got a dead woman, a thirst for revenge, a king neither of us knows how to kill, and his shiftless disgrace of a son sleeping across the room from you. What¡¯s your next move?¡±

    ¡°You said minds are defenseless, but you require time and knowledge of your victim to use their thoughts against them.¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call them victims¡ª¡±

    ¡°So there must be some defense that holds up against your attack.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen a well-made wall or two.¡± His uncle¡¯s had been impenetrable. A full-scale inquest had been required to break that down. ¡°I may have even learned to make a few in my day. What will you give me in exchange for teaching you how they work?¡±

    ¡°I gave you a way to the village.¡±

    Izak grinned. ¡°That¡¯s not how we negotiate on dry ground. You didn¡¯t think to barter back then; that¡¯s your loss.¡±

    Twenty-six¡¯s ever-present scowl deepened. ¡°What do you want?¡±

    A beautiful woman to hold. A fast horse back to the hedonistic life he¡¯d left behind. A certain mad queen¡¯s head on a pike. The better man to succeed his father, and as fast as possible. Younger siblings who understood loyalty the way Nine did or honor the way Twenty-six claimed it worked. Proof his uncle hadn¡¯t died for nothing.

    ¡°To tell the truth, I don¡¯t know,¡± Izak said at last. ¡°But I¡¯ve got a hunch you¡¯re the pirate to get it for me.¡±

 Chapter 33: Carnival of the Dead

    Pretty didn¡¯t talk much to the servants who flitted around Athalia¡¯s townhouse like periwinkle butterflies around a mudpuddle, but she listened plenty. The servants¡ªexcepting the Silent Sisterhood, who never said anything¡ªgabbed about how the Daylily was going soft in her old age, how she should¡¯ve gotten a little dog like the rest of the courtesans did when they wanted a pet, how she could have bought a real daughter from any number of uphill girls who had miscalculated their beaus¡¯ reaction to becoming fathers.

    A real daughter, then, must be better than a close-rat. And how could it not be, if it came from uphill?

    Might be a real daughter was smarter and braver, but Pretty was determined that no real daughter would do better at manners and deportment than she did. She practiced her posture until her spine ached. She smiled until her face hurt. She laughed as sweetly as Athalia did, placed her hands as gracefully, cast her eyes as meaningfully.

    Could a real daughter sit as still through the needlework as Pretty did? She didn¡¯t figure so. Could a real daughter stop crying when Athalia told her it would eventually stop hurting? No, a real daughter would¡¯ve been a lot of bother instead of a good girl like Pretty was.

    Every day, when the soothing oils had been rubbed into her skin and the salve spread on her eyes, Pretty curled up in Athalia¡¯s big, curtained bed while the Daylily sang her to sleep, and she prayed that the Cormorant would make her the best girl Athalia ever knowed, because Athalia was the best grown-up¡ªmaybe the best person¡ªPretty ever knowed. When the Daylily of Siu Carinal said something, it happened. She never told tales, and what she promised always came true.

    It felt disloyal to think so when her onliest twin was the one Pretty was comparing the Daylily to, but it was the truth. And yet Pretty still loved and missed Brat.

    Athalia understood that, too.

    ¡°It¡¯s not like a sunblister, that pain,¡± Athalia said, wiping the tears from Pretty¡¯s face. ¡°The hurt don¡¯t go away, you just get harder around it.¡±

    Pretty sniffled. ¡°When?¡±

    Athalia smiled her sad smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes so soft, the one she showed to nobody but Pretty.

    ¡°Sometime, child. Sometime.¡±

    There were days when Pretty couldn¡¯t be around Athalia, when she had to hide belowstairs with the servants because a caller was expected to come visiting. Sometimes, Athalia left for nights at a time to attend balls and masques and theatres far away.

    Spring came around, and everything outside the townhouse started winding up. The music got wilder, the smells of food and flowers and spices filled the air, and the hoopin¡¯ and hollerin¡¯ picked up. The Carnival of the Dead was just around the corner.

    ¡°Can we go to the Carnival, us?¡± Pretty asked.

    Athalia kissed her on top of the head. ¡°Not together we can¡¯t. I got to sit on the High Stand, me. The future Lord of Siu Carinal wants his Daylily on display.¡± Her eyes narrowed, staring into the mirror at herself. ¡°One more year, at least.¡±

    ¡°Then we¡¯ll go to the Carnival together?¡±

    ¡°Until it¡¯s your turn, Seleketra,¡± Athalia said, chucking Pretty under the chin the way she always did when she called her by her someday-name. ¡°Then I¡¯ll go all on my own and watch you up there on the High Stand, shining to beat the ghost city.¡±

    ***

    Swathed in brilliant colors and crushing flowers underfoot, the parade wound its way through Siu Carinal toward the carnival grounds. The past year¡¯s newly departed and several old favorites howled and danced in the streets, their tempered flesh stretching and groaning under the strain. But the dead temperers had done their job well¡ªhardly a corpse popped or tore. Mixed in with the dead were musicians of every instrument, banging, blowing, and plucking.

    Pretty saw the dead great lady she and Brat had been waiting for, all gussied up in finery and flowers, her snooty face stretched into a wide, unfamiliar grin as she railed out a ululating song. There was old Tonia, too, dancing around on her twisted leg like she never had when she was alive.

    There was the boy who¡¯d coughed himself to death in the next tunnel! Oh, she wished Brat could¡¯ve seen that. Some dead temperer had really done himself out on that one, peeling and pinning and coloring, making the close-rat look like a dyre in mid-change, half a beast, half a human. The boy roared and leapt, scaring the fancy folk and sending kids shrieking back into the crowds.

    Dead close-rats never got tempered in time to make them look festive, but their decayed little bodies were good for all manner of imps and fright¡¯ems and beasts.

    Athalia had given Pretty a handful of coins to buy flowers to throw and any food she could want, but Pretty hadn¡¯t spent any of it. She wasn¡¯t sure how to trade money for things, and she was afraid she wouldn¡¯t have enough and would get tossed in the River Street gaol.

    Anyway, what if some of her wrappings fell away when she threw a flower? Somebody might see the unfinished needlework, and then she¡¯d be in trouble. Only one of her eyes was done so far, and she had promised Athalia she would keep everything hidden ¡°¡¯til the time comes.¡± A demon didn¡¯t get halfway made, and she didn¡¯t grow up, neither, she sprung into being, full-grown and finished. If somebody saw Pretty before she was finished, all Athalia¡¯s hard work and money would be wasted.

    Behind the dancing dead came the floats, decorated in flowers and crepe and flaming candles.

    A fist squeezing Pretty¡¯s chest let loose, and tears of happiness swelled in her half-finished eyes. Brat hadn¡¯t been in amongst the dead. Somewhere, her twin might still be alive.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    Behind the floats came the lords and ladies in their open carriages, showing off clothes and jewels that made the rich uphill folks look like dirty dockworkers.

    There was Athalia! Pretty shrieked and jumped up and down, clapping. The Daylily of Siu Carinal rode in the handsomest carriage of them all, a sparkling thing lined with mother-of-pearl and trimmed with ebony. Next to her a jolly, drunken lordling tossed handfuls of coins to both sides of the streets, thoroughly amused by the scramble they caused.

    Then the man reached back under his seat and came up with bottles of rum. The crowd roared. He held the bottles out one at a time for Athalia to kiss, then lobbed them into the sea of people. Fights broke out, young men pummeling each other for a chance to drink from the bottles that the lips of the Daylily had touched.

    The lordling collapsed back into his seat with his arm around the most beautiful woman in the world.

    Pretty realized with a start that the scarf wrapping her face had begun to slip. She snatched it back up.

    When the carriages were past, the people lining the streets crowded in behind the carriages, singing and drinking and raising an uproar as they followed the parade.

    Pretty squeezed in with them, jostling and dancing upriver toward the festival grounds, humming or howling along when she knew the tune. Brat was probably alive, and Athalia was the most sought-after woman in Siu Carinal, and Pretty loved them both.

    ***

    ¡°It¡¯s Carnival of the Dead time, I figure,¡± Nine said, getting up and dusting off the sand. ¡°You ever been?¡±

    Saint Daven wasn¡¯t interested in holidays. ¡°Focus on what you¡¯re doing here. I shouldn¡¯t have been able to see you, let alone knock you down like that.¡±

    The boy rested one of his twin swords on his shoulder. ¡°My twin Pretty¡¯s probably dancing the dead up the river now. We always went, us. The music and the flowers, those were Pretty¡¯s favorites. And you get to see who all¡¯s died that you knowed.¡±

    There was a thought to make a wild boar vomit. Saint Daven could hardly count the dead he never wanted to see again. Worse yet, the dead he did want to see again.

    Saint Daven raised his swords¡ªa pair to match the swords his distractible student trained with¡ªand jerked his chin at Nine.

    ¡°Start over. Don¡¯t let me catch you this time.¡±

    Nine sighed. ¡°Ain¡¯t you sick of this yet?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sick of your whining. How long do you want to live? Because unless you perfect this, your stint as a Thorn¡¯s going to be bloody and short.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d like to see another Carnival, me.¡± Nine scratched his nose. ¡°It¡¯s three more years plus a half ¡¯til I get grafted, ain¡¯t it? Then I¡¯ll get the gold, then me and Pretty are gonna get an uphill placement.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll be with your master. You won¡¯t see your sister again unless he allows it.¡±

    ¡°Course he¡¯ll ¡¯llow it! Anyways, I can send Pretty the gold so¡¯s she can buy our placement ¡¯til I get there. In Siu Rial, a body can buy any placement but lord if¡¯n they got enough money and clout.¡±

    ¡°What part of ¡®grafted until death¡¯ don¡¯t you understand?¡±

    ¡°Ain¡¯t none a¡¯ you masters still grafted,¡± Nine said. ¡°How much gold did you get when you was a Thorn?¡±

    ¡°Enough.¡±

    Lord Paius had paid his Thorns a working wage, which was more than most lords did, because the old man had believed that Thorns were more than just property. There may also have been an element of guilt at how he had attained the three of them and what they would ultimately be used for.

    But Lord Paius had done the best he could with the tools he had, and when it was over, Paius¡¯s old friend Grandmaster Heartless had advocated for the release of the last remaining tool from the royal dungeons and eventually dragged what was left of him back to Thornfield.

    ¡°I got more than most do,¡± Saint Daven snapped, wanting the conversation to end. ¡°Get your swords up and disappear.¡±

    ¡°You figure it was enough gold to buy a placement?¡± Nine faded out while he was still talking. First, Saint Daven could see the thorny locust tree through the boy, then almost no boy and all tree, then just a shadow on the ground. ¡°With three brothers being Thorns, it¡¯s purt near gotta be, ain¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°I can still see your shadow.¡±

    The shadow faded, but didn¡¯t disappear completely. It slipped across the sand and circled right.

    Saint Daven turned to follow his attacker. ¡°That must be how you lost the tournament. What I don¡¯t understand is how you suddenly backslid this far after almost a month of perfect invisibility.¡±

    ¡°Backslid this.¡± Nine¡¯s voice came from Saint Daven¡¯s left ear, on his opposite side from the shadow on the ground.

    Saint Daven spun, whirling his steel. Invisible twin blades clanged off his. One of them had gotten close enough to open a slice in his shirt.

    Nine cackled and attacked again. They fought their way around the bailey. Glimpses of the boy¡¯s shadow followed them, mirroring Nine¡¯s movements, but opposite where he was actually standing. When he was in front of Saint Daven, the shadow attacked from the back, when he moved to one side, the shadow moved to the other. When he swung with his left sword, the shadow swung with the right.

    The discrepancy was disorienting at first, but the gold-eyed former Thorn picked it up in a handful of traded blows.

    ¡°Neat trick.¡± Saint Daven turned to slip a thrust, watching the shadow behind him and defending in front. Nine¡¯s sword hissed past his ribs. ¡°But if you want me to let you off for the day, you¡¯ve got to get rid of that shadow.¡±

    ¡°But this is better than invisible!¡± Nine swung for thigh and throat.

    Saint Daven slashed the throat strike aside and pulled his leg just enough to avoid the thigh attack.

    ¡°No, it¡¯s not. If someone sees a shadow that shouldn¡¯t be there, they go on alert.¡±

    ¡°The wrong way, they do,¡± Nine grumbled, coming at him from another angle.

    Another parry. ¡°They may even sound the retreat.¡±

    ¡°So! That means I protected the king, don¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°It means you let your master¡¯s would-be assassin escape.¡± Saint Daven went on the offensive now, away from the shadow and toward the nothingness. ¡°They¡¯ll come back the next night and the next, until the shadow-man isn¡¯t on duty.¡±

    Nine yelped as he hit the wellhouse. Behind Saint Daven, the shadow tumbled, then scrambled to its feet.

    Saint Daven pressed the boy harder.

    ¡°Then you¡¯ve got a dead master¡ª¡± He cornered the invisible Nine between the wellhouse and the bailey, where swinging the twin swords would be nigh impossible. ¡°¡ªyour sword taken away and melted for scrap¡ª¡± He slapped the boy¡¯s invisible ankle with the flat of his blade, eliciting a howl. ¡°¡ªand a soul shattered into a hundred pieces¡ª¡± Another thump, this time against the side of the boy¡¯s invisible head. ¡°¡ªdesperately trying to get back to the man you were supposed to protect, who doesn¡¯t exist anymore.¡± Saint Daven punctuated his next words with just-pulled killing blows: ¡°Get rid! Of that! Shadow!¡±

    Nine screamed in frustration. ¡°I cain¡¯t figure how, me!¡±

    ¡°Then we¡¯ll be here all day.¡±

    And they were. Nine grew steadily more furious, his sword work becoming wilder, eventually giving up defense entirely. He managed to score a couple wild cuts on Saint Daven, but was limping and bleeding all over before they finished for the day.

    Finally, an hour before dusk, the master sent the sweaty, dirty, bloody boy to bed.

    ¡°Pretty hard on him,¡± Saint Galen said as Nine stalked off.

    ¡°Think the Royal Thorns will go easy on him when they come for his master?¡± Saint Daven wasn¡¯t betting on the boy being grafted to the king. Even if Nine became the best in his year, Grandmaster would be honor-bound to tell His Majesty that the boy was half-blind. A private posting was the best scenario the kid would get.

    ¡°If they come for his master, Dav. Like Grandmaster said, it doesn¡¯t happen to every Thorn.¡±

    ¡°Nine can¡¯t afford optimism.¡± Saint Daven grabbed a whetstone and oil rag and got to work cleaning up the practice blades. ¡°He could disappear completely before the tournament. What happened?¡±

 Chapter 34: Army of Shadows

    Nine launched the twin swords across the room. They crashed into the wall and bounced across the stone floor, raising an almighty racket and waking Four and Twenty-six.

    ¡°What in the name of Teikru is wrong with you!¡± Four bellowed.

    The pirate scum stopped his tossing and turning to glare at Nine, too.

    ¡°Ain¡¯t me what¡¯s wrong!¡± Nine grabbed the bedframe, hopped up, and flopped onto the straw tick. The wood groaned and crackled under his weight. ¡°And I ain¡¯t going to no more extra lessons, neither!¡±

    Nine folded knee to chest and threw a vicious kick at the stone ceiling over the bed.

    That was the last abuse the bunk would take. The bolts tore free of the aging wood, and the bed collapsed.

    Four rolled onto the floor, narrowly missing being crushed by debris.

    The impact on the bunk below flattened Nine¡¯s lungs. The former Brat rolled around in the splintered wood, gasping for air.

    Finally, mercifully, breath returned in a huge whoop. Nine curled into a ball, fighting hot, angry, embarrassed tears.

    Four blew out a long breath. ¡°I knew you were getting too fat for that rickety bundle of sticks.¡±

    ¡°Well, I hate you. Didja know that?¡±

    That made Four laugh.

    ¡°Sounds like you need a trip to the village, runt.¡± He reached out a hand to help Nine up off the cracked boards and torn straw tick.

    Nine almost hocked a wad into his palm. But they were brothers. And anyways, it was that ranty ol¡¯ crow of a master who was the real problem, always cawing on the same stuff, squawking like Nine was dumb as a post and half as slow as one.

    ¡°It¡¯s nearly dusk,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°You cannot make it to the village and back before training begins for the night.¡±

    ¡°Anyhow, I never run away scairt, no matter who¡¯s took after me.¡± Nine snatched Four¡¯s hand and was hauled clear of the wreckage. ¡°You¡¯re my brothers, ain¡¯t you both?¡±

    ¡°Of course we are,¡± Four answered.

    ¡°And brothers are loyal. That means you gotta help me.¡±

    Four shrugged. ¡°I suppose.¡±

    Twenty-six¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Help with what?¡±

    ***

    The following day, Nine was already in the bailey waiting for his extra lessons when Saint Daven arrived.

    ¡°I¡¯m a-calling for a wager,¡± the boy said.

    Saint Daven snorted. ¡°You don¡¯t have anything I want.¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s caring what you want? I¡¯m wagering if¡¯n I beat you today, I get to stop all these extra lessons flat.¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Til the end of the year, then.¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°End of the month.¡±

    Saint Daven raised an eyebrow. ¡°Do you think I like spending my days yelling at an ungrateful, lazy brat any more than you enjoy ignoring me?¡±

    ¡°I ain¡¯t worried about what you like,¡± the boy sneered. ¡°You in this wager or ain¡¯t ya?¡±

    Saint Daven took a defensive pose. ¡°Beat me before sundown and you can have a week off.¡±

    Nine raised his twin swords to an attack posture. The boy was already fading to nothingness, bright sunlight filtering through his face and chest.

    ¡°Two weeks.¡± Nine was gone, but a faint shadow remained beneath him.

    This was going to be a repeat of the day before.

    ¡°Fine,¡± Saint Daven agreed. ¡°Two weeks it is.¡±

    Nine lost their first battle in much the same way he¡¯d lost on the previous day. His fighting was more skillful¡ªpicking his attacks, defending when necessary¡ªbut he still lost. Three times in a row, he lost.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    ¡°The wager ain¡¯t done yet!¡± Nine wiped at his busted lip with the back of one dirty forearm, smearing the blood onto his cheek. ¡°There¡¯s still half a day left yet.¡±

    Saint Daven returned to an opening posture. ¡°Whenever you¡¯re ready.¡±

    Once again, the boy disappeared and the shadow remained.

    Then a second shadow appeared.

    And a third.

    Saint Daven eyed them as they closed in from all sides. Nine¡¯s twin swords, as long and narrow as the boy¡¯s skinny arms, stuck out of the hands of one shadow. A swordstaff crossed the body of the second. The last showed a heavy curved blade and straight, serrated dagger.

    So Nine had recruited the prince and the pirate, had he?

    ¡°That¡¯s a lot of invisibility to keep up,¡± Saint Daven said. ¡°Lots of blood magic to go through in the midday sun. Must be complicated to keep track of them all, too.¡±

    ¡°Sure ¡¯nough is,¡± Nine agreed, amusement in his reedy voice.

    Saint Daven darted inside the range of the shadow-swordstaff before the prince could bring it to bear and before the dual wielders could attack. The staff moved, but Saint Daven hooked an arm around it. As expected, solid wood was trapped beneath his arm.

    ¡°Can¡¯t mirror three shadows at once?¡± Saint Daven spun, swinging the prince into the pirate¡¯s shadow.

    ¡°Nope.¡± Nine¡¯s shadow raced at him from behind.

    Saint Daven wheeled around, whipping his blades to meet the boy. Steel clanged against steel. Sparks flew from the point between the visible and the invisible.

    Then suddenly, the boy¡¯s shadow twisted. The pirate and the prince, too. The three shades twined together, wavered, and jumped to different points of the compass.

    ¡°I cain¡¯t mirror ¡¯em, me,¡± Nine said. Steel whistled toward Saint Daven¡¯s ribs. ¡°But I figure this¡¯s close enough.¡±

    Close enough turned out to be a ninety-degree divergence. The pirate¡¯s shadow came from Saint Daven¡¯s left while the cutlass and swordbreaker cut toward his back. The prince¡¯s shadow stabbed from the right while the swordstaff plunged in from his front. Meanwhile, Nine was everywhere, hacking, lunging, attacking.

    Then the angle changed to forty-five degrees. Then fifteen. Then back to ninety.

    It was like being pecked apart by an army of scavengers. Saint Daven blocked and parried and countered, but the whirl of shadows and weapons kept changing. As soon as he resolved the discrepancy between shadow and solid being, Nine changed it.

    A skilled swordfighter could defeat two opponents if he got lucky. A fully enchanted Thorn might manage three, provided they weren¡¯t also Thorns and he took them out before they started to wear him down.

    But the constant change of view forced Saint Daven into a drawn-out contest, and the strain of blocking five weapons with two required enormous amounts of stamina. His reserve of blood magic was drained in minutes. The last time he¡¯d used so much blood magic in such a short time¡­

    Ghosts of the Cinterlands started to scream. Blood poured in rivers across flagstones, soaked carpets, splashed around his boots. The humid stink of slaughter filled the tight confines of the antechamber, mingling with sweat and sour breath and pierced bowels. Saint Daven reached for replenishment from the energies of his brother Thorns, the men he was cutting down, but found himself blocked.

    None of the Royal Thorns that he¡¯d killed at House Mattius had been able to create a shield like that.

    The hot, reeking deathtrap of an antechamber faded, and the sunlit bailey came back into focus. This wasn¡¯t the Cinterlands. One of the boys he was fighting¡ªfighting on a wager, a frustrated brat¡¯s attempt to get out of training, not fighting to protect a lord dead and gone some four years ago now¡ªone of the boys had formed a wall between him and their energies.

    Saint Daven fought on without blood magic, as he¡¯d learned to do in this very bailey. It was a losing battle, of course, but a Thorn fought until he could fight no more. Sweat soaked his clothing and flew like rain with every motion. From every side, the shadows whirled and danced and disoriented.

    The swordstaff hooked the back of his heel. Saint Daven lifted that foot to take away the leverage.

    A small, sweaty body thumped into him from the opposite side. They crashed to the ground in a pile of arms, legs, and blades.

    Luck was all that kept them from cutting themselves to ribbons on their swords. Saint Daven¡¯s left arm was pinned between himself and the boy, but he swung the sword in his right.

    Only to have that hand stomped back down by an unseen boot. The pirate¡¯s cutlass rested against his throat.

    The partial invisibility and distortion dropped.

    The red face of a sweaty, dirty boy grinned down at Saint Daven.

    ¡°We won, us!¡± Nine whooped and jumped up. ¡°It was just like the pirate scum said, you couldn¡¯t keep going ¡¯gainst the three of us without no blood magic!¡±

    The pirate in question was glaring down at the weapons master with something close to respect.

    ¡°You lasted longer than expected,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°I thought a blood drinker would fail much sooner cut off from his blood magic.¡±

    Four huffed a laugh. ¡°He¡¯s always underestimating us abominations.¡±

    Saint Daven stood and dusted himself off. ¡°You came up with the shielding plan,¡± he said to Twenty-six. Then he nodded at the former crown prince. ¡°And you executed it. And the angle distortion¡ª¡±

    ¡°That was all mine, you gronchety ol¡¯ crow! And I was the one what said we three brothers oughta all scrap with you at once, ¡¯cuz you¡¯da never expected it.¡± The boy stopped dancing around and pointed at the master. ¡°See, I can think! Told you my way was better¡¯n perfect invisible!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not better. It¡¯s different.¡±

    ¡°Whupped you, different!¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t beat me,¡± Saint Daven said. ¡°Your army beat me, and you helped them.¡±

    ¡°They helped me with my plan. If¡¯n you wanted a one-on-one fight, you shoulda said it had to be so when you wagered.¡± Nine spun on his heel and headed for the barracks. He waved over his shoulder. ¡°See how you like two weeks not foolin¡¯ with extra lessons, ¡¯cuz I¡¯m fixing to like it just fine.¡±

    The prince offered Saint Daven a smirking, courtly bow before following his gloating friend. The pirate let a terse nod suffice.

    Technically, as a master, Saint Daven could have the little brat scourged for disrespect.

    But it was the first time he¡¯d found anything funny in a long while. And in truth, hiding three attackers at once while distorting their shadows was the most impressive blood magic he¡¯d ever seen.

    Saint Daven headed for the Masters¡¯ Tower, trying to hide the smile on his face. The little berserker was right, he was looking forward to having his days back for a while.

 Chapter 35: Blood Tells

    To celebrate their victory, Nine made a stop off at the kitchens¡ªhe was intimately familiar with that area of Thornfield, given the amount of time he spent in punitive sculling duties¡ªand returned to their seaside chamber with a bottle of wine apiece.

    ¡°Light burn me.¡± Izak turned his bottle so that he could see the full vintner¡¯s mark. He couldn¡¯t believe it. He yanked the cork out and breathed in the rich, complex, earthy scent of Adyena wine, one of the rarest and most sought-after vintages in the kingdom. ¡°Where in the strong gods¡¯ hells did you get properly aged Adyena?¡±

    ¡°Cook keeps ¡¯em down in the cellar, but they¡¯re just for when Grandmaster calls for a bottle. He¡¯s got a vestment, him.¡±

    Twenty-six and Izak exchanged glances. Sometimes it took an effort to puzzle out what Nine had been told versus what he thought he¡¯d heard.

    ¡°What¡¯s a vestment?¡± Izak asked. Defining terms was usually the fastest way to get to the bottom of things with the runt.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, me, but it brings Grandmaster a buncha bottles ever¡¯ year from that Idenya place. Cook says he gets more of it than the king. You oughta see down there. It like to choke him, there¡¯s so much wine.¡±

    Twenty-six held his bottle out. ¡°Put it back.¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t, neither!¡±

    Izak sighed and stuck the cork back in his as well. ¡°The pirate scum¡¯s right, Nine. If Grandmaster¡¯s invested money in the vintners, he¡¯ll know how many of each bottle he has. It¡¯s going to be missed.¡±

    ¡°But Cook says he only calls for a bottle every couple months or if somebody comes a-visiting! Grandmaster don¡¯t hardly know it¡¯s there, him.¡± Nine held up his bottle and tapped the year mark. ¡°This one¡¯s been around longer¡¯n a bad cough. He done forgot about it.¡±

    ¡°The age means it¡¯s more valuable, not that it¡¯s been overlooked.¡±

    ¡°Aw, you scairt dogs! I¡¯m drinkin¡¯ mine, and if you ain¡¯t yours, I¡¯ll drink that too.¡±

    ¡°You may kill yourself on wine this rich. And if he doesn¡¯t¡ª¡± Izak grinned at Twenty-six, who as of a day ago had become Nine¡¯s downstairs neighbor. ¡°¡ªkeep an ear out for running water.¡±

    The only time the younger boy had actually wet the bed was after that first all-day drinking session at the public house, but Twenty-six wasn¡¯t going to chance it. He got up and pulled down the straw tick from the last remaining upper bunk.

    ¡°If you drink those, you sleep on the floor,¡± he told Nine.

    ***

    Izak dreamed of a host of beautiful nymphs attending to his every desire. It was one of the best dreams he¡¯d had since arriving at Thornfield.

    So of course it was interrupted.

    A whimper cut through that beautiful sea of flesh and debauchery¡ªsmall, thin, terrified.

    Izak almost opened his eyes, but he stopped just in time and squeezed them shut tight instead. If he looked, he would find himself in a dank dungeon corridor, and he would be compelled to step forward, to walk until he found the wreckage of what had been his uncle, cringing in the corner of his cell.

    The whimper came again, but this time it wavered into an airy whine.

    ¡°Eketra curse it, fine,¡± he muttered. He opened his eyes and looked around.

    Rather than the dungeons of Siu Rial, Izak found himself in his room in the barracks of Thornfield¡¯s west wall. Gray-green light came through the archer¡¯s loop, dark but not the sort of dark that heralded dusk. Thunder rumbled and heavy surf crashed, confirming that a storm had rolled in.

    Across the room, Twenty-six slept, if not peacefully, then at least deeply. His eyelids twitched and, now and again, his arms or legs jolted. The pitiful whine hadn¡¯t woken him.

    Izak rolled up onto his elbow.

    Nine knelt on the straw tick in a pool of blood, staring down at his bloody hands.

    ¡°Light, Nine, what did you do?¡±

    Izak stumbled out of bed. He snatched at the boy¡¯s arms, pulling him up and searching for cuts and wounds. The twin swords leaned against the stone wall beside Izak¡¯s swordstaff. Neither had a speck of blood on them. The hilt of Twenty-six¡¯s cutlass poked out from beneath his pillow. It hadn¡¯t been disturbed either.

    ¡°I¡¯m killt, me,¡± Nine whimpered. Tears poured from the boy¡¯s ashen face, and he shook in Izak¡¯s grasp. ¡°Four, I¡¯m killt.¡±

    ¡°Twenty-six, wake up!¡± Izak snapped. ¡°We have to get Nine to the healers.¡±

    Twenty-six lurched up from his pallet. His gray-green eyes took in the blood, and a moment later, he was out of bed as well, cutlass and swordbreaker in hand. There was a glassy skirling as his foot kicked a wine bottle and knocked it across the floor.

    ¡°What happened?¡± the pirate demanded.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Nine opened his mouth, but only a squeak came out.

    ¡°Did you drop one of the bottles and cut yourself on it?¡± Izak searched the floor for broken glass, but found three unbroken bottles and most of three corks. One looked as if it had been gnawed out of the bottle neck.

    Shakily, the boy croaked, ¡°I dranked too much, me. Like you said, it was too rich. Now I¡¯m bleedin¡¯ fit to die.¡±

    ¡°Wine does not cause spontaneous bleeding.¡± Twenty-six tossed his weapons onto his bed, then crouched next to Nine. ¡°Is it vomit?¡±

    Izak shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s blood, all of it. Can¡¯t you smell it?¡±

    The pirate inspected the boy and the bloody mattress.

    ¡°It is isolated to one place,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°It is only on his hands because he touched the blood. Correct, Nine?¡±

    ¡°Is it¡­¡± Izak stared at the wet red soaking the crotch of the boy¡¯s pants. He¡¯d heard of raving, jaundiced lushes succumbing while blood poured from every orifice; he¡¯d just never heard of it happening to someone so young. ¡°Are you pissing blood?¡±

    ¡°It hurts!¡± Nine doubled over, clutching his stomach and weeping. ¡°I don¡¯t want to get dead, me! I want Pretty!¡±

    Goosebumps prickled down Izak¡¯s back. He had heard strong men crying for their mothers in much the same way when death was upon them¡ªwhen they had the time and could still whimper. The sound never failed to make him sick to his soul.

    ¡°For the strong gods¡¯ sake.¡± Izak dropped to his knees at Nine¡¯s side and patted the runt¡¯s shoulder with one shaking hand. ¡°Twenty-six, go get Healer Prime.¡±

    ¡°No.¡± The pirate was staring down at the boy, a confused frown on his normally stony face. ¡°Not yet.¡±

    ¡°When? After he¡¯s dead?¡±

    The runt wailed harder at the word.

    ¡°Nine.¡± The pirate¡¯s stern address caught the crying boy¡¯s attention. ¡°Did your twin ever bleed like this?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Course not! We never even drinked wine afore.¡± A long, snotty sniff. ¡°I woulda got her some, me, if I¡¯da lived. I woulda got her whatever uphill stuff she wanted. All sortsa salk headscarfs, a placement, all the food we coulda ate¡­¡±

    ¡°Were you and your sister identical?¡± Twenty-six asked. ¡°Identical means a matched set, like the weapons masters.¡±

    ¡°What does that matter?¡± Izak demanded.

    ¡°Pretty!¡± Nine sobbed, mashing his face into his hands. ¡°We never shoulda split up, us! Twins ain¡¯t supposed to be apart!¡±

    Twenty-six sat back on his heels. ¡°Nine, you¡¯re not dying.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± The runt lifted his head, hiccupping softly.

    ¡°It was a well-carried deception,¡± the pirate said. ¡°Better than I would have guessed you could manage. But did no one ever tell you that when you reached womanhood, you would bleed?¡±

    ¡°Womanhood?¡± Izak felt as if Twenty-six had switched to speaking some unknown language. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±

    ¡°Nine is a woman.¡±

    ¡°No, I ain¡¯t!¡± The runt scrambled drunkenly to his feet, head clipping Izak painfully on the chin. Nine stumbled, snatched up the closest of his swords and groped for the other, but stopped and grabbed his gut again. Weakly, he fell against the wall. ¡°You pirate scum liar! I¡¯ll cut your throat, me.¡± He groaned the unconvincing threat.

    Twenty-six stood. ¡°If you won¡¯t tell the truth, we will get the healer. He will do an examination. You can¡¯t keep up the deception any longer.¡±

    Rubbing his battered chin, Izak twisted around to better see the pair of them. The concentration of blood in the crotch of Nine¡¯s pants hit him anew.

    ¡°The pirate¡¯s right, isn¡¯t he? You¡¯re a girl.¡±

    ¡°Shut your face!¡± Nine yelled, brandishing his¡ªher¡ªsword.

    ¡°Stop shouting,¡± Twenty-six said sensibly. ¡°You will wake all of Thornfield.¡±

    Izak was too stunned for that sort of practicality. He felt like the ghost cities had opened and downpoured revelation on his head.

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t take off your clothes to change in the hall the first night¡ªor get naked to bathe. You never change clothing while we¡¯re in the room. You don¡¯t take your shirt off when it¡¯s hot during training¡ªor even to sleep.¡± He threw his hands up at Twenty-six. ¡°We¡¯re the imbeciles for not seeing it sooner. Of course she¡¯s a girl!¡±

    That explained the unusual way Nine had been gaining weight. He wasn¡¯t just getting fat in the chest and backside, she was growing breasts and her hips were widening. That face, too, impish and unsettling on a boy, would actually be quite becoming on a girl, if one could see past the grime.

    ¡°Well, don¡¯t you dare touch me, neither of you!¡± Nine had both blades in hand now, grubby knuckles white around the grips. The tips of the steels wavered in the air, and she blinked hard as if she were trying to clear the intoxicating effects of the wine from her vision. ¡°If¡¯n you try any bad stuff, I¡¯ll slice you into cut bait!¡±

    ¡°Put those down,¡± Izak said. ¡°No one¡¯s trying to hurt you.¡±

    ¡°They say that, then they do hurt you. Only way out of it¡¯s not getting caught in the first place. I knowed it already, that¡¯s why I was a boy. They take after boys less often, the bad folks.¡±

    Twenty-six scowled. ¡°Perhaps that is the way of dirters, but if a child or woman is harmed on the ocean, their attacker is put to death by keelhauling.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not our way, either!¡± Izak snapped. Then he realized why Nine would say what she¡¯d said. ¡°Plough me. At least it¡¯s not all of our ways. Neither of us is going to hurt you, Nine. Don¡¯t you know us better than that by now?¡±

    The runt slumped against the wall, letting the blade points rest on the floor. She took him at his word, which was exactly the sort of thing Izak imagined a predatory scoundrel would take advantage of.

    Twenty-six sat on the edge of his bed. For once, he seemed at a loss.

    ¡°Who do we go to first?¡± he finally asked.

    ¡°The healers will know how to deal with¡­¡± Izak waved a hand vaguely at the blood. ¡°And Grandmaster will have to be informed.¡±

    ¡°No!¡± Nine stamped a foot, the sudden movement almost taking the little drunk down. ¡°You ain¡¯t telling tales to nobody!¡±

    ¡°Give me those before you impale yourself.¡± Izak twisted the swords out of her hands. ¡°They¡¯re going to find out. This isn¡¯t a one-time bloodletting; you¡¯re going to bleed like this on and off for the rest of your life. You need someone who can tell you what to do about it. Not to mention the fact that you¡¯re growing¡­ well, everywhere that makes women look like women. Sooner or later, someone will notice.¡±

    ¡°Won¡¯t nobody notice, ¡¯cuz you¡¯re gonna help me stop ¡¯em noticing, the both of you.¡± She pointed her blades at them as if there could be any confusion who she was referring to.

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Absolutely not.¡±

    ¡°But we¡¯re brothers, us. You both said it was so! That means you gotta help me, just like you helped me whup Master Saint Daven and win that wager. Just like I helped you when you didn¡¯t want your face dunked in no more pig swill by the seniors.¡±

    Izak snorted. ¡°How can you be just as stupid as a girl as you were when you were a boy?¡±

    ¡°Fooled you, stupid!¡±

    ¡°Why do you want to become a Thorn so badly?¡± Twenty-six asked.

    She looked at him like he was the simpleton. ¡°¡¯Cuz they get gold and swords and placement.¡±

    ¡°And early graves and magical shackles and brutal deaths,¡± Izak added.

    ¡°Who¡¯s caring about that? A Thorn can get Pretty outta the Closes. The Cormorant told me I had to be smart to protect us, so that¡¯s what I done. I never meant to get here, but when it come to it, I was smart enough to figure this was even better for us.¡±

    ¡°If the Closes are as dangerous as you say, and you were her only defense,¡± Twenty-six said, ¡°then you must know that your sister is likely already dead.¡±

    A split second of silence followed the pirate¡¯s blunt statement, in which Izak could hear the splatter of the rain on the wet sand outside.

    Then Nine charged Twenty-six, a whirlwind of fury.

 Chapter 36: A Brief Clean Stint

    In the end, they were lucky Nine was drunk.

    She tried to bring the pirate¡¯s cutlass and swordbreaker into the fight, but Twenty-six kicked the cutlass out of her reach and Izak pried the swordbreaker out of her hand. When she went after the pirate with fists instead, Twenty-six caught hold of her hair and held her at arm¡¯s length, as he had on the occasions when Nine had tried to scrap with him as a boy. As usual, that completely nullified her blows, which made Nine berserk. Twenty-six refused to do more than defend himself now that Nine was a girl, so they were all bruised and bleeding by the time Izak finally wrestled her away and got her to calm down.

    ¡°She ain¡¯t killt, Pretty!¡± Nine slurred as tears dripped off her chin. ¡°If¡¯n you¡¯re two really my brothers and not straight betrayers, then that means she¡¯s your sister, too, and you gotta help me protect her. You gotta help me stay a boy, so¡¯s I can be a Thorn. It¡¯s loyalty, is what it is.¡±

    Izak licked at his split lip. She didn¡¯t know the size of what she was asking. Light, he could barely guess at it. There were more than three years left before they were grafted. Someone was bound to find out.

    ¡°How do you expect us to keep something like this quiet?¡± he asked. ¡°Unless Twenty-six knows some way to hide your bleeding all over the place, because I sure as night don¡¯t.¡±

    The runt looked to Twenty-six as if she actually expected him to have an answer.

    He stopped poking at the rising bruise on his cheekbone. ¡°Why would I know?¡±

    ¡°Well, you knowed a bunch a¡¯ other stuff,¡± Nine snapped. She scratched the back of her head, then fixed Izak in her left-eyed stare. Strange how she could have all the same mannerisms and yet look so different now that Izak knew what she was. ¡°Them whores at the pub must know what to do about it. I¡¯ll ask ¡¯em.¡±

    Twenty-six looked at the sheets of rain falling beyond the archer loop. ¡°It¡¯s almost evening. The hall will be filling with breakfasters in less than an hour. Three missing faces will draw attention, especially if they all share the same room.¡±

    ¡°I can make it by myself, easy,¡± Nine said. ¡°Anyhow, I¡¯m faster¡¯n a stray cat on my own. I¡¯ll get there and back afore training.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s still some faint daylight,¡± Izak argued. ¡°The patrols might see your shadow from the wall and raise the alarm.¡±

    Nine scowled. ¡°No, it won¡¯t be like that grumped Master Saint Daven said. They won¡¯t raise no alarm, ¡¯cuz I¡¯ll mirror my shadow all the way under the battlements in with the other shadows. Who¡¯s gonna tell one shadow from the rest of the dark?¡±

    Izak opened his mouth to argue more, then stopped.

    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ actually not a bad idea. Maybe you are smarter as a girl.¡±

    Nine spat on him.

    ***

    Squeezing through the grating wasn¡¯t possible any longer, because of the inconveniently growing chest and hips Four had mentioned. With a curse, Nine covered her nose and mouth like she¡¯d seen Four do and plunged under the drainage water. For a panicky moment, her pants caught on the toothlike iron bars at the bottom of the grate, and Nine thought she was going to drown. But then the cloth tore free, and she shot out the other side.

    She came up coughing and gasping. Taking a quick peak at the battlements above, she disappeared and took off for the thornknife graveyard. As she ran, she made sure to throw her shadow into the last of the shade cast by the gray, stormy sunset.

    Footprints raced across the wet sand at the edge of the waters, then disappeared, dragged away by the tide. Nine had never stored extra clothing in the shrine with Twenty-six¡¯s and Four¡¯s, so she sprinted through the graveyard without stopping. She would grab a blood-free pair of her brothers¡¯ clothes on the way back.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    It was fun running invisible, even with the rain. After so long training every day, Nine had built up enough stamina that she didn¡¯t have to drink off any birds or rats along the way. She was a little out of breath when she made it to the pub, but there was plenty of medicine to steal from the people and livestock sleeping in Sandshell¡¯s little cluster of houses.

    The public house girls were counting their take for the day in the common room when Nine burst in.

    ¡°Strong gods!¡± Casia clutched her chest. ¡°You¡¯ll kill a person from fright crashing in like that!¡±

    Danasi was the first to see the blood. She jumped up, knocking over her chair. ¡°Nine, what¡¯s happened? What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a girl, me, but I didn¡¯t know I was gonna bleed so, and now I gotta be a boy again before breakfast¡¯s done with, but I can¡¯t stop this bleeding, not even with all the medicine I got, so what do you do about this, both of you, and hurry up!¡±

    It took another rendition, slowing Nine¡¯s retelling down, and asking for lots of clarification, before the women got the full story.

    Casia took Nine upstairs to the bath she¡¯d been preparing for herself while Danasi found the necessaries and brought them in. Together, they answered questions and explained what they could. There was some speculation between them whether Nine had blundered into Thornfield on the cusp of womanhood, or if she was overdue and, like they¡¯d heard from their great aunt who had lived through the Plight, her womanly troubles had held off until she¡¯d had enough nourishment to start growing again.

    ¡°What was this about a bird telling you to become a boy?¡± Danasi wanted to know while she scrubbed the girl¡¯s face.

    ¡°What bird?¡± Nine spat out soapy water. ¡°I figured on bein¡¯ a boy, me. The Cormorant saved me and Pretty from some bad folk, whupped every one of fifty of ¡¯em all the way back to their fancy fine carriage. I done in half a dozen of ¡¯em, too. Beat one a¡¯ their bodyguards¡¯ head in so bad his insides were leaking out his skull all over my rock.¡±

    Casia wrinkled her nose. ¡°We don¡¯t need all the bloody details. A cormorant is a bird, isn¡¯t it? A river bird?¡±

    ¡°The Cormorant¡¯s god of the streets in Siu Carinal. He watches after us close-rats whenever he can. Sends us good medicine and that-all. He useta be a close-rat, just like me and Pretty, so he knows there ain¡¯t no strong god carin¡¯ about us. They¡¯re too big, them strong gods, but he¡¯s just right.¡± Nine smacked a palm down on a curling wake of soap that caught her eye.

    ¡°I told you to stop that!¡± Danasi snatched a linen and wiped water from her face and bodice. She sighed. ¡°You ought to just come live with us. Dad¡¯s got another room, and you can make a fair bit when you¡¯re old enough.¡±

    Nine shook her head. ¡°Ain¡¯t neither of you knows how to cut somebody¡¯s guts out and string him up with ¡¯em. I gotta get dangerous so¡¯s I can protect Pretty.¡± She snorted. ¡°Ain¡¯t neither one of you even knows how to use medicine!¡±

    ¡°Stand up.¡± Casia dumped the bucket of rinsewater over Nine¡¯s head, making the girl shriek and splutter. ¡°That¡¯s for thinking we¡¯re weak and stupid. Now get out here and dry off.¡±

    ***

    The rain had died down by the time early evening training began. Izak and Twenty-six were sparring with two fourth-years going by the names Manly and Striker, when a strange little imp threaded toward them through the fighters in the bailey. Whoever the boy was, his skin was scrubbed raw. His clothes were the familiar Thornfield issued set, rolled up at the sleeves and ankles to accommodate a too-short body, but Izak swore he¡¯d never seen the boy before.

    Until the boy turned his head just slightly right to look Izak in the eye and grinned.

    ¡°Strong gods save us! You bathed?¡± Izak got the pirate¡¯s attention. ¡°Nine bathed!¡±

    ¡°That must be why you¡¯re late,¡± Twenty-six said.

    ¡°Come on, pirate,¡± snapped Striker, the fourth-year he was sparring with. ¡°Get your head back in the fight and make this worth my while.¡±

    Without warning, Twenty-six spun back and kicked the older student¡¯s foot out from beneath him, thumping Striker in the side of the neck with a half-power blow from his cutlass pommel.

    Striker hit the dirt, stiff as a plank, then started up, blinking the daze from his eyes.

    ¡°What happened?¡±

    ¡°You got what you asked for, numbskull,¡± his fellow fourth-year, Manly, told him.

    At Izak¡¯s appreciative snicker, Manly smirked. Even the older students wanted a prince to laugh at their jokes.

    ¡°That¡¯s a good trick!¡± Nine raised her twin swords. ¡°Show me how to do that, ya pirate scum.¡±

    ¡°Another time,¡± Twenty-six said.

    ¡°How come not now?¡±

    ¡°Because,¡± Master Saint Galen said, grabbing Nine¡¯s shoulder and hauling her around to face his angry gold glare, ¡°students who come late to my training have to spar with me the rest of the evening.¡±

    Nine¡¯s clean stint was a short one. By midnight, she was covered in a layer of mud, wet sand, sweat, and the stray lash mark. While the older students were dismissed to lunch, the first-years stayed to work through the extra drills Nine¡¯s tardiness had earned them, adding an invisible layer of resentful glares to the filth.

    But she hadn¡¯t been caught.

    ¡°See how easy it is bein¡¯ a brother?¡± Nine whispered cheerfully to her roommates several hours later, when they were finally allowed to drag themselves to supper. ¡°Told you wasn¡¯t nobody gonna find out.¡±

 Chapter 37: Rubbish Pit for a Grave

    With the southern coast¡¯s mild temperature swings, the fires had to be lit in Thornfield¡¯s grates much later in the year than Izak was used to. The cold never quite reached the severity it did farther north, but winter storms coming in off the ocean dumped chilly, stinging rain almost nightly.

    Just before the turn of the new year¡ªtoo late for most of the students¡¯ tastes¡ªtraining moved inside. The first-years quickly realized why the masters had been so loath to bring them in out of the cold. The only space large enough for the full school to practice was the dining hall, and even that was hardly sufficient. No night went by without someone unintentionally bloodied by a stray blade.

    The masters maintained that the cramped quarters and obstacles made by tables and benches were a good lesson in indoor fighting, where most of their future grafting would be spent. At mealtimes, however, even they cursed the lingering smell of too many men and boys sweating in an enclosed area.

    The public house at Sandshells did peak business during the winter. Most of the residents from the little village came in daily to stave off the chill with some drink and idle talk. Sometimes Izak had to wait for Casia or Danasi to be free, which infuriated the Teikru-blessed prince. It was the first time he¡¯d ever had to jostle for a woman¡¯s attention.

    Worse yet were the nights when Nine would get to the pub first, outpacing Izak¡¯s smoke step, and claim one of the girls before he could. The runt had finally conceded that water wasn¡¯t entirely bad medicine, but she wasn¡¯t stupid enough to try her luck at Thornfield¡¯s bathhouse. Instead, she took to bathing with Casia and Danasi. For their part, the girls delighted in knowing Nine¡¯s secret, flaunting their dalliances with what looked to be just a scrawny boy in his awkward years, and making up wild tales about Nine to stoke the jealousy of their village beaus.

    Both Twenty-six and Izak preferred a clean roommate to the formerly dirty one, but when Nine¡¯s washing at the pub edged out Izak¡¯s chance to be with either of the publican¡¯s daughters, the prince couldn¡¯t find it in his heart to forgive the little brat. It was a happy day for Izak when Nine was finally dragged back to the extra lessons.

    ***

    Unlike Four¡¯s whoring and Nine¡¯s drinking¡ªwhich hadn¡¯t slowed down in spite of what she still considered a brush with death caused by too much wine¡ªTwenty-six went to the public house in Sandshells for information.

    While Four wasted time and gold in the upper rooms, Twenty-six listened to the local dirters. After getting no response from the Ocean Rover the first few times he appeared in their pub, the regular customers dismissed the foreigner as not worth the effort and went on with their accustomed town gossip. Ignored, Twenty-six could listen to every conversation as if he weren¡¯t there.

    On one winter trip to the village:

    ¡°He took out a whole fleet of ¡¯em singlehanded, the king did.¡±

    ¡°Get your story straight, it was him and his lords¡¯ armies that fed the pirates to the sharks. All except their pirate prince¡ªhe came licking the king¡¯s boots, begging for quarter.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re thinking of the first attack. I¡¯m talking about last month, up toward Cove. Sango said a shipload of dead pirates run aground, bursting with blood plague. That¡¯s Hazerial¡¯s doings.¡±

    ¡°Blood plague¡¯s nasty stuff.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t ever doubt it. The fishermen found another three ships floating offshore, all still as death.¡±

    ¡°They climb aboard and see if anybody was still alive?¡±

    ¡°With the blood plague raging, you clod? They burned what washed up and let the scavengers take the rest.¡±

    Or when a traveling pot-mender stopped through:

    ¡°The pirate plague¡¯s old news, friends. Nowadays, everybody¡¯s talking about the fires.¡±

    ¡°Fires?¡±

    ¡°One at Big Harbor on the south of Siu Carinal. Two more up the coast, and just before I got here, I heard they just had a big one up Siu Jinial way. There was a high wind, and it burnt up every inch of dock, the shipyard, and half the port buildings besides.¡±

    ¡°What in the name of Khinet?¡±

    Twenty-six knew before the pot-mender answered.

    ¡°Pirates! They¡¯ve been taking our merchant ships and setting them on fire, then running them into the harbors. They don¡¯t even give the slaves and crew a chance to swim for their lives. When they got the blazer at Big Harbor put out, they found a score of dead sailors and slaves below the waterline, half burnt, the other half boiled in bilge water. Not the way I¡¯d want to go, I¡¯ll tell you that.¡±

    Twenty-six had guessed that as well. A raed commander didn¡¯t take captives; it was inhumane. An enemy who died in battle could retain his honor¡ªif he¡¯d had any honor to begin with.

    The plague-stricken ships had been unusually close to land. Had they been sailing for a dirter haven to spread the deadly disease, but died before they reached their target? What tribe had the plague ships belonged to? Were they greatships or smallships? What about the ships that had towed the burning dirter vessels into the harbors?

    These dirters wouldn¡¯t know even if he asked. All he could do was speculate.

    Could it be the Waeld carrying out the attacks in the Raen¡¯s absence? The Third Tribe of the Ocean Rovers crafted superior weapons, suppose they had taken to employing them as well? Or could it be the Hael, led by the avenging father who had once killed a leviathan with nothing but a sword?

    Who was carrying out the attacks was of little consequence. What mattered was that the tribes were still alive, still fighting. Even in the storm season, they were fighting.

    His people who were no longer his people¡ªwho wouldn¡¯t want to be his people if they knew him now. Hearing of their strength was like listening to the poets recite the old legends.

    He wished he could tell them about Mehet, Daughter of the Hael, Wife of the Raen, Terror of the Blood Drinkers, Unstoppable Even in Death. She would have been the heroine of every Ocean Rover on the waves.

    Let all memory of her coward husband sink forgotten to the depths.

    ***

    On most days, when lectures had ended and supper was over and the icy wind howled brutally past the archer loop, Four taught Twenty-six how to defend against his illusory blood magic.

    ¡°But if ya teach the pirate scum how to beat ya, you¡¯ll lose the next tournament,¡± Nine pointed out. She was supposed to be on her way back to the dining hall for her daily lesson with her nemesis, but as usual, she was dragging around their room, delaying.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    ¡°To have more skilled opponents is always beneficial,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°Four will be forced to improve his swordstaff skill until he can defeat me with a blade alone.¡±

    Nine scratched her nose. ¡°Nah, Four cain¡¯t beat you without cheating.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the true benefit of this strategy,¡± Four said. ¡°I¡¯ll be knocked out of the bracket sooner, then I can simply sit on the sidelines and enjoy a holiday without lectures or training.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll beat you, me,¡± the runt told Twenty-six. ¡°Last time, they ended the tournament afore we even got to scrap. You never woulda got to the last match if you¡¯da had to face me.¡±

    ¡°Go to your lesson,¡± the pirate said.

    Twenty-six preferred not to practice defending against the mental attacks in front of an audience. Based on Four¡¯s matches during the autumn tournament, he knew that no one else could see or hear what was being presented, but it made the Ocean Rover supremely uncomfortable that he had no idea what his outward reactions were during the attacks. It was bad enough that his roommate could watch the worst and best moments of his life playing out again. What if he shamed himself by showing some uncontained emotion?

    ¡°I think I saw you blink once,¡± Four joked. ¡°But it seems more likely that I blinked myself and just assumed it was you.¡±

    Twenty-six rarely found the dirter prince funny.

    He also made very little progress. Day after day, Four launched traps stolen from Twenty-six¡¯s most painful and private thoughts and memories. Twenty-six built walls deeper and wider than Thornfield¡¯s, but over and over again he found himself trapped in illusion, unable to fight back in reality.

    As if Twenty-six didn¡¯t realize how badly he was run aground, the prince thought it would be helpful to emphasize how powerful the king of the blood drinkers was.

    ¡°He¡¯s Eketra-blessed. That means that conniving shrew of a strong goddess¡ªpraise be to her glorious name and so on¡ªfavored Hazerial with her skill at causing physical and mental anguish. If what I do has the ability to upset you, then my father will destroy you.¡±

    ¡°That will not matter,¡± Twenty-six said. In most ways an Ocean Rover could be, he had already been destroyed. ¡°I only have to hold off the illusions long enough to kill him. What happens to me during or after is of no consequence.¡±

    ¡°Sure, but if you could escape with your life, why wouldn¡¯t you?¡± Four kicked his swordstaff up and tossed it idly from hand to hand. ¡°Perhaps you could find another sun-kissed beauty to make a shipful of pirate offspring with?¡±

    Twenty-six¡¯s glare warned Four to steer clear of those reefs.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to survive?¡± the prince demanded.

    What point would there be to continued existence once the blood debt was repaid? He was cursed, a coward who deserved no future. Death would be a relief, even if he could never join his family and his tribe in paradise.

    ¡°I do not fear death.¡±

    ¡°But to go chasing after it seems foolhardy.¡± Four shrugged. ¡°Well, one way or another, if you want to defend against this attack, then you¡¯re going to have to let go of the dead woman.¡±

    No matter how often Four repeated that advice, Twenty-six couldn¡¯t do it. Mehet meant more to him than he could explain. She was the spirit of his people, a gleaming gem of memory, proof that there had once been something more to him than rage and emptiness and self-loathing. He knew the world used to contain beauty, but she was the only bit of it he could remember.

    He would just have to find another way to get around Four¡¯s illusions.

    ***

    The usual illnesses brought on by bad weather and large groups crammed into small spaces went around Thornfield. Most were merely annoying, hardly worth the hoarse cursing expended by those who caught them. But in amongst the harmless sicknesses, things like pneumonia and the croup made the rounds, laying out even the strongest residents.

    The healer¡¯s shed filled up with students and staff alike, while the healers worked from dusk ¡¯til dusk again, tending to the sick and trying to jam in more beds. The kitchen was the first to lose a member, the older cook from whom Nine had learned about Grandmaster¡¯s ¡°vestment.¡± The number of masters unaffected by illness dwindled until the ancient Master of Archives was teaching every lecture himself, grouping all levels together in one room. Those who could learn would learn what they could.

    A second-year student came down with an ague and was dead within a week. Then Master Risk caught the same ague, and lectures were suspended until he or another knowledgeable master could take over once more. Pneumonia carried off a handful of students, and a wave of fever followed, taking to the grave more who had been weakened by the previous ailment.

    Nine got out of extra lessons for two days in a row while Masters Saint Daven and Saint Galen got through the worst of their croup, both on the same days. She was ecstatic and demanded she and her roommates go to the village to celebrate.

    ¡°That¡¯s how twins is,¡± she told Four and Twenty-six on their run for Sandshells. She paused to emphasize this bit of wisdom with a long snort and spit. The runt had had a perpetually runny nose since winter began, but nothing worse yet. ¡°They think the same, and they take sick the same.¡±

    Unfortunately, at least to Nine¡¯s way of thinking, neither twin died. Combat training, which had been taken over by Grandmaster for those two days, was returned to the Saints as soon as they could leave their beds under their own power again, and the extra sword lessons resumed.

    ¡°So you lived, didja?¡± Nine muttered the day Saint Daven returned.

    ¡°Disappointed?¡± The master saw Nine apathetically prying at the cracks between the flagstones with one twin sword. ¡°What are you sitting around for? You know how these lessons begin. Get up and go through your¡ª¡± He broke off in a coughing fit. It was a long minute before he could croak out the rest of the order. ¡°Go through your positions. If you want me dead, you¡¯ll have to kill me yourself. And you won¡¯t do it with that kind of posture. Stand up straight.¡±

    In all, the staff agreed this was the worst year for ailments that any of them could remember.

    ***

    On the harsh, rainy evening that the first-year class buried Forty-three, the crazy-eyed low street boy Nine claimed to have busted out of the gaol with, Izak finally got to see the legendary mass grave where Thornfield dumped prospective Thorns who didn¡¯t survive to be grafted.

    Located at the farthest end of the spit of sand, the pit sat between Thornfield¡¯s westernmost wall and the ocean. Izak counted five archer loops between the rubbish pit and their room, which explained the smells that occasionally wafted in. Broken pottery, glass, split wineskins, and rotting scraps of food that even the pigs refused to eat. As only two brood sows and a boar had been kept for the winter and the rest butchered, there was rather more of the rotting food than in the warmer seasons.

    A flock of gulls flapped away from the pit when they arrived, angrily calling over their shoulders. Their contribution to the refuse stood out in stark white splatters and streaks.

    ¡°It¡¯s just a rubbish pit,¡± Fifty-one, Bastard of West Crag and still dedicated stater of the obvious said.

    ¡°Speaks to our value, doesn¡¯t it?¡± Izak muttered darkly. He didn¡¯t see any obvious human remains below. There were some bones, but those looked to come from sheep and fowl. Perhaps that larger rib there had once been a human¡¯s. But it could just as easily have belonged to a pig.

    Having been born with the royal blood magic, illness had never troubled Izak. He¡¯d been immune to sickness his entire life. The grafting, however, was violent enough to kill any man, and then into the rubbish pit with him.

    Funny how often he¡¯d thought he deserved to be dumped out with the refuse, and yet he¡¯d never really considered what it would look like to end up there.

    Nine elbowed him. He smacked her bony arm off.

    ¡°When does the dead temperer come get ya?¡±

    ¡°There aren¡¯t any dead temperers outside Siu Carinal,¡± Izak told her.

    A gull got tired of waiting for them to leave and dove back down for a slushy bite of blackened squash end.

    Nine grunted. ¡°They oughta put this somewheres away from the water. A fell miasma¡¯s gonna collect, then we¡¯re all killt.¡±

    At the far end of the pit, Master Malice and Forty-three¡¯s roommates rolled the dead boy down the slope into the trash. The closest bystanders helped shovel enough dirt and sand down to hide the body from the gulls. One of Forty-three¡¯s roommates wept while he said some words that the wind carried away. Another roommate sobbed from a combination of grief and the croup that had carried Forty-three off, and the third scrubbed at his eyes with a dirty rag.

    What were the odds anybody would be weeping at Izak¡¯s burial?

    What was there to mourn, anyway?

    He turned to the pirate. Twenty-six watched them dump sand onto the corpse with a darker than usual scowl.

    ¡°Contemplating the future?¡± Izak joked.

    ¡°Don¡¯t let them put me in the dirt.¡± Twenty-six¡¯s gray-green eyes shone strangely bright in the evening gloom and light from the ghost city. ¡°If I die here, give me back to the ocean.¡±

    Izak tried to laugh, but curtailed it as the dead boy¡¯s grieving roommates passed.

    ¡°You¡¯re not going to die here,¡± he hissed. ¡°Stop talking nonsense.¡±

    But was it really nonsense? If they survived until their grafting, they would all die here, every one of them with a thornknife in his heart. Some would come back when their new masters called.

    Most? Izak couldn¡¯t remember ever hearing the odds of survival, but he hoped most came back.

    The rest would tumble down this slope and have sand kicked down after.

 Chapter 38: The Fever

    ¡°We can¡¯t just sit here staring at the ceiling today,¡± Four said, pacing the length of floor between the door and archer loop. ¡°We have to go to the public house. We¡¯ve got to drink to Forty-three¡¯s memory.¡±

    Twenty-six doubted the prince could have found Forty-three in a crowd before the dirters¡¯ barbaric version of a funeral, but the idea of getting outside was appealing. Their room was equipped with a small iron grate about the size of a raed ship¡¯s hanging coal stove. When they had returned from the rubbish pit, Twenty-six had made up the fire too high, overestimating how cold he was or perhaps underestimating how hot wood burned. Now the air in the room was sweltering and close. His face was burning, and his eyes felt gritty and hot. He couldn¡¯t imagine trying to concentrate on defending Four¡¯s attacks today.

    Rather than argue that they¡¯d been to Sandshells only two days earlier and that increasing frequency increased the risk of being caught, Twenty-six headed for the door.

    The cold wind, icy water, and weak sunlight drove away the unbearable heat, but when Twenty-six walked out of the waves at the thornknife graveyard, he began shivering and couldn¡¯t stop.

    The public house always had a fire going at this time of year. Maybe the common room would be a more comfortable temperature than their room had been.

    He changed hastily into dry clothes and sprinted after his roommate. His speed over long distances had improved significantly since coming to Thornfield, and most nights he could almost keep up with Four¡¯s smoke step. As usual, he arrived a few steps behind the prince.

    Unlike usual, however, just beyond the village, a fleet of half a dozen brightly colored wagons were visible from the doorstep of the public house. Twenty-six had become acquainted with the most common hauling crafts the dirters used. Blocky, unwieldy things wagons were, all made of aging, unoiled wood.

    These wagons were nothing like that. Their vibrant paint and elaborate carvings reminded him of tribal greatships, and they were fully covered with dazzlingly patterned hoops of canvas. His fingertips itched to touch the flamboyant material, to test whether it felt like a ship¡¯s sheets.

    Children swaddled in brilliantly colored clothing darted around the red wheels and poked their heads out of flaps in the canvas, only to be shooed back in by adults in equally bright outfits cooking over driftwood fires or conversing with drab-looking villagers.

    It had been so long since he had seen paint and fabric celebrating every color of the sea and sky. His heart stumbled, then clenched like a fist. The landsickness that had gradually disappeared returned in full force, sick for his people and his home.

    These weren¡¯t Ocean Rovers. Their hair was dark and their skin was pale, blushing in the noonday sun. The men wore wide-brimmed black hats, and their faces were clean-shaven. No earrings denoted their significance. They laughed or complained or wore shock on their faces for all the world to see. Their women¡¯s faces were uncovered, their hair unbound, and they wore skirts with skin-tight buttoned shirts that left their bellies exposed to the open air.

    Perhaps if one of his people could see him then, they would see no Ocean Rover, either. Just a foreigner in the clothing of dirters. Just a coward cut off from the sea.

    Swallowing the bitter taste in his throat, Twenty-six pushed the door open and stepped into the public house.

    The common room was full to bursting, villagers crammed into every seat and along the wall. More danced between the benches. Music reeled through the air from a rebec, a timbrel, and a set of pipes.

    It had been so long since he¡¯d heard music that he had to stop and compose his expression. He hadn¡¯t even registered that it was missing, hadn¡¯t once thought it strange that no one at Thornfield, young or old, ever whistled or hummed or sang. They were just dirters; so much ignorance and barbarism could be dismissed beneath that flag.

    The music felt as if it were beating against his temples. Every hammer on the timbrel, every wail of the rebec, every scream of the pipes. The notes were beautiful, but they were so loud. All around him, people stomped and clapped and sang along with the bits of the song they¡¯d picked up or yelled to each other over the noise.

    Twenty-six found a place along the wall just wide enough to shoulder against. His head was pounding. With all these bodies and the smells and noise and heat, the common room was as torturous as the overheated room at Thornfield had been.

    He would get his bearings, then tell Four he was leaving. He was close enough to the alley door that he wouldn¡¯t have to fight his way back through the crowd to the front door.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    If he could find Four.

    He spotted the prince in the midst of the whirl and chaos. Four seemed to have forgotten the publican¡¯s daughters for once. He swung through the revelry with a young woman from the wagon people in his arms.

    Sleek waves of black hair bounced as she twirled and laughed and sang along. Her flamboyant skirts jangled with sewn-on coins. Bangles clanked on her wrists. A gold chain dangled around her trim stomach, attached to a glittering piercing in her navel¡ªthin, fine goldwork like the gold nose chain he¡¯d given Mehet¡ªswaying, sparkling, mesmerizing.

    A bolt of lightning struck Twenty-six. Deadened nerves blazed to life.

    He had to get out.

    Staggering, he shoved his way through the crowd to the alley door. Minutes before, the portal had seemed close, but now it swayed away from him as if a storm tide was pulling it out to sea. Bodies crashed against him like breakers, and the music howled and clawed at his ears.

    He stumbled and fell against the door. It swung open under his weight, spilling him out on his hands and knees into the muddy alley stinking of piss and ale. A startled drunk, relieving himself against a broken oak barrel, cursed at him, then stowed himself haphazardly as he staggered back inside, slamming the pub door closed.

    Twenty-six remained on his hands and knees in the mud, shaking and shivering. He gulped down the icy winter wind like a drowning man finally breaking the surface of the waves. He curled his fists, and cold mud squelched between his fingers.

    He felt.

    He felt like he hadn¡¯t in almost a year.

    He felt desire.

    The wagon woman was nothing to him, but her breasts heaving beneath the brightly colored fabric of her shirt, her smooth, flawless stomach hung with the gold chain, her long waving hair, her laughter, the music, the colors¡­

    Mehet, I am sorry.

    But to feel¡­ to see¡­ to hear¡­ to yearn for beauty again¡­

    He clenched burning eyes shut.

    He was still a man. He could still want, still feel something beyond rage and emptiness.

    It was unbearable.

    How could he be rewarded like this after betraying his people and being cut off from his god? Why, when he was an abomination even worse than the blood drinkers?

    If anything had the power to destroy him, it was this.

    ***

    ¡°We got trouble, us,¡± was the first thing Nine said when Izak slipped back into their room just before dusk, still swaying to a tune he¡¯d heard at the pub.

    ¡°Save it for tomorrow, Nine, not now.¡± After the day of drunken gaiety and the exquisitely flexible vanner girl he¡¯d spent the last few hours entwined with, Izak was floating on a cloud he never wanted to come down from. Of course, that could also be all the kisoe they¡¯d smoked in her wagon.

    ¡°Gotta be sometime right quick,¡± Nine said, grabbing Izak¡¯s arm and shoving him around to face their roommate¡¯s bunk. ¡°The pirate¡¯s dying, him.¡±

    Twenty-six writhed on his bunk, sweat soaking his hair and bedclothes. One dirt-caked fist clutched a wad of blanket like he was trying to stop it from escaping. The other hand opened and closed on his chest, fingers twitching into odd shapes, then digging into his skin, then falling limp.

    Izak tried shaking him, but the pirate didn¡¯t respond.

    ¡°Burn it, how long has he been like this?¡± Izak raked a hand through his hair. He hadn¡¯t seen the pirate leave, but when he¡¯d realized his roommate was gone, he¡¯d made some joke to himself about how Twenty-six must have been annoyed by all the merriment and made an early exit. ¡°When did he return?¡±

    ¡°He come dragging in a while ago, shucking clothes and talking ¡¯bout he was too cold. I figure by the stink and the mud on him he didn¡¯t even try to clean up after he went under the grating.¡±

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you get a healer?¡±

    Nine flared up. ¡°Where was I s¡¯posed to say Four went? Off ta see the whores?¡±

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m here now!¡± Four bellowed, shoving the runt toward the door. ¡°Go!¡±

    She gave him a kick in the leg before streaking out into the evening glow.

    ***

    For the last twenty years, Healer Prime had spent most of his late winter and early spring treating young men for these seasonal illnesses. He knew the grippe the moment he saw it, and he knew that a foreigner who caught it rarely recovered.

    ¡°Can¡¯t you just use blood magic?¡± Four asked.

    ¡°Blood magic can only enhance what¡¯s already there,¡± the healer explained. ¡°Twenty-six doesn¡¯t have the necessary defenses to deal with the diseases of the Kingdom of Night, just as we wouldn¡¯t have the necessary defenses to survive pirate diseases.¡±

    ¡°So he¡¯s killt?¡± Nine picked at his ear, wide eyes locked on his doomed roommate. ¡°It¡¯s ¡¯cuz Thornfield leaves the corpses right by the water. It makes a fell miasma, and the miasma done got the pirate.¡±

    ¡°Miasmas are folklore and nonsense!¡± Healer Prime snapped. He hadn¡¯t slept more than an hour at a stretch in at least a week, and he was in no mood for nonsense. He heard entirely too much of that miasma garbage from students raised in the kingdom¡¯s uneducated backwaters¡ªand worse, from the occasional master. ¡°I won¡¯t have any more of that ignorance bandied about in my school!¡±

    ***

    ¡°What kinda healer don¡¯t know miasmas?¡± Nine complained to Izak later, when the healer was safely out of earshot. ¡°Ain¡¯t no wonder so many folk took ill. Prime don¡¯t even know his business, him.¡±

    ¡°Mehet,¡± Twenty-six moaned hoarsely from his bunk. ¡°Can¡¯t hear¡­ What are you saying?¡±

    The healers had long since given up trying to cram more sick into their shed. The incurable were being left to die in their rooms to make space for the curable. Twenty-six was staying where he lay.

    The pirate¡¯s moaning broke off, his hands twitching restlessly again, making strange signs and fruitless grabs at the air.

    ¡°How can a fever kill a man?¡± Izak shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s not an ax or a blade or a poison. How do commoners survive long enough to procreate if they can¡¯t even live through a fever?¡±

    Nine wasn¡¯t listening. ¡°I ain¡¯t waiting around for no pirate to get dead, me. I know a miasma, and it ain¡¯t easy to stop, but might be we gotta try anyhow. Brothers got to.¡±

    ¡°How can a fever defeat blood magic?¡± Izak wasn¡¯t really listening either. He was trying to pour water down Twenty-six¡¯s throat. Despite the pirate¡¯s lips cracking and his voice breaking with thirst, all Twenty-six did was cough the precious liquid back up.

 Chapter 39: The Fever Breaker

    Nine knowed it would be a fool thing to do, curing the pirate scum or anybody else while a fell miasma was still hanging around. First thing was to get rid of that.

    While everybody else was in the dining hall at breakfast, she went to the stables and found a pick and shovel and got to work. Surprisingly, the icy downpour and the high tide were a great help, washing away sand as she broke it free. By the time the patrols made it around to the rubbish pit side of Thornfield¡¯s walls, it was too late to stop her.

    ¡°What are you doing down there?¡± Striker, one of the fourth-years, leaned over the battlement to yell at her.

    ¡°Healer Prime wants the fell miasma fixed so¡¯s nobody else takes sick,¡± she hollered back, trading the pick for the shovel.

    ¡°Healer Prime what? He wanted you to dig a trench?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, and I guess it¡¯s ¡¯cuz he¡¯s got half a brain in his head, unlike some folks standin¡¯ up on walls in the rain, jawin¡¯ like they got nothing else to do.¡± She levered a shovelful of wet sand from the trench and chucked it onto the growing pile nearby. ¡°Folks been dying, ya silt brain, so let me get my work done, howabout.¡±

    Striker gave the little brat an earful about how a junior ought to talk to seniors. Just as he reached the most vibrant language, Nine dug out the last partition of sand separating the rubbish pit from the sea.

    The next wave that crashed against the shore flowed down the wide trench, soaking Nine to the knees, and poured into the pit. In a few minutes, the whole of the rubbish pit swirled with muddy water. Nine had to deepen the trench here and there, but soon, bits of food and bloated bodies were washing out to sea.

    She climbed out of the trench and waved cheerfully up at Striker.

    ¡°Job¡¯s done! Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t tell Healer Prime you tried to hang me up talkin¡¯ when I oughta been workin¡¯.¡±

    ***

    Every close-rat knew that curing a miasma was harder than preventing a new one. Especially when you didn¡¯t have any old granny women around to take pity on you and help you out. Nine had seen how fast a body could die from a fever when they weren¡¯t drinking water, and Twenty-six wasn¡¯t drinking anything but a little of what Four kept drowning him with. Worse, the pirate was raving and seeing fell visions, which meant Death was running up on him right fast. The cure required a full moon, but since Nine didn¡¯t see how the pirate scum could survive until the next one, she was going to have to make do with a waxing crescent.

    Nine had watched an old granny woman make a cure for Pretty one spring when she caught a cough from a bad miasma, back when they were both still girls. On a full moon night, the granny had begged a red-hot coal from a fine uphill lord, then burnt a hair from Pretty, a handful of grave dirt, some sharp-smelling herbs, and a fish scale from a grass carp on it. Then she dumped the whole pile into a gourdful of water from the river.

    Brat had had to make Pretty drink the whole thing down, gagging and crying and begging for no more, but three days later, her fever had broken, and she¡¯d opened her eyes and finally recognized her twin again. A month later, the cough was completely gone. That granny woman knew her business.

    Nine went about gathering supplies as best she could within her limitations. It took two nights, but she got them all¡ªor a close substitute. She knew river fish couldn¡¯t live in the sea, so she found the first fish she could that washed up on the beach and took one of its scales. Since it was a sea fish, it only made sense that the water would have to be seawater, so she dipped a cupful of that from the stormy waves. The kitchen didn¡¯t stock sharp-smelling herbs, so Nine took a few sprigs of dried bitters when she swiped the cup, and in a rare fit of forethought, a little clay jar with a lid, too.

    She didn¡¯t have an uphill lord to beg a coal from like the granny women had. Grandmaster was the closest approximation of fancy placement that they had at Thornfield, so she traded with another first-year for the job of making his study fire. While she was there stoking up the embers for the day, she snuck a coal into the empty jar and hid it in the tightest part of her pants, under the laces.

    The heat seeped through the pottery, and she almost forgot to do a fancy court bow to Grandmaster before she rushed out. In the privacy of the corridor, she yanked the jar free, whisper-cursing up a storm as she bound it up in a corner of her too-large shirt so she could stand to hold it.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    The hair was the last part of the equation, and she snagged that when she got back to the room. Twenty-six didn¡¯t react to her tearing out a few of his sandy hairs¡ªat least he didn¡¯t gibber about it any more than he already was gibbering¡ªbut when Four got back from dinner, he threw a hissy fit.

    ¡°Light, Nine, what is that smell?¡± He grimaced and stuffed his hand under his nose. Then he caught sight of the bald patch over their roommate¡¯s ear. ¡°Did you tear out a handful of his hair?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fixing to cure the pirate scum, me.¡± Nine put another leaf of bitter herbs and the rest of the hair on the coal she¡¯d taken from Grandmaster. ¡°Twenty-six don¡¯t care if I took a hair or two from him.¡±

    ¡°That is more than two.¡±

    ¡°You want me to get rid a¡¯ his fever or don¡¯t ya?¡±

    ¡°I imagine whatever made that smell is more likely to kill him outright.¡±

    ¡°Go sit on your swordstaff.¡±

    In truth, the cure was coming along better than Nine had expected. Almost all the ingredients were burnt to ash. Now she just had to dump them into the seawater, swirl it up, and get Twenty-six to drink the cupful.

    ***

    Someone knocked on the door.

    Izak looked at the runt, but she was intent on her stinking experiment. She clearly had no idea that the sound was meant to get her attention.

    The prince was as accustomed to servants scratching discreetly at chamber doors as he was to angry pimps thundering on portals in whoring houses and shouting that some previously undiscussed time limit was up. But no one had come knocking at their room since Izak had arrived at Thornfield.

    ¡°Enter,¡± he called.

    A scowling Master Fright threw the door open. He was as impeccably dressed as always, his curled hair artfully arranged. Not a button or eyelash was out of place, despite having taken over the duties of half his fellow staff members in the past few weeks.

    ¡°You don¡¯t grant entry here, Four,¡± he huffed. ¡°This isn¡¯t some royal residence and I¡¯m not your servant asking for permission. I¡¯m your master, and when I knock, I¡¯m warning you to come open that door to me or else.¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± Izak said, smoothly dipping into a bow. He gave the master a weary but hopefully conciliatory smile. ¡°My mistake. Rest assured that in the future I will do exactly as you¡¯ve said.¡±

    ¡°See to it.¡± Fright turned to Nine, who was still on the floor, poking at that coal.

    At that angle, in the gray winter light from the archer loop, Izak saw that Fright had powdered his face to hide the dark circles under his eyes. Izak had never sunk to that level of vanity, but then again, he¡¯d never been an aging former Thorn past his prime and far from the entertainment of court.

    ¡°Nine!¡± Master Fright snapped. ¡°Who flooded the rubbish pit with seawater?¡±

    Nine glanced away from the coal. ¡°What rubbish pit?¡±

    ¡°You know what rubbish pit. The one between Thornfield¡¯s wall and the sea.¡±

    ¡°I never heard tell of such a thing, me. You mean the pit ¡¯neath the latrine house?¡±

    Under the powder, the master¡¯s face was turning red.

    ¡°I¡¯ll rephrase myself.¡± His silky voice barely concealed the daggers of rising anger. ¡°You flooded the rubbish pit. Tell me why immediately, or I¡¯ll have you scourged.¡± He kicked the runt in the backside. ¡°And get on your feet while I¡¯m speaking to you!¡±

    Nine scrambled up and swept such a perfect bow that even Fright, who had been teaching the first-years court manners, couldn¡¯t find fault with her form.

    ¡°Healer Prime didn¡¯t want nobody else to take sick, sir, and there was bodies all in that pit.¡± Nine straightened, dark eyes wide and innocent. ¡°Ask Striker if you don¡¯t believe me. He seen me working at it.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s the witness who gave us your name.¡±

    ¡°Then why didn¡¯t he just tell you so about Healer Prime in the first place? Am I the only soul round here who ain¡¯t a blamed fool?¡± Nine sighed. ¡°I did call him some hard names, me. Might be there¡¯s hurt feelings.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t care about feelings,¡± Master Fright snapped. ¡°You¡¯ve turned the night-forsaken sea around us into a midden. Get out there and fill that trench in.¡±

    Nine shook her head. ¡°Cain¡¯t do it without Healer Prime¡¯s say so, sir. He done told me he don¡¯t want no folklore nonsense in his school. He got right mad about it, him.¡±

    ¡°Then we¡¯ll just go speak to Healer Prime, and Grandmaster, too, while we¡¯re at it.¡± Fright pointed at the door. ¡°Now move.¡±

    Evidently Nine didn¡¯t move fast enough, because Fright gave the runt another boot on the way out. Then he turned his powdered glower to Izak.

    ¡°Sir?¡± the prince ventured.

    ¡°What is that stench?¡± Fright pulled out a scented handkerchief and held it beneath his nose.

    Izak nodded at the smoldering pot on the floor. ¡°Nine thinks burnt hair will cure Twenty-six.¡±

    The master studied the sick young man in the bunk. Twenty-six had lapsed into a period of deeper sleep, punctuated by labored breathing. With every gasp, his ribs stood out as if they were attempting to claw through his flesh.

    ¡°Well, for the strong gods¡¯ sake, put it out. It¡¯s clearly not helping.¡± Fright minced toward the door. ¡°And get this place cleaned up. Thorns are not pigs, and I won¡¯t have our reputation being besmirched as such.¡±

    It was undeniable¡ªwithout Twenty-six¡¯s strict attention to order, the room had become a sty. Izak wasn¡¯t the tidiest of roommates to start with. Two nights bracing himself to find a dead pirate every time he came back to the room and two days kept awake by Twenty-six¡¯s restless babbling, fidgeting, and rattling respiration didn¡¯t make the thought of cleaning any more appealing.

    ¡°Yes, sir.¡± Izak grabbed Nine¡¯s spare shirt, wrapped it around his hand for protection, and carried the stinking, smoldering pot outside to dump.

 Chapter 40: Bad Dirt, Twisted Trees

    As soon as Master Fright and the stink pot were gone, Izak put housekeeping from his mind.

    ¡°Her draft is too deep!¡± Twenty-six¡¯s voice scraped his parched throat. ¡°Turn her!¡±

    They were back to raving, it seemed.

    A smart man would have begun preparing himself for the inevitable death of his friend. Izak was certain that was what Etian would have done in his place. Instead, Izak proved he was a fool by picking his mind apart, searching for some way to fix this.

    Perhaps blood magic couldn¡¯t boost the pirate¡¯s health enough to fight off this sickness, but could royal blood magic create the defenses against illnesses of the Kingdom of Night, the components Prime had said Twenty-six lacked? Izak was immune to disease and illness. If he used his own blood, could he simply transfer those inborn defenses to his friend?

    ¡°You don¡¯t mind if I borrow this, do you?¡± Izak pulled the swordbreaker from under Twenty-six¡¯s pillow.

    With a bit of thought, Izak sent the blood flowing to his wrist, then sliced open the veins there. Hot red flowed to the surface and ran down his elbow.

    Before Izak could force his wrist into his friend¡¯s mouth, Twenty-six caught Izak¡¯s bloody arm in a grip of steel. His eyes opened, burning with fever, and locked onto the prince¡¯s.

    ¡°Four, I remember. I couldn¡¯t during the battle¡ªor afterward¡ªbut I remember now.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s wonderful. I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯ll help me out by taking a quick drink of this?¡± Izak tried to lever his arm toward the pirate.

    Cords stood out in the pirate¡¯s arm and neck as he held Izak off. ¡°Typhoon, hidden reef. I am spared by the God of the Waves. He alone knows why.¡±

    ¡°Let go of me so I don¡¯t have to do something drastic. Unless this means you¡¯re making a miraculous recovery?¡±

    ¡°My death poem.¡± Twenty-six sank back onto the bunk, his bloody fingers sliding off Izak¡¯s wrist. ¡°I couldn¡¯t remember¡­ didn¡¯t think I would ever recognize beauty again. It is the lifeblood of my people, and it was gone from me. But you can see it, can¡¯t you, Four? The beauty in this world. Even a dirter can see it.¡± His hoarse voice broke painfully when he asked, ¡°How can you stand it?¡±

    The uncharacteristic display of emotion from the stone-faced pirate made Izak feel sick and angry and not quite sure he wanted to be in his own skin just then. He shifted uncomfortably.

    ¡°Mostly by pretending it¡¯s not as beautiful as it is and sullying it whenever I can.¡± Izak tried a laugh. ¡°Generally squandering whatever I¡¯ve been given by whatever god gives it. That¡¯s how I get through the night. Isn¡¯t that what we all do?¡±

    Twenty-six hid his face in his hands, smearing blood on his skin. ¡°I betrayed my wife. To look upon a dirter woman like that? What kind of monster am I?¡±

    ¡°If your wife is who I think she is, friend, she¡¯s too dead to care.¡±

    Twenty-six didn¡¯t hear him. He had fallen silent again, eyes closed, hands twitching on his chest.

    Izak took a deep breath, then wished he hadn¡¯t. Their room stank like illness and burning hair and herbs.

    Before Twenty-six could burst out in any other questions that forced one to consider one¡¯s life, Izak shoved his bleeding wrist into his friend¡¯s mouth.

    The pirate coughed and thrashed, fighting to break free. Izak caught hold of the energies in Twenty-six¡¯s blood, but they were too strong-willed to control.

    While he and Twenty-six were practicing, Izak never chose what to show his friend, he let the pirate¡¯s own preoccupations decide what he would see. There was something a little too Eketra about picking and choosing the best modes of torture for Izak¡¯s taste.

    But he could do it if he had to.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to have to resort to this,¡± Izak muttered. ¡°Know that.¡±

    He clambered onto the bunk, kneeling on Twenty-six¡¯s chest. While the pirate tried to shove and kick him off, Izak sifted through nightmares of death and fire and gore until he found the day on the beach.

    Twenty-six froze. His eyes opened, stark with terror. Izak fought the urge to shrink back. It was Hazerial the pirate saw, Izak reminded himself. Hazerial forcing the blood down his throat. Hazerial crowing over his defeat.

    If Twenty-six had managed to break free of the illusion in that moment, what he would have seen was a man who looked just like the King of Night. A little younger, maybe, a little softer around the edges, but just as ruthless as the monster who had destroyed his tribe and conquered him.

    The pirate¡¯s struggling stopped. He drank the blood.

    Izak pulled his arm free.

    Healing others wasn¡¯t Izak¡¯s specialty, but utilizing the royal blood magic was. And as it was his own blood he was using, it already wanted to obey him. He sent it seeping through thin membranes to course through the pirate¡¯s veins.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    Twenty-six¡¯s body attacked, attempting to destroy the unfamiliar blood, but illness had weakened his internal defenses. Izak overpowered the meager resistance with a surge of energies.

    A familiar dark stain reared its ugly head¡ªhis father¡¯s Mark was seared into Twenty-six¡¯s flesh and bone.

    Izak¡¯s face twisted with disgust. His childhood training in the royal blood magic had included inflicting gruesome deaths on political prisoners who had Hazerial¡¯s signature scored into them. They made a changeup from the usual bloodslaves he¡¯d trained on, while providing the court with entertainment and not-so-subtle warnings.

    This would be the first time he was actually helping someone Marked. If he didn¡¯t know that Hazerial would have immediately destroyed him for it, Izak would¡¯ve liked to see the look on the king¡¯s face.

    His attempt to replicate his immunities in Twenty-six failed miserably, so he shifted his efforts. Instead, he bound his blood to the pirate¡¯s. It was a little makeshift, but it seemed to hold up well. Already, he could feel it bolstering his friend¡¯s internal resistance. It marched through Twenty-six like an army, burning out the grippe¡¯s strongholds and chasing it away.

    Lucky that. The whole undertaking, and in the middle of the day no less, had cost Izak a severe amount of blood magic. If he couldn¡¯t get Nine to steal him a skin of blood, he was going to have to sleep the rest of the day to recover, like some sort of peasant.

    This time when Twenty-six¡¯s gray-green eyes opened, lucidity shone in his gaze. He frowned up at Izak, who was still sitting on his chest.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± With a weak lurch, he twisted his body and shoved, dumping the exhausted prince onto the floor.

    ¡°Saving your life.¡± Izak slumped in a heap. ¡°You¡¯re welcome, you ungrateful savage.¡±

    ***

    The garish fever dreams were gone. No more of his father renouncing him as a ruined coward. Mehet no longer clung to him, trying to tell him something he couldn¡¯t hear as blood bubbled and foamed from the red line encircling her throat. No more watching his friends and raedrs turn to sinew and meat and finally grinning skulls while he set fire to his own ship.

    Twenty-six drifted in a becalmed ocean over the deepest part of the Deep Chasm. Alaan water, the color closest to the heart of every Ocean Rover, the color of Haelbringr¡¯s sails, stretched to the horizon in every direction.

    Mehet floated above him, whole again. She rubbed her thumb through the hair on his chin, smiling at the rasp of his whiskers. She cupped his face and bent down to kiss him. Her golden hair fell like a curtain around him, and the gold chain he¡¯d given her tickled his cheek.

    ¡°If you will redeem our people, you will have to leave,¡± she said.

    ¡°I fear no death or dirters,¡± he told her. ¡°I fear losing you. Losing this.¡±

    ¡°My raedr.¡± She laughed softly and pressed her forehead to his. ¡°We are already gone.¡±

    ¡°I failed you all. If I give you up now, was I ever a man? Was I ever Raen?¡±

    ¡°Can even a Raen retrieve what the God of the Waves has taken to paradise? Is that your duty? To cling to your past and to ignore our people¡¯s future?¡±

    He knew she was right. She, his family, his tribe were lost to him, gone where he could not follow, and they would never return. The remaining tribes, however, were still fighting. On the sea, in the harbors, all along the coasts they fought. Meanwhile, a cursed former raed commander wallowed in petty personal sorrows.

    He had been perfectly placed to destroy the monster who had started this war, if only he would lay aside his self-indulgent grief. That was the true duty of the Raen. To forget themselves to protect their people.

    Twenty-six held his wife close while the sun rose over the Deep Chasm, knowing that when he woke, she would be gone.

    But he also knew the name of the man he would have to become.

    ***

    Nine dragged in late that afternoon, shedding gritty wet sand and dripping rainwater with every step. The second she saw the pirate scum¡¯s fever had broken, she let out an ecstatic whoop, her fatigue forgotten.

    ¡°I done it, me! I worked the granny medicine!¡± On second thought, she patted the angrily awakened Four on the head. ¡°I mean, we worked it. How¡¯d you know ya hadta dump the ashes in the seawater and make him drink?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t do anything of the sort,¡± Four said, brushing at the sand her touch had left in his hair and eye socket. ¡°I tossed out that garbage you were burning the second you left.¡±

    ¡°Musta been the smoke that cleared the miasma, then.¡± She would have to keep that in mind in case the new rubbish pit she had started digging wasn¡¯t far enough from the water.

    Neither one, Grandmaster nor Healer Prime, had seen sense when she explained how they were attracting a fell miasma. The sand trench had eroded and turned the former rubbish pit into a lagoon, so efforts to rebuild its seaside dam would be useless. Grandmaster had sentenced Nine to digging a new pit instead.

    Nine had taken that to mean she could put it anywhere she wanted. She¡¯d found a spot on Thornfield¡¯s east side, betwixt some dunes that led to the thornknife graveyard. That was as far from the water as a body could get, directly in the middle of the narrow spit of land, so it would have to do.

    ***

    Izak expected some measure of anger when Twenty-six found out that he¡¯d been tricked into drinking blood. It didn¡¯t have to be a violent outburst, but at the very least the response ought to contain some scathing sarcasm.

    What he got was a long moment of consideration beneath the pirate¡¯s cleared gray-green gaze.

    ¡°Why did you heal me?¡±

    ¡°So you wouldn¡¯t die, you fool.¡±

    ¡°You know that is not what I am asking. For once in your life answer a question like a man. Speak the truth.¡±

    ¡°Well, we¡¯re friends, aren¡¯t we?¡±

    As soon as his reply left his mouth, Izak wished he¡¯d said something else. The pirate was back to his stern, stony mask after that momentary slip during his illness, but his blink was enough to show Izak that the mention of friendship had taken him off guard. Maybe he didn¡¯t consider Izak a friend. How could Twenty-six think of Izak as anything but another enemy after all Hazerial had taken from him?

    At least Nine wasn¡¯t there to witness the first rejection of the former crown prince¡¯s life. As usual, when she wasn¡¯t at her extra sword lessons, the runt was busy making up for some non-scourging offense with the scullery staff. Probably talking to other students during lectures again.

    Instead of telling Izak to shove his friendship in the latrine, Twenty-six asked, ¡°Is that enough reason for a dirter?¡±

    Izak laughed with relief. ¡°You¡¯ve got an awful narrow view of us dirters, pirate. I knew a dirter once who wouldn¡¯t let anyone suffer if he could help them. Honor, loyalty, compassion¡­ He embodied them all. It¡¯s a fatal combination, unfortunately.¡±

    If Ahixandro had forsaken just one of his principles, he might have lived. If he¡¯d just denounced the Blasphemous One¡­ If he¡¯d turned Izak over to the Inquisitors as a worse heretic than he was¡­ If he¡¯d never taken pity on his disenchanted nephew in the first place and told him the truth¡ªthat he wasn¡¯t alone in wondering whether the world was really meant to be nothing but blood and sex and power¡ªeverything might be different.

    ¡°I suppose your narrow view of us isn¡¯t entirely unearned,¡± Izak admitted. ¡°After all, that man was abandoned by his god, betrayed by his brother, and executed by his nephew while courtiers not worth the grime on the bottom of his boots laughed and drank to his place in hell." He plastered a carefree grin on his face. "The dirt in this kingdom produces some twisted family trees.¡±

 Chapter 41: The Leaking Chest

    The Skalia household was supposed to arrive at Castle Sangmere by the new moon, but a series of unexpected spring ice storms delayed them. The purple blush of dead nettle, the bright green blades of new grass, and the budding berry canes caught the waning moonlight, making the farms and fields glimmer like cut jewels, but the roads had turned into ugly mires, muddy beneath the frosty veneer and littered with branches broken by the weight of the ice.

    It wasn¡¯t uncommon weather so far north so late in the year, but members of the palace staff making ready for the bride-to-be told one another that holding a wedding with ice on the ground foretold a frigid marriage.

    Etian waited as long as he could stand on the night the Zinote delegation should arrive¡ªabout half an hour¡ªthen gave it up as a waste of time. He wasn¡¯t going to spend all night staring toward the carriage gate when he could be studying the royal blood magic or attending the Hall of Law. Word came later that the roads had held them up at least two nights away, but by then Etian had found something useful to occupy his time.

    Over the winter, the Hall of Law had become a fascinating place, and it was there that the crown prince spent a good portion of his scant leisure time, observing the men he would one day rule. Lord Clarencio of House Mattius had returned with the royal progress and taken up his family seat for the first time in four years. Clarencio was half the age of most of the lords and their representatives, and as his family¡¯s former allies had abandoned ship after his father¡¯s execution, he had no votes to back him. This didn¡¯t seem to deter the young lord in the least. He argued paradigms with the confidence of a man who knew his holdings did not rely on the approval of any other house, and put forth motions as if certain that one day he would not be alone in his convictions.

    It became so that even the most negligent of lords began to grace the Hall of Law with their presence, ousting their representatives. The heads of the noble families had no better luck taking the floor against Clarencio than their clerks and sons had. The tap of his walking stick and his uneven footfalls became a sound that set their teeth on edge.

    One or two lords had the courage to ask the king what he was thinking to allow this son of a traitor to speak freely, let alone take the floor against men who had staunchly supported Hazerial all along¡ªthough they never worded it quite so bluntly.

    ¡°We value the active participation of our future son-in-law in the pursuits of our noblest houses,¡± was all Hazerial would say.

    It was enough to keep the lords uncertain of how much authority House Mattius actually had. Etian watched them alternately plotting against Clarencio and trying to attract his alliance.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know whether your father is setting me up for public annihilation or waiting for an opportune moment to force my vote in some unexpected way,¡± Clarencio told Etian one evening during the House¡¯s luncheon hours. ¡°But until it happens, I intend to wring every last bit of my own ends that I can from these archaic blood clots.¡±

    ¡°I think the archaic blood clots intend to wring your neck.¡± From what Etian was seeing, Clarencio had set himself up for a war that demanded total victory or death. The crown prince approved of the gamble, but suspected the Lord of the Cinterlands was going to lose on simple numbers. Only Josean could lay waste to an entire army himself and survive. ¡°Or hire someone else to wring it for them.¡±

    ¡°That wouldn¡¯t surprise me in the least.¡± Clarencio winced as he took the first stair down toward the Hall¡¯s exit, one hand firmly on the wall. ¡°They could probably get it done cheap on the claim they were trying to protect the kingdom from another Cinterlands Rebellion.¡±

    ¡°Your friend shouldn¡¯t joke,¡± Vorino told Etian while they sparred. ¡°I know a handful of Royal Thorns who would cast lots for the job.¡±

    Of Kelena, Etian saw very little. When spring came, the princess was suddenly no longer allowed at meals with the rest of the family, and the mad queen would answer no questions regarding the girl. Loath though Etian was to try this particular strategy, concern that his half-sister had been murdered by her insane mother eventually drove him to search the hidden passages for a viewing hole into the princess¡¯s chambers.

    The slot was easy enough to find, as there was only one hidden passage in the tower, and only one member of the royal family resided therein. The rest of the rooms were jumbles of forgotten furniture, outdated armor, and the unfinished, rat-chewed paintings of Etian¡¯s Teikru-blessed ancestor Prince Farro. A lunatic, artist, poet, and walking disaster of a secondborn prince, Farro was the Thorn all other royal second sons endeavored not to become.

    Kelena¡¯s rooms were furnished as Etian supposed young princesses liked: lots of frills and cushions, childish pinks and blues. The floor was covered in lush carpeting everywhere except for an oblong section that looked as if it had been torn at random from the center of the room, where portions of a few bare flagstones shone through.

    No sign of violence, but no sign, either, that the room had ever been inhabited. A layer of dust coated every book and toy and even the neatly made bed. He knew Kelena lived there¡ªor had lived there, if Jadarah had murdered her¡ªbut it looked for all the world as if the room had been furnished and forgotten sometime around the beginning of his grandfather Ikario¡¯s reign.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Then he saw the dark purple hair ribbon lying crumpled on carpeted floor near a large chest. It was the only piece of scenery out of place. The chest was large enough to conceal a small body if the body were positioned right¡ªtwo bodies, if they were dismembered.

    Now that he was looking closer, he could see a small stain that had collected around one foot of the chest. No, not a stain. A puddle. The chest was leaking.

    His first thought was that he¡¯d missed the chance to help the poor girl. If he¡¯d tried harder, he could have prevented this¡ªthere was nothing he couldn¡¯t eventually find a way to do¡ªbut the blessing of Josean had worked against Kelena this time. It had spurred Etian onward in his own concerns while ignoring everything else around him.

    His second thought was what a blow this would be to Izakiel. The elder prince was likely the only friend Kelena had ever had.

    ¡°Uh-oh, someone got tired of watching their betrothed¡¯s empty bedchamber.¡± The sudden appearance of Jadarah¡¯s grating voice in the silence made Etian¡¯s heart thunder. ¡°Do you find the view stimulating, blind prince?¡±

    Etian lifted his face from the viewing slot and scowled into the darkness. He couldn¡¯t see the mad queen until his eyes adjusted, but he could smell her. In such a confined space, her stench was nauseating.

    He had to fight the urge to gag. ¡°What¡¯s in the chest down there?¡±

    Jadarah chuckled. ¡°It¡¯s not ready yet.¡±

    ¡°When will it be? When Kelena¡¯s body has completely moldered away into dust?¡±

    ¡°So the blind prince can see but not hear? Should we call you the deaf prince instead?¡±

    Still laughing that maddening laugh, the queen draped herself over Etian, rubbing and wriggling. He shoved her off, but she grabbed him by the hair with surprising strength. She yanked him to the view slot again. The side of his head thumped against the stone, sending pain flaring through his ear and knocking his lenses askew.

    ¡°Listen, Etianiel. Listen!¡±

    The silence stretched out. Finally, Etian heard it. A faint, high, wavering whine. Then a ragged breath.

    ¡°You vile¡ª¡± Etian straightened up and shoved Jadarah off, yanking her twisted fingers out of his hair, tearing a good chunk out with them.

    The mad queen went staggering back. She tripped on her skirt and sprawled in the narrow passage.

    She purred. ¡°Oh, do it again.¡±

    The closest exit from the passage was past Jadarah. There was another exit a few floors down. Etian headed for the stairs.

    ¡°By the time you reach her room, the chest will be gone,¡± Jadarah called after him. ¡°Not even the blind prince will find her this time, no matter how many holes he looks through.¡±

    Rather than argue, he changed directions. Disgust was no reason to lose a battle. As he pushed past her crouched form, the mad queen hooked one arm around his waist and wrapped the fingers of her free hand around his ankle. He sprawled onto the floor as awkwardly as she had, half on his elbow and side, legs tangled with the laughing wench. His lenses slid to the end of his nose, then dropped away, clinking on the stone.

    ¡°Why do you care, Etianiel?¡± she snarled. ¡°Do you think she¡¯ll reward you for rescuing her? Do you think you can hold her out of my reach? I know what¡¯s inside you, and it isn¡¯t Josean-blessed. I can smell it on you¡ªon every man, no matter which strong god favors him.¡±

    Etian¡¯s heart pounded against the back of his throat. A long-forgotten childhood terror came back to him: Jadarah standing over his bed with a knife and the decaying head of his mother.

    Panic closed his throat. He kicked and shoved, feeling greasy skin and thick, animal-like hair. Part of him knew his lenses were probably being crushed by their flailing, but he had to get her off, had to get away. He¡¯d go blind for the rest of his life if he could just escape.

    ¡°Hazerial doesn¡¯t care what I do with her.¡± Jadarah dug in tighter. ¡°He won¡¯t care if you tell him she¡¯s in there, and he¡¯ll never make me give her up. I won¡¯t! I¡¯ll never give her up, no matter what anyone says! She¡¯s mine! I made her! She belongs to me!¡± Her fists battered wildly against his legs. ¡°Mine! Mine! Mine!¡±

    As Etian struggled, Jadarah clawed herself forward, heaving on top of his legs, no longer screaming words, just weird bestial grunts and growls.

    Sweat ran down his face and soaked his clothing. His hands raked greasy hair and burning flesh. In the blurred darkness, he couldn¡¯t imagine the thing he was touching was human. What once had been a madwoman was now a slavering, deadly beast.

    In the chaos, one of his boots slipped from the tangle of body and limbs. He planted it on her chest and straightened his leg, peeling her off and pushing himself farther up the passage. His other boot stayed wedged beneath her, but he left it behind and scrambled forward on his hands and knees. A few paces away, he stumbled up to a running position.

    He burst onto the landing of the main stairwell, breathing hard.

    His lenses were gone. He was covered in dust and cobwebs. He had on one boot. He must look ridiculous. He felt ridiculous. A man running from a woman a head shorter than he was and nearly twice his age. The Josean-blessed Crown Prince of Night terrified of the mad queen.

    He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe slowly, to think, and turned toward Kelena¡¯s chambers.

    The outer door was already open. Some panicked, irrational part of his mind was certain that the creature he¡¯d left in the passage had snapped her gory fingers and made the chest disappear.

    He strode through the antechamber and swung the bedroom door inward. Through the lensless blur, he found the room exactly as he¡¯d seen it from the viewing slot. The chest with its slow leak hadn¡¯t been moved.

    But he couldn¡¯t hear the whining or the ragged breathing anymore.

    He knelt in front of the chest. A wooden arm off some sort of doll had been jammed into the loop of the hasp to keep the lid from opening.

    His fingers were trembling so badly that he couldn¡¯t twist the wooden arm free. In the end, he just snapped it in half at the elbow and the splintered pieces fell out.

    When he lifted the lid, a wave of stench hit him, and for a heart-stopping moment, he actually saw Kelena¡¯s decaying body, death stretching her face into a toothy rictus, eyes milky, blackened tongue stuffing her mouth like his mother¡¯s had in that terror he¡¯d convinced himself was a dream.

    Then the princess launched herself out of the chest, laughing and sobbing weakly and threw her arms around Etian¡¯s neck.

    ¡°Izakiel,¡± she whimpered, shivering and shaking worse than Etian was. ¡°Don¡¯t let her take you away! Don¡¯t let her, don¡¯t let her, don¡¯t let her!¡±

 Chapter 42: Barely Human

    Etian couldn¡¯t get anything coherent out of his younger sister, so he took her to his apartments and sent for servants to clean her up. He couldn¡¯t guess how long Kelena had been trapped in that trunk. She¡¯d been lying in her own waste, and vomit had dried on her shift. When light touched her skin, she flinched as if struck. He hadn¡¯t seen her in at least a month, and like a self-centered dullard, hadn¡¯t once thought to search her out until it occurred to him that her mother may have killed her.

    Cold hatred burned in his gut, swathed in guilt and disgust. A firstborn prince was a necessity the kingdom never looked away from. A secondborn prince was always under scrutiny, born and grafted to stave off his own treachery. But a thirdborn child of either gender? She hadn¡¯t even been missed. How many outside the palace walls remembered that Kelena existed? How many inside?

    Urgency born of fury and injustice drove him to move without thinking.

    Ruis and Gander met him as he stormed out of his chambers.

    ¡°Pit house?¡± Ruis prompted, confused.

    Etian had forgotten. ¡°Not tonight. I must speak to the king immediately.¡±

    He stopped suddenly, hearing the simmering rage in his own voice. He had to think rationally. Emotion left to run rampant made mistakes.

    Defense first.

    ¡°Stand guard over my rooms. You¡¯re protecting Princess Kelena. I want her kept away from the mad queen until I return.¡±

    ¡°What if Her Majesty orders us to stand aside?¡±

    ¡°Tell her I said to kill her if she tries to enter, and if she persists, do it.¡±

    The Thorns didn¡¯t look sorry at the prospect of spilling the mad queen¡¯s blood. But then, since her coronation, Jadarah had frivolously thrown away the lives of more of their brethren than any battle or assassination attempt had taken. Ruis and Gander¡¯s grafting was to the king and anyone in his direct bloodline; it didn¡¯t extend to insane spouses.

    The mad queen¡¯s most recently slaughtered batch of Thorns had yet to be replaced, and she had no blood magic beyond what she used to communicate with the strong gods. She had no protection. Surely she wouldn¡¯t attempt to fight her way in.

    Then again, the moves of a lunatic could hardly be predicted. Etian knew that well enough by now. He should probably prepare himself to answer for her death.

    The strong gods don¡¯t give away luck that good, Izakiel had told him once. They had been children, standing together watching the new queen carry out a gory ceremony on a high place, and Etian had just whispered, I wish she¡¯d fall off and die.

    Ten years later, Izakiel had been disinherited and sent away, Kelena was a ghost in her own life, and the pathetic secondborn prince who ought to have done something was afraid to shove the sword through Jadarah¡¯s rancid heart himself.

    His brother had been half right that day. The strong gods didn¡¯t give away luck that good. Not to anybody except the mad queen.

    ***

    Etian expected to find Jadarah waiting with the king, spinning insane lies about the blind prince¡ªmaybe even one ugly truth about him¡ªbut when he arrived, Hazerial was alone in his antechamber. The king sat by the fire with his feet on a warming pan, his shadow flickering high onto his wingback chair. He seemed to Etian to be staring into the flames, but with his lenses lost and potentially broken in the tower¡¯s hidden passage, the room was a blur of light and shadow.

    ¡°Son.¡±

    Etian faltered half a step from the circle of firelight. Hazerial had never called him son before. Was that the opening strike?

    ¡°Father,¡± he parried as if the epithets were no more than their custom and stepped up beside a horsehair chair opposite the king. ¡°Your wife has kept Kelena locked in a trunk for days, and more likely weeks. The princess could have died, and none of us would have known until she was found.¡±

    No surprise at that thrust. Either Hazerial already knew or didn¡¯t care. Or was he waiting for Etian to fight the match as he¡¯d set the rules?

    ¡°Should the royal daughter be treated like a common prisoner of war?¡± he demanded, thumping a fist on the back of the chair. ¡°Worse than one!¡±

    ¡°And what would you have me do?¡± Informal singular pronouns rather than the royal we. What was Hazerial playing at?

    ¡°Does your question assume that beheading or banishing the queen is off limits?¡±

    Even without lenses, he caught the king¡¯s warning glare. Izakiel might have gotten away with that level of lip, but Etian wouldn¡¯t, Son be burnt.

    He tried another angle of attack. ¡°Take Kelena from the queen and set her up like the princesses were under previous kings. Marry her off to the man you contracted for her and send her away. Whatever is required to stop this.¡±

    ¡°Be seated, Etianiel.¡± The king gestured to the chair and made no move to speak again until the prince was in it. ¡°You have been chosen by the strong gods to take the throne one day. Josean-blessed. Some say the second coming of the warrior strong god.¡±

    Hazerial adjusted his robes over the warming pan. ¡°I inherited a kingdom at war, as did my father and his father. The Kingdom of Night has been at war since the days of Khinet himself. We cannot exist in peace while the Helat walk the Earth with our birthright.

    ¡°To end this war and right the ancient wrong has been my aim since before I came to the throne¡ªsince Ahixandro and I were truly brothers, with one purpose and one end in mind. Bit by bit over the years, Eketra herself has revealed to me what is required. The death of the old monarchy was the first step, and so Ahix and I carried out our coup over Ikario. The purging of all blasphemous heresies was next, of which my brother was the most regrettable loss.

    ¡°Destroying the pirates could be argued an extension of that purge, but they bring about another element as well¡ªthe scourge of Thorns. You are one of the final pieces, the crowned warrior, the younger who took the place of the elder for the first time since Khinet ruled. You will lead our armies to victory the night my life¡¯s work reaches its culmination.¡±

    Etian shifted in his seat. This tangent seemed like a sweeping diversion from Kelena. If it was, how should he proceed? Direct charge or attempt a flanking maneuver?

    As if he could sense Etian¡¯s impatience, the king returned to the girl in question.

    ¡°The last piece, however, is your younger sister,¡± Hazerial said. ¡°Do you know that she was born in the high places at the exact moment when all favors were turned away? The priests and her mother have tested and verified it over and over again. No strong god blesses her, Etianiel, not one! Every soul born into the Kingdom of Night is blessed by one of them¡ªall except for Kelena. They turned their faces away from her, and they still do. Kelena is the Cursed of the Strong Gods.¡±The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°What does that mean?¡±

    ¡°When her time comes, the Cursed will bear the fruit of a thousand hells, unleashing them upon the Helat. And in that moment I will crush the Children of Day under my heel and restore the natural order, and the younger race will serve the elder, as it was always meant to be.¡±

    Right away, Etian saw myriad problems with the king¡¯s plans. He chose the most glaring first.

    ¡°It hardly seems strategic to marry off the bearer of a thousand hellfruits to some lord on the far borders of the kingdom. In that scenario, it seems more likely she¡¯ll bear his fruits.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid! Which strong god induces birth?¡±

    ¡°Aha.¡± Kelena couldn¡¯t give birth to anything, because Teikru, along with the rest of the strong gods, hated her. ¡°If that¡¯s true, then how will she bear the fruits of a thousand hells?¡±

    ¡°She has been seeded by the mad queen.¡± That must be a smirk Hazerial was giving him. ¡°Oh yes, I know what you and Izak and half the nation call Jadarah. It¡¯s well-deserved. Only a madwoman could whore with the deepest hells and still retain enough lucidity to lay the necessary groundwork in the child of her blood. On the night of reckoning, all of the strong gods will turn their loathing upon the Cursed at once, and the seed will burst forth and tear through the Children of Day like a sword through rotten meat.¡±

    Hazerial leaned forward. He was almost certainly looking Etian in the eye. Etian did his best to focus on the dark holes in the king¡¯s blurred face.

    ¡°Now I ask you, Etianiel: Which concerns you most? The fate of an entire nation or the brief and passing discomfort of a child?¡±

    Etian scowled.

    ¡°It shouldn¡¯t be a hard question for the second coming of Josean,¡± Hazerial said. ¡°You can save one or you can save a thousand thousands. Which do you choose?¡±

    ¡°It must be a false choice,¡± Etian said stubbornly. ¡°There has to be a way to save both. And even if there isn¡¯t, surely she doesn¡¯t require treatment like this to¡ª¡±

    ¡°And how would you treat her, Etianiel? Would you pamper and protect, spoil her with every luxury until the day she¡¯s ripped apart from the inside out? She¡¯s hated by her own gods. She¡¯s barely human.¡±

    Etian jumped to his feet. ¡°She shook like a human when I pulled her out of that box! She cried like one!¡±

    ¡°I expect tiresome dramatics from your brother, not you. Divorce your emotions from the scene and you know as well as I do that this is the only way.¡± Hazerial settled back in his chair. ¡°Return Kelena to her mother immediately. Jadarah is waiting in the princess¡¯s quarters.¡±

    ¡°Suppose I don¡¯t? Suppose I sneak her out of the city and she disappears forever? No one will miss her. Most people don¡¯t even remember that there is a princess of House Khinet.¡±

    A hot spike impaled itself in Etian¡¯s skull. His knees buckled, and he crumpled face-first onto the floor. Blood trickled from his crushed nose. His limbs lay limp and useless, half of them twisted beneath him. He could feel them, but he couldn¡¯t control them. Even his worthless eyes wouldn¡¯t move. They did nothing but stare stupidly straight ahead at the flagstones they could only see clearly from this close, not even blinking when a roach skittered past, its papery wings brushing his eyelashes.

    Fury and shame raged to be so thoroughly routed, completely unable to fight back. For all his training, for all his efforts and exertions, he could no more resist the Blood of the Strong Gods than a haystack could a tornado.

    Hazerial¡¯s slipper wedged beneath Etian¡¯s shoulder and flipped him onto his back. There was a wet crunch beneath his head. The roach. Its wings spasmed, body writhing. Its guts oozed into his hair.

    ¡°Jadarah is getting at least one of you. Either she will have the princess hand-delivered by a prince who obeys when he¡¯s told, or she will have the princess and a defiant little rag boy to play with.¡±

    The king knelt next to Etian and lay a hand on his cheek. ¡°Ultimate victory is near. Will you be there to see it, Etianiel? Will you be part of it? Or will you be the crown prince who mysteriously became a drooling idiot, never to be seen outside the palace again?¡±

    Hazerial¡¯s warm, dry touch was worse than the roach¡¯s death throes. If Etian could have cringed away from the king¡¯s hand, he would have. But instead, he just lay there. Powerless.

    ¡°You are not Izak.¡±

    Hazerial let the statement hang in the air while the full amplitude of the truth sank in. Izak would have defied the king. Izak couldn¡¯t be controlled by magic or fear.

    But Etian could. That was why he¡¯d been chosen. Because he was weak.

    Self-loathing choked him. It swelled and swelled until he felt like a burning, infected pustule about to burst.

    Then Hazerial offered him a way out.

    ¡°You¡¯re Josean-blessed, Etianiel. You are reason. You are determination. Giving in to the weepy antics of a child is beneath you. We are at war, and a true warrior has the stomach to do what must be done.¡±

    ***

    ¡°Got everything sorted?¡± Gander asked.

    Etian nodded. ¡°Did the queen come?¡±

    ¡°Came and left in a huff when we told her your orders.¡± Ruis looked down the hall as if he expected Jadarah to leap out at any moment. ¡°I¡¯d watch my back for a while, if I were you.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s taken care of,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯re dismissed.¡±

    The Thorns looked at each other, then at him.

    ¡°Uh, so¡­¡± Ruis scuffed a boot on the flagstones. ¡°You want us to wait and accompany you to the pit house? We can probably catch the last few fights.¡±

    ¡°Not today. If you¡¯re not on duty, you¡¯re welcome to go.¡±

    Another look.

    ¡°As you say, Your Highness.¡±

    Kelena had been washed and dressed in clean clothing. A tray of picked over bread and fruit sat on a service next to his bed, and she was curled up, sleeping as if she were dead. She didn¡¯t wake until he had carried her halfway up the tower staircase.

    Seconds passed before she recognized where she was.

    ¡°It was another dream, wasn¡¯t it?¡± she said in a choked whisper. ¡°I knew it. I¡¯m still in there. I¡¯m still in there!¡± Her voice rose to a scream.

    The clawing and thrashing began then, but Etian had been learning to fight through beatings while his sister was still in the womb. He ignored the stinging of the scratches and dull pain of her weak blows and carried her the rest of the way to her chambers.

    The doors were open to the inner room. If anything, time and ventilation had made the stink from the chest worse. It filled the air like a soup of excrement.

    Jadarah stood by the window looking out on the bailey. At the sound of his boots, she spun around. There were faint discolorations over her eyes that might have been his lenses or might have been his imagination.

    ¡°Ooh, the blind prince brought me a present!¡±

    Shove her out the tower window. Take Kelena to Lord Clarencio and tell them to disappear. Run. Or tell Kelena to run while you stay and fight and die¡ªit doesn¡¯t matter.

    Maybe if Kelena had begged him. Maybe if she¡¯d fought just a little longer.

    But the princess wasn¡¯t even trying to get away anymore. She was trembling, crying, sniveling like an infant.

    Imagine the luxury of crying. The indulgence of pouring out all the awful truths, having them run out of your eyes instead of filling you up and rotting you from the inside out.

    Jadarah¡¯s stench washed over him. The world sharpened as she slid his lenses back into place. The glass was smudged with greasy fingerprints. The earpieces were warm with her body heat and likely crawled with infestations.

    ¡°In here.¡± The mad queen draped herself over the open lid of the chest. Her eyes were nearly swallowed up by her pupils. She licked her lips. ¡°Put her in here.¡±

    Etian had to kneel to set Kelena inside. With Jadarah hanging over the chest like that, it looked as if he were kneeling to the mad queen, presenting an offering.

    Kelena didn¡¯t resist, didn¡¯t cling to him as he let her go. Her pale face had turned gray beneath the tears.

    ¡°I was never out,¡± she said in a tiny voice.

    Her whimpering made Etian want to scream.

    Imagine the luxury of screaming.

    He stood up, and Kelena sank into the chest.

    The heavy lid dropped. The hasp fell into place, bounced once, stayed. Jadarah held up a thin bodice dagger covered in flaking gore.

    ¡°Stick it in,¡± she panted.

    Etian took the blade from her and slid it into the staple where the wooden doll¡¯s arm had been, trapping the lid closed.

    Jadarah moaned. When she hung herself around him like she¡¯d hung herself over the chest, her stench barely bothered him anymore. It was nothing. Just a smell. There were more disgusting things in the world. He was one of them.

    ***

    The rumormongers were no less inclined to believe in their sayings about frozen ground, frozen marriage when they saw their future queen step out of her carriage and into the courtyard of Castle Sangmere on her wedding day. From her snowy white skin to her cold blue eyes to her pale yellow hair, Pasiona of House Skalia looked as if she had been formed from the same glittering spring ice that shimmered across Siu Rial.

    The crown prince stood waiting to lead his betrothed into the throne room.

    The royal groomsmen who fancied themselves friendly with the prince thought he looked cleaner and more polished than usual. The Royal Thorns knew he was. Etian hardly fenced anymore without immediately scrubbing down afterward. In fact, if the serving girls with which the Thorns spent their off-duty time were to be believed, the prince had begun having baths brought up daily, and was having the wash water in his chamber changed almost every hour.

    After seeing Pasiona, however, his new obsession with cleanliness and perfection made sense. How would it have looked for a man of the average dirt and grime¡ªeven a royal one¡ªto touch a creature as pure and cold as spring ice?

    To Etian, his hand on hers looked like a slurry of dung splattered across a field of perfect white flowers.

    Pasion didn¡¯t miss his hesitation. She assessed him with those deceptively heavy-lidded eyes.

    ¡°You¡¯ve changed,¡± she said.

    Darios of Thivera flashed through Etian¡¯s mind.

    ¡°If you can carry on, I can,¡± he said.

    She slipped her hand into his arm. ¡°Let¡¯s carry on, then.¡±

 Chapter 43: Real Blood Magic

    Winter had reached its full brutality much later at Thornfield than Izak was used to, and it also tripped into spring much earlier. The winds blew warmer if not softer, the rains poured with less resolve, and the waves stopped battering the beach in favor of a temperate crashing he could almost ignore. The students who had survived winter were kicked back out into the bailey for nightly training, and the belowstairs staff spent subsequent hours cleaning up the soup of sandy mud tracked across Thornfield¡¯s floors, on which the layers of reeds had annoyingly little effect.

    ¡°Mud season,¡± Izak said, scraping a stubborn clod from his boot with the butt of his swordstaff. ¡°How delightful.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fixin¡¯ to be flood season on the river,¡± Nine said wistfully from her bunk. ¡°It¡¯ll wash away all the trash done built up in the Closes, the water. Couple close-rats, too, if¡¯n they don¡¯t have nowhere to get up high. Pretty¡¯s partial to flood season, though. Guess I can figure why. That ol¡¯ river cleans the place up so much it like to make a whole new Close outta it.¡±

    Twenty-six watched the ocean through the archer loop. ¡°It is the end of storm season on the seas. Raiding season will begin soon.¡±

    Nine hadn¡¯t been paying attention to the reports the pirate brought back from the village of the war between the Ocean Rovers and the Kingdom of Night, but Izak had. He paid special attention to anything that might relate to the new crown prince joining the battles. Etian was Josean-blessed, after all. He wouldn¡¯t be able to stay away for long.

    Izak raised an eyebrow at his friend. ¡°And what your people have been doing all winter to our ships and ports, that didn¡¯t count as raiding?¡±

    ¡°That was one tribe, perhaps two, who must have been infected and unable to lay at rest with the others,¡± Twenty-six said.

    He left it there, but Izak didn¡¯t need the implications spelled out for him. One or two dying bands of pirates had been causing enough trouble to create an uproar along the coasts. What could the concentrated efforts of a whole pirate nation do?

    ***

    The approaching spring mock tournament brought with it the excitement of the upcoming grafting. Every year just before the Festival of Springlight, the king came to observe the fourth-year matches and pick the Royal Thorns from among the best of the seniors.

    And this year, rumor had it, His Majesty was bringing the queen with him, who required a new batch of guards herself.

    Fervor spread throughout Thornfield like a late-spring contagion. Not only had most of the students not seen a woman since their enrollment, but Jadarah¡¯s beauty and appetites were legendary. A gorgeous, young, insatiable queen with Teikru¡¯s blessing? If there was a posting almost as enviable as Royal Thorn, it was as one of the queen¡¯s Thorns.

    ¡°Ignoramuses,¡± Izak muttered to Fifty-one during their legal sciences lecture. ¡°You¡¯ve seen Jadarah, she¡¯s foul. You¡¯d have to be horny out of your mind to touch her. And her Thorns end up in pieces, scattered across half the royal residences between here and Siu Rial. The king may go through Thorns fast, but she¡¯s just wasteful.¡±

    ¡°Sure, but what a way to be wasted,¡± Fifty-one replied. Even the Bastard of West Crag had caught the contagion, it seemed.

    Twenty-six wouldn¡¯t listen to Izak¡¯s disgusted ranting about the queen at all. He was only interested in how close he might get to the king.

    ¡°Don¡¯t chance it,¡± Izak warned him. ¡°Even forgetting the fact that he¡¯ll be surrounded by full Thorns and he can make a bloody pulp of you from magic alone, there¡¯s still your Mark. He can sense you no matter where you are.¡±

    ¡°There must be a way.¡±

    ¡°There isn¡¯t, but you¡¯re welcome to kill yourself looking for one.¡±

    Nine was getting more excited by the day, though not because of the royalty coming to visit or the approaching holiday from the lectures she could barely sit still through.

    ¡°If I win the first-year bracket, I get to stop them extra sword lessons cold!¡± She was too carried away with the fantasy to notice the dubious looks passing between Izak and Twenty-six. ¡°First I¡¯m gonna win, then I¡¯m gonna spit in that old crow Saint Daven¡¯s face and tell him to swill river water.¡±

    ***

    The first-years¡¯ overall level of skill had increased enough since the autumn tournament to make their spring bracket worth the watching. Fifty-one fell in an early upset to the longsword-wielding rustic Eighty-eight, whose dexterity was finally starting to catch up to his strength and stamina. The rustic made it two more rounds before he ran up against Nine and had his landslide of victories stopped by the tiny, disorienting terror.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Meanwhile, Twenty-six and Four sliced their way through the opposite side of the bracket. Their inevitable match was the most looked forward to pairing of the first-years, both among the upperclassmen and the staff.

    Although his opponents had been sharpened by a year¡¯s training, Twenty-six¡¯s relentless pursuit of perfection kept him well ahead of the pack. Izak, on the other hand, had made just enough improvement to look competent with a swordstaff¡ªand only on the off-chance that actually he had to use it.

    Twenty-six was getting good at throwing off the blood magic illusions. Annoyingly good. So good that he might actually think he had a chance at surviving an attack on Hazerial.

    That was frustrating, because Izak had hoped he could pretend to have his backside handed to him and laze around for the remainder of this tournament. Now it looked more likely that he was going to have to cut the pirate¡¯s legs out from under him just to prove a point.

    They faced off in the round before what would have been the championship match of a real tournament. They took their places at the center of the bailey, surrounded by shouting onlookers, Master Fright between them, his embroidered handkerchief fluttering.

    ¡°Both parties ready?¡±

    Twenty-six raised his heavy cutlass and swordbreaker.

    Izak readied his staff and grinned in spite of the shiver that ran down his spine. There was something truly terrifying about standing on this end of the pirate¡¯s blades, even in this artificial setting. It was his eyes. They became gray-green seas of fury that saw no friend or foe, only dead men.

    Light burn it all. Izak was going to have to win this one, too.

    ¡°Fight!¡±

    Twenty-six was on Izak before the kerchief had finished snapping out of the way. The cutlass bit into the wooden staff, the impact sending a jolt through Izak¡¯s bones.

    He whipped the staff around, forcing the blade to the side and catching the sneaking swordbreaker, then he threw the first illusion. The cutlass hacking into Hazerial¡¯s neck while the serrated blade of the swordbreaker carved upward through his guts and plunged into his black heart. Gore spraying. The look of shock and outrage on the king¡¯s face.

    Twenty-six tore through it without a second¡¯s hesitation. The air screamed around his cutlass. Izak circled, but not as fast as he should have. If not for smoke step, the blade would have caught him on the hip and the swordbreaker would have taken him through the throat.

    Before he resolidified, Izak threw the next illusion. A new arrival¡ªa guilty, sweaty dream of a mouthwatering vanner girl with a delicate gold chain hanging from her navel piercing. She looked vaguely familiar to Izak, but when you¡¯d ploughed half a dozen of the caravan girls at varying stops around the kingdom, they all started to look the same.

    But Twenty-six was waiting for him. Izak barely managed to fend off the pirate¡¯s weapons. He backpedaled, circled, retreated some more. The heels of his hands throbbed harder with every deflected chop. It felt as if his arms were going to snap off at the shoulder. Twenty-six didn¡¯t give him a moment¡¯s breath to think about going on the offensive.

    ¡°Very good,¡± Izak panted. ¡°You¡¯ve made a little progress after all. Now do you want to see what real royal blood magic can do?¡±

    The bailey turned black around them. The ghost city overhead disappeared. A storm raged out of the formerly clear night sky. A sizzling lightning bolt struck the great thorn tree, and it burst into splinters.

    Twenty-six¡¯s brows twitched down in confusion, but he kept fighting.

    Izak let out a dark chuckle. ¡°Feel that?¡±

    Pinpricks opened all over Twenty-six, weeping blood. The pirate gritted his teeth and swung the cutlass.

    Izak smoke stepped.

    Twenty-six left a trail of blood as he tried to follow. Tiny black needle tips poked through his bleeding skin. He had to feel the full length of the locust thorns growing out of his bones, tunneling through his flesh toward the night air.

    ¡°Not so fast now, are you?¡± This time Izak didn¡¯t bother to smoke step. He had plenty of time to simply walk out of the way of the pirate¡¯s swing.

    Twenty-six stumbled. The locust thorns tore through his skin, bristling with barbed sideshoots and dripping blood, shredding muscle with every motion, every twitch. In Izak¡¯s experience, most people were usually howling in anguish by that point. The pirate remained silent.

    But he did drop to his knees. Hatred blazed in his eyes.

    Until thorns grew through those glaring orbs. Blood and humors oozed down the pirate¡¯s face like miscolored tears. His skull cracked as the thorns forced their way out through the bone.

    Still no screaming. The courtiers watching the execution would¡¯ve booed and hissed.

    Moving at a leisurely pace, Izak put the blade of his swordstaff to Twenty-six¡¯s throat.

    ¡°Winner: Four!¡± Fright declared.

    There was a moment of stunned silence, then the cheering washed in from around the bailey. The black cloud and storm disappeared, and the returned ghost city seemed that much brighter by comparison. Untouched, the thorny locust tree loomed behind the kneeling, glaring Twenty-six.

    No thorns stuck out of the pirate¡¯s body, but the bloody holes were still there. Everywhere but the eyes and brain. Izak had never tried to keep a victim alive after that little trick and hadn¡¯t wanted to accidentally, permanently destroy any functions Twenty-six might need in the future.

    Izak offered his friend a hand up.

    ¡°Losses are more informative than wins, right?¡± he said cheerfully.

    After a moment, Twenty-six nodded, a jerky, uncoordinated movement of ill-treated muscle and joint. He ignored Izak¡¯s outstretched hand and shoved himself onto his shaking legs.

    Then he collapsed in the sandy mud. Because his body had been torn to pieces from the inside out, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

    Izak sighed. ¡°You really are one stubborn savage.¡±

 Chapter 44: Friends and Favors

    Despite Twenty-six¡¯s refusal to be healed by blood magic, his wounds sealed themselves and began mending more rapidly than they ever had before. Whatever Four had done to drive off his fever had obviously had a more widespread effect than intended.

    Twenty-six kept that information to himself, however. He trusted Four, for the most part. The prince had only attacked him so viciously to prove how far out of reach revenge still lay.

    What gnawed at Twenty-six was the way he kept sliding further into the blood drinker¡¯s world. With every step, he sunk deeper into their filth. He knew he had to keep going, full sail, but every new corruption was another break from who he had been. He¡¯d accepted that he would do whatever it took to redeem the blood debt for his people, but that didn¡¯t make the disgust with himself any easier to swallow.

    The slide was made all the more confusing by the realization that two of those blood drinkers weren¡¯t repulsive creatures of evil. Nine was a vicious, overactive child, but loyal to the death. Four had no self-control, but he was nobler than he attempted to appear.

    Four had asked him if they were friends.

    He thought back to Uelaat. Strong, dependable, the embodiment of the raedr¡ªa maelstrom to the dirters and a becalmed soul to his people. Araam had trusted Uelaat with his life. Moreover, with his bride¡¯s life.

    Twenty-six wouldn¡¯t trust Four alone with anyone¡¯s bride. But he might trust Four with her life.

    ***

    The first-year championship match pitted Four against Nine, swordstaff against twin swords. Wagers in the student quarters were made solidly in Four¡¯s favor. Nine was the only one who laid money on himself, and there was some question as to whether the brat should even be allowed to bet since it was an unprovable certainty that he¡¯d stolen that money from one of them.

    In the staff quarters, gambling on the match wasn¡¯t nearly as lopsided. Only two of the brat¡¯s wins had been the strange, one moment here, the next unaccountably somewhere else sort that denoted blood magic. The majority of Nine¡¯s matches had been won by skill. There was a wildness to the little berserker most opponents didn¡¯t know how to defend against. His attacks looked like mindless chopping, his parries like last-minute close shaves, but the masters and a few of the best third- and fourth-years spotted the dexterity in the storm. Among the masters, the wagers were one bet on the close-rat for every three bets in favor of the prince.

    By that point, everybody who would stand still for five seconds had heard that Nine¡¯s extra lessons hung on winning this championship match. As far as the runt was concerned, the lessons were over.

    Saint Daven¡¯s money was on the prince.

    ¡°You don¡¯t want to back your sword student?¡± Malice asked, marking down the bet. In addition to being the advanced arithmetics lecturer, the Coffee Island master enjoyed the side job of Thornfield¡¯s unofficial staff bookmaker.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    Saint Daven shook his head. ¡°Four knows his weaknesses, and he¡¯s seen how Nine uses his strengths. If the prince tries at all, Nine can¡¯t beat him.¡±

    Izak had come to the same conclusion. With his hopes of dropping out of the bracket early already dashed, and now that he would be facing his smaller, dumber, less experienced roommate in front of the whole school, he was going to have to win this absurd fake tournament all over again. Since he was already in the final match, there wasn¡¯t any extra leisure time to be gained by losing, anyway.

    The match wasn¡¯t as one-sided as Izak guessed it would be. He won, but narrowly. Only a last-moment lockup of the runt¡¯s blood energies saved him, and only because it came from Nine¡¯s blind right side.

    Luckily for the prince, Master Fright was between them announcing the victor when Nine broke free of the immobilization. The master caught the brunt of the brat¡¯s fury before Nine could unleash it on the prince.

    Fright¡¯s new doublet was ruined, and the twin swords were confiscated for the remainder of the spring tournament.

    ¡°Guess that means sword lessons is confiscated, too,¡± Nine said, fixing Saint Daven with a sullen glare that came mostly from the left eye.

    ¡°Ever heard of weighted swords?¡± the weapons master asked.

    Nine spat in the mud. ¡°I know I don¡¯t much like the sound of ¡¯em, me.¡±

    ¡°By the end of the day, you¡¯re not going to like the feel of them either. They¡¯re iron bars with sword grips. Should help you put a little more strength behind those wild swings.¡±

    ¡°Be better if you taught me how to keep outta those lockups Four does. They¡¯re bad medicine.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s something that can be taught. It comes down to the resistor¡¯s strength of will versus the caster¡¯s power.¡±

    ¡°Strength a¡¯ will! I got so much strength a¡¯ will it like to choke me!¡±

    ¡°Like to choke us all,¡± Saint Daven muttered.

    ¡°Show me how to do it.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t have anywhere near the power someone wielding royal blood magic does.¡±

    ¡°That don¡¯t matter none. I¡¯m a fair study, me. I¡¯ll learn on your weak stuff and puff it up next time I¡¯m facing Four. What¡¯d¡¯ya say?¡±

    ¡°Put some effort into the weighted swords, and I¡¯ll think about it.¡±

    ***

    ¡°We are friends,¡± Twenty-six said when the prince of the dirters returned to their room after the late meal.

    Four stopped halfway to his bunk and shot Twenty-six a bemused grin. ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear it.¡±

    ¡°The blood drinker magic you used during our match¡ªhow much effort did it cost you?¡±

    ¡°Less than someone who wanted to kill me and avenge his people would hope.¡±

    ¡°Will you teach me to overcome that blood magic attack as well?¡±

    Four folded his tall form into his bunk and leaned cross-legged against the wall. ¡°I don¡¯t think there is any overcoming it. There¡¯s just being torn to shreds.¡±

    ¡°It was an illusion. It left corresponding wounds, but the weapon was not real. There must be a way to overcome it.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s debatable. I¡¯ve used the full measure of that attack on more people than even know it¡¯s possible, and none of them have ever managed to survive it, let alone fight it off.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t need to fight it off, just¡ª¡±

    ¡°Just to keep moving long enough to kill the dirter king,¡± Four finished for him, rolling his dark eyes. ¡°Yes, yes, I know, Nine knows, the spiders and the cockroaches know. We all listen to you talk in your sleep about how great death is.¡±

    If he let Four get off the subject, he would never get a straight answer.

    ¡°Will you teach me or not?¡± Twenty-six demanded.

    The prince stared down his nose at him. ¡°You¡¯ll be up to two favors. That¡¯s a dangerous sum to owe royalty.¡±

    ¡°Blood drinkers don¡¯t assist their friends without compensation?¡±

    ¡°Maybe the ones too stupid to indebt a valuable pirate asset to themselves.¡±

    Twenty-six chose his words carefully. ¡°I will agree if the second favor covers all types of blood magic you know now and may discover in the future.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d better make it a good one, then,¡± Four said.

 Chapter 45: Royal Arrival

    The third-year bracket was in its final round when the patrols on the walls began shouting that outriders had just passed the thornknife graveyard. Within minutes, a pair of Royal Thorns was at the gatehouse requesting entry for the king¡¯s entourage.

    Beech and Twelve, the third-year championship hopefuls, were forced to delay their half-finished match while they and the rest of the students scrambled to put themselves in an order befitting the arrival of royalty.

    Nine changed into her clean set of clothing; to the close-rat, clean clothes were already uphill finery.

    Twenty-six, who wasn¡¯t interested in showing any type of deference to the dirter king, remained in what he was wearing.

    Izak changed into his soiled clothing that had been waiting for laundry day.

    ¡°I¡¯d hate for someone to miss my contempt for our sovereign and his lovely queen,¡± the prince told his roommates with an acidic smile.

    By the time the royal carriage pulled into Thornfield¡¯s walls, the bailey was boiling with young men jostling for a view of the carriage door. Even Nine was practically clambering up Izak¡¯s side.

    ¡°Stop it!¡± He shoved her off.

    ¡°I want to see a royal, me. Me and Pretty seen plenty a¡¯ fancy folk afore, but never royal folk.¡±

    The upperclassmen had seen the king the year before, and a smaller number had seen the queen with him the year before that, but they were still awed by the combined presence of Their Majesties. Most of the first-year class had never seen a noble before; they stared on in open-mouthed wonder as the carriage door opened.

    Izak was Teikru-blessed enough to admit the mad queen was beautiful. A wonderful, gropeable body dripping with deadly allure and smooth, flawless skin¡ªif you could find it under the caked filth and dried gore. One might think she bathed in raw sexuality, if one didn¡¯t know that what she truly bathed in was the blood of infants. Add to that the complete lack of less smelly, less dirty women to compare her to, and the temperature of the crowd raised several degrees as a Royal Thorn helped the queen descend the carriage steps.

    Grandmaster Heartless showed the royal couple inside. The disappointment was palpable as the keep¡¯s doors closed behind them and the masters ushered the students back to finish out the third-year bracket.

    Before the sovereigns¡¯ arrival, Beech and Twelve¡¯s match had been the subject of earnest debate, raucous cheering, and much advice-shouting. After, the young men finished their match a distant secondary attraction to the much more fascinating entertainment of reliving the appearance of the soft curves, bloodred lips, and dark ringlets of the Queen of Night.

    ***

    Throughout the year, an unprecedented number of fourth-years had been grafted to private postings. Three to the lord of Siu Carinal, a baker¡¯s dozen scattered across the coastal holdings where the lords were up in arms about bolstering defenses against the pirates, and three to the governor of the Coffee Islands, who was always clamoring that the natives teetered on the verge of revolt. Well over the usual sprinkling of private Thorns the king gifted to his most favored and sometimes least trusted courtiers.

    With two more seniors dead from the ague that winter, that left a meager thirty-one ready for grafting. A small crop indeed. Most years the king needed at least a score and ten to replenish the royal ranks, and he was planning on giving his wife another six to throw away.

    Grandmaster Heartless hated to do it, but he¡¯d spent several sleepless days preparing a list of the best third-years as well to fill the gap. Some, like Beech, the winner of the third-year bracket, were excellent swordsmen but not mature enough for a posting. Others like Twelve, the runner-up, were close to ready all around¡ªskilled, educated, and capable of handling the stress and strain that came with being grafted. Another year at Thornfield would have given Twelve the confidence and authority to become a commander, but the strong gods were rarely interested in waiting for what a man could become.

    Once the king and queen were settled in the royal suite, the best appointed and least used chambers at Thornfield, and the king had cleansed himself of the dirt from the road, Hazerial called for Grandmaster.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    Like the rest of the fortress turned school, the royal chambers were only kept plastered enough to plug up the drafts, and as a kindness to the future Thorns of those who slept there, the rooms were sparsely appointed. No tapestries or hangings or unnecessary furniture large enough to conceal an assailant. As it was higher in the central tower, however, the windows were true windows with leaded glass panes, not narrow archer loops. The bed¡¯s down-stuffed mattress had been aired and beaten back into luxuriant softness, and the bedclothes were of the highest quality available in the area. It might not have been what the king and queen were used to, but to the boys of Thornfield, it would have seemed a piece of paradise.

    ¡°Your Majesty,¡± Grandmaster said, bowing from the doorway.

    Hazerial motioned for him to enter. After a year of seeing the king¡¯s eldest son nearly every night, it was strange to gaze upon those same features mirrored in the sire¡ªthick dark hair with barely a trace of gray, sharp House Khinet features, and the slash-like indentations high on the cheekbones that accompanied the dimples occasionally visible on either side of his mouth.

    A fire had been lit in the hearth early that evening to burn off the spring dampness and scent of disuse, but as the night wore on into morning, it had burnt down to embers, leaving behind a pleasant glow of warmth. A glow that the queen was letting out while she leaned out the southeastern window to watch the young men below with a hungry leer on her face.

    ¡°The best prospects from the year.¡± Grandmaster handed over the parchment he¡¯d brought, preparing for the usual questions.

    The king gave the list a cursory scan.

    ¡°The names these brats take. Blaze. Fuller. Carrion?¡± Hazerial snorted and rolled up the parchment, patting it on an open palm.

    Heartless let the comment lie. Given his past, he was a poor choice to belittle foolhardy young men and the names they chose.

    The king¡¯s dark eyes pierced Grandmaster Heartless. ¡°If we graft them all, who have you pegged as the natural leader?¡±

    ¡°Striker will try to take that place, Your Majesty, but he¡¯s not suited for it. His peers think he¡¯s an oaf and a bully, and they¡¯re not wrong. Fuller¡¯s got the support of the group. Innate strategy and crisis prioritization. If he lasts the year, he¡¯ll have the experience dealing with older Thorns. He could easily take over the commandery of the Royal Thorns by then. Favors the hand-and-a-half sword.¡±

    ¡°His second?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll want Manly for it. Cool headed, but just a touch slower with the critical decisions. Respected by the rest of the students. An excellent shortsword man. Fuller¡¯s solid indoors and out, but Manly excels at close quarters combat.¡±

    ¡°Which would you recommend be grafted to the queen?¡±

    After everything that had been invested in the young men, after everything the students had gone through to serve, Heartless would as soon slice them up and toss them into the ocean with the sharks.

    ¡°Baijalon, Daring, Twelve, Thirty-three, and Palata,¡± he said. ¡°For their leader, Fieryhands. His name may be idiotic, but he has the gumption to keep a smaller squad attentive to their duties.¡±

    Jadarah¡¯s fine, dirty nose wrinkled.

    ¡°Are they as ugly as the ones you wanted me to graft last time?¡± She glared at the parchment as if its presence offended her. ¡°I¡¯ll inspect the seniors at the feast and point out the ones I want.¡± She returned to the window, muttering, ¡°Sometimes the ugly ones are useful, though. They try harder, and their seed usually takes faster. We¡¯ll see¡­¡±

    Hazerial went on as if the queen weren¡¯t still mumbling to herself.

    ¡°What of our captive pirate? How does he stack up against the rest of our prospective Thorns?¡±

    Grandmaster Heartless hadn¡¯t imagined that he would be answering for a first-year who wasn¡¯t the king¡¯s son, but he kept close enough tabs on the night-to-night goings on in his school to discuss any student.

    ¡°In quality of weapon work, the pirate can outperform everyone in his year.¡± It was customary to claim the prince as the highest rank in his crop of thorns, but Heartless had never seen the use in lying¡ªfor the sake of royal conceit or anything else. ¡°He¡¯s a devil with a cutlass and swordbreaker. He¡¯s well educated, quick, and, excluding a bout with the grippe this winter, hardy.¡±

    ¡°How is his vision? At night and during the day.¡±

    ¡°Average at night. However, as might be expected of his people, excellent in daylight.¡±

    Hazerial tapped the parchment against his chin. ¡°So he retains his day vision. How do you expect your report on him will go when it¡¯s time for his grafting? Tell us where you see him in three years¡¯ time.¡±

    Over at the window, Jadarah¡¯s attention perked up. She craned her neck to watch her husband while Grandmaster replied.

    ¡°He could become a leader if he wanted to, but he shows too much scorn for his fellow students to do it. Much more likely, in three years, I¡¯ll be suggesting Izak for commander of Prince Etianiel¡¯s Thorns. Izak already has the support, and what he currently lacks in stratagem, he confers on with Twenty-six. The pirate, rather.¡±

    Hazerial¡¯s dark brow rose. ¡°Friends, are they?¡±

    ¡°The young men who lodge together here often form close bonds. You could graft them under the same master, and the pirate might take orders from Izak. Might.¡± Grandmaster belatedly remembered Hazerial¡¯s original communique stating that the pirate would become a Royal Thorn. ¡°Of course, Your Majesty is capable of bringing anyone to heel, savages included.¡±

    Hazerial nodded, then after a moment, he smiled.

    The king¡¯s smiles were never pleasant. To Heartless, seeing one felt like standing over an open grave while a cold wind blew. The wiry white hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he suppressed a shiver.

    ¡°That will suffice, Grandmaster. We grant you leave to go.¡±

 Chapter 46: Grafting

    The fourth-year bracket was both louder and less watched than all of the other brackets combined. Boisterous spectators jostled and shouted advice to the combatants, each one hoping to stand out from the crowd as particularly smart and skilled to Her Majesty. The queen only encouraged the attention by sending sultry glances, licking her lips, and trailing her hands suggestively over her bodice. Less than half of the population of Thornfield saw or cared who won the senior bracket. It was Fuller, and he almost forgot it himself when, along with the compliments of the king and grandmaster, Jadarah gave him a congratulatory kiss with her whole body pressed against his.

    Izak snorted at the wonder and shock warring on the champion¡¯s face. ¡°He¡¯s realizing he¡¯ll have to burn those clothes; that stench will never come out. Lucky for Fuller he¡¯ll get a new uniform once he¡¯s grafted.¡±

    Nine was too busy to reply. She had fallen into a scrap with a passel of first-years around her age, who seemed to think that was the ideal way to get noticed.

    If Twenty-six heard Izak¡¯s remark, then he didn¡¯t show it. The pirate hadn¡¯t said anything since the king and queen arrived three days before. He just stared.

    Not at the queen, as everyone else was doing.

    Izak followed his friend¡¯s dark glare to its target and found that the king was staring back at the pirate with a cold smile twisting his lips.

    ¡°Brace yourself,¡± Izak warned Twenty-six. ¡°It¡¯s never good when he¡¯s happy.¡±

    ***

    The prince hadn¡¯t made any effort to speak to Hazerial during the first three nights of the royal visit, and Hazerial hadn¡¯t made any efforts to speak to him.

    On the day of the fourth-year championship match, after a late supper, while Jadarah was ostensibly being shown around the grounds by her choice Thorn candidates, Hazerial finally sent for his eldest son.

    ¡°Your Majesty.¡± The nuisance swept an ironically servile bow.

    ¡°Sober, are you?¡± Hazerial didn¡¯t look up from a communique he was penning at the writing desk. ¡°We expected such a dedicated lush to find a way around Thornfield¡¯s proscription by now.¡±

    ¡°A few of the boys have managed to ferment a weak liquor in their rooms, but it¡¯s not to my taste.¡± Rather than wait for an invitation to be seated, Izak invited himself to the settle by the fire, insolently, and no doubt intentionally, giving the king his back.

    Hazerial scowled. ¡°You will stand in the presence of royalty.¡±

    ¡°Sounds as if you have me confused with another former crown prince, old man.¡± Izak stretched his boots toward the hearth and laced his hands behind his head. ¡°To what do I owe the nominal pleasure of this summons?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re quartered with the pirate,¡± Hazerial said.

    ¡°Hm? Oh. Yes. And another little lad. From the low streets in Siu Carinal. Almost impossible to understand, but he jabbers so much that I manage to catch a bit here and there.¡±

    ¡°Forget the low street trash. Tell us what you have learned about the pirate.¡±

    ¡°Well, he snores dreadfully. Thinks all our food is unclean because it¡¯s raised on dirt. Turns brown in the sun, sort of like those plantains from the Coffee Islands.¡±

    As always when communicating with his firstborn, the impulse to rip the insolent wretch apart surged. Unfortunately, death and bodily harm had never meant anything to Izak. The rare times Hazerial had attempted to push him into yielding, Izak had pushed back, daring the king to make good on his threats.

    Hazerial glared at the back of Izak¡¯s head. ¡°What are the pirate¡¯s weaknesses?¡±

    ¡°The usual.¡± Izak shrugged. ¡°Blades, burning, bludgeoning¡­ Drowning by accident is unlikely, considering he swims like a fish, but I imagine if you held his head underwater long enough, you would achieve the desired effect. He had a bad bout with fever a month or two ago. Healer Prime tells me that¡¯s common with foreigners.¡±

    Hazerial exhaled slowly. He was going to have to draw a weapon to get anything useful out of this blasted discussion.

    ¡°Kelena is betrothed to the new Lord of the Cinterlands.¡±

    Izak gave a sharp laugh.

    ¡°Is it time already to dangle Kelena over my head and see if I¡¯ll jump?¡± He sat up and twisted to face Hazerial, one arm over the back of the settle. ¡°What is it you want to hear? That the pirate has day terrors about you? Who doesn¡¯t? That he¡¯s got a taste for beautiful women with soft skin and a pretty smile? Find a man at Thornfield who doesn¡¯t. Well, find three or four, anyway.¡±

    ¡°How often do the two of you speak of killing me?¡±

    Izak rolled his eyes. ¡°Oh, all the time. We can¡¯t wait to finish lectures each day so we can conspire against the King of Night. We¡¯re both gleefully suicidal over it.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll find I don¡¯t have much tolerance for foolish dramatics these days.¡±

    The prince feigned sympathy. ¡°Jadarah¡¯s beginning to wear on you, is she?¡±

    The quill snapped in Hazerial¡¯s fist.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    ¡°The Lord of the Cinterlands wants to end Kelena¡¯s training immediately and take her away from her mother,¡± the king said, gently setting the ruined quill aside. ¡°I can make that happen, or I can chain her to the queen for the rest of her life. My decision depends entirely upon what you tell me today.¡±

    A rare look of contemplation crossed Izak¡¯s features.

    ¡°How is Etian these days? Etianiel, rather.¡±

    ¡°He wed the daughter of Lord Zinote last month.¡±

    Izak affected a shiver at the mention of his former betrothed. ¡°Her Iciness, Pentia or Paletie or something. My sympathies to the groom. Any word of an heir?¡±

    Was he contemplating retaking the throne? The lack of an acknowledged heir would make a takeover simpler for Izak. Eketra remained uncommonly silent on the subject; perhaps Izak wasn¡¯t fishing for opportunities at all, but something else.

    ¡°None yet,¡± Hazerial said to see what Izak would do with the truth. ¡°We expect news within the year.¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t. Pyeta? Whatever her name is, she¡¯s notoriously frigid. I¡¯ve heard it from a dozen lord¡¯s sons and bastards. Of course, she could grit her frozen teeth and do her duty for the kingdom. But then you¡¯ll have to drag Etian away from the fencing ring and the pit houses long enough to finish the job. Good luck with it, is my point.¡±

    ¡°Demeaning my appointment for the future queen of the nation. Very mature.¡±

    A seated bow. ¡°I live only to serve.¡±

    ¡°I am informed that Kelena has been particularly distressed of late. Do you find that amusing as well?¡±

    ¡°If I¡¯d been birthed by a madwoman, I would be distressed, too. The lucky babes are the ones the queen sacrifices to the strong gods.¡± The prince stood and paced to the window, passing within arm¡¯s reach of Hazerial as if to prove that he wasn¡¯t afraid. ¡°Send Kelena off with the Lord of the Cinterlands. Even a traitor¡¯s son with a taste for child brides is a better placement than Jadarah¡¯s grimy clutches.¡±

    ¡°Convince me,¡± Hazerial said.

    Izak sighed as if he were the one most weary of this conversation.

    ¡°The pirate¡¯s greatest weakness is his code of honor,¡± he said, staring out the window. ¡°He won¡¯t do anything that compromises his integrity¡ªsay, lying or stabbing a man outside of combat. And, most especially, using blood magic. He has the aptitude, as you must already know or you wouldn¡¯t have sent him to Thornfield. But he calls it an abomination. Refuses it out of hand, even when it would benefit him.¡±

    Now that was an interesting development. The Mark should have called to blood, thirsted for it.

    ¡°You have convinced us to allow Kelena¡¯s release from her mother as accorded in the marriage contract,¡± Hazerial said graciously. ¡°As well, your information may prove useful to the Kingdom of Night in the war against the Helat.¡±

    The prince didn¡¯t look away from the window. ¡°I¡¯ll attempt to keep my rejoicing to a decorous level.¡±

    Hazerial smirked. ¡°Attempt it on your way out.¡±

    ***

    The grafting took place the following midnight. Training ended early, and the meal was put on hold until after the ceremony. The private graftings during the year had been attended by only the nobles, the necessary students, and such masters as the ceremony required. For the royal grafting, everyone in the school turned out, excluding the kitchen staff, who were busy preparing the post-ritual feast.

    Jadarah had demanded Fuller for her Thorns, but Hazerial wasn¡¯t about to give up the best from the senior class. In consolation, she got Fuller¡¯s second, Manly, and Striker as well. The latter wasn¡¯t much to look at in Izak¡¯s opinion, but the mad queen was delighted by his bullying nature. She had already appointed him leader of her Thorns. From the grandmaster¡¯s recommendations, only Fieryhands, Baijalon, and Twelve were pretty enough for her. To that, she added a few of the less skilled but beautiful faces.

    They weren¡¯t much loss as far as Hazerial was concerned. He was taking the rest of them.

    Fuller went first. He knelt before the king and opened his shirt. Manly and another friend stood to either side, hooking their arms through the prospective Thorn¡¯s to steady him. If the thornknife was off by even an inch or wavered as it went in or out, it would kill him irresurrectably.

    A hush fell over the courtyard. The students stood with their eyes fixed on their future as Hazerial raised the thornknife. Some flinched and closed their eyes as the wooden blade plunged home, but many found themselves unable to even blink.

    Bone crunched and Fuller screamed. Several students who¡¯d never shown a weakness around blood went soft at the knees, heads spinning, stomachs heaving. A first-year¡ªand not the youngest of them¡ªlost control of his bladder. On either side of Fuller, his friends trembled, faces gray, fighting to hold the limp corpse steady.

    Hazerial tore the thornknife out and dragged its bloody tip across the dead man¡¯s forehead, drawing a gory cross.

    ¡°Fuller, your service is commanded,¡± he intoned. ¡°Return to your master. Take root where your spirit will not be driven out.¡±

    The corpse spasmed. The ghost city overhead flickered to black.

    The thornknife glowed like a moonbeam, the only illumination in the bailey.

    A ragged gasp echoed through the air, and then the thornknife went dark. The eerie green light from the ghost city blossomed once more.

    Fuller pulled his arms from his friend¡¯s grasp, his eyes open, panting. He swallowed hard and pressed a hand to his chest, where the blood trickled down to stain his shirt. Besides the quickly scabbing over hole, he looked unharmed.

    ¡°Your soul resides within this thornknife until such a time as you die again or we release you from service,¡± Hazerial recited.

    Fuller bowed his head. ¡°I am the king¡¯s.¡±

    Master Smith stepped forward, extending to His Majesty a hand-and-a-half sword of a quality that only ever graced the hands of a Thorn.

    ¡°Your blade,¡± the king said.

    Tears wavered in the young man¡¯s eyes as he took it.

    ¡°Echo. Her name is Echo.¡± Fuller¡¯s voice was hoarse with emotion. ¡°My blood, soul, and blade are grafted to your service, Your Majesty. Let nothing part us from you or from each other.¡±

    ¡°So be it. Rise, Fuller.¡±

    As the new Thorn stood, a roar shook the bailey. Two hundred students and staff shouting and whooping in joy. Fuller¡¯s friends descended on him, crushing him in hugs and slapping his back. The new Thorn¡¯s face glowed with amazement and relief and pride. He wasn¡¯t the only one with tears wetting his cheeks.

    And then Fuller¡¯s moment of glory was over, and he was hustled out of the way for the next grafting.

    In the end, only two of the thirty-seven died. An unprepared third-year who had hastily chosen his name the day before, and Baijalon, whose heart Jadarah impaled slightly off target. Both were removed from the bailey to the rubbish pit before the next Thorn was grafted. It didn¡¯t do to have another fresh corpse too close while trying to call someone else back from the grave.

    With the ceremonies completed, the new Royal Thorns accompanied their masters inside to the feast, searching every step of the way for dangers and treacheries only they could feel. The rest of Thornfield followed, nausea and panic and grief for the two dead all but forgotten in the triumphant celebration.

    Nine was at the head of the surge. Only death itself could stop the runt from eating.

    Twenty-six hung back, and Izak with him.

    ¡°It will have to be during my grafting ceremony,¡± the pirate said the first words he¡¯d spoken since the sovereign¡¯s arrival. ¡°That is the only time I will be able to kill him.¡±

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t interfere with your laws of honor? Killing a man when he¡¯s not engaged in combat?¡±

    ¡°The dirter king owes a blood debt. The only honor in a blood debt is when it is repaid.¡±

    Izak grinned. ¡°I knew your pirate logic was just twisted enough for this job.¡± He slapped Twenty-six on the back. ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get some food and I¡¯ll tell you what else you¡¯re going to have to justify to pull this off.¡±

 Chapter 47: New Year, New Crop

    The new crop of Thorns arrived on the tail end of an unseasonably hot spring. The weather on Thornfield¡¯s spit of sand had swung from constant rain to drought well ahead of summer, so there was no precipitation on enrollment night. The incoming first-years stood where Izak, Twenty-six, and Nine had stood soaked through twelve months before, listening to the grandmaster¡¯s speech, uncomfortably dry and hot.

    Izak and Twenty-six were called from training to drag out the baths, while Nine and a handful of now second-years hauled water from the wellhouse.

    ¡°It¡¯s enough to make a man jealous.¡± After they placed the second basin, Izak stripped off his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. ¡°Cold bath on a night like this.¡±

    Twenty-six assessed the new arrivals. ¡°There are half as many as were enrolled last year.¡±

    ¡°The number of men born with blood magic has been waning for years.¡± Izak glanced at the group over his shoulder as he and the pirate headed back to the shed to retrieve the next basin. Few and motley, they were, leaning toward the low street and rustic majority. ¡°The royal blood magic tutors said it goes in swings like that. In a few years, it will swing the opposite direction and Thornfield will be beating the new recruits off with a stick.¡±

    ¡°What of the women born with blood magic?¡± the pirate asked.

    Izak stopped in the shed door. ¡°Huh. I never wondered.¡±

    He watched Nine and other former first-years cross their path with buckets of water.

    ¡°Obviously they exist,¡± he said. ¡°Besides the mad queen and a certain runty female-type creature, I¡¯ve never known a woman to use blood magic. What would they do with it?¡±

    ¡°How do you know nothing of your women?¡± Twenty-six levered the basin out of the far corner of the shed. ¡°Do you never speak with them?¡±

    Izak grunted as they lifted the basin. ¡°Talk isn¡¯t necessary when your touch is Teikru-blessed.¡±

    ***

    Most of the newly promoted second-years served the new arrivals their first meal with the traditional gleeful abuse, but Twenty-six refused to participate. According to the pirate, the hazing was nothing more than proof of the dirters¡¯ senseless cruelty.

    Izak recognized the purpose of the custom, but the worst he could bring himself to do was half-heartedly crumple up the bread he was passing out.

    ¡°Nah, you¡¯re s¡¯posed to do like this,¡± Nine said, before helpfully hocking a wad onto a first-year¡¯s plate.

    ¡°You gutter trash!¡± The first-year whose food had been desecrated was a young man Izak¡¯s height and twice his breadth, with the pudge and disdain of a very successful merchant¡¯s son. ¡°Lick this up and get me another!¡±

    Nine was already on her way to her next victim, leaving her blind side exposed. The angry first-year¡¯s enormous pink paw shot out unseen and caught the runt in the right side of the head.

    The surprise clout sent Nine tripping, then onto her knees. She slapped a hand down on the flagstones, then exploded from the floor, screaming like a tornado and barreling at the fat merchant¡¯s son like a battering ram at a gate.

    Twenty-six got there first. He snatched the angry first-year by the throat, hauled him over the bench, and slammed the larger man to the floor. The merchant¡¯s son whoofed as all the air in his lungs burst forth.

    Nine launched a kick at the head of the gasping first-year as he writhed on the floor, but Twenty-six looped an arm around the runt¡¯s stomach, jerking her back like a dyre on a chain before her boot connected.

    ¡°Retribution has already been served,¡± the pirate told her. ¡°Leave him.¡±

    Izak smiled down at the red-faced first-year.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    ¡°Count yourself lucky the pirate got to you first.¡± The prince offered the merchant¡¯s son a hand up. After a moment, the first-year accepted, putting the considerable weight of his bulk in Izak¡¯s grip as he winced to his feet. ¡°And take note of Thornfield¡¯s natural order. Twenty-six might not believe in excessive retaliation, but the rest of us do.¡±

    To demonstrate, Izak hooked a foot behind the first-year¡¯s ankle and threw a forearm into his chest. The merchant¡¯s son smacked the floor like a gob of snot that time, limp and bewildered.

    Nine cackled. ¡°You hit enemies when they ain¡¯t lookin¡¯, ya fool, not your brothers! The worst your enemies can do is get ya killt.¡±

    ***

    Not long after the royal grafting, a section of Thornfield¡¯s southern wall close to the gatehouse had caved in during a typhoon. As the barracks housed there were still undergoing repair, several of the first-years were assigned to lodge in the western wall with the newly promoted second-years in the empty beds left by the previous winter¡¯s sicknesses.

    Izak and Twenty-six had a bad moment when Master Malice tried to place a first-year with them, wondering how they were going to keep the runt¡¯s secret with a fourth person in their room, but Nine saved them.

    ¡°Cain¡¯t fit him, sir. I done broke the empty bunk, me. Hadta rassle off this hungry sea folk with big suckers for feet and dune grass for hair and arms as long as a body. And the stink!¡±

    Before Nine could really warm to the tale, Malice stopped it. Upon verification that the bunk was actually broken, the first-year was dumped off on some annoyed third-years whose room was in better condition.

    ¡°Get that repaired before the next enrollment,¡± the Coffee Island master ordered them. ¡°It may be needed.¡±

    ¡°Think if I busted th¡¯other one down, he¡¯d get off us about it?¡± Nine asked her brothers when the door closed behind Malice.

    ¡°If we¡¯re lucky, there will be even fewer recruits next year,¡± Izak said.

    Twenty-six shook his head. ¡°Those are not plans. Better if we put a strategy in place to forestall the possibility.¡±

    No ideas were forthcoming, though.

    ***

    Twenty-six¡¯s question about women and blood magic had pricked Izak¡¯s curiosity. The next time they went to the pub¡ªwhich was all but deserted in favor of the early summer fishing runs¡ªhe asked Casia and Danasi.

    ¡°The same things men use it for, I suppose,¡± Danasi said. Neither she nor her sister had the blood magic, but they were both willing to speculate. ¡°After all, look at Nine.¡±

    A look at the runt revealed more than blood magic. She could hardly even be called a runt anymore. She¡¯d grown nearly a foot in the last year, stretching out most of the late-gained baby fat into lean muscle. Her most dangerous areas of growth had to be wrangled daily, mashed down into a flat chest using a girdle forgotten in Danasi¡¯s room by a vain¡ªand very drunk¡ªaging coastal lord.

    In addition to the inconvenient physical blossoming, Nine was becoming quite the swordsman. Swordswoman, rather. With blood magic, she was by far the fastest in their year, and what she lacked in strength she made up for with that wild unpredictability.

    ¡°Yeah, lookit,¡± Nine agreed, draining another cup of ale. ¡°I done whupped ten a¡¯ the seniors all on my own, and that without my swords.¡±

    Still a liar, too. Izak could only assume she was talking about the nights they were pitted against the upper classes for two-on-one training. One of those nights, she¡¯d had a sword knocked away by a fourth-year, which may have formed the basis of her tale. Or she could be making up an entirely new lie. Hard to say.

    ¡°Whupped the old crow, too,¡± she claimed proudly. ¡°Thumped him so bad, he¡¯s still a-healin¡¯.¡±

    ¡°The weapons masters were called away,¡± Twenty-six said. They had all been in the bailey when Fright had explained that he was taking over the nightly training for the foreseeable future. ¡°That is why you were excused from your lessons. Not because of anything you did.¡±

    Nine slammed the flat of her hand on the timeworn timbers. ¡°I whupped Saint Daven afore he could go running off! Hooked him right acrost the chin, and cut him deep!¡± She brandished her knuckles as if the basket hilt was still covering them. ¡°See if he crawks at me for not watching the other hand anymore.¡±

    ***

    ¡°Striker¡¯s,¡± Chalion said, passing the cloth-wrapped thornknife reverently to Grandmaster.

    Grandmaster Heartless pressed the wooden blade between his gnarled hands. A bare few months had passed since Striker¡¯s grafting.

    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose there¡¯s an appropriately heroic ending to his tale that Master Risk can put in the Archives?¡±

    Disgust colored the Royal Thorn¡¯s face. ¡°Tell him to put down that Striker died serving Her Majesty.¡±

    In other words, ¡°killed to satisfy the queen¡¯s appetite for flesh and blood and death.¡± The majority of Jadarah¡¯s Thorns shared the same epitaph.

    The last grafting had stolen six of the senior class before they began their final year, leaving them with less than forty. Three of those had already been assigned to lesser nobles across the kingdom, and likely, more private early graftings were on the way. The second- and third-years had been severely cut down by the previous winter¡¯s ailments, and now a new crop had arrived containing only a score and eight students.

    Unlike the prince and his tutors, Grandmaster Heartless didn¡¯t subscribe to the notion that the number born with the blood magic swelled and ebbed in cycles. He had studied at Thornfield as a young man, and he¡¯d taught at it as an old man. He had seen corners of the Kingdom of Night and parts of the world most Children of Khinet would never see.

    It seemed obvious to Heartless that the blood magic was waning. With the way His Majesty was throwing away the lives of the young men who had it, there was a high likelihood that it would soon disappear altogether.

 Chapter 48: The Thorn & The Demigoddess

    At Thornfield, names held great significance. When a student found the name they wanted, they would consult with the Master of Archives, who would then search his records to make certain it wasn¡¯t currently in use by a living Thorn. If the name was free, the student was allowed to keep it. Students changed names occasionally, but for the most part the first name chosen was the one that stuck. It was a monumental decision that the grafting would rely upon, not to be made on impulse.

    So it shocked everyone when Nine was the first student in their year to claim she¡¯d found her name.

    ¡°I heard it from Master Smith and he told me what it was, and that¡¯s it,¡± she told her disbelieving roommates. ¡°Morrow night I¡¯m a-going to Master Risk and getting him to look it up.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s hear it,¡± Izak said. He and Twenty-six had just finished their blood magic practice for the day, and he was eager for the distraction from the wounds the pirate was tending. Lately, they were working on a version of the thorn tree trick he¡¯d used in the previous tournament¡ªsmaller so the pirate could heal faster to try again.

    ¡°It¡¯s bad medicine to tell a secret afore it¡¯s known,¡± Nine said.

    ¡°Oh, come on! We won¡¯t make fun of it.¡±

    ¡°A name is sacred.¡± Twenty-six looked up from daubing salve onto the gouge marks in his forearm. ¡°You should not tell anyone before you take it, Nine.¡±

    ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna, me.¡±

    Izak smirked. ¡°My name isn¡¯t sacred, and it isn¡¯t a secret. For all the talk of new beginnings and earning a new name here, the grafted prince walks out of Thornfield with the same name he walked in with. I was Izak then, I¡¯ll be Izak forever.¡±

    ¡°Then you will remain a child forever.¡± Twenty-six went back to wrapping up his arm.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t heard you checking the Archives for a new name,¡± Izak muttered.

    The pirate didn¡¯t look up from the bandages. ¡°When the time comes, you will know my name.¡±

    ¡°You mean to tell me you already have one in mind?¡±

    ¡°What is it?¡± Nine demanded, her declaration of bad medicine already forgotten.

    Twenty-six wouldn¡¯t tell them.

    ***

    The following afternoon, Nine returned from the Archives beaming like a full moon.

    ¡°I got it, me! My name wasn¡¯t already took, so¡¯s I got it!¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    Twenty-six stopped sharpening his cutlass, and Four set aside the folio of lewd drawings he¡¯d borrowed from Eighty-eight, the rustic who had become known as the resident artist.

    The brat turned her back to the archer loop and fixed her brothers one at a time with her one-eyed gaze, certain they would be as captivated by her name as she was. She raised both hands to frame the announcement.

    ¡°Lathe.¡±

    Four blinked. ¡°Lathe? As in the turning wheel the artisans use?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s it. Master Smith done told me about ¡¯em. You stick a chunk of wood on ¡¯em and carve out bits with knives!¡±

    Her brothers looked at one another, doing that annoying thing where they said stuff without talking.

    ¡°You are certain?¡± Twenty-six asked.

    ¡°¡¯Course I am! That¡¯s good medicine if I ever heard it, Lathe.¡±

    ¡°But¡­¡± Four¡¯s voice wavered. He snorted, then wiped his hand down his face. He got himself under control and tried again. ¡°But it¡¯s so stupid.¡±

    The ensuing fight made a mess of Eighty-eight¡¯s folio. Pages were torn, mashed, and creased, and a splatter of royal blood obscured a portion of one drawing.

    ¡°It ain¡¯t stupid, it¡¯s my name!¡± Nine insisted when Twenty-six finally pried her off of Four. ¡°I¡¯ll carve up anybody that takes after Pretty, me. Or the pirate scum, or you, ya dumb pile a¡¯ dung.¡± She stabbed a finger at Four. ¡°I¡¯ll pare ¡¯em down to nubbins, just like a lathe!¡±

    Four wiped the blood from his lips and spat out a torn shred of the wadded parchment she¡¯d been trying to cram down his throat.

    ¡°I apologize,¡± he said. ¡°Lathe is actually a very appropriate name.¡±

    Twenty-six let go of the brat. She dropped to her feet and straightened up, fixing her mussed clothing and close-chopped hair with an air of injured dignity.

    ¡°For an idiot,¡± Four said.

    The folio didn¡¯t make it.

    ***

    ¡°Seleketra.¡± Pretty stared at the face in the mirror. She didn¡¯t look like the starving close-rat Athalia had taken in a year ago. She looked otherworldly. She looked like the demon demigoddess her new name meant. ¡°Seleketra.¡±

    It still spooked her sometimes, passing by a shiny surface in Athalia¡¯s townhouse and catching sight of the curling tattoos etched into spice-brown skin. And those eyes. Her eyes had been the hardest part to sit still for, the needles poking and jabbing. But she¡¯d done it. She might not be a real daughter, but she was a good one. She¡¯d done it for Athalia, for all the love and affection and luxury the Daylily gave her, and she¡¯d done it because one day she would start paying it back. Athalia already had all the love and affection Pretty could give, but soon she would be able to start paying back all that luxury and spent money, too. Then the Daylily could rest and enjoy the life Seleketra made for her.

    Pretty stared into the eyes in the mirror, the ghostlight curlicues in her dark irises glowing back at her. Brat wouldn¡¯t even recognize her now. Pretty hardly recognized herself.

    ¡°Seleketra?¡± Athalia opened the door. ¡°It¡¯s time.¡±

    Pretty swallowed hard.

    Seeing her face, Athalia crossed the room and kissed her on the top of the head.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be scared, now,¡± the Daylily whispered, rubbing Pretty¡¯s upper arms briskly as if to chase away her trepidation. ¡°It won¡¯t be like you were used to. The knight¡¯s an old friend of mine. He¡¯s gentle, him. He¡¯ll help learn you what to do, and he won¡¯t never tell nobody.¡±

    ¡°And then I¡¯ll come back?¡± Pretty had already made Athalia promise once a night since she found out she had to leave with a strange man, but she needed to hear it again. ¡°Soon as I¡¯m learnt, I¡¯ll come back?¡±

    ¡°As soon as you¡¯re learned,¡± Athalia corrected her gently. She smoothed a strand of Pretty¡¯s long hair. ¡°Then you¡¯ll come right back. Now, what are you supposed to do?¡±

    Pretty smiled just like she was supposed to, just like she¡¯d been learned.

    In the mirror, Seleketra smiled back, parting her perfect lips to show the demon fangs that had replaced her eyeteeth.

 Chapter 49: Haunted and Hounded

    The newly crowned Princess Pasiona exuded cold disdain to everyone equally, servant and noble alike. A popular rumor circulated that she and the crown prince kept separate bed chambers and condescended to a businesslike conjugation monthly, a practice that would be set aside as soon as the princess was with child.

    Etian had never wasted time listening to gossip before his wedding, and he didn¡¯t start after. His wife¡¯s icy public demeanor was a soul-piercing contrast to the Pasiona he knew when the bedchamber door closed. She burned like a fire rampaging through a straw village. She screamed and begged and demanded, and Etian threw himself into fulfilling her every desire.

    There was no thought while he was with her, nothing but exertion and pleasure. He loved seeing her drenched in sweat, hearing the rip of her clothing beneath his fingers while she tore at his, tasting her salty skin. He adored the frozen alabaster statue who sat at his side during affairs of state, and he craved the voracious creature who waited to pounce when they were alone.

    He loved her.

    But he did keep a separate bedchamber.

    It was on their wedding day that he¡¯d been forced to establish the secondary room.

    ¡°Is there another woman?¡± Pasiona had asked when he slipped out of their bed.

    ¡°No.¡± Etian shoved the sweat-soaked hair off his forehead and slid his lenses on. He¡¯d thought she was asleep. He should¡¯ve waited longer to make sure, but the sensation of his filth sinking into her pure, perfect skin had been excruciating.

    She sat up, wrapping the disarrayed bedclothes around herself. ¡°If there ever is, tell me. I want to know before the court gossips do.¡±

    ¡°If there ever is, I swear I will.¡±

    ¡°Are you angry?¡±

    ¡°Why would I be angry?¡±

    ¡°Because I called for Darios.¡±

    ¡°I barely heard it,¡± Etian said honestly.

    He cast around for a way to say that the dead man likely deserved her affection more than he did, couldn¡¯t find one, and left.

    The servants had started keeping a cauldron of water always warming for the crown prince in the kitchens. He couldn¡¯t find anyone awake after the feasting and celebration of the day, so he brought up the warm water to the bath basin himself, then added two more from the springhouse. Not the scalding sanitization he¡¯d had in mind, but better than nothing.

    He returned to the bedchamber and climbed in beside his now truly sleeping wife.

    Sometime in the day, a weight crushed his chest. Thick, close blackness pressed in all around him. The overpowering stench of fear and human waste filled his lungs. He hammered on the lid of the trunk, unable to get enough breath to scream. The most sound he could make was a low, whimpering whine. The lid wouldn¡¯t budge.

    Trapped and left to die. Alone. Forgotten.

    Someone shook him. ¡°Etianiel, wake up. You¡¯re having a terror.¡±

    He came awake fighting. It was a glancing blow, but it knocked Pasiona out of bed.

    He apologized, expended a huge amount of royal blood magic healing the bruise, far more than necessary, apologized again.

    Pasiona shrugged it off. Everyone was haunted by bad dreams.

    But Etian should have known it would happen. It had been a misstep not preparing ahead of time when this particular dream had been terrorizing him daily.

    In Sangmere, an old servant¡¯s cell adjoined the bridal chamber. Etian slept there when he and Pasiona were finished with each other. At Mistfen in Siu Carinal, he commandeered Izakiel¡¯s former bedchamber, which lay across the hall from his. When the court moved to Siu Patanal for the summer, he had a cot put in the bathing chamber off their quarters.

    The dream hounded Etian wherever he was, but he made certain it couldn¡¯t hurt his wife again.

    ***

    Clarencio winced as he made his way up the Siu Patanal pit house steps toward the boxes. He had never paid attention to stairs as a young man; he had taken them two and three at a time just because he could. He¡¯d even made fun of his father for moving the lord¡¯s chambers to the ground level of Blazing Prairie, calling it an old man¡¯s laziness. A progressive disease, his father had joked.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    If Clarencio could apologize for one thing to his father, it would be that. Not the explosive anger at finding out what Lord Paius had done, not dismissing his father¡¯s arguments that nothing short of total overthrow would change the kingdom, not even aiding in the man¡¯s arrest. No, he would apologize for teasing an old man who was just trying to save his aching joints a few stairs. In any case, who was to say that all the other disagreements hadn¡¯t risen from the same root¡ªan arrogant young fool¡¯s lack of understanding?

    He certainly understood now. Everywhere he went with the court, there were stairs. Stairs to meeting chambers, stairs to feasting halls, stairs to residences, stairs to take the floor against another lord arguing some ridiculously evil new paradigm.

    Stairs to this night-forsaken arena of butchery.

    If the king hadn¡¯t summoned him to the pit house, Clarencio would never have limped his way into one. His father had taken him to the dyre fights once as a child, when Clarencio had asked why he should care about the stupid beasts. It had been a viscerally educational experience. He hadn¡¯t darkened the door of one since.

    Probably the reason Hazerial had summoned him to the pit house that day.

    The younger set of the nobility jounced up and down the stairs, gawking in surprise or calling idiotic taunts when they recognized the Lord of the Cinterlands.

    ¡°Finally coming to see what you¡¯ve been missing, Mattius?¡±

    ¡°Are you here to set the dyre free?¡±

    ¡°Best bring a chunk of meat if you want them to follow you.¡±

    ¡°If you don¡¯t hurry, you¡¯ll miss the fight.¡±

    ¡°He doesn¡¯t care. House Mattius is only interested in the times when dyre look human.¡±

    In a way, it was refreshing. The offspring had their fathers¡¯ callous thirst for blood, but hadn¡¯t yet developed the two-faced inveigling required to wheedle favors from a lord they hated who also happened to wield much more wealth, land, and power than they did.

    ¡°My father is going to kill you.¡±

    That one was a little more direct. Clarencio paused on the top step, distributing his weight between the walking stick and the corner of the wall.

    The speaker was a boy in his late teens scarred by horrendous acne and backed by two thuggish friends with clearer skin. Neither of the thugs looked familiar to Clarencio, but he recognized their leader.

    Clarencio gave the boy a smile. ¡°You¡¯re Lord Kariot¡¯s son, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    Recognition didn¡¯t give the boy pause. But then it must be hard to cow a child used to watching bloodslaves scream for mercy before they were enthralled in his family¡¯s sacramentals.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be dead before the Festival of Summerlight,¡± he sneered.

    ¡°If your father puts his mind to it, I don¡¯t doubt I will.¡± Clarencio tapped the boot of his stiffened leg with his walking stick. ¡°I¡¯m not a fast-moving target.¡±

    Kariot the Younger took a step toward him. ¡°I could push you down these stairs right now and break your neck.¡± His dark eyes glittered. ¡°Everyone knows you don¡¯t have any blood magic, and my friends and me could make sure no healer got to you in time.¡±

    It sounded like certain lords had progressed past idle talk and into the planning phase of his assassination, if they were discussing his blood magic abilities around their sons.

    ¡°You could,¡± Clarencio said. ¡°Now that I¡¯ve reached the top of the stairs, such a death would hold a layer of irony that I doubt you¡¯re capable of appreciating at this age. Perhaps one you never may be capable of appreciating, if you share your father¡¯s lack of intelligence. Of course, I¡¯d prefer you don¡¯t push me. Falls are particularly painful these days, and if it doesn¡¯t kill me, I¡¯ll wish it had before the recovery¡¯s over. I¡¯m a notoriously sulky patient. Ask my family healer.¡±

    The boy scowled. ¡°Did you just call my father stupid?¡±

    ¡°I also suggested you might be. It doesn¡¯t bode well that you haven¡¯t picked up on how heavily your father relies on my holding¡¯s iron. That¡¯s why he hasn¡¯t killed me yet. He¡¯s scared to do it before I supply his latest demand. Though I¡¯m sure he appreciates your alerting me to the imminent danger.¡±

    By then the boy¡¯s face was red around his weeping acne.

    ¡°My father doesn¡¯t fear anything!¡±

    Clarencio smirked. ¡°Except bloodslaves before the enthrallment ritual shuts off their free will and angering the cripple who supplies the iron for said ritual.¡±

    The boy charged him, head down, arms out to shove or grab. His friends caught on that they were in a fight a moment later and followed, though they were smart enough to keep their eyes up.

    Clarencio turned his body, leaning against the wall to avoid the boy¡¯s tackle, and tripped him with the walking stick. With an undignified cry, Kariot the Younger crashed down a handful of stairs and sprawled, dazed, across the risers.

    The larger of his thug friends swung a fist. Clarencio twisted away and cracked him in the knuckles with the stick, following with a sharp whack to the ear. Blood burst from the point of impact. The thug screamed and grabbed the bloody flap of gristle, the scuffle forgotten in the pain.

    Surprisingly, the last friend had the brains to back away, hands up, presumably to stop the crippled lord from chasing him down.

    ¡°Blood sport isn¡¯t as much fun to participate in as it is to watch, is it?¡± Clarencio returned his stick to the floor and leaned his weight on it. ¡°You¡¯ll forgive me if I don¡¯t help pick up the pieces. I have a rather urgent appointment to attend.¡±

    With a polite nod, he headed down the rounded corridor toward the royal box.

    He was grinning, his heart pounding in his ears, the flush of victory warming his face and swelling his chest.

    Stupid. Reckless. Entirely irrational. The smallest misplacement of his good foot, a minor shift in weight, a little more courage or speed or determination from any one of those boys and he could have been a corpse lying at the bottom of the stairs. A tiny miscalculation and he would¡¯ve saved Lord Kariot and his coconspirators the trouble.

    But a Josean-blessed man got sick and tired of being a cripple. Every now and then, he wanted to remember what it was like to win a fight.

 Chapter 50: Ghosts of the Cinterlands

    The Royal Thorns stopped Clarencio outside the drawn curtains of the box. They left the cripple his walking stick, which was either bad practice or an acknowledgement that the search for weapons was nothing more than a formality. Anyone hoping to attack the King of Night would be turned by that selfsame sovereign into a fine spray of blood and flesh.

    Inside, King Hazerial was seated on the divan at the center of the viewing gallery, a bloodslave hovering emptily in the shadows and a cloaked man along the wall.

    At first, Clarencio thought the man was another of the Royal Thorns. Then he saw those unnerving gold eyes.

    ¡°Lord Clarencio.¡± The king motioned for him to take the chair at his side. The former Thorn was given no more attention than the service table holding the wine goblets. Like bloodslaves, Thorns and tables were all only tools, after all. Barely human.

    The barely human¡¯s gold glare purposefully ignored Clarencio¡¯s.

    The disgraced former Thorn was looking worse for the wear. Gaunt. Older. Shadows in the face. Standing on two good legs, though. No doubt jogging up and down stairs on them. Fencing. Riding. Walking anywhere he pleased without sudden twinges or spasms that nearly drove him to the ground.

    Clarencio took the indicated seat beside the king and stretched out his leg. That felt like an admission of weakness, but it was also an unfortunate necessity. The adrenaline from the fight in the corridor had worn off, and a deep, painful burn had taken up residence in the back of his thigh, heralding the cramps that would soon begin twisting the muscle into knots.

    The crowd in the pit house cheered and laughed as, below, an enormous wolf tore the throat from a man half-transformed into a bear. The dyrewolf lapped up the bloody stream while the half-man half-bear took his last struggling breaths. Spectators threw back their heads and howled to the rafters in triumph with the wolf as if they were the ones whose muzzles dripped strings of gore and slobber.

    ¡°A local favorite,¡± the king explained. ¡°And a prime example of the enjoyment these beasts take from their sport.¡±

    Clarencio had heard the assertion that dyre were cannibalistic monsters who lived to fight and would kill one another whether they were in or out of the pit houses more times than he could count. Those arguments rarely took into account the ones who lived in peace with their clans until they were captured and those who died in the arena rather than attack their fellow dyre for the entertainment of the Children of Night.

    ¡°There are killers in every race,¡± Clarencio said, glancing the Thorn¡¯s way again.

    ¡°In every strong race, certainly.¡± The king snapped his fingers and indicated the goblets on the table between their seats.

    The bloodslave padded forward, poured the wine, then melted into the background again. Ragged bare feet, empty eyes, spotless white slave¡¯s garb. She looked young, perhaps the same age as the boys Clarencio had just thrashed, but there was no telling how long she had been a bloodslave. Aging stopped with enthrallment, that and everything that made one human¡ªthought, speech, progress, aspiration.

    ¡°We are told there is a motion in the Hall to levy standing armies for the war in the north,¡± the king said. ¡°If it passes, they will be put under commanders in the king¡¯s army and used to bolster numbers where the Helat have inflicted the most casualties.¡±

    ¡°Your Majesty is well-informed,¡± Clarencio said, bracing himself. Was the king finally about to demand he ¡°aid the crown¡± by getting the motion passed? Clarencio had been arguing against signing over local armies to the crown ever since Zinote, the father of the king¡¯s new daughter-in-law, had proposed it weeks before. The majority of the lords, whose small holdings barely supported more than a knight or two, cared little one way or the other and were voting the way their allies voted.

    ¡°Upon the next assembly, we wish you to block the motion,¡± Hazerial said.

    Clarencio blinked, certain he¡¯d heard the king wrong. ¡°You want me to argue against the levy?¡±

    ¡°It will pass eventually, but we wish you to stall it. Keep it from passing until after Autumnlight. Wasn¡¯t that part of your argument against it? That the men will soon be needed at home for the harvest?¡±

    And that the crown already held too much power without seizing men-at-arms from the lords they had sworn fealty to. But Hazerial would know that as well.

    Was he being set up to look like a pennant on a windy day, unable to decide which way to blow? Or was this to show the other lords that House Mattius belonged to the king, jumping whenever Hazerial told him to jump?

    Here they were, discussing the matter in full view of anyone in the round who cared to look up, and clearly visible to the majority of the noble boxes. Indeed, several of the aristocratic set seemed more interested in the king¡¯s box than in the fight below.

    ¡°Forgive my ignorance, Your Majesty, but I don¡¯t understand why you wish me to block the motion. Adding standing armies to the king¡¯s will strengthen your presence, and making the men answerable to the crown alone will cut down on conflicting orders from multiple lords¡¯ field commanders.¡± These were the main two legs Zinote was propping the motion up on.

    ¡°You¡¯re Josean-blessed,¡± Hazerial said. ¡°Surely you can appreciate that the path to ultimate victory is rarely simple.¡±

    Rarely simple, but even more rarely littered with poor tactics.

    ¡°This delay will cost us nothing and has the potential to gain everything.¡± The king sipped his wine. ¡°You will block it until the harvest. Now, as for the reason we summoned you.¡±

    Clarencio glanced at the former Thorn again, the only survivor of the three young men his father had grafted. Funny how he¡¯d never considered it before, but Clarencio was the last survivor of three as well¡ªstill limping around with his father long dead in the Cinterlands Massacre and his sister soon after. If they had a mind to, the ruined pair of survivors could spend many an hour pointing fingers of blame at one another.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°The time has come to prove whether you are truly an asset to the crown,¡± Hazerial said. ¡°This matter is of the utmost secrecy, but if you are successful, we will reduce the contracted time before you wed our daughter. From ten years down to five.

    ¡°She finds the pit houses distasteful as well, Kelena. It seems she has no stomach for watching any beast torn apart.¡± The king smiled sidelong at Clarencio. ¡°The two of you may be better matched than you anticipated.¡±

    It didn¡¯t bode well that His Majesty was placing the carrot so far before the stick. But the girl¡¯s wide, panicked eyes as her mother forced her into the deep dungeon beneath Blazing Prairie still had the power to make Clarencio sick at heart these many months later. The child sobbing in the midst of that hell of blood and darkness.

    Clarencio realized he was massaging the cramp in his leg. He scowled and folded his hands atop his walking stick.

    ¡°If it is right and within my ability, I will see it done,¡± he promised.

    Hazerial smiled. ¡°It is our belief that you are the one member of our court whose convictions best align with this commission. We wish you to open communication with the Helat.¡±

    Now Clarencio knew he¡¯d misheard. ¡°Your Majesty?¡±

    ¡°You will proclaim yourself our emissary to the Children of Day. The war has gone on too long, too many lives lost, a relic of ancient times that must be buried and forgotten to move on. We are certain you can convince them to begin talks of peace between our nations.¡±

    The back of his leg seared. Clarencio shifted, trying to lessen the pain. Stall the vote against strengthening the crown¡¯s army with his own, send secret communications to the enemy. Sure, and why not assign him to attempt a public assassination of the king while he was at it?

    ¡°Your Majesty, what is the ultimate goal of this communication?¡±

    ¡°One day, perhaps, lasting peace.¡± Hazerial chuckled, a sound as cold as frozen bones splintering. ¡°We realize, however, that such a thing is unlikely to be accomplished in a single dispatch, no matter how convincing you are. Our hope is that the Helat will eventually agree to establish a royal ambassador of Night in the Kingdom of Day. A nobleman bound to honor and high ideals, who speaks with the voice of his king. Duke Clarencio of House Mattius, husband of the king¡¯s only daughter.¡±

    Better known as Clarencio, the traitor to the crown, executed for conspiring with the Helat and claiming himself equal with the king.

    ¡°Come now.¡± Hazerial gestured to the dyre tearing one another apart below. ¡°You view those beasts as human, but not the race that sprang from the same loins as Khinet? The Helat are our brothers. Can there ever truly be peace in a world where brother fights brother?¡±

    Someone had been reading archives of Lord Paius¡¯s old speeches. The king smiled, daring Clarencio to call attention to the borrowed words of the dead man.

    Clarencio sipped his wine. If he was going to be executed for a traitor, he would get what he could out of the deal on his way to the noose.

    ¡°Your Majesty knows the issues close to my heart,¡± he said. ¡°But five years is still a long time to put off an heir.¡±

    The king gave him a knowing smile. ¡°The night you receive word from the Helat that they will accept an emissary, we will consider Kelena¡¯s training finished. The wedding will take place immediately.¡±

    ¡°Then I will begin at once.¡±

    ¡°Draft the letters yourself, Clarencio. No secretaries are to be privy to this matter.¡±

    Of course not. The more eyes and ears, the more people who could exonerate him when the accusations began flooding in.

    ¡°Yes, Your Majesty.¡±

    Hazerial beckoned the former Thorn from his place on the wall.

    ¡°Your messenger,¡± the king said. ¡°We are told he can carry missives through the lines without being seen.¡±

    ¡°Of that, I have no doubt,¡± Clarencio said, locking eyes with the man who had crippled him and killed his sister. ¡°Sneaking around is a particular skill of his.¡±

    ***

    The interior of the House Mattius carriage was sweltering, an oven raging in the heat of the Siu Patanal sun. Before Clarencio even dropped onto the seat, sweat was dripping from his chin and pasting his clothing to his skin.

    Gritting his teeth, he hammered on his leg until the monstrous spasm that had seized it calmed to a tolerable level of torture.

    When he could speak again, he muttered, ¡°Still alive, are you?¡±

    Saint Daven shrugged. ¡°Maybe not much longer, if the rumors are true about the Helat and blood magic.¡±

    ¡°Did you volunteer?¡±

    ¡°What do you think?¡±

    The carriage rolled down the streets, lurching over every uneven cobblestone, and sending jags of lightning up Clarencio¡¯s leg and into his back. He scowled across at the silent Thorn.

    Saint Daven pinned back the window cover, allowing in a gasp of air. Summer sunlight glared into the carriage with it. Clarencio had to fight the urge to snap at the Thorn to shut the window cover.

    ¡°Ambassador to the Helat, at the king¡¯s request?¡± Saint Daven said. ¡°Lord Paius wouldn¡¯t know what to think.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I do, either,¡± Clarencio admitted.

    ¡°Mitchi would like it. I suppose ambassadors attend a ball or a feast every night?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t call her that.¡±

    ¡°Excuse my impertinence, your lordship.¡± The Thorn sketched an apologetic seated bow. ¡°The Lady Michiala spoke highly of the gaiety of court life to her father¡¯s Thorns.¡±

    ¡°If one Thorn in particular had been professional enough to do nothing but talk, she would be here to enjoy court for herself.¡±

    Saint Daven had one of those jaws too sharp to hide anything. He went back to staring out the window, a traitorous muscle ticking in the hollow of his cheek.

    ¡°If I¡¯d known having a child would kill her, I never would have touched her.¡±

    ¡°Michiala was a child herself,¡± Clarencio shot back.

    Saint Daven huffed a humorless laugh. ¡°I was two years younger than she was.¡± Gold eyes glaring out the window. Muscle ticking. ¡°Your father gave us his blessing.¡±

    Clarencio ground his teeth as the carriage crashed through a rut. Hounded by the pain in his leg, by the pain in his chest. Hounded by the ghosts crowding the air around them.

    ¡°My father, who adored and sheltered his baby girl all her life, approved of her being impregnated by a boy he stole from Thornfield?¡±

    Tick, tick went that sinew in the cheek. ¡°Almost sounds like you actually cared about his lordship. Pretty convincing for a blood traitor.¡±

    ¡°You will never understand the love and respect I had for my father,¡± Clarencio said, strangling the walking stick with his hands. ¡°Nor will you ever understand what it cost me to turn him in.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t talk to me about costs.¡± Tick, tick. ¡°Ever had your soul shattered serving a man who should have been king? Ever killed your brothers by the dozen to protect him?¡±

    ¡°And yet here you sit, alive and well, while he and my sister molder in the ground.¡±

    ¡°My child, too, in case you forgot.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare play the injured party with me!¡± Clarencio snapped. ¡°While you were rotting in the dungeons beneath Castle Sangmere, I kept the priests from sacrificing your child to the strong gods. I watched her try to breathe, saw her little body fight and struggle and fail. I buried my niece and her mother. Alone, on the leg you maimed, I buried what was left of my ruined house, and I¡¯ve been fighting to rebuild it ever since.¡±

    Silenced, the former Thorn sat back in his seat, sweating and glaring at the lord.

    The lord glared back, sweating and clenching his teeth against another hellish spasm rolling up his thigh. The pain was never as bad as when he was around the man who had caused it.

    The carriage lumbered around a corner and down the blistering street, coming to a stop at House Mattius¡¯s Siu Patanal residence.

    ¡°Now here we both sit,¡± Saint Daven muttered. ¡°Alive and well.¡±

    Clarencio exhaled. He looked out the window at the townhouse and thought of the unwritten letter to the kingdom¡¯s sworn enemy and the inquisition¡¯s cell awaiting the traitor commissioned to pen it.

    ¡°Maybe not for much longer,¡± he conceded.

 Chapter 51: Concessions

    A month passed before Lord Kariot the Elder cornered Clarencio. The Hall of Law had just let out its final summer session. The royal household would be heading south to Siu Carinal soon, which meant the court must scramble to follow.

    ¡°Mattius, old man!¡± Kariot slung an arm around his shoulder as if they were bosom friends and slowed to match Clarencio¡¯s progress through the corridor. ¡°Well-argued piece about retaining security in our holdings by keeping our fighting men at home. Nasty power-grab, that motion to send standing armies to the northern front, nasty.¡±

    ¡°I admit I was surprised to hear you had shifted your stance on the issue.¡± Clarencio shrugged off the sweaty, pigeon-breasted lord and gave him a stiff smile. ¡°My apologies, but my own weight is enough to hold up today.¡±

    ¡°Of course, concessions to the malady, of course.¡± Kariot dabbed at his jowls with a silk handkerchief. The Siu Patanal Hall of Law was old construction, one of the first stone buildings in the city, a former fortress of cut stone, nearly windowless except for a handful of archer loops at vantage points. The place held heat like an oven.

    ¡°As for the motion, we both know it¡¯s just passing gas.¡± Kariot shook out the kerchief before tucking it away again. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯re getting what you can out of its continued presence. Myself, I¡¯m leveraging the nonsense until Orkitria agrees to be more reasonable about caravans passing through his puny little holding.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t imagine why he doesn¡¯t want unenthralled bloodslaves dragged through Siu Ferel.¡±

    Kariot shook his head. ¡°The brainless turkey can¡¯t see the benefit of having first pick of the litter. and at pre-sacramental prices, too.¡±

    The Lord of House Orkitria was trying with all his might to brand his single large city as the Shining Star of the East. Towering ivory-washed buildings, shimmering fountains, terraced gardens. Any bloodslaves in Siu Ferel should be scenery, a silent part of the grandeur, not desperately trying to escape or begging passersby to kill them and their children before they were enslaved.

    Of course, if the motion held off much longer, Siu Ferel might just be overrun by Helat. In the short time Clarencio had managed to stall sending the standing armies, the king¡¯s army had been routed twice, each time falling back farther. Thus Orkitria¡¯s eagerness to see reinforcements between himself and the Children of Day. Hard to convince the royal household to spend a summer in your lovely city when it was occupied by the enemy.

    House Mattius¡¯s loyalty had been called into question multiple times since report of the first retreat had come in, but so far only in the fashion of political posturing. The suggestion had yet to gain any momentum given the number of lords who still balked at the idea of signing over all their sworn fighting men to the crown.

    ¡°But the motion¡¯s neither here nor there,¡± Kariot went on. ¡°I wanted to speak to you about my son.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡± Clarencio schooled his features into blankness.

    ¡°You know how these young men are, all piss and vinegar, getting liquored up and looking for any scrap they can fall into. I daresay you were the same in your youth. I certainly was.¡±

    Clarencio replied with a noncommittal grunt.

    ¡°In any case, let it be known that I don¡¯t condone a bit of it. The lad¡¯s been sent home to rusticate until the new year as punishment.¡± Kariot chuckled. ¡°And don¡¯t think that wasn¡¯t a tussle! Thought his yelling and crashing about would wake the bloodslaves. But there¡¯s still only one lord of House Kariot. Yes, and he rules with an iron fist.¡±

    ¡°It was well-handled, I¡¯m sure.¡±

    ¡°Just wanted you to know he wouldn¡¯t be troubling you again.¡±

    ¡°Oh, he was no trouble at all,¡± Clarencio said. The boy had practically thrown himself down the stairs.

    ¡°Drunk, too, him and his friends. So drunk he could have made up any night-forsaken story.¡±

    ¡°Of course. Liquor is well known for improving one¡¯s deceptive abilities.¡±

    Kariot turned a little red around the jowls. ¡°For him it does. Bloody little liar. Never know what he¡¯s going to say. Told his mother once I was going to have her assassinated. Of all the nonsense!¡±This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    A pair of bloodslaves pulled open the towering entry doors, revealing the shrinking shadows of early morning. The outside air was mercifully cool, but by midday, the sun would once again bake the city. Autumn crept closer and closer.

    ¡°Consider the incident forgotten, Kariot, old man.¡± Clarencio stopped in the street and clapped the red-faced lord on the back. ¡°Boys will be boys, after all. It¡¯s up to us to settle things like noblemen.¡±

    Kariot¡¯s beaming grin returned. ¡°Couldn¡¯t have said it better myself. Now about that iron price you¡¯ve been driving up¡­¡±

    ***

    The tradition of first-year hazing carried on as always. Where most second-, third-, and fourth-years usually waited until it was convenient to go on the attack¡ªsay, when a first-year stumbled across their path¡ªLathe went out of her way to pester them.

    Specifically, the fat merchant¡¯s son, Thirty. Appearing suddenly out of nowhere, slapping him between the doughy shoulder blades with all her might, then disappearing again was the runt¡¯s favorite pastime.

    This was no one-sided feud, however. Once while the first-years were serving the midday meal, Thirty accidentally dashed Lathe across the back of the head with the metal platter hard enough to bend the platter and lay open a gash on her scalp.

    Lathe had to be dragged off Thirty by Izak and a senior. The much larger Thirty had to be helped to the healer¡¯s shed.

    Bands of first-years began lying in wait for Lathe, though the bands were never made up of the same members twice. One scrap with the bloodthirsty berserker was more than enough to put anyone off the merchant¡¯s son¡¯s gold.

    Gold seemed to be the only way Thirty could get loyalty.

    ¡°He doesn¡¯t understand how gauche it looks to keep throwing it around,¡± Fifty-one said, helpfully stating what Izak and every other student of noble blood had already noticed. Though this time the bastard of West Crag could claim to have more insight into Thirty than the rest of the students, as Thirty and another first-year had been pawned off on Fifty-one and Eighty-eight as roommates.

    Twenty-six was the only man Thirty seemed to fear. For weeks, the merchant¡¯s son told anyone who would listen that he kept his distance because, ¡°Pirates are louse-ridden, disgusting vermin that spread disease. My father bought an order of bloodslaves from them once, and every single slave had the crotch rot.¡±

    When he heard, Twenty-six confronted Thirty.

    ¡°Ocean Rovers do not trade with blood drinkers, nor do we capture or transport slaves. We are not dirters. We give our enemies swift, merciful death in battle.¡±

    It was calmly and reasonably stated. It just happened to be stated while the pirate was thumbing the serrated blade of his swordbreaker and eyeing the first-year¡¯s fat throat.

    Thirty stopped spreading rumors about pirates after that.

    ***

    No truly stunning fighters had developed among the first-years by the time Thornfield¡¯s autumn mock tournament arrived, but Izak enjoyed having a few days to laze about watching their bracket before his own began.

    The prince was getting accustomed to how currency worked, so he put gold on most of the fights. He won some and lost some. Fifty-one was close enough to a peasant that he¡¯d been raised handling money; he explained that Izak¡¯s losses and wins more or less canceled one another out. But Izak had fun, and as far as he was concerned, that was the point of gold in the first place.

    Lathe tried to wager on herself to win the second-year bracket, but the student bookmaker, a third-year who had recently taken the name Ondreus, refused to let the runt bet because the wager matched exactly the amount of money that had been stolen from his stash the night before.

    Twenty-six refused to gamble on the tournament.

    ¡°Let me guess,¡± Izak said. ¡°Betting goes against the laws of pirate honor?¡±

    ¡°No. It is a waste of resources.¡± Dirter money was a waste of resources in itself, considering how often the coins he saw were faked or shaved down, but if he¡¯d had any money, Twenty-six would have stowed it away on the off chance that it might be required to bring him closer to killing the king.

    ¡°Entertainment is never a waste of resources,¡± Izak said.

    ***

    Mock tournaments had always been the most anticipated events at Thornfield, but since the start of their rivalry, the matches between Four and Twenty-six had become the highlight of the holiday. It was a foregone conclusion that the prince would win; the question was how close the pirate would come to beating him.

    That autumn, Twenty-six outlasted another eruption of thorns and a gale of knives only to lose the championship to a blistering whirlwind of fire. Having half the flesh on his body burnt black didn¡¯t stop him; he passed out from the lack of air.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t have many fires on the open ocean, huh?¡± Four asked the next day when Twenty-six had recovered enough to talk.

    ¡°Ocean Rovers are wise enough to take care with flames,¡± he said, inspecting his hands and arms. They had taken the worst of the damage in Four¡¯s failed attempt to get him to drop his cutlass and swordbreaker. Twenty-six had blacked out with the weapons still clutched in his melting fingers.

    Already the seared layers were peeling away to reveal healthy flesh beneath. He had put no conscious effort into repairing the burns; his body was healing itself.

    Four noticed. ¡°You should learn to use blood magic offensively. You¡¯ve got the ability, and your body clearly knows what to do.¡±

    Twenty-six stared down at the newly grown skin. The sun had faded from him over the past year and a half. He was still naturally darker than the rest of the dirters at Thornfield, but stand him up next to any Ocean Rover on the sea and it would be obvious who spent their time skulking in the shadows.

    How much evil did he have to embrace? How much more of an abomination did he have to become?

    He closed his fist and watched the veins and muscles shift beneath the skin, thinking of the name he would take when he was grafted. The color darker than any other, poised over the depths of the deepest chasm. The man who could redeem the blood debt from the dirter king.

    ¡°Show me,¡± he told Four.

 Chapter 52: Happily Married

    As fall turned to winter, the royal household moved into Mistfen, the Siu Carinal residence. The great muddy river flowed past the lavish mansion like coagulating blood, great chunks of ice and snow dragged down from the north turning brown and melting as they oozed toward the ocean.

    Standing and status were more relaxed in Siu Carinal due to the delta¡¯s strange view of wealth being a substitute for good breeding. As a result, the Festival of Winterlight was a mix of royalty, nobility, and the very rich. The king and queen, the newly married prince and princess, and the Lord and Lady of Siu Carinal, all sat on the High Stand. Right next to all this noble, ancient blood lounged some of the wealthiest sacramental owners in the south, a handful of affluent gambling house owners, certain men of means who remained vague about their industries, and a merchant who¡¯d built his shipping empire outrunning the pirates before the war. This last was escorted by the infamous courtesan, the Daylily of Siu Carinal.

    The Winterlight sacrifices were lit, the strong gods were pleased, and it was announced to the gathering that Crown Prince Etian and Princess Pasiona were expecting an heir.

    As the former crown prince Izakiel had been betrothed several times, married none, and hadn¡¯t even fathered a bastard in all the time he was in line for the crown, public opinion was that Hazerial¡¯s unorthodox choice for future king had proven correct. The strong gods clearly smiled upon the move, Teikru particularly, since the god-goddess had blessed the young couple with a child.

    With this joyous announcement ringing in the smoke-, mud-, and blood-scented night, the revelry began. Noble and wealthy commoner alike swept across the opulent High Pavilion in time with the majestic strains of court musicians. Below, the peasants jumped and twisted and swung one another along with wailing delta tunes.

    The juxtaposition of high and low, noble and common appealed to Pasiona. She flowed through the steps with her husband in icy perfection, watching the wild cavorting taking place below.

    ¡°They look as if they¡¯re having more fun down there,¡± Etian said.

    Pasiona locked eyes with him. ¡°You always seem to know what I¡¯m thinking.¡±

    ¡°If you were a fencer, I¡¯d tell you not to look where you¡¯re going to strike.¡± The flickering light from the sacrifices glinted off his lenses. ¡°Your eyes give you away.¡±

    She slid her hand up his shoulder until she could stroke the warmth of his neck. It was a rare breach of her frozen fa?ade, but one that could easily be dismissed as accidental placement by an expecting princess growing weary of the festivities. He acknowledged the sign of affection with a hint of a smile and a squeeze of her waist.

    Though no one at court guessed it, Pasiona had grown to love Etian. As he had told her when they met, he was Josean-blessed; his tenderness was not like the tenderness Darios had shown her. Etian didn¡¯t compose romantic verse or lavish frivolous affection, but his attention, when it came to focus on her, was all-consuming.

    There was something, too, in the way his steely public face contrasted with the rare vulnerability only she ever saw. It had been the same with Darios. Her admiration for the commoner had sprung from the disparity between the hardened warrior and the lovesick poet who shared a single body.

    Etian spent his nights in punishing exertion, pushing through hours of study with his blood magic tutors. After washing the sweat and blood away, it was off to court or the Hall of Law or war meetings. In the early mornings, he dined with Pasiona in their chambers, and they took their pleasure of one another. Some days they bathed together, some days he bathed alone. Then it was off to the Royal Thorns, occasionally with the princess¡¯s company, where Etian fenced and practiced sword scenarios until Pasiona could barely stand to watch another match.

    It was no mystery where his iron physique and stamina had come from. He was relentless. The mystery was how he managed to keep going at such a pace. Surely even the second coming of the warrior god needed rest.

    ¡°It¡¯s what I¡¯ve always done,¡± was his explanation.

    ¡°Have you considered that these exertions aren¡¯t required of you now?¡± she asked. ¡°No king fights his own battles. Your Thorns will see to them.¡±

    Etian frowned. ¡°I won¡¯t leave men to do a job I wouldn¡¯t do myself.¡±

    In sleep alone did the cracks appear. Sometimes after Etian had left her bed for the day, Pasiona woke and slipped into the separate chamber where her husband slept.

    The day of the Festival, in spite of their exertions on and off the pavilion, he slept as fitfully as ever. Pasiona pressed herself against the wall, one hand unconsciously pressed to her lips as she watched him.

    Without his lenses, Etian appeared younger, more vulnerable. The shadows seemed to paint his face with much deeper pools. He gasped for air, fought some awful creature, wept bitterly, clawed at the bedcovers and himself.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    In the depths of the terror, she heard him whimper, ¡°Kelena.¡±

    The name was a splash of icy water on her face. Pasiona hadn¡¯t seen the girl since the royal progress the year before and had never spoken to her. According to the queen then, Princess Kelena had been too busy training to join in any of the customary feminine pursuits.

    In truth, Pasiona had forgotten that her husband had a sister. No one in the royal household ever alluded to the girl. No place was ever set for her, no things were packed for her when the court moved. Pasiona couldn¡¯t think of a single sign she¡¯d seen of the girl in all the time she¡¯d been a part of the royal family.

    Though Pasiona was accustomed to secrecy in her own affairs, she preferred blunt openness in the affairs of others. She approached her husband the next night as he dressed.

    ¡°What happened to your sister, Kelena?¡±

    ¡°The strong gods chose her,¡± Etian said, going to the washstand.

    ¡°For what?¡±

    He scooped water from the basin and scrubbed it across his face. ¡°The war with the Helat.¡±

    ¡°Where is she?¡± Pasiona asked. ¡°Why have I never seen her in the palace? Why does no one ever speak of her?¡±

    The washstand and basin exploded, splintered wood and shards of glass littering the floor. Blood dripped from Etian¡¯s fist. He snatched a linen out of the debris, dried the water from his face, and slid his lenses on as if he couldn¡¯t feel the injury.

    Pasiona shook, poised somewhere between rage and fear. Her hands felt like ice, but her cheeks burned as she lifted her chin.

    ¡°Am I to take that as a warning and shrink away cowed?¡± Her voice crackled with the cold. ¡°Before we married, you promised you would give me anything I wanted. I want to know where the girl is.¡±

    He turned to face her then, his eyes locking on hers. Though he wore his glasses, Pasiona was certain in that moment that his dark eyes saw nothing. She backed away a step before she realized what she was doing and stood her ground.

    ¡°We are at war,¡± Etian said, his voice as hard as steel. ¡°If you don¡¯t have the stomach for that, get out.¡±

    ***

    The motion to shore up the king¡¯s army with the lords¡¯ standing armies passed at the turn of the new year, about the time the Helat sacked the northeastern city of Siu Ferel in all her shimmering, ivory beauty.

    Clarencio had held the motion off longer than he expected to, winning over nearly a third of the lords to his side¡ªKariot supposedly included¡ªbefore a late winter croup caught him. Every sickness was potentially deadly for a man with his family¡¯s failing lungs, and this bout in particular kept him away from the Hall of Law for a few nights shy of a month. Clarencio sent the House Mattius representative in his place, coaching the man daily, grilling him for every word said in his absence, and more than likely drawing out the illness with his refusal to rest.

    At the height of Clarencio¡¯s convalescence, the king made a rare appearance on the floor and ordered a vote. With Hazerial standing there, of course, a good portion of the chaff who¡¯d blown over to Clarencio¡¯s side blew back to Zinote¡¯s, and the matter was decided just as the king had predicted.

    The redrafted marriage contract was delivered the day after the motion passed, complete with the new five-year betrothal period. The king might be Eketra-blessed, but he had yet to default on a promise.

    From his sickbed, Clarencio examined his representative¡¯s transcription of the king¡¯s address to the Hall, while the Mattius family healer grumbled about wasting perfectly good blood magic on a man determined to work himself into the grave. Luckily, Clarencio had plenty of practice ignoring the healer¡¯s disapproval.

    The address had been a powerful demand that the Kingdom of Night expend every resource available to crush the invaders, with suggestions that the lords who had been blocking the motion cared more about their own appearance of strength than the holdings being ransacked.

    No hints at treason, however.

    A vicious coughing fit disrupted his reading and sprayed fine droplets of blood onto the parchment. Less than he had been hacking up, but still a reminder that he could go the way of his many siblings at any time.

    He glanced at the updated marriage contract on the writing desk.

    The memory of the girl weeping in the dungeons beneath Blazing Prairie haunted him.

    His peers bought and sold bloodslaves younger than the princess as if they were cattle and paid top price for catches off the street if they were young and handsome enough. He¡¯d overheard Kariot and his friends discussing the best ways to make peasants offer up their virgin children.

    And yet the idea that a man and wife would not only subject their child to the torments he¡¯d seen Kelena suffer but would use her suffering as a bargaining piece hounded Clarencio as nothing else did. Her own parents. The very people who were supposed to be protecting her, coddling her, spoiling her to the core like all the other noble girls her age.

    Maybe his father had been right. Maybe there was no hope for the kingdom short of total overthrow.

    Clarencio added the dried mullein the healer had left to the burner and tried to calm his lungs long enough to breathe in the smoke.

    He had to survive, if only to save this one innocent from her circumstances. Survive and succeed at communicating with the Helat. Convince them to take in an ambassador of peace from a people who tortured their own children.

    But suppose the Children of Day were as twisted as the Kingdom of Night. Suppose they were worse.

    Light, maybe Clarencio was the twisted one. How could he be certain he had the moral high ground when every other soul in the world said he was wrong? If everyone believed the same thing, then that made him the aberration, didn¡¯t it?

    ¡°You have a spark of the divine in you¡ªwe all do¡ªand it doesn¡¯t come from the strong gods,¡± Paius had told him once. ¡°You know when something isn¡¯t right. But bury that spark, push forward toward perversion, shovel enough manure on top of it, and the spark will go out. So many convince themselves that only their pleasure matters. The pain of those around them ceases to hurt them. When seeing others suffer stops hurting you, then you¡¯ll know you¡¯ve lost the truth.¡±

    A touch heretical, certainly, but in his now thirty-two years, Clarencio had observed the truth in his father¡¯s words over and over again.

    The only response was to soldier on for as long as his crippled leg, failing lungs, and bleeding heart kept working.

    ***

    The day after the Hall of Law voted to give command of their standing armies to the crown, Hazerial summoned Etianiel to the royal chambers.

    ¡°Reinforcements will be mustered by the spring thaw,¡± he told the crown prince. ¡°Prepare to ride out with them. It is time for the second coming of Josean.¡±

 Chapter 53: Getting Learnt

    Athalia¡¯s friend, the knight, was an older man with a minor holding the Lord of Siu Carinal had awarded him some thirty years before for saving a bumbling cousin in the war up north.

    ¡°When I was a young buck,¡± as the old knight said. Most of his stories started off that way.

    The old knight¡¯s favorite pastime was to recount his heroic feats of long ago and swear he could replicate them tonight if called upon. By the end of the first month, Seleketra had heard all of his exploits and begun to see where minor details were getting tangled as the past grew further away.

    But he was as gentle as Athalia had promised. He never hurt Seleketra on purpose, and when he found out he was too heavy for her, he taught her positions that saved her from taking a man¡¯s weight.

    ¡°Some of these court lads are a sight bigger than I. Never lifted a sword in their life, the lards. We¡¯d better get you a few tricks in reserve to keep from being smothered.¡±

    The old knight taught Seleketra what pleased a man, what he liked to hear, what would keep him hanging on her every glance. Without realizing it, he also taught her to listen to the same anecdote over and over again, to appear fascinated every time, and to seem captivated by the most tedious conversation.

    Seleketra soon learned that the most vital role she had to play wasn¡¯t in the bedchamber, but on the arm. She was to be a status symbol, a mark of wealth and potency, a banner to make other men burn with envy by imagining her lavishing her favors upon her companion. Desperately yearned for by all, but possessed by few.

    The old knight bought dresses and jewelry for his young companion, and staged smaller versions of the events she would one day attend. Actors, singers, jesters, fire jugglers, and contortionists, all playing to an audience of two. Dances, feasts, and exhibitions.

    Pretty was dazzled by the spectacle. She couldn¡¯t contain her shouts of joy and dismay at seeing her first drama, and in minutes the jester had her crying from laughing so hard. The bendy people who twisted themselves into curlicues held Pretty spellbound, and the fire jugglers were delighted by her gasps and enthusiastic applause.

    Kindly, the old knight admonished Seleketra. A close-rat could behave that way on the streets, but for Seleketra, these performances must be mundane, minor diversions at best. Demigoddesses were not awed by anything, let alone human foolery.

    Pretty found boredom easiest to convey with the musicians the old knight hired. They didn¡¯t know how to make the body-moving, heart-thumping, wailing music she was used to hearing on the streets of Siu Carinal. These musicians droned like water bugs while the old knight taught her the steps to the dances popular at court, which didn¡¯t seem much like real dancing at all to Pretty. She never knew uphill folk had to follow a pattern to dance.

    The weather grew colder, and the performers stopped traveling for the winter. It was time, the old knight told her, that he brought in a priest to teach Pretty her letters.

    Pretty had never met a person who knew letters, but Athalia had been adamant that it was a necessity. The Daylily had risen from the Closes to an uphill townhouse without ever reading a lick. She was determined that Seleketra would go even farther, and the only way to do that was to read like the nobles did.

    The priest scared Pretty sicker than sick. Back in Siu Carinal, whenever the moon hid behind the ghost city, the priests of the strong gods flowed in waves through the low streets looking for close-rats to sacrifice. Nights when the moon hid were bad medicine, and the priests were the reason why.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    But Athalia wanted Pretty learnt in letters, so she was going to have to do it to be a good daughter.

    Shaking and sweating, Pretty begged the old knight to promise he wouldn¡¯t let the priest drag her off. He took her hand and gave her his solemn vow.

    She had trouble paying attention to the priest¡¯s teaching until she made believe she was Seleketra. Seleketra wasn¡¯t afraid of anything, not even the bent shape inside the priest robes, or the hot rank breath whistling through its mask, or the hands all covered in scars and old blood.

    By springtime, Seleketra could read the one book the knight owned and even make her own beautiful letters with ink and parchment. The priest crawled away, back to whatever high place it worshipped in, and Pretty only ever saw it again in day terrors.

    ¡°My dear Seleketra, you have blossomed like a winter flower,¡± the old knight told her one day at supper. ¡°Your manner, your comportment, your touch¡­ The Daylily will be delighted with your transformation. As for I, however, it is with the heaviest of hearts that I admit it is time you return to Siu Carinal.¡±

    ¡°My good knight,¡± Seleketra replied, favoring him with a bittersweet smile and a skillful caress from her tattooed fingers. ¡°The pleasure of our time together will always be one of my greatest treasures.¡±

    But whatever Seleketra said, Pretty was so happy her heart could bust. She was going back to Athalia! She would show the Daylily that she¡¯d been learned better than any real daughter could.

    ***

    Lathe didn¡¯t keep up extra sword practice while the weapons masters were absent, but she played with the disappearing and mirroring, and not just to harass Thirty. She used it while the pirate scum and Four practiced blood magic¡ªusually to their annoyance¡ªand during large-scale melees while training to assault or defend a castle, when nobody would miss her. She even crept around the animals in the stables, because they were harder to deceive than humans.

    Most of the time, she could disappear completely, her sound, scent, and shadow gone as well as her form. There were certain times, however, that her shadow remained, and she had to resort to distorting where the shade fell.

    Master Saint Daven hadn¡¯t noticed the pattern before he left, which just went to show what an emptyheaded old crow he was, always squawking at her to think when he was the one not thinking. All he¡¯d noticed was that Lathe¡¯s abilities went in streaks. Perfect invisibility for weeks at a time, then everything she had learned would fall apart.

    But he must not have kept track of when he had to yell at the brat, because he never did mention how it was right around the same time every month.

    What else Lathe realized that the master hadn¡¯t was how much stronger her other medicine got during that time. She could heal up in a heartbeat, throw her shadow a mile, outrun the wind.

    She had almost whupped Four during the autumn tournament. They had fought the match before the championships, and she just near pulled the upset of the year. Her left blade pared a wisp of dark hair from the back of Four¡¯s neck the second before his medicine snatched her out of the air and slammed her backward into the wall of the keep.

    Next tournament she¡¯d be ready for that throwing trick, and then she would really give her roommate what-for.

    Lathe spent a good deal of time dreaming of winning the spring tournament, then rubbing her victory in the weapons master¡¯s ugly face.

    But the spring tournament loomed close, and the old crow still wasn¡¯t back.

    Lathe waylaid Grandmaster one day after lectures to ask about it. ¡°You figure the twins run out on you?¡±

    Grandmaster Heartless had just received the writ announcing when the king would be in residence for the spring grafting. He¡¯d come to the kitchens to make arrangements, and she, as usual, was working scullery.

    ¡°What twins?¡± the old man asked.

    ¡°The Saints, you know the Saints! The weapons masters. Me, I figure they up and run off so¡¯s they didn¡¯t have to teach no more.¡±

    ¡°Ah, I see. No, I imagine Masters Saint Daven and Saint Galen will be back when and if they can. Do you have complaints about training under Master Fright?¡±

    ¡°Nah, he¡¯s a good fighter, him, just fussy when it comes to lecture time. Same as all of ¡¯em.¡±

    Grandmaster smiled. ¡°I suspect if students spent a lecture listening instead of talking, and sitting still rather than getting up and moving around, they might find the masters less inclined to fussiness.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t seem likely, Grandmaster Sir. If you so much as itch your nose or let a fart slip, you¡¯re in the kitchens scrubbin¡¯ pots ¡¯til the ghost cities burn out.¡±

    ¡°Try it my way once and see what happens.¡±

    Lathe agreed unenthusiastically. Grandmaster had river water in his ears. She¡¯d sat still purt near ¡¯til her bones jumped out of her skin while that blamed manners lecture dragged on and on, and she¡¯d still got in trouble. It had nothing to do with her. Anybody with common sense would¡¯ve poked that mole on the back of Eleven¡¯s neck to make sure it wasn¡¯t a tick.

 Chapter 54: A Dagger in the Night

    Spring thaw came. Under Prince Etianiel¡¯s command, the disparate standing armies that now belonged to the crown marched north to retake Siu Ferel. The king headed for Thornfield for the yearly grafting, and the rest of the royal household made the half-frozen, half-mud-soaked trek back to Siu Rial, the City of Blood.

    Clarencio welcomed the move. Though he had mostly recovered, and the bloody handkerchiefs and spit buckets and even the carrying chair he¡¯d had to use a few times had been removed, every inch of his family¡¯s Siu Carinal residence seemed to fester with memories of his winter¡¯s convalescence. Even the stony darkness of the bastion-like Siu Rial home would be a welcome change.

    The endless ride was a trial to endure, trapped in the carriage for the majority of every night, but he climbed out to exercise and work the cramps from his leg and back whenever the train of coaches ahead of him became stuck and had to dig out.

    His steward, Jarik, had arrived in Siu Rial a week in advance with a small portion of the staff, so by the time Clarencio dragged himself from the carriage and up the two torturous stairs to the House Mattius residence, a hot meal in the fire-warmed dining room awaited, and a soothing bath was on the way.

    It was the promise of stretching out on a real bed that Clarencio most looked forward to, however. Little as he¡¯d done on the way besides twiddle his thumbs, perch on carriage seats, and massage the pain in his leg, traveling had left him exhausted. He nearly nodded off in the bath as the hot water pacified the aches and pains of the road.

    ¡°Out already, your lordship?¡± Jarik asked as Clarencio limped into the corridor.

    ¡°Even I know when it¡¯s time to lay down somewhere I won¡¯t drown.¡±

    The steward signaled to a serving boy to empty the bathwater, then followed the crippled lord, fussing with the collar of Clarencio¡¯s robe.

    ¡°Leave it,¡± Clarencio said, a little sharper than he¡¯d intended. He forced a lighter tone. ¡°I¡¯m not dressing for a feast. In fact, in five minutes, I hope not to be sensate at all.¡±

    ¡°Shall I remain abovestairs tonight in case your lordship requires assistance?¡±

    Meaning Clarencio wasn¡¯t getting around nearly as well as he thought he was. Hard to believe, considering he was practically crawling.

    ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary.¡± At Jarik¡¯s hesitation, Clarencio smiled. ¡°I¡¯ll be skipping and frolicking again by nightfall, you¡¯ll see.¡±

    The older man frowned.

    Clarencio sighed. ¡°The bell rope is practically on my pillow here. You¡¯ll hear from me if I require anything, I swear to it.¡±

    Reluctantly, the steward bowed and retired for the day.

    Clarencio finished his trek to the windowless bedchamber, thankfully without collapsing.

    There was a fire in the grate, but no one had lit the lamp on the bedside table. Perhaps Jarik had taken on a new hire and forgotten to mention that his lordship preferred to read until he fell asleep.

    Just as well. He didn¡¯t need a book to put himself out tonight.

    He wedged his walking stick between the bedframe and the feather mattress, then leaned against the scrollworked post to disrobe.

    Fabric whispered behind him, opposite the hangings on the bed.

    Clarencio spun on his heel, shoving his robe out in front while his free hand groped for his stick.

    The silk ripped beneath a blade. A body crashed into him. Together, they slid off the bed post and fell onto the mattress in a tangle of legs and arms. The walking stick gave a muffled thump, then rolled across the carpeted stone floor, out of reach.

    Clarencio wrestled to lever the attacker off him. Without the use of his leg, it was nearly impossible to get leverage.

    A bewildering stream of hot blood poured forth from the man¡¯s throat, showering Clarencio¡¯s face and chest. The attacker thrashed, his movements weakening, until finally, he stilled. In death, the man¡¯s weight seemed to double.Stolen story; please report.

    Then the weight lifted. With a muffled thump, the body was tossed to the floor.

    Clarencio rolled to the floor as well and snatched up his walking stick, heart thundering. He wished he had a rapier. Why didn¡¯t he keep a rapier in his bedchamber anymore? He always had as a young man.

    A cloaked shadow crossed to the fire. ¡°I would¡¯ve killed him sooner, but I wasn¡¯t sure if he was yours.¡±

    The lamp flared to life. Saint Daven sat it on the bedside table, then stepped back.

    Clarencio slumped back against the corner post at the foot of the bed, every muscle in his body going limp and shaky. The cooling blood made him shiver. He forced himself to unclench his fist around the walking stick, then picked up the robe with the dagger still tangled in it and wiped some of the wet from his face.

    ¡°How long was he here?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. He got here before I did. Don¡¯t cut yourself on that knife, it¡¯s probably poisoned.¡±

    Clarencio glared at the former Thorn. ¡°How stupid do you think I am?¡±

    ¡°That was fast work with the robe.¡± Saint Daven plucked the dagger out of the cloth, turning it over to study the sticky substance painted along the edge.

    ¡°Yes, well, I¡¯m particularly wary of attackers coming at me from behind these days.¡± Clarencio draped the bloody robe across his legs to regain some sense of security. Nothing made a man feel quite as vulnerable as being attacked while naked.

    The fight was over, but the moment the adrenaline wore off, Clarencio knew he would be in a world of pain. He dragged himself onto the bed before he was incapable of doing it, then assessed his surroundings.

    He didn¡¯t recognize the dead man. The roughspun clothing and crude dagger suggested a common thug. Had Lord Kariot finally decided his son¡¯s indiscretion was far enough in the past that Clarencio could be attacked without fear of accusation? Or had another lord taken advantage of the likely association with Kariot to send in a goon? Zinote could be taking revenge for having his motion blocked for so long and so many of his allies stolen. Lord Mosole, too, had become bitter enough since word got out that Clarencio was marrying Princess Kelena instead of his daughter Arianne.

    House Mattius had no shortage of enemies these days.

    Saint Daven stood there, watching him with those unnerving gold eyes. A timely, unwanted savior. The clothing he¡¯d left in during the previous summer had taken a considerable beating over the past year, and his boots were caked in mud from the road.

    ¡°Tell me this is a victorious return and not that you¡¯re here to report that you were unable to make it across the border,¡± Clarencio said.

    Saint Daven pulled a missive from his threadbare jacket and held it out.

    For a moment, all Clarencio could do was stare at the vellum envelope. An unfamiliar seal was stamped in gold-flecked wax that shimmered in the lamplight.

    He hadn¡¯t realized until that very moment how little faith he¡¯d had in any part of this endeavor. Sure, he had thrown every ounce of his efforts into writing the first letter¡ªhe was Josean-blessed; pouring his might into every task he undertook was in his nature¡ªbut he had secretly been certain it would fail. The letter would be intercepted, the messenger shot, the author hanged. Or the communication would be received and immediately rejected by the Helat, again, dead messenger. Any number of possible iterations that ended in failure.

    Ever the embodiment of patience, when Clarencio didn¡¯t take the missive, Saint Daven tossed it onto the bed beside him.

    ¡°Read it or don¡¯t. My job is done. They don¡¯t want a Khinet-born carrying the correspondence. They said they¡¯ll send their own messenger for your response.¡±

    Clarencio wiped the drying blood from his hands onto his covers and picked up the missive.

    It had weight to it. An unconditional rejection could have been contained to a single line.

    ¡°How will he find me?¡±

    Saint Daven nodded at the envelope in Clarencio¡¯s hand. ¡°The information¡¯s in there.¡±

    ¡°You read it?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t carry messages I haven¡¯t read anymore.¡±

    Now that he was looking for it, Clarencio could see where the seal had been broken and reheated. He had to fight the urge to ask what it said.

    ¡°Who wrote it? How did you get to them?¡±

    Saint Daven shrugged. ¡°It took some convincing to show them I wasn¡¯t there to cut down as many of them as I could. Not that they trust me much more now. I imagine I¡¯ve been watched on the return trip and that you¡¯ll be getting a visit soon.¡±

    Clarencio stared down at the missive a moment longer, then reached for the bell rope.

    Saint Daven moved toward the door.

    ¡°Wait,¡± Clarencio said, pulling the bell. ¡°I don¡¯t have any coin up here, but Jarik will bring something from the coffers.¡±

    There was that ticking jaw muscle again. ¡°I don¡¯t want your money.¡±

    ¡°Do you think I care what you want? Grafted or not, you¡¯re still a slave for as long as you allow them to use you like one. You did a job. Accept pay like a man.¡±

    Jarik¡¯s discreet scratch came at the chamber door.

    The first spasm wracked Clarencio¡¯s leg then, and it was a long minute before he could do anything but grit his teeth and hammer on his leg. By the time it had passed, Saint Daven had disappeared.

    ¡°Your lordship?¡± Jarik called through the door.

    The chamber door swung open, admitting the worried steward. He nearly tripped over the body in his haste to get to Clarencio.

    ¡°Light burn me!¡± Jarik gasped. ¡°What happened here?¡±

    Behind the white-faced steward, the door pulled closed seemingly under its own power. The Thorn was gone.

    ¡°All this blood!¡± Jarik clutched at the collar of his own dressing gown, which was pristine and unrumpled despite his rush to answer the summons. ¡°I¡¯ll fetch the healer.¡±

    ¡°No need, I¡¯m unhurt,¡± Clarencio said, massaging the next round of agony as it rolled up his leg. ¡°I just need assistance getting to the washstand. And could you send up someone to take out this rubbish?¡±

 Chapter 55: No Fair Fights

    By the time the first-year spring bracket had started, it was all over Thornfield that the king would arrive unaccompanied this year. There was a strange sense of mingled disappointment and relief that the queen wouldn¡¯t be joining him. Most of the upperclassmen were still talking about seeing her the year before. And yet, since then, she had managed to kill both Striker and Twelve¡ªtheir thornknives had been planted in the graveyard out past the walls and the announcements made in the dining hall during supper.

    The second-year bracket progressed as expected. Twenty-six, Izak, and Lathe tore through the rounds despite the increased skill of their opponents.

    Unlike tournaments before, Izak had become skilled enough with the swordstaff that he barely needed to use the royal blood magic until his match with the pirate. Just as the runt had said so long ago, there was no way Izak could beat Twenty-six fair and square. The pirate fought through a wall of fire and threw off the puppet-string urge to flay himself with his own blades. He even managed to heat Izak¡¯s internal organs to a novice level before Izak cut off Twenty-six¡¯s blood magic and hit upon the winning technique: filling his nose, mouth, throat, and lungs with clotted blood.

    It looked as if Lathe would face Izak for the championship, until Eighty-Eight beat the runt in the shocker of the penultimate round.

    The dual-blade wielding berserker had the match firmly in hand. She backed the huge rustic across the bailey, forcing the spectators to hurry out of the way. Eighty-eight stumbled in the roots of the thorn tree and thumped backward against the trunk, desperately flailing his longsword in an effort to delay the inevitable.

    Then, out of nowhere, Lathe¡¯s right leg buckled.

    Eighty-eight¡¯s awkward swing scraped down her blade and dug into her shoulder. She tried to bind the blade by wrapping her arm around it and raise her opposite sword to his throat, but a strange deadening wave washed through her muscles.

    With a final heave, the rustic¡¯s sword came to rest along the inside of Lathe¡¯s neck.

    ¡°Winner: Eighty-eight¡ª¡±

    Lathe screamed and tore into the crowd. Her target was the merchant¡¯s son, Thirty.

    Luckily for Thirty, Master Fright had seen Lathe lose a sure win the year before and was ready for her outburst.

    As the master dragged her off Thirty, Lathe shrieked, ¡°He cheated, him! He shot me with this here contraption all slicked up with bad medicine!¡±

    She threw down a crossbow small enough to fit in the palm of Thirty¡¯s pudgy hand.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never seen that toy before in my life,¡± he said.

    ¡°Liar!¡± Lathe tried to claw her way back to him but collapsed in the dirt, legs refusing to cooperate. ¡°I swiped it outta his trousers, me!¡±

    Grandmaster Heartless stepped in before the inter-year conflict could escalate any further.

    ¡°Four, drag Lathe over to Healer Prime to deal with that nerve-deadening agent. One assumes it is quite hard to counteract, and even harder to acquire for anyone whose father does not frequently ship less-than-docile bloodslaves to sacramentals.¡±

    Thirty and Lathe both started shouting arguments again; Lathe¡¯s words were growing notably slurred.

    ¡°Master Fright¡¯s ruling on the match stands.¡± Grandmaster¡¯s voice cracked across the bailey like a slap. ¡°Lathe, you lost! Clear the ring!¡±

    Heartless raised a hand before she could protest, though by then the poison had incapacitated her completely. ¡°In a real skirmish, there will always be unforeseen circumstances. If a Thorn cannot defeat his opponent in spite of interference, in spite of the worst odds and the greatest obstacles, then he is a dead man and his master with him.¡±

    ***

    As Four and Twenty-six carried their drugged roommate to the healer, Grandmaster Heartless raked his eyes across the crowd of students. Some gaped in outrage, others looked smug, the merchant¡¯s son included.

    That was the danger of competition. Young men too easily forgot that what was truly on the line was an eventual fight for their masters¡¯ lives.

    ¡°Remember this,¡± Grandmaster told them. ¡°This tournament does not exist to see who can win in a fair fight. You are not at Thornfield to learn courtly dueling rules with decorum and first bloods and ¡®have mercies¡¯. You are here to win. End of discussion.¡±

    ***

    Due to spring flooding, the roads between Siu Carinal and Thornfield had turned to swamp. The king and his entourage arrived a week later than expected, and not in the royal carriage, but on horseback, surrounded by likewise mounted Royal Thorns. The carriage remained where it had gotten stuck, with its footmen, a local stable owner, his sons, and a team of workhorses trying to dig and drag the vehicle out before the marshy ground swallowed it whole.

    Despite the lack of a beautiful queen accompanying him, the king¡¯s arrival was still awe-inspiring for most of the population of Thornfield. Young men and boys cheered and jostled with each other for a better view of the Chosen of the Strong Gods, whom, one day, they might serve.

    The arrival had come in the midst of supper, but not a soul among them was disappointed at what they had left their meals to see. Even through the mud, Hazerial¡¯s clothing was regal, dark purples and blues and golds. The distinctive House Khinet features that made his son so admired by the fairer sex made the king impossible to ignore. He radiated such power and authority that even the hired post nag he rode looked like a beast bred for the royal stables. One could easily believe the stories of the king felling an entire pirate tribe singlehanded.

    Next to that, Grandmaster Heartless, the legend of their brotherhood and ruler of their tiny spit of sand, seemed faded and small, and that in itself was a shock of perspective to most of the students.

    To Izak, the contrast was an indication that the man who deserved respect was not always the man who looked as if he should command respect.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Luck¡ªwhether good or bad remained to be seen¡ªhad placed him and Twenty-six much closer to the sovereign this year than they had been the year previous. The pirate watched the king pass by, a mere arm¡¯s length away, with the same chilling glare the prince had seen when standing opposite the point of his cutlass.

    ¡°Don¡¯t do anything stupid,¡± Izak said under his breath.

    ¡°A shark attacks when it is hungry,¡± Twenty-six replied, watching the king follow Grandmaster inside. ¡°A leviathan attacks when it is ready.¡±

    ***

    Because of the late hour of his arrival, the king did not send for Grandmaster Heartless until the following sundown. Heartless gave the king the list and the accompanying report on the fourth-years ready for grafting, this time with three names from among the third-years to fill the required gaps in the ranks. It was less than he had stolen from the previous third-year class, but not by much.

    ¡°A bare score and ten,¡± Hazerial mused. He raised his dark eyes from the parchment. ¡°You have no others you would consider candidates for grafting this year?¡±

    ¡°These thirty are the best from among the senior classes and the most prepared for service tonight. Your Majesty, may I speak freely?¡±

    ¡°You have our permission. Speak your mind.¡±

    Heartless had no intention of doing that. The younger generation of Thorns might think him fearless, and his old friends certainly believed he was brutally honest to a fault, but Heartless was no fool. He would attempt to get his point across in the closest approximation that the required reverence for a sovereign allowed.

    ¡°As Your Majesty has no doubt already noticed, the number of Thorns produced by Thornfield has been on the decline. Our recruiters search diligently throughout the holdings, scouring for a drop of blood magic. I admit boys now who would have been turned away when I was coming up through the ranks, and it is because none with stronger blood can be found. Our latest arriving crop had two shy of the number you hold in your hand. A mere twenty-eight students.¡±

    Hazerial fixed him with a stern expression. ¡°Your emphasis is understood, Grandmaster. Stop belaboring the details and get to the point.¡±

    ¡°The blood magic is dying out. The men who have it are not passing it on to the next generation, because most do not live long enough to sire children. We pluck the few boys that are born with it out of the gutters, put a sword in their hands, and they¡¯re killed before they can reproduce. There will come a night when no user of blood magic can be found at all.¡±

    ¡°You speak as if the blood magic is a matter of parentage rather than the blessing of the strong gods,¡± Hazerial said.

    ¡°I don¡¯t seek to undermine their supremacy, Your Majesty. But could it be that the strong gods have chosen to retake their blessing from us?¡±

    ¡°Tell us about the pirate,¡± Hazerial said.

    Grandmaster blinked. That was not the response he had been expecting, but a sudden pivot was not unusual with the king. Heartless flowed with the change of subject.

    ¡°Twenty-six is the best swordsman in his year, Your Majesty, though he ranks second overall to Prince Izak. He cannot overcome the prince¡¯s blood magic.¡±

    Hazerial received the mention of his son¡¯s superiority with an indifferent grunt. ¡°In our last conference, you said that the pirate could see as well as the average Child of Night in the dark, though he retained his day vision.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Your Majesty.¡±

    ¡°How does he heal?¡±

    ¡°Exceptionally. He has been scourged, and he¡¯s come off worse for the wear in bouts that would have killed weaker men, yet he has never approached Healer Prime of his own accord for anything but wound salve.¡±

    ¡°And how is he doing it, Grandmaster?¡±

    Heartless frowned. ¡°Either by the blood magic or by some magic the pirates have that we don¡¯t yet know of.¡±

    King Hazerial sat back in his chair and looked down his nose at the grandmaster. ¡°I will tell you something I have not told another soul, Heartless.¡±

    Though the royal we had disappeared, Grandmaster felt more certain than ever that he stood in the presence of a divinely appointed king. How the legends of Heartless the Great Defier would change if only the tellers knew that, in the face of such power, Heartless felt like an ant in the shadow of the royal boot.

    ¡°That pirate was gifted to me by the strong gods,¡± the king said. ¡°Through this gift, I will destroy our ancient enemy once and for all.¡±

    ***

    The fourth-year bracket, which had been postponed for His Majesty¡¯s arrival, took place over the following two nights, and the grafting the night after. No one died during the ritual that year. The king¡¯s hand was too practiced to botch the thornknife ceremony, and Grandmaster had warned each of the chosen third-years not to choose a name if they weren¡¯t certain of it. The lack of dead made the celebratory feast even more festive.

    Izak left early, and it took very little convincing to get Twenty-six to do the same. All the prince had to do was ask the pirate if he would rather practice than sit there not eating his food and staring at the king.

    ¡°I was not staring at him. I was assessing his guard.¡±

    ¡°Well, if you noticed anything interesting, don¡¯t tell me. He might ask about it when he sends for me.¡±

    But no summons came. The king and his new crop of Royal Thorns rode out without a glance at the former crown prince.

    ¡°I can¡¯t decide whether that¡¯s a good sign or a bad one,¡± Izak told Twenty-six while they practiced the next day.

    ¡°Interpreting signs is the work of a wife.¡± Twenty-six shifted his feet, prepared to begin their next blood magic duel. ¡°A man puts his muscle into the fight and leaves the rest to the God of the Waves.¡± He gestured with his swordbreaker for Izak to reset his own stance. ¡°Let us begin again.¡±

    Izak grimaced. ¡°If you want to keep going, let me heal your broken shoulder. It¡¯s making me sick hanging like that.¡±

    If the king had asked about Twenty-six¡¯s use of blood magic that year, one of the first things Izak had been prepared to tell him was that the pirate was hopeless at the most basic of spells¡ªhealing himself. That wasn¡¯t necessarily a lie. While Twenty-six¡¯s body healed quickly, his conscious efforts to speed healing were negligible compared to allowing the blood magic to take its course naturally.

    For the sake of time, Twenty-six agreed.

    Izak laid his hands on the break, catching hold of the hot blood pooling in the muscle around the injury. Concentrating, he poured energy into speeding the repair, drawing the pieces back together, aligning the break, knitting the bone, and strengthening the fissure so it wouldn¡¯t immediately break again.

    Where Twenty-six was making little progress at healing¡ªdue to lack of interest, Izak suspected, considering that in a few short months the pirate had learned attacks most nobles couldn¡¯t even pull off¡ªIzak himself was becoming quite the skilled healer. He no longer needed the other person to drink the same blood as he had to mend the damage, and he could speed the repair of all but catastrophic wounds.

    Funny. He¡¯d spent a childhood learning to torture and destroy, but all it had taken to acquire the knack for restoration was a friend with a death wish.

    If his future as captain of Etian¡¯s Royal Thorns weren¡¯t set in stone, Izak would have considered asking for a position at Thornfield under Healer Prime. The man was often overheard lamenting the fact that so few men with blood magic were interested in the art of healing.

    Izak could see why Prime so enjoyed the task. To take an injured person and return him to health called to something deep within Izak. Every successful repair, even minor ones, felt as if they threw a shovelful of purpose into the ragged hole in his soul.

    He could almost imagine his Uncle Ahixandro approving of such a pursuit. A lifetime of repairing rather than destroying. Building up rather than breaking down.

    But imagining a lifetime as a healer was as much a waste of time as calling upon the Blasphemous One. Just as Izak¡¯s name would never change, his future wouldn¡¯t either. He would grow old protecting his brother from malicious and violent deaths by inflicting violent and malicious deaths on the attackers and making sure that those deaths were horrific enough to frighten away anyone else considering the same. His rewards would be watching over his eventual nephews and nieces until they grew up to replace him and Etian, and fiery dalliances with the most beautiful and enthusiastic whores a Royal Thorn¡¯s salary could buy.

    At least he would get to use his healing skills on occasion. Probably not for Etian. If his brother needed healing, it would be because Izak had badly failed at his job. But certainly to heal the fencing partners who didn¡¯t realize how dangerous it was to spar with the second coming of Josean after he¡¯d received the Blood of the Strong Gods.

 Chapter 56: Queen of Rot & Ruin

    News raced through the kingdom that Prince Etianiel had retaken Siu Ferel and hung the Helat invaders from its ramparts. Every peasant from the delta to the City of Blood celebrated the second coming of the warrior strong god. Josean had returned. Wild, glorious tales of the crown prince¡¯s victory circulated throughout the kingdom.

    Following on the heels of this news, Pasiona received a missive from her husband.

    Etian¡¯s only reference to the battle was, The Helat are stunning warriors. The letter contained nothing of his own exploits, though this was no surprise, as Etian rarely had anything to say about a fight or match after it concluded. The rest of the missive simply informed her that there were no women in Siu Ferel with whom he had been intimate or planned to be intimate, and urged her to stay away from the queen and her Thorns.

    Etian had warned her of the woman before they parted as well, but thus far his concerns had come to nothing. Pasiona and the queen rarely crossed paths. She had seen Jadarah twice since Etian left¡ªat the feast the day the king returned from grafting his new Royal Thorns and again during the Festival of Springlight.

    The victory at Siu Ferel called for another feast, albeit a slightly less well-attended one than the Springlight celebration. Except for the dispossessed Lord of Siu Ferel, most of the lords of the Kingdom of Night had returned home for the summer to assemble entirely new standing armies from the dregs of their populace. In the absence of their fighting men enforcing law and order, highwaymen and marauders were becoming an increasing problem. The peasants were growing restless. They served their lords under the promise of protection, but their crops were burning and their families were being slaughtered while their lords did nothing.

    Pasiona heard little of this discussed at the feast, however. When the noblewomen spoke of their husbands¡¯ absence, it was only as a welcome relief on household gambling and whoring expenditures, which soared when the men were daily in one another¡¯s company. Not to mention it gave the ladies undivided time to devote to their own torrid liaisons.

    Briefly, Pasiona had considered taking a lover until Etian returned. Her desire had been running wild in her pregnancy, sending her orgasmic dreams that woke her in the depths of the day, which somehow only fanned the flames.

    Etian¡¯s letter hadn¡¯t asked whether she was refraining from other men, and she doubted he would object anyway. Except for that one brief, terrifying moment when she had asked about his sister, he¡¯d never demanded anything of her.

    And yet he was refraining from other women.

    In the end, Pasiona couldn¡¯t bring herself to indulge. There was a chance that Etian loved her, and that his firm resolve against taking a mistress was a manifestation of that love.

    Perhaps she was deluding herself. The Josean-blessed were not known for their romantic fancies. But there was the letter to her alone, brought by a Royal Thorn who had claimed to carry only it and a report for the king. And Etian¡¯s concern that she could be somehow hurt by Queen Jadarah.

    A strange fear, indeed. The queen was disgusting, but hardly frightening. Pasiona had heard of women who suffered nausea during their pregnancies; she hadn¡¯t experienced that ailment until Jadarah took Etian¡¯s empty seat beside Pasiona.

    ¡°A glorious feast, is it not?¡± The queen waved her goblet at the merriment. ¡°Minstrels, performers, dancers rejoicing in blood-soaked victory. All that¡¯s missing is the blind prince to absorb his worship.¡±

    Pasiona set aside the soft bit of bread she¡¯d been dipping in her garlic soup, her stomach revolting at the mingled scents of death and sex that hung around Jadarah like a shroud. She swallowed the sudden rush of nauseous saliva and switched to breathing through her mouth.

    ¡°I am certain my husband prefers the battlefield to celebrations.¡±

    Jadarah hmmed, a parody of sympathy in her tone. ¡°But what does the princess of ice prefer?¡±

    ¡°Are you referring to me or Princess Kelena?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t play coy. You¡¯ve heard what they say about you in the court.¡± Jadarah leaned closer and whispered, ¡°Of course, we both know they couldn¡¯t be more wrong, don¡¯t we?¡±

    Pasiona fixed a bored expression on her face. ¡°I cannot imagine what you mean.¡±

    Jadarah chuckled.

    ¡°She can¡¯t imagine and she doesn¡¯t wake up crying out from passionate dreams that show her exactly what I speak of.¡± The queen traced the shell of Pasiona¡¯s ear and down her throat, making the princess¡¯s skin crawl. ¡°But no blind prince to soothe the ache. Poor frozen flame.¡± She stroked Pasiona¡¯s hair. ¡°Doesn¡¯t she know a lover could quench the fire until her blind prince returns? Thorns are abundant here, and they crackle and burn hotter than any other.¡±

    ¡°I have finished with this conversation.¡± Pasiona stood, her stomach roiling, and bowed coldly to the queen. ¡°Your Majesty.¡±

    ¡°Watch them sometime, princess of ice.¡± Jadarah¡¯s purring voice somehow managed to follow Pasiona through the music and the noise of the crowd. ¡°Open the hidden door in the Corridor of Portraits, and you¡¯ll see how hot Thorns burn.¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ***

    Pasiona had no intention of finding out what the queen had meant. Unfortunately, with Etian on the northern front, she also had little to occupy her time. The renovations to the Sangmere nursery had been completed swiftly and efficiently, even with her myriad demands. Reading, art, and embroidery failed to hold her attention, and she couldn¡¯t stand to parade around with the other nobles, making sure she was seen in her best dresses and gossiping about what everyone else had chosen to be seen in.

    She was restless and bored. Although she was disgusted by the queen¡¯s attempt to pry into her affairs, the thought of finding a hidden door was intriguing.

    The Overlook, her family¡¯s mansion in the heart of the House Skalia holding, contained a handful of hidden passageways, though they weren¡¯t truly secret, just cleverly concealed shortcuts to allow servants to move from the kitchens to the ballroom or dining hall without being seen. As a child, she had used them to eavesdrop and spy on festivities she had been too young to attend.

    She had been in Castle Sangmere¡¯s Corridor of Portraits on multiple occasions, but she had never seen anything that hinted at a hidden door. Furthermore, she could see no logic in connecting a remote and rarely used hallway full of old paintings to anywhere else in the palace.

    To search the door out might be diverting. An intellectual exercise. In any case, it would be better than another hour of boredom.

    The passage was better hidden than she expected. There were no telltale gaps or drafts as there were around the secret doors in her former home. It took four nights of scouring the walls before Pasiona spotted the worn gilt on the lower corner of the frame enclosing a portrait of some ancient king whose name she did not care enough to wonder at.

    She pressed the corner.

    The frame shifted. There was a click inside the woodwork that she felt more than heard.

    The bottom half of the portrait and the wall below it swung open silently. Perhaps the servants kept the hinges oiled in order to come and go without disturbing the nobles.

    Suddenly, Pasiona felt eyes on her back. She looked down the corridor first one way, then the other. No one. The only ones watching her were monarchs long dead, their eyes shiny and crazed by cracking paint.

    Casting a final glance over her shoulder, Pasiona stepped into the dark passageway.

    ***

    Exploring Sangmere¡¯s secret passages proved to be more than the brief diversion of a single night. Unlike the short servant corridors Pasiona had known as a child, this was a sprawling network of routes through the castle. The tunnels narrowed in some places, widened in others, climbed and burrowed. She found exits in the tower, the dungeons, the corridors outside the feasting hall, the royal residences, and the courtyard. Whenever she believed she had explored the passages to their limits, she found a new offshoot.

    She never once saw evidence of another person using the passages. The queen obviously knew about them, but Pasiona never caught sight nor scent of the woman there.

    During her second week of exploring the secret passages, Pasiona¡¯s shoulder brushed a strange protrusion on the wall, eliciting a grating sound. A sliver of light appeared.

    She ran her hand over the area and found a small knob. Sliding it farther opened a narrow slot. She leaned down to look through.

    The slot opened high on the wall of the castle kitchens. The scent of baking bread wafted through, making her mouth water. Below, cooks rushed to prepare the upcoming meal while boys fed the fire and maids scoured pots. One boy snatched a pastry, unseen, while a cook¡¯s back was turned. A cook shoved a spoon down the back of her collar and scratched between her shoulder blades before returning the spoon to the pottage she was stirring. A maid and young man made meaningful signs at one another whenever they believed they were unobserved, then finally made separate excuses before skulking out, no doubt to meet and argue somewhere more private.

    It wasn¡¯t until the food transitioned from the ovens and fires to tureens and trays that Pasiona realized how long she had been enthralled by the simple domestic service.

    The secret passage became more interesting every night. She found dozens more view ports. She saw visiting dignitaries hunched over writing desks covered in parchment, listened to them plotting with their spies. She watched nobles in residence using bloodslaves as if they were living whores. Or beating them. Or hacking them to pieces. Or, in one case, hurling hideous verbal attacks that were clearly meant for someone else until the noble was red in the face.

    One port revealed a handsome tower room furnished in blues and pinks, but completely uninhabited. She tried it several times of night and day, but no one ever appeared.

    The barracks of the Royal Thorns were particularly entertaining. As disgusted as she was by the queen, Pasiona could now understand what she¡¯d meant by Thorns burning hot. Some of the men went through three or four women a night when they were off duty¡ªand not all of those were common girls or servants. Ladies of the peerage visited as well, many of them leaving behind valuable tokens of their satisfaction that, Pasiona learned from listening to the men badger each other, were frequently pawned to supplement their wages.

    When they weren¡¯t fornicating as if the world were about to end, the Thorns gambled, drank, joked, squabbled, read, mended their uniforms, or sharpened their swords. Pasiona found herself caught up in their petty inter-guard dramas. Things like who had a new sweetheart, who had lost his shirt at cards, and who was ploughing lady rivals and would get their eyes scratched out if either noblewoman found him out.

    The day she opened a view port and saw King Hazerial on the other side, her heart stopped. But the sovereign didn¡¯t immediately lock eyes with her and use the Blood of the Strong Gods to turn her body inside out. He was occupied.

    Young, beautiful men and women were scattered across the floor of his bedchamber, their skin white as snow, their throats torn out. One straddled his lap, her arms and legs hanging limply, while he gulped the blood directly from her neck.

    The queen¡¯s chamber, when Pasiona found it, was infinitely worse. Bodies littered the floor, some so bloated with decay that she couldn¡¯t tell whether they were man, woman, or child. Rays of ghostlight flickered off the walls, making the corpses look as if they were gasping for air. The queen and one of her Thorns were making vigorous use of the chamber, though Pasiona couldn¡¯t imagine how the young man kept from vomiting. A glimpse of his face showed he entertained similar doubts as to whether he could keep down his gorge.

    When Jadarah plunged the knife into his bowels, the matter was decided for him.

    Choking back a startled scream, Pasiona fled the passage. She barely made it back to the garderobe in her own chambers before violently emptying her stomach.

    If she lived a thousand years, Pasiona vowed as she wiped her mouth with a shaking hand, that was one section of secret passages she would never return to.

 Chapter 57: Caught

    As Clarencio¡¯s contracted year of following court had yet to lapse, he sent his secretary to Blazing Prairie in his stead to meet with his holdings¡¯ city and village elders about mustering protective forces. He had a suspicion that if one were to survey the marauders, one would find about half of them were deserters from the king¡¯s army and another good portion were horse nomads who¡¯d escaped from House Agata¡¯s holdings.

    He had given his representative the power to offer a lord¡¯s pardon to any fugitive who agreed to serve House Mattius and enforce the law across his counties, escaped nomads included. To avoid bestowing another gift of fighting men on the crown, the new conscripts would be answerable to the city gaolers rather than swearing fealty to Clarencio directly.

    That left Clarencio in Siu Rial to complete his reply to the Helat.

    The missive had contained two letters, one written in the formal and rarely used Old Khinesian. The other, Clarencio confirmed through painstaking translation, was a copy written in the Helat¡¯s language.

    It was an ingenious concession to his ignorance of their tongue. There were no books or records of their language in the kingdom and no one who knew how to speak it, but they had sent him a primer to become literate in it.

    It may also have been a test of sincerity. We¡¯ve learned your tongue; will you Children of Night back your peace-seeking claims by learning ours?

    The lord applied himself to the task with the same single-minded dedication he gave to every endeavor. In two weeks, he knew as much of the Helat¡¯s language and script as the missive allowed. In a month, he had a completed reply in Khinesian and was nearly finished translating it into Helat.

    The Helat official¡ªwhich the Children of Day had translated as ¡°khalif¡± in the Old Khinesian¡ªhad assured Clarencio that a messenger would find him as long as he had the missive in his possession. What it didn¡¯t say was how the messenger would know when Clarencio¡¯s reply was ready.

    Perhaps the Helat had some unknown scrying method. Whatever it was, the day Clarencio sealed the return message, a stranger arrived.

    Ever since the attack, the House Mattius servants had been jumping at shadows. The lack of evidence at who might have sent the assassin had only made them more wary.

    The servants were so alarmed by the unexpected visitor seeking a one-on-one audience that Jarik had to be ordered twice to show him in. The old steward wanted to bring in coachmen to stand guard, but Clarencio assured him that he could take care of himself.

    When Jarik finally brought the hooded and cloaked visitor into the study, Clarencio second-guessed his decision to meet with the stranger alone.

    Clarencio was no small man. Before his laming injury, he¡¯d stood a head above most of his fellow lords. Even now, he could look the towering King Hazerial in the eyes without raising his head.

    The messenger was a good six inches taller than him. Lean and athletic, with golden-brown skin and long orange-red hair such as Clarencio had never seen before. He showed no ill effects from travel; he looked clean and well rested. There was no mud or dirt on his hem. Maybe he had followed Saint Daven back from the Kingdom of Day, found a place to hole up, and waited for the reply to be finished.

    His garments were plain, but in a way that seemed tailored to the task and to the man. Whatever his salary for carrying missives into enemy territory, it was clearly more than the former Thorn had been paid.

    ¡°Salutations,¡± Clarencio said in Helat, bowing.

    The messenger gave an acknowledging dip of the head, graceful as a monarch.

    ¡°Greetings,¡± the messenger replied in accented Khinesian. The word was clear, with a slight roll of the r. Clarencio made a note of the sound for his own attempts at speaking Helat. ¡°Your communication is concluded?¡±

    ¡°It is ready.¡± Clarencio¡¯s walking stick tapped the stone floor as he limped to the writing desk and retrieved the missive. Something about the messenger¡¯s looming yet quiet presence made the stillness heavier, more somber, and each click almost irreverent by contrast.

    When the man reached out to take the missive, his sleeve fell back, revealing silverwork twined around his hand in a fingerless glove of precious metal netting.

    If this was how their lowly messengers dressed, it was no wonder it took them so long to believe Saint Daven¡¯s story. The former Thorn must have looked a beggar next to their own couriers.

    Of course, if Clarencio had been sending a man to pick up a message from a two-thousand-year enemy, he might also have made sure that man had all the glory of the crown with which to strike wonder and awe into their foe.

    ¡°From this day,¡± the Helat said, ¡°all communications are carried by Helat-born. Do not send Khinet-born.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s acceptable,¡± Clarencio said. He had agreed to as much in the missive, but he could appreciate wanting confirmation. ¡°However, I do not always live here.¡±

    A slight twinge of confusion crossed the messenger¡¯s face. Clarencio racked his brain for Helat words that might get his point across, but found none.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t my only residence,¡± he tried. ¡°Our court moves throughout the year, and I move from place to place with it.¡±

    Finally, recognition. ¡°The prior communication. Retain this. You will be located.¡±

    So there was more to the Helat¡¯s tricks than shadowing messengers and keeping watch over the house where the missive ended its journey. The parchment or seal must have been somehow bespelled.

    ¡°Consider it done,¡± Clarencio said. Seeing confusion once more, he switched to his rudimentary Helat. ¡°It is agreed to.¡±

    The messenger nodded and turned to leave.

    ¡°Before you go, would you care for some coffee or a meal?¡± None of these words had come up in the missive, so Clarencio couldn¡¯t ask in the man¡¯s own tongue.

    But the man didn¡¯t seem interested in finding out what had been said. He glanced back, then strode down the dark hall and around the corner. A moment later came the closing thud of the door to the courtyard.

    There were no windows or archer loops in the study, and Clarencio couldn¡¯t get to the front of the residence fast enough to see how the man made his way through the busy Siu Rial streets. Would he use some sort of blood magic to hide himself? Would he leave it to the cloak and hood to disguise his native origins?

    Jarik came in just in time to hear Clarencio curse under his breath.

    ¡°My lord? Is everything well?¡±

    ¡°Hm? Yes, everything¡¯s fine.¡± Clarencio¡¯s lips twisted with the ghost of a smirk. He¡¯d only just then realized that he should have asked to take down his hood to verify that he was who he said he was.

    It would have provided confirmation, but also, he was genuinely curious whether the Helat¡¯s ears were pointed like the stories claimed.

    ***

    Izak leaned his elbows on the public house table. ¡°How are we going to keep a new first-year from being assigned to lodge with us?¡±Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    It was a week before the enrollment of the new crop. Their third year at Thornfield was about to begin, and as far as they¡¯d made it without discovery, Izak didn¡¯t want to rely on an unknown personality to keep secret the fact that they had been harboring a dirty, smelly little girl for the last two years.

    Under normal circumstances, he would have sprung this discussion on his friends sometime other than during their precious few hours at the pub. But after the spring grafting, they had begun third-year patrols, and the three of them were never assigned the same watch. Horsemanship lessons had been crammed in between, another alteration to third-year life. Their daylight hours were as busy as their nights now, and they rarely had more than a few minutes in passing each day to conspire.

    Only a fluke of scheduling had allowed the three of them to escape to the pub that day, which to Izak¡¯s consternation happened to come along with a late-season cold snap. The place was packed with locals, and both Danasi and Casia were already occupied upstairs. There was nothing to do except drink and worry about the approaching enrollment.

    ¡°The repairs on the barracks in the southern wall are complete,¡± Twenty-six said, hooking his sandy hair behind his ear. ¡°They will place the new arrivals there.¡±

    Where Izak kept his hair cropped fashionably short with the assistance of Seventy-three, a barber¡¯s son in their year, the pirate had yet to cut his hair once. It hung, straight and fine, to his shoulders when he didn¡¯t have it tied back, and Izak had begun joking that if anyone were suspected of being a girl in hiding, it would be Twenty-six.

    ¡°Not likely. I overheard Fright and Malice yesternight saying they¡¯re moving the masters into the rebuilt rooms¡ª¡± Izak used a drop of spilt ale to outline movement from one location to a new one, then hooked back around and tapped the starting drop. ¡°¡ªso they can carry out renovations on the tower before it falls in or catches fire.¡±

    Lathe surfaced between gulps of ale. ¡°We ain¡¯t never fixed the bunk, us. Cain¡¯t nobody new fit.¡±

    ¡°I have my doubts that will work two years in a row,¡± Izak said. ¡°Especially as we were ordered to repair it before this enrollment.¡± He gestured to the pirate. ¡°Frankly, I¡¯m surprised that you didn¡¯t fix that bunk immediately, with your fondness for keeping things in good condition.¡±

    ¡°I do not take orders from dirters.¡±

    The public house door banged open on an icy spring gust. Three familiar figures darkened the door, one of them sweaty and bright pink from the sun.

    Fifty-one, Eighty-eight, and the heavyset Thirty stood there a moment, looking around awkwardly.

    ¡°Four?¡± The bastard of West Crag blinked. ¡°What are you doing here?¡±

    ¡°Me? What are you doing here?¡±

    ¡°Who cares?¡± Thirty¡¯s beady eyes roved across the common room. ¡°We see enough of their ugly faces every day. Where are the whores?¡±

    As if summoned, Danasi appeared on the stairs, escorting her latest visitor down.

    ¡°Praise the strong gods!¡± Thirty pushed between the bastard and the big rustic, and rushed to her side like a man dying of thirst spying a puddle in the desert. ¡°My dear beauteous beauty, I¡¯m here to engage your services immediately. This is urgent. I¡¯m Teikru-blessed, you see¡ª¡±

    ¡°Hold on a light-burnt minute, fatso.¡± Izak jumped up and shoved his way to the staircase. ¡°Danasi isn¡¯t here to cater to every rooting boar who blunders in¡ª¡±

    ¡°Go plough yourself!¡± Thirty snapped. Gently, he took Danasi¡¯s elbow and led the amused public house girl up the steps. ¡°I¡¯ve got more gold than all these peasants combined, and I really am blessed by the god-goddess. You¡¯ll be begging to pay me by the time this is over.¡±

    Izak followed as far as the first riser. ¡°But I¡¯m a loyal repeat customer! And you¡¯ve never had any complaints, neither you nor your sister!¡±

    ¡°First come, first served,¡± Danasi said. ¡°I¡¯m sure Casia will be down soon to smooth your feathers, my ruffled cockerel.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll never spend another piece of gold in this place!¡±

    Danasi smiled at him over her shoulder. It was an empty threat, and they both knew it. He¡¯d thrown the same tantrum when the winter rush kept him waiting.

    Cursing, Izak flipped over an empty chair¡ªmuch to the annoyance of the locals at that table¡ªthen strode back to his friends.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe this.¡± He dropped into his chair. ¡°¡®Beauteous beauty?¡¯ That windbag. And what was that nonsense about being Teikru-blessed?¡±

    ¡°It is the same excuse you make for yourself,¡± Twenty-six said. He finished his drink and stood. ¡°We should leave.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not moving a night-forsaken inch. I¡¯ll never custom that gold-grabbing traitor again. From now on, Casia gets every coin I have.¡±

    Fifty-one and the hulking rustic Eighty-eight pulled chairs over to their table. Their other first-year roommate had succumbed that winter to a grippe that Thirty had unfortunately survived.

    ¡°So, did you bribe the patrols, too?¡± Fifty-one asked, leaning his elbows on the table.

    Izak was dumbfounded. With all he¡¯d learned about currency over the past two years, he hadn¡¯t once considered bribery.

    Before he could reply, however, Twenty-six warned, ¡°Do not answer.¡±

    ¡°Shut up, pirate,¡± the bastard said. ¡°No one asked you.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t dare tell our pirate scum to shut up!¡± Lathe leapt across the table.

    Fifty-one was usually a fair hand at grappling, but the attack took him¡ªand everyone else at the table¡ªcompletely by surprise. When Twenty-six and Eighty-eight finally wrestled Lathe off the bastard of West Crag, his nose was smashed flat and blood poured down his recently acquired wispy mustache.

    Twenty-six tossed the kicking and clawing Lathe over his shoulder.

    ¡°Leave him,¡± the pirate told her. He jerked his head at Izak. ¡°We must go. Bribes do not buy loyalty, and six bodies sneaking in and out of the walls will be much easier to catch than three. They will be found out.¡±

    Eighty-eight scoffed. ¡°With what Thirty paid ¡¯em, there¡¯s no way they¡¯ll snitch on us.¡±

    The public house door whooshed open again, admitting a chilly blast of spring afternoon, but this time the man in the portal caught the heavy timbers before they could crash against the wall.

    Izak couldn¡¯t see who it was around Twenty-six, but he heard Lathe¡¯s gasp.

    Then he, Twenty-six, and the runt disappeared, hidden by her lightning-fast application of blood magic. Not even a shadow of their presence remained.

    The man at the door was one of the gold-eyed weapons masters, dirty, haggard, and hunched from a long time in the saddle.

    ¡°Welcome, master,¡± the publican said, wandering over to whichever of the Saints it was. ¡°What can we do for Thornfield today?¡±

    Izak felt someone grab his arm and pull. The chair shifted beneath his invisible weight. Twenty-six was trying to get him out of there.

    ¡°A cup of¡­¡± The master fell silent as his gold eyes lit on Izak¡¯s table.

    Izak¡¯s heart stopped in his chest. They were caught.

    ¡°Fifty-one?¡± The master raised a dark brow. ¡°Eighty-eight?¡±

    Holding in the sudden urge to cackle with relief, Izak slipped out of his seat and crept to the alley door. Behind him, repercussions churned to life for the rustic and the bastard.

    The invisible trio waited for a pub patron to open the alley door, then slipped out behind the wobbling customer and left him draining his ale against the side of the building.

    Unseen, the trio rounded the corner and sprinted for the edge of the village.

    Izak cursed. ¡°They¡¯re going to implicate us, and our blasted pirate won¡¯t lie because of his stupid honor!¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t lie,¡± Twenty-six agreed, keeping pace with him, ¡°but if the masters find us asleep in our bunks when the others return, I may not have to. The lie will be told for us.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll lie for all of us, me!¡± Lathe snapped, her voice coming from considerably farther ahead. ¡°Get the rocks outta your boots and run!¡±

    ***

    The three of them were rousted out of an ostensibly sound sleep half an hour later and asked whether they had been out that day.

    ¡°I been out since after scullerin¡¯, me,¡± Lathe said helpfully. ¡°That¡¯s a hard job. Plumb snored my head off the second I laid down. I did have me a nasty dream about midday wheres I was drowning in hot water, but it¡¯s all right ¡¯cuz I woke up afore I pissed the bed and used the chamber pot.¡±

    Izak held up a hand to stop the runt. ¡°Master Malice doesn¡¯t want to hear about your bladder, idiot, and unless I¡¯m much mistaken, he wasn¡¯t asking whether you had a sound sleep.¡± He turned to the master. ¡°You wanted to know if we were out of our beds after curfew, didn¡¯t you, sir?¡±

    ¡°I ain¡¯t a idiot!¡±

    The ensuing fight and the subsequent knocked-over chamber pot proved to be enough distraction to keep them from having to answer any other questions about the village. Before departing, however, Master Malice noticed that they still hadn¡¯t fixed the bunk he¡¯d ordered them to repair.

    ¡°If that¡¯s not useable by the enrollment next week, you¡¯ll all be sleeping on the floor while new students sleep in your beds. Every bunk is going to be needed.¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir.¡± They kept their curses to themselves until the Coffee Island master was well out of earshot.

    ***

    Fifty-one, Eighty-eight, and Thirty were scourged in the bailey as the sun went down.

    The trio hadn¡¯t prepared their stories ahead of time. None of their details matched, and when asked to repeat them, new inconsistencies kept appearing.

    Fifty-one and Eighty-eight hadn¡¯t wanted to implicate the prince, so they left Four out of their story altogether. On top of this, the bastard¡¯s disgust for pirates colored his tale so much that it sounded like an invention to pin everything on Twenty-six. Thirty identified Four as the principal offender, but apparently, the Teikru-blessed merchant¡¯s son hadn¡¯t seen anyone but the prince in his quest for whores; he only had vague guesses as to who might have accompanied him.

    Izak spent the next few days showing his two loyal subjects as much favor as he could without attracting suspicion from the masters. He even healed their scourge marks. Rather than resentment, Fifty-one and Eighty-eight viewed the scars as war wounds taken for their prince.

    No one thought to ask the pirate what really happened.

    ¡°We made it past a reef only to sail into a ship¡¯s graveyard,¡± Twenty-six muttered. ¡°Malice is going to place a new student in our room.¡±

    ¡°Might be I could fool him, the new boy,¡± Lathe said.

    Izak raised a dubious brow. ¡°Until you¡¯re grafted? That¡¯s two years. You couldn¡¯t even fool us for one full year.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Cuz I didn¡¯t know no better! Now I¡¯m plenty learnt. I got all kinda tricks, me.¡±

 Chapter 58: Bad Medicine

    Twenty-six repaired the broken shelf bed, anchoring it more securely than it had been before. Because it was better and novel, Lathe moved back into that bunk.

    Unfortunately, that still left them with the required bed to fill and an annoyed Coffee Island master looking to prove a point.

    The cold stuck around until the new crop arrived at Thornfield. Rain battered the prospective Thorns, and Grandmaster had to shout over the wind, but no allowance was made for the poor weather. The welcome speeches and baths took place in the bailey, leaving the new arrivals to sprint into the hall and receive their new dry clothing while shivering uncontrollably.

    As newly promoted third-years, Izak and Twenty-six weren¡¯t expected to serve the traditional first meal and could watch the new arrivals¡¯ harsh awakening. Lathe was supposed to be in the kitchens, working off more lecture disruptions, but she¡¯d slipped out to get a peek at their potential roommates.

    ¡°Which one of ¡¯em you figure is ours?¡± Lathe muttered, eyeing the white-faced, red-cheeked first-years warming themselves by the hearth. The unfamiliar gazes roved the hall, searching for a seat and naively looking forward to the food.

    ¡°We won¡¯t know until Malice shows him to our room,¡± Izak said.

    ¡°We will know if Malice looks our way after handing out a set of clothing.¡± Twenty-six was pretending to be intent on his food, sneaking glances through the long fringe of sandy hair hanging in his eyes.

    Lathe was scrunched down between the two of them. She pulled on Izak¡¯s shoulder and craned her neck to see better.

    ¡°Stop being so obvious, Lathe,¡± Izak muttered. ¡°If Malice sees you staring, he¡¯ll assign us someone out of spite¡ª¡±

    The words were barely out of Izak¡¯s mouth when the Coffee Island master handed off a set of clothing and boots to a new arrival, then sent an eloquent glance their way.

    Izak made as if he were idly perusing the dining hall for someone. Twenty-six¡¯s head was already lowered over his food; he simply dropped his eyes unseen.

    Lathe ducked below the level of the table. ¡°We got trouble, us.¡±

    ¡°We wouldn¡¯t have if you had just looked somewhere else,¡± Izak muttered.

    ¡°How¡¯s about you shut up your mouth and listen for once? How¡¯s about that?¡± Lathe growled. She hooked a dirty thumb toward the new arrival. ¡°I knowed that kid a long time ago! He¡¯s a close-rat, him.¡±

    ¡°You are certain?¡± Twenty-six asked.

    ¡°¡¯Course I am! We all called him Scabs, us. He¡¯s bad medicine on two legs.¡±

    Izak cursed. The scrawny young man hadn¡¯t cleaned up much in the bath, unless that dirt was ingrained in his skin. He¡¯d just finished dressing and was busy pulling his new Thornfield-issue boots onto the wrong feet. Malice stopped him.

    Twenty-six shoved his hair out of his face. ¡°Lathe, you said once that all close-rats are loyal to the death. Would he keep your secret?¡±

    The runt¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°Once, Scabs give me and Pretty up to some rich folk for a piece of bread. And we wasn¡¯t the onliest ones he done it to, neither. If¡¯n he comes in our room, I¡¯ll cut his throat, reach down inside, and pull out his guts.¡±

    ¡°If he isn¡¯t assigned to our room, we¡¯ll have bigger trouble,¡± Izak said. ¡°He could recognize you and tell his roommates. It would be all over the school in a matter of hours.¡±

    ¡°Cain¡¯t tell nobody without a tongue,¡± Lathe said, fingering the hilt of one twin sword.

    ¡°If Scabs sold you out for a piece of bread, I think we¡¯ve got a good argument for bribery,¡± Izak said.

    ¡°Bribery is not a permanent solution,¡± Twenty-six began, before suddenly falling silent.

    Izak shifted in his seat to find one of the Saints standing behind them.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to be in the kitchens?¡± the gold-eyed weapons master asked Lathe.

    She scowled. ¡°Ain¡¯t you gotta be back for longer¡¯n a couple days afore you tell me what to do?¡±

    ¡°Go.¡±

    Cursing under her breath, Lathe slunk off.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°And make sure you¡¯re in the bailey today for extra sword lessons,¡± he called after her as he headed for the masters¡¯ table.

    Izak turned to the pirate. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose your pirate god allows murder for the sake of keeping someone quiet?¡±

    ***

    With the looming prospect of a new lodger, Izak and Twenty-six held off practicing for the day. The prince paced. The pirate pretended to read a book he¡¯d taken from the Archives.

    Lathe returned from the kitchens and unsheathed her twin swords with hands stained purple from beet juice. Rather than leave for her sword lessons, she lingered just inside the door, perking up at every sound outside.

    ¡°You cannot cut his head off when he walks in the door,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°One of the masters will be accompanying him.¡±

    Lathe scowled. ¡°Like to shove this sword up his backside and shake him around.¡±

    ¡°Again, not something you can do without being scourged and subsequently found out,¡± Izak muttered.

    ¡°Might could get away with it if I say I tripped.¡±

    Izak reached for her twin blades. ¡°Give me those.¡±

    ¡°No, I got sword lessons!¡±

    ¡°Then go!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going, me. Just soon as¡ª¡±

    There was a knock at the door.

    Izak shoved Lathe away from the portal, then opened it.

    Master Malice entered, leading the infamous Scabs. The former close-rat wore an easy grin that didn¡¯t touch his eyes, and he slouched as if he would rather have been skulking in an alley with a knife. He was small, but that dirt-lined face was too aware to be a child, too harsh. Scabs looked older than Lathe around the eyes, but he hadn¡¯t had the benefit of two years of steady meals to add to his height like she had.

    ¡°Seventeen, you will board with the third-years.¡± The Coffee Islander indicated each of them in turn. ¡°Twenty-six, Lathe, Four.¡±

    Scabs¡¯s eyes slid over each of them, then jerked back to Lathe.

    ¡°Brat?¡± he asked.

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid you¡¯ve misheard,¡± Lathe said in a handy imitation of Izak¡¯s courtly drawl. One could hardly hear the muddy river in her voice when she said, ¡°My name is Lathe.¡±

    Her mimicry was getting better every day. Unfortunately, she couldn¡¯t change her face. Taller, healthier, marginally cleaner, she was still just the elfin-featured runt the recruiters had dragged in from the low streets. She stood like the runt. She stared left-eyed like the runt.

    ¡°Oh,¡± Scabs said, that easy grin stretching. ¡°Musta been river water in my ears. I never knowed no Lathe, me. Just a little close-rat.¡±

    Malice stepped in. ¡°If there is any past between the two of you, remember that it was forgotten when you entered Thornfield.¡±

    ¡°We ain¡¯t got no past, us.¡± Scabs grinned at Lathe. ¡°Hain¡¯t we?¡±

    Lathe shook her head. ¡°Not none.¡±

    Izak rolled his eyes. He hadn¡¯t expected her to keep up the false accent forever, but she could at least have committed to it until Malice left.

    ¡°Good,¡± Malice said. ¡°Because if there¡¯s any trouble, you will answer to me.¡±

    A heartbeat of stillness passed after the master left the room.

    Then Lathe turned into a blur. Scabs scuttled back against the door, while Izak and Twenty-six stopped the twin swords, eventually catching the runt¡¯s arms and stretching her out between them like a Thorn about to be grafted.

    ¡°Let go!¡± Lathe screamed, trying to shake them off. ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna kill him, me. I ain¡¯t! I just wanna ask him something.¡±

    ¡°Ever¡¯body I knowed said that lyin¡¯ Brat finally got got.¡± Scabs¡¯s grin hadn¡¯t dropped once while his life hung in the balance, and it didn¡¯t waver now. ¡°Guess they¡¯s the fools now, ain¡¯t they?¡±

    ¡°Let me go!¡±

    ¡°Drop the swords first,¡± Twenty-six said.

    Disgusted, Lathe dropped the matched blades. Izak snatched them up and got them out of her immediate reach.

    Lathe fixed Scabs with that one-eyed stare. ¡°Is Pretty all right? When¡¯s the last time you seen her?¡±

    ¡°I figured she got took when you did. Ain¡¯t she here?¡± Scabs got his answer from the look on her face. ¡°What, these sword boys don¡¯t want two gals to pass around? You all used up?¡±

    This time, she disappeared before she attacked. Twenty-six had to find her by the scratches and bites appearing on Scabs¡¯s dirty skin.

    Finally, the pirate pried her away and pinned her against the far wall.

    ¡°He deserves to have his belly cut open and be dangled over the side of a ship until the scavengers are finished with him,¡± Twenty-six growled, ¡°but I am not attacking him. Can you understand why?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Cuz you left your cutlass on your bed like a fool and you ain¡¯t got no ship!¡±

    Twenty-six gave her a shake. ¡°Because if we kill him now, it will not look like an accident.¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s carin¡¯ about looks?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re your brothers, Lathe,¡± Izak said. ¡°If you want our help, take it. If you want to throw away your chance at the uphill placement you¡¯re always talking about, then by all means, kill him now.¡±

    The runt reappeared. She spat Scabs¡¯s blood back at him. ¡°You¡¯re a liar, and I hate ya.¡±

    ¡°I ain¡¯t no teller a¡¯ tales, me,¡± Scabs said. ¡°Unlike a little Brat I once knowed.¡±

    ¡°Both of you, shut up.¡± Izak helped the bloody young opportunist to his feet. ¡°Scabs. Name your price.¡±

    Scabs¡¯s eyebrows jumped up on his dirty forehead. ¡°Price?¡±

    ¡°The amount it will take to keep you from telling anyone that Lathe is a girl.¡±

    Twenty-six glared daggers at Izak. ¡°Do not offer him a bribe to stay quiet. Offer him steel if he talks.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Druther have the money, me.¡± Scabs picked at the ragged edge of one bite mark, adding a tinge of red to the dirt beneath his nails, while he considered the price. ¡°A silver.¡±

    Izak had to stop himself from laughing with relief. The little gutter brat didn¡¯t know a prince from a palfrey.

    Scabs took his pause for shock. ¡°Shuttin¡¯ up don¡¯t come cheap, now. You want a secret, you gotta pay secret prices. If¡¯n you cain¡¯t¡­¡± He shrugged. ¡°I got a bad memory, me. Might be I forget to keep quiet without something shiny to help me ¡¯member.¡±

    ¡°Give us a day to come up with it.¡± Izak didn¡¯t have any silver stashed away, but perhaps someone in the barracks could make change for a gold piece.

    ¡°Take as long¡¯s ya need,¡± Scabs drawled, grinning through his busted lips. ¡°Me, I¡¯ll just be tryin¡¯ to recall what I¡¯m s¡¯posed to keep my mouth shut about. Mayhaps I¡¯ll talk to some folk ¡¯twix then n¡¯ now. Mayhaps not.¡±

    ¡°Let go, I got sword lessons!¡± Lathe shook off Twenty-six and stormed toward the door, snatching her twin swords from Izak on the way.

    Scabs wisely gave her a wide berth.

    On the threshold, Lathe stopped. She pointed a steel at his throat, sighting her good eye down the length of the blade.

    ¡°You best be prayin¡¯ to the Cormorant that Four and Twenty-six don¡¯t never fall asleep afore me.¡±

    The door slammed behind her.

 Chapter 59: A Good Scrap

    Scabs¡ªor Seventeen, as Izak made no effort to remember¡ªfell in with a less than savory crowd soon after his first bribe came in. Thirty, who had taken up running the games of chance in the barracks until he could find another way out to the village, was chief among them. Between cards and marbles and other wagering games, Scabs had lost the full silver by the end of the week.

    He returned to the room late one afternoon rubbing his jaw and moaning.

    ¡°What¡¯s the matter with you?¡± Izak marked his spot in Eighty-eight¡¯s latest folio with a finger. With Lathe at sword lessons and Twenty-six patrolling the wall, he was the only one there, and he¡¯d been hoping to have more time to peruse the lewd drawings alone.

    Scabs prodded at his tongue, then shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s getting mighty slippery, this here tongue. Figure I¡¯m near to losing control over it if¡¯n I don¡¯t get another silver soon.¡±

    ¡°Another silver!¡± Izak slapped the folio on his bed. ¡°You¡¯re out of your mind if you think I can get you more coin this fast.¡±

    ¡°You best figure how to.¡± Scabs pulled himself up onto his bunk above Twenty-six¡¯s. He grinned and set to work picking at a crusted over bit of acne on his chin. ¡°Lot a¡¯ folk come to the games every night, and they¡¯re all talkers, them. You know what they like to talk about most of all?¡± He stuck the plucked scab in his mouth, then pointed at the top drawing on the folio. Not the most detailed of Eighty-eight¡¯s work, but clear enough to get Scabs¡¯s meaning across. ¡°That right there.¡±

    ***

    ¡°You should not have paid him again,¡± Twenty-six said at lunch the following night. ¡°Now he will expect a silver every week.¡±

    ¡°I have plenty to spare, and he¡¯s too stupid to realize it,¡± Izak said. ¡°We¡¯ll string him along until we come up with a better idea.¡±

    ¡°We oughta cut open his throat, shove our hand up into his mouth, and hop him around like one a¡¯ them street puppets.¡± Lathe¡¯s suggestions hadn¡¯t changed much since Scabs¡¯s arrival, just gained in color and severity. ¡°Pretty and me seen somebody do it to a dead dog once. Like to kill us laughin¡¯.¡±

    ¡°I meant a good idea,¡± Izak said. ¡°If Thornfield will scourge a man for fighting with a blade outside of training, they¡¯re not going to be kind to one who murders a fellow student.¡± He scowled. ¡°I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m missing out on the public house girls because of that scab-eating human pimple.¡±

    ¡°We could drown him in the bathhouse,¡± Twenty-six suggested. ¡°Most dirters can¡¯t swim. It would seem like an accident.¡±

    Izak snorted. ¡°That¡¯s about as believable as Lathe drowning in the bath.¡±

    ¡°Hey! I wash up now, me. Just not hereabouts.¡± While the prince and the pirate were trapped in their room pretending for Scabs¡¯s sake that they never snuck out, Lathe was able to slip off, invisible, to the pub under the cover of her sword lessons and disciplinary duties running late. She¡¯d been doing it more and more lately, avoiding the room altogether some days.

    ¡°You¡¯ll forgive me if I don¡¯t dance for joy at the thought of you squandering Casia and Danasi¡¯s delights on a chaste bath.¡± Izak considered his own words for a moment. ¡°That¡¯s one I need to suggest to Eighty-eight for his next drawing. He could substitute a busty, longhaired beauty for Lathe¡­¡±

    ¡°The pirate scum¡¯s got the hair but not the chest for it,¡± Lathe said, reaching over and giving Twenty-six¡¯s long hair a jerk. He smacked her hand away. ¡°Anyhow, didn¡¯t ya ever know that long hair¡¯s bad medicine? Folk just snatch ahold of you and yank you back.¡±

    Twenty-six raked a hand through his sandy hair, straightening what Lathe had mussed. ¡°If your silver can tide Seventeen over until spring, Lathe may be grafted early, like Striker and the other third-years were.¡±

    ¡°Who in the name of Khinet is Seventeen?¡± Izak asked.

    ¡°Scabs,¡± Lathe translated.

    Izak raised a brow at Twenty-six. ¡°I thought you said that waiting and hoping weren¡¯t solutions.¡±

    ¡°Inaction is a poor choice, but it may be our only choice for now.¡±

    ¡°I gave us another one, me.¡± Lathe used her hand to mimic a mouth opening and closing. ¡°Street puppet him.¡±

    ***

    Without any booze or women to spend it on, Izak¡¯s money held out easily until the autumn tournament. He won a handful more betting on the first-, second-, and fourth-years.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    Only the most dedicated of gamblers were willing to put money on the third-years. Lathe tore up one side of the bracket, winning every fight like a natural disaster befalling a straw village. Izak and Twenty-six chewed through the opposite side, shooting toward the inevitable showdown in the finals. The bookmakers¡ªstudent and staff alike¡ªset hardly better than even odds.

    That bore out in the match between the pirate and the prince. Izak would only go far enough to almost kill his friend, and Twenty-six refused to be stopped by anything short of death.

    The night screamed with deadly winds, the ghost city overhead flickered from black to brilliant green, and the huge thorny locust tree bent and groaned as the young men launched attacks with blade and blood magic. They threw one another across the bailey. Their blades crashed together in showers of sparks. They attacked each other¡¯s blood, broke each other¡¯s holds, and battered one another physically and mentally while the students and staff of Thornfield looked on in awe and winced in sympathy.

    Most matches ended in minutes. Intense, but fast. The brutality of Twenty-six and Izak¡¯s match dragged on for over a quarter of an hour, exhausting the fighters and ratcheting the tension of the spectators up to unbearable levels.

    In a last-ditch effort, Izak poured forth fire and ice and plague. Twenty-six never faltered. The prince might kill him, but not fast enough. The pirate broke through the final layer of defenses, catching Izak by the throat as thorns burst through Twenty-six¡¯s flesh.

    Unlike previous tournaments, these thorns were not a creation of the prince¡¯s royal blood magic. This time the pirate had grown them himself.

    The massive spikes speared into Izak, trapping him in Twenty-six¡¯s grasp like a piece of skewered meat. The prince tried to disperse the thorns and pry the pirate¡¯s hand free of his throat, but Twenty-six blocked Izak¡¯s spell, keeping the wicked brambles solid, prolonging the damage to himself rather than release his opponent.

    Twenty-six rested his swordbreaker beneath Izak¡¯s jaw. The prince¡¯s thundering heartbeat pulsed his vein against the cold steel serrations.

    ¡°Winner,¡± Fright announced, ¡°Twenty-six!¡±

    The blood magic disappeared in a gasp, returning the ghost city overhead to normal brightness and the bailey to a roar of cheering and booing at the match¡¯s result.

    No longer supported by his friend¡¯s barbed death grip, Izak dropped to his knees, exhausted, and began healing his perforated throat.

    ¡°Strong gods help us both if I ever have to fight you for real,¡± he panted.

    Twenty-six offered Izak a hand slick with blood and shaking with fatigue. ¡°If we ever meet in combat, you cannot withhold the death blow.¡±

    ***

    As Lathe had managed to avoid the traps and interferences aimed at her by Thirty and his new bosom friend, Scabs, the third-year championship bout came down to her and Twenty-six.

    The pirate scum started out the match by taking her measure, giving a testing jab here and a whack there. After her most recent growth spurt, Twenty-six had lost the height advantage¡ªshe now stood an inch taller than her longhaired brother. His shoulders were wider, but carrying her twin steels, she could match his reach. She knew he was figuring that his best options were to stay inside her range and use her eye against her.

    But that old crow master had brought more back than disappointment in her lack of training during his absence.

    ¡°Being wild as the wind will only help you when you can see your opponent,¡± Saint Daven said their first day back at extra sword lessons. ¡°You¡¯re not going to deflect a crossbow bolt from your blind side by accident. You¡¯ve got to make sure you¡¯re covered, even when you can¡¯t see what¡¯s coming.¡±

    Them blind side defenses worked, too. Each time Twenty-six attacked Lathe¡¯s blind side, she already had one of her twin swords there to meet it, ringing against his heavy cutlass. That ugly swordbreaker raced in behind, but Lathe spun and caught the dagger on her steel. The serrations bit notches into her sword, but she whirled away from the strike, slipping free before he could snap the blade.

    ¡°Lathe?¡± Saint Daven had said when she told him the name she¡¯d chosen. ¡°Makes sense. A lathe spins, and you¡¯re always spinning even though I told you never to turn your back on a blade.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m faster than a blade, me.¡±

    ¡°Blades don¡¯t have to be fast to kill you. They just have to be in the right spot.¡±

    When faced with Lathe¡¯s whirlwind attack, most opponents backed away. Unfortunately for her, the pirate scum had seen it happen too often to fall into the same trap. He pressed in closer, forcing her to face him head-on. Her defensive patterns blocked his blind-side blows, but he kept pushing closer and closer, until she was backed up against the thorn tree.

    And blame it all but it wasn¡¯t because the pirate scum was any faster than she was. It was because he was always where she least wanted him to be. That dumb ol¡¯ crow was right¡ªposition was more important than speed.

    Lathe flashed around behind Twenty-six, disappearing and reappearing.

    That was what the pirate scum had been waiting for. The second she disappeared from in front of him, he hooked his leg backward and caught her behind the ankle, jerking her foot out from under her.

    She hit the ground with her twin swords up, but Twenty-six kicked her right blade out of the air. She let it fly, grabbing a fistful of his long hair instead, and tried to hack into his face with her other sword.

    The pirate caught the blow on the swordbreaker and twisted the dagger. Her blade snapped with a high steel ping. With his cutlass, he chopped through his hair, taking away Lathe¡¯s handhold. She dropped.

    Before she hit the dirt, the pirate had his cutlass to her throat.

    ¡°Winner! Twenty-six,¡± Fright yelled, shoving in between them in case the volatile berserker decided to retaliate. He shouldn¡¯t have worried.

    ¡°That was a fair good scrap, ya pirate scum!¡± Lathe grinned up at Twenty-six. ¡°Smart about getting rid of your long hair, too.¡±

    ¡°You were right,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°Long hair is a hindrance. I will cut the rest today.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m always right, me.¡± She popped to her feet and poked at the slightly darker hair that was finally starting to fill in along his jaw. ¡°Face hair¡¯s getting long, too.¡±

    ¡°No, it isn¡¯t.¡± He smacked her hand away. ¡°Don¡¯t touch my beard.¡±

 Chapter 60: Strange Meetings

    Messages carried by the Helat moved much faster than the couriers Clarencio was used to. He could send a missive and have a reply in weeks rather than the months it had taken Saint Daven to make the journey. He wondered whether the Children of Day had set up a secret relay network within the kingdom.

    As promised, their messengers never failed to find him, even though, as autumn passed, Hazerial moved the court from Siu Rial to the warmer Siu Carinal for the winter.

    The Autumnlight Festival left the Jewel of the Delta abuzz with gossip. A shimmering, exotic new beauty accompanied the Lord of Siu Carinal on the High Stand. Every wagging tongue from the whoring houses to the palace spoke of radiant skin inscribed centuries before by Eketra with runes stolen from Teikru, runes that enhanced the beauty¡¯s abilities enough to drive even Josean mad with lust.

    This was the demigoddess Seleketra returned to the earth. Anyone who doubted it only had to look into her eyes and see the light of the ghost city still shining in their depths.

    The Lord of Siu Carinal had fought a battle to gain her otherworldly attentions, setting aside his wife for the favor of entertaining Seleketra in his bed, and slaying his own son in a fit of rage when the young man had attempted to touch the demigoddess.

    ¡°Wasn¡¯t none of your fault, that,¡± Athalia said softly, comforting the horrified Pretty after the young man had died at her feet, hacked apart by his own father. ¡°They done it because of them, not you. I know it¡¯s hard to forget all that suffering now, but trust me, child, it¡¯ll only add to Seleketra¡¯s desirability.¡±

    As always, Athalia was right. Overnight, Seleketra¡¯s became the most sought-after hand in the city. Athalia¡¯s guards became Seleketra¡¯s guards. Dresses and jewels and flowers and gifts came for the demigoddess by the score. Athalia curated the beaus who were allowed to pursue her, and narrowed the number allowed to be seen with her to only the most powerful and advantageous.

    On the cusp of winter, however, the palace gossips¡¯ talk of Seleketra gave way to a new arrival. The heir to the Kingdom of Night had been born in Mistfen.

    The boy breathed his first breath under Josean¡¯s blessing, like his father, and was provisionally dubbed Reuel by his mother. The name he would eventually carry to the throne would be decided upon later, when the crown prince made it back from the northern front.

    Pasiona¡¯s interest in hidden passages carried over to Mistfen only long enough for her son to be born. Upon the infant¡¯s arrival, she lost all curiosity for the lives of others. Her world narrowed to the soft round face, feathery black hair, and tiny ragged nails. Every trembling sigh was a new adventure. Every blink of his dark eyes wrung her heart.

    She couldn¡¯t bear to let the nurses hold him, and when she was forced to present the newborn to King Hazerial and the mad queen, Pasion shivered inwardly, waking terrors assaulting her until she was able to escape back to the nursery with him.

    A week later, a feast was held in celebration of the babe¡¯s dedication to the strong gods, though he only attended for a brief few minutes. He was startled by the sudden noise of the musicians starting up a rioting martial Josean anthem in his honor, and his mother whisked him away to safety once more.

    The guest of honor¡¯s absence was hardly remarked upon, however. The attention of every nobleman and woman in attendance¡ªLord Clarencio included¡ªwas fastened to the beautiful young woman seated at the left hand of the mad queen.

    Princess Kelena.

    The girl was a softer combination of her sire¡¯s arresting House Khinet features and her mother¡¯s striking beauty, as pale as porcelain, with dark eyes so deep they could swallow a man whole. Her long black hair curled naturally into ringlets like the mad queen¡¯s, but hers was noticeably cleaner and devoid of the bone beads her mother favored.

    Kelena laughed and flirted with the young dandies, flowing gracefully through the steps of the dances as if she¡¯d spent her life learning them. She gossiped with the noblewomen and their daughters and fawned over dresses and jewels and hair. Her smile never faltered, complemented by a pair of dimples piercing her flawless cheeks.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    If Clarencio hadn¡¯t remembered those wide eyes so clearly, he would have thought that the real princess had died and been replaced by a bubbly young look-alike under everyone¡¯s noses.

    Late in the day, when the younger revelers began to disappear together and the elderly nodded over their goblets, Clarencio finally approached the miraculously returned princess.

    She sat with a pair of young noblewomen alongside the dance floor, tittering away and rubbing her ankles in exaggerated exhaustion.

    ¡°Your lordship,¡± she said, favoring him with a brilliant smile. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m forced to sit out this dance. I¡¯m not used to this much exertion.¡±

    ¡°Mattius isn¡¯t here to dance with you, you silly goose,¡± one hissed behind her hand, looking pointedly at Clarencio¡¯s walking stick.

    ¡°Perhaps on a slower tune,¡± Clarencio said. ¡°My intention was to see whether you remembered me.¡±

    Kelena beamed. ¡°Of course! I was such a child when we visited Blazing Prairie, but your residence was gorgeous, Lord Clarencio. The chamber you put me up in was so luxurious. Those windows! The sun shone in all day. I wish I had thanked you at the time. I¡¯m so sorry I didn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°No matter,¡± Clarencio said. ¡°Would you mind if I sat with you for a while?¡±

    The other girls giggled again, but with a playfully irritated look, Kelena sent them scampering back to their mothers.

    ¡°Please, your lordship.¡± She gestured to a vacated seat.

    Clarencio sat and rested his palms on top of his walking stick. ¡°It¡¯s a surprise to see you here, Princess. Where have you been all this time?¡±

    ¡°Studying under my mother and the priests. I wish I could have been at the center of all this fabulous beauty, but unfortunately, I couldn¡¯t spare the time. My instruction was rather intensive.¡±

    ¡°I recall.¡±

    Kelena laughed. ¡°You must have thought I was such a stupid baby, crying like that over nothing.¡±

    ¡°Crying over men¡¯s lives is nothing to be ashamed of.¡±

    ¡°Mother tells me you¡¯ve been following court all this time. How do you find court life, your lordship?¡±

    The assassin sprang first to mind. ¡°At times, more exciting than I expected.¡±

    ¡°You must miss Blazing Prairie terribly.¡± She sighed. ¡°I remember the stars out my window and the dark sky overhead most of all. No ghost city.¡±

    Clarencio¡¯s ears perked up at the wistful note in her voice.

    ¡°I was raised hardly ever seeing one,¡± he said. ¡°It can feel oppressive at times, having those things hanging overhead everywhere you turn.¡±

    ¡°Like the strong gods are pressing down on you from above,¡± the princess whispered. ¡°Pushing the breath out of you. Pushing the life out of you.¡±

    Kelena caught him watching her and laughed gayly.

    ¡°Of course, it must help that Blazing Prairie isn¡¯t full of silly geese honking at you to dance with them,¡± she said with merry self-deprecation. ¡°I do apologize. I¡¯m so stupid. I don¡¯t think. You must be seriously reconsidering your agreement to marry me about now.¡±

    Clarencio shook his head. ¡°I wasn¡¯t thinking about marriage at all, in fact. Forgive me for saying this, Princess, but you seem like a very different girl from the one I met two years ago.¡±

    Kelena looked out at the few couples still dancing, wonder in her soft features. The false cheer slid away.

    ¡°I¡¯ve had dreams like this. The colors. The people. It¡¯s all so wonderful.¡± She clasped her hands in her lap. The delicate knuckles were white. ¡°Of course, in the dreams when I say something stupid, it all falls apart. So this must be real. Thank you for not¡ªfor not going when I was an idiot.¡±

    ¡°It was really nothing. I¡¯ve heard much worse.¡± Clarencio felt strangely compelled to soothe her concern. The longer he talked to her, the more she seemed¡­ thin. Like a ghost his hand would pass through or a curl of smoke about to drift apart. ¡°In any case, we all say foolish things from time to time.¡±

    The previous song ended, and the musicians began the final song, the signal for the revelers that the feast was over. The princess looked in the direction of the king¡¯s table, her dark eyes settling on her mother. The queen smiled, revealing sharp yellow teeth.

    Kelena stood. ¡°Thank you for speaking with me, Lord Clarencio. I¡¯ll remember it when I return to my studies. I¡¯ll remember every word.¡±

    ¡°Princess, about your studies¡ª¡±

    ¡°Will you¡ªwill you take this? So you¡¯ll remember me, too?¡± She pressed a dark purple ribbon into his hand. Her fingers were like ice, her dark eyes pleading, almost frantic.

    ¡°I¡ªyes.¡± Clarencio folded the ribbon over his thumb. ¡°But before you go¡ª¡±

    ¡°Thank you. Thank you so much.¡±

    She swept a deep curtsey, then hurried away to her mother. She and the queen left the feast, down the darkened corridor that led to Mistfen¡¯s residences.

    Clarencio watched the girl go. It would have been indecorous for a lord to run after a princess half his age, and even if it weren¡¯t, he wasn¡¯t running anywhere these days. They would be gone long before he managed to lever himself out of the chair.

    ***

    As she led Kelena up the corridor, Jadarah petted the girl¡¯s hair. The little nothing trembled all over, but she had accomplished what she¡¯d been sent to do.

    Hazerial could talk of webs, but Jadarah didn¡¯t need Eketra¡¯s Thousand Strands. One well-placed trap would do the mad queen as well as a world of puppet strings.

 Chapter 61: Cunning Adversaries

    After the feast, Princess Kelena vanished again, but her single appearance remained the talk of the court for weeks afterward.

    Each time he saw the hair ribbon on his desk, Clarencio came back to their conversation, trying to wring some new understanding from it. Had she been placed at the feast as a goad? An indication from Hazerial that he was getting impatient? Had the king thought the girl¡¯s beauty would appeal enough to Clarencio to make him reckless? Was it nearing time to spring the treason trap, and all that remained was for the Lord of the Cinterlands to stumble into his own noose?

    Perhaps her presence at the feast had been something entirely different, something that had nothing to do with Clarencio at all. Perhaps Kelena had won some point with the queen or accomplished some blood-soaked task for the strong gods to be allowed to join society for a day.

    He was getting nothing but a headache for all his guesswork, and in truth, he needed to focus more on his work in the Hall of Law than trying to discern the twisted motives of an Eketra-blessed king.

    Things with the other lords had become more heated than ever of late; a captive in a shipment from the pirate war had broken loose and murdered his fellow future bloodslaves on their way to the sacramental before killing himself. The lords with sacramentals in their holdings were convinced that heavier shackles, thicker chains, and stronger cages were the solution¡ªand they all wanted the iron delivered immediately.

    None of them wanted to hear that iron took time to transport, especially now that the roads were lousy with highwaymen and ice was filling in the river. They certainly didn¡¯t want to hear it from a lord known to despise the slave trade who was nevertheless growing wealthier off their demands.

    Despite the rising tensions, no assassins had attacked Clarencio since the night in his Siu Rial residence, and no indication had ever been found of the lord or cabal of lords the man may have been working for. Half a year had passed; his servants were finally beginning to calm down again.

    Then, early one evening, a scream and a crash woke him from a sound sleep.

    Clarencio snatched his walking stick and climbed out of bed, careful to land on his good leg. He hitched his way awkwardly to the chamber door, slipping the rapier from the cane as he went.

    The rapier was his one concession to the attack, a design he¡¯d sent to a trusted smith back at Blazing Prairie. The blade fitted neatly into the walking stick; the hilt was the handle. Sheathed, the cripple¡¯s aid gave no indication of the weapon hidden within.

    Thankfully, it had arrived at Siu Carinal with that last shipment of iron. He wasn¡¯t in any rush to blood the thing, but he didn¡¯t want to be caught empty-handed again either.

    Clarencio threw open the door to find Loria, the maid who usually brought his evening breakfast, standing alongside a Helat messenger. The two of them were staring down at a corpse lying in a pool of steaming coffee and blood, the floor around the dead man littered with cups, cheese, cold ham, and bread. The serving tray dangled weakly from Loria¡¯s fingers.

    The messenger knelt down and pulled a blue glass dagger from the dead man¡¯s eye.

    ¡°They do not get past me often,¡± the Helat said in heavily accented Khinesian. ¡°Your adversaries gain cunning.¡±

    Loria pressed a shaking hand to her lips. She must have seen the Helat with the knife and thought she was done for.

    ¡°You¡¯re all right, everything is all right.¡± Clarencio patted the maid on the arm. Pain thrummed up his leg. He needed to get off it. He was also embarrassingly aware that he was naked. Why couldn¡¯t assassins attack in the middle of the night when he was fully dressed and prepared for a fight? ¡°Find Jarik. He¡¯ll take care of this.¡±

    Her wide eyes rolled warily to the Helat. ¡°But, your lordship, the¡­¡±

    ¡°It will be fine. He was protecting us.¡± That was certainly how it appeared, anyway. Clarencio locked gazes with the messenger. Like his fellow Children of Day, the man¡¯s eyes were painfully bright. Green this time, though Clarencio had so far seen blue, purple, and hazel. ¡°Go find Jarik.¡±Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    Loria dipped a nervous bow and skirted around the body, breaking into a run before she reached the end of the corridor.

    The Helat slipped his throwing knife into his cloak, storing it somewhere in the depths.

    Clarencio sheathed his walking stick. ¡°If you¡¯ll allow me a moment to dress, I have a few questions.¡±

    By the time Clarencio was dressed and ready to talk with the Helat, Jarik had brought in a pair of coachmen to drag the body away and a handful of servants were working to restore the hallway.

    ¡°You spoke as if you¡¯ve stopped assassins coming into my residence before,¡± Clarencio began.

    That was too much for the man¡¯s limited Khinesian.

    ¡°My cunning adversaries,¡± Clarencio tried again. ¡°You have stopped more of them?¡±

    The Helat nodded. ¡°You are not loved.¡±

    A whopping understatement. ¡°How many more have you killed?¡±

    The man struggled with the language, then held up two fingers. ¡°You say ¡®twice¡¯ for this?¡±

    ¡°Two. Both here in Siu Carinal?¡± Clarencio did his best to indicate the city.

    ¡°Here and between. In conveyance from the City of Blood. I am sent to watch.¡±

    ¡°To watch and to kill assassins?¡±

    ¡°The khalif says you are a good Khinet-born. The others kill you. I watch to stop them.¡±

    ¡°You were sent to guard me?¡±

    ¡°You are not loved,¡± the Helat repeated.

    Clarencio huffed a laugh. ¡°Tell me about it.¡±

    That didn¡¯t translate.

    ¡°Why does the khalif care whether I live or die?¡± he asked instead.

    ¡°You wish for good. You speak for good. I see this, I tell the khalif. You will see the khalif.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s certainly the thrust of our negotiations.¡±

    The man shook his head. ¡°You will see the khalif. In spring, we convey you from the border. You will see the khalif in summer.¡±

    Clarencio frowned. ¡°I haven¡¯t heard this. No message has come saying that the khalif has agreed to see me.¡±

    ¡°This is why I come this night.¡± The Helat tapped his chest. ¡°I am the message. No parchment, only words. You will see the khalif.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s agreed to meet with me?¡± Clarencio couldn¡¯t believe what he was hearing. Shouldn¡¯t believe what he was hearing. Everything else had been carried out on paper. The sudden change made no sense. ¡°How do I know this is the truth?¡±

    The Helat reached into his cloak again and pulled out a ring. The signet on top matched the seals on every missive he¡¯d received.

    ¡°The khalif allows you to take this to your sovereign as proof.¡±

    ***

    Clarencio met with the king that same midnight.

    ¡°We knew you were the only one we could trust to succeed at this,¡± Hazerial said, turning the signet ring over in his hand.

    ¡°I¡¯m to leave for the border at the first spring thaw, Your Majesty. An envoy from the Helat will meet me at the Salt River crossing to convey me through their territory. With your permission, I¡¯ll go to Blazing Prairie as soon as possible to set affairs in order for my extended absence.¡±

    ¡°Before you go, Lord Clarencio, you¡¯ll set affairs in order here, in the Hall of Law. You will see the last iron shipment fulfilled before the weather turns, whatever losses you may incur. We expect a large influx of bloodslaves by spring, and the sacramentals must be prepared.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Your Majesty.¡±

    Clarencio shifted his weight despite knowing he wouldn¡¯t find a more comfortable position. Even after an evening impatiently massaging liniment into his leg so that he could be here, the appendage felt as if it were crawling with burning maggots. The king hadn¡¯t invited him to sit, and he doubted that was an accidental oversight.

    In his mind¡¯s eye, he could see the purple ribbon on his writing desk and the princess¡¯s pleading gaze.

    ¡°I had hoped that I would take my bride with me when I left,¡± he ventured.

    Hazerial smiled down at the signet.

    ¡°It was our fondest hope that our daughter would travel into the Kingdom of Day with you, Lord Clarencio. Our ambassador must have his wife with him.¡± He tossed the ring up and caught it, snapping his long fingers shut like a trap. ¡°However, the daughter of a king cannot be given away like some tanner¡¯s brat, with a shout and a shivaree. The arrangements for a spectacle such as a royal wedding must take time.¡±

    Clarencio twisted his walking stick, the tip grinding against the stone floor. Language had never been added to the marriage contract to include their agreement about the Helat, so he couldn¡¯t claim the king was defaulting.

    Two reasons to move for every Josean-blessed swordsman and at least five for every Eketra-blessed king.

    ¡°When should I expect the wedding to take place?¡± Clarencio asked. ¡°My household will need time to prepare as well.¡±

    ¡°During the Festival of Springlight, at Shamasa Redoubt, a night¡¯s ride from your meeting place with the Helat. We trust that you will have arrived at the border by Springlight?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Your Majesty.¡±

    The king must have sensed his hesitation. ¡°If you have doubts, we give you leave to speak them now.¡±

    ¡°Forgive me, Your Majesty, it¡¯s only that an active fortress is hardly the first setting to come to mind for something as extravagant as a royal wedding.¡±

    Hazerial chuckled. ¡°For the union that could very well bring peace with our most ancient of enemies? Lord Clarencio, I cannot think of a more fitting location than a stronghold that has watched the war play out these many centuries.¡±

 Chapter 62: Lethal Measures

    The weather at Thornfield turned cold earlier than usual, driving training inside, and making patrols on the wall a frozen, agonizing affair. Fevers and croup ran through ranks in the confined spaces, killing off a handful of students.

    Much like Lathe had the previous winters, Scabs got a runny nose when the cold weather hit and kept it until spring. He made a habit of poking out his tongue and licking the snot from his top lip, chapping the skin red. He coughed once and came down with a scratchy voice for a few nights, but never caught a full croup, and never came close to dying like Lathe hoped.

    ¡°Ya know,¡± Scabs told her while they were paired together during training, ¡°I figure I did see Pretty after you left, at the Carnival of the Dead. Only I couldn¡¯t hardly know her for what-all the dead temperers done to her.¡±

    ¡°You lie!¡±

    ¡°Me and Ratface seen her, us. Her skin was all swirled up with marks, and her teef was pointy, and her eyes was glowin¡¯ like a ghost city. She was done up like a fancy fright¡¯em and dancin¡¯ in the parade.¡±

    If Master Saint Galen hadn¡¯t glanced their way at exactly the right moment, Scabs would¡¯ve died with his head scissored off by Lathe¡¯s twin swords. Luckily for Scabs, and infuriatingly for Lathe, the gold-eyed weapons master¡¯s whip lashed out, snatched her by the ankle, and ripped her off her feet before she snapped the blades closed.

    Scabs escaped the incident with a few minor cuts that his blood magic healed in under a night. Lathe got scullery duty rather than scourging, because no one could prove she hadn¡¯t been trying a variation on the sword drills. And for his part, Scabs backed up her lie, grinning sidelong at her the whole time.

    ¡°S¡¯ppose I killt somebody here,¡± Lathe said casually to Master Saint Daven during her next sword lesson. ¡°Might be I¡¯d get scourged, sure, but would Grandmaster still let me be a Thorn?¡±

    ¡°Get those heavy swords up. Treat them like your regular steels.¡± Saint Daven had learned not to answer questions like that from Lathe. He was curious, though. ¡°Who are you planning to kill?¡±

    ¡°Nobody.¡± Lathe swung the weighted swords up to meet the master¡¯s attack. ¡°Anyhow, if I was, it¡¯d just be a dumb snakebelly scab-eater nobody¡¯d miss.¡±

    ¡°You told one of the masters?¡± Izak snorted when Lathe told her brothers how unhelpful the dumb ol¡¯ crow had been. ¡°You really are stupid. Now if Scabs dies, you¡¯ll be the first suspect, no matter how he goes.¡±

    ¡°I ain¡¯t stupid!¡± Lathe smacked Izak¡¯s cup off the supper table. ¡°If I had brothers that helped me get rid of that nasty flea instead a¡¯ just making excuses and letting him sleep in my bunk, I wouldn¡¯t hafta tell no one.¡±

    ¡°He doesn¡¯t sleep in your bunk,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°He sleeps in the bunk above mine.¡±

    ¡°Both them top bunks are mine!¡±

    ¡°Now that you mention it,¡± Izak said, ¡°you¡¯re hardly ever in the room anymore. Where have you been sleeping?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you no never-mind where I been sleeping.¡±

    Most days when she wasn¡¯t on patrol, Lathe slept in the kitchens, in front of the hearth with the cook¡¯s apprentices. When she could sneak out to the village, however, the girls at the public house let her sleep in their bed in the cellar. Neither Casia nor Danasi actually slept upstairs in the beds they entertained in.

    ¡°It¡¯s not healthy,¡± Casia explained as she tucked Lathe in. ¡°Besides, who would want to sleep where they work?¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    ¡°You figure if I lured Scabs out here and killt him, one a¡¯ you gals could say you done it?¡±

    ¡°No. How would you lure him here, anyway?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d tell him I could get him in with one a¡¯ you.¡± Now and again, just to make sure she wasn¡¯t missing out on any information Scabs was withholding about Pretty, Lathe would use her invisibility to follow him and Thirty. ¡°He¡¯s mighty keen on getting with a gal, him. He¡¯s always scheming on it with that fathead Thirty when nobody else is around. Thirty gots a couple little first-years doing the bad stuff with him, but Scabs don¡¯t like it none with guys, I guess. I figure I say one word about sneaking him out to you, and that nit-louse¡¯ll come running right quick.¡±

    ¡°Well, you¡¯re not dragging us into a murder plot.¡± Danasi crossed the cellar and grabbed a handful of onions and mealy potatoes to stretch the pub¡¯s stew. ¡°Especially not at our busiest time of year.¡±

    Lathe scratched her nose. ¡°You two ain¡¯t no more help than my brothers.¡±

    Danasi ignored her and pointed a potato at Casia. ¡°Marek¡¯s looking for ¡®that enchanting sister of mine.¡¯ Widow Rima just paid him for a table mend, and he¡¯s itching to spend it.¡±

    Casia stood and tweaked Lathe¡¯s nose. ¡°No murder here, all right?¡±

    ¡°No murder here in winter.¡± Lathe turned on her side in the cellar bed and pulled the covers up to her ears. ¡°Might be one in spring, though, when business slows down.¡±

    ***

    Despite what Lathe thought, Izak was trying to solve their fourth-man problem. He ran through a score of scenarios every night trying to devise a way to get Scabs out of their hair. The effect that sleazy close-rat had on Lathe got under Izak¡¯s skin. Not only that, but Twenty-six kept pointing out that the moment a more attractive offer than a silver a week came along, Scabs would jump on it.

    More immediately frustrating, however, was the fact that in the nine months since they had been saddled with the new arrival, Izak had only been to the pub three times. Three times! And all three had been rushed, crammed in between horsemanship lessons he didn¡¯t need and hurrying to get back before he was scheduled for patrol. Teikru¡¯s blessing was screaming at him constantly. He could barely think.

    ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be the strategic genius,¡± he snapped at the pirate. ¡°Why haven¡¯t you come up with anything yet?¡±

    But Twenty-six had been preoccupied lately as well.

    He¡¯d gone to the pub one time since their roommate moved in, and spent the day listening to the local dirters gossip about their kingdom¡¯s wars.

    ¡°They¡¯re talking like the prince is gonna bring about the end of the Helat.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t doubt it. I heard he¡¯s been cutting off pointy ears by the wagonload. He¡¯ll send ¡¯em running back to their whore mothers.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s all fine and good for them inland folks, but what about us down here on the sea? Light, Breakwater wasn¡¯t but a month ago. The pirates could sail up here any day.¡±

    ¡°Let ¡¯em come, I say. You heard we took a whole ship of ¡¯em off Big Harbor?¡±

    ¡°About time we sent a few savages to the strong gods¡¯ hell. Get back what they killed of ours.¡±

    ¡°Oh, we¡¯re killing plenty savages out on the water. This time, we took the bastards alive.¡±

    Twenty-six¡¯s blood ran cold. He strained his ears for every word the dirters said.

    ¡°Dragged thirty or forty of ¡¯em off their boat, screaming and crying like little girls. Got ¡¯em halfway to a sacramental before one broke loose and killed the rest. Just goes to show, though, it¡¯s only a matter of time before we¡¯re enthralling pirates by the score. They¡¯ll be as common as every other kinda bloodslave you can think of.¡±

    ¡°How¡¯s that supposed to help us? Name somebody in Sandshells with the coin to buy a bloodslave.¡±

    ¡°It helps us because it scares the pirates from attacking our land. They¡¯re big men when they¡¯re chopping their women¡¯s heads off, but catch ¡¯em and they¡¯re no tougher than babes off the tit.¡±

    As many as forty Ocean Rovers dragged ashore. A raed ship¡¯s worth of men cut off from the God of the Waves, not so they could be executed like the men of his tribe had been or Marked by their abominable king, but to suffer the humiliation of the blood drinkers¡¯ slave trade.

    If one raed ship could be captured alive, more could be taken as well. In time, the dirters might manage to take a greatship. If the raedrs weren¡¯t fast enough, if they hesitated in sending their wives on to paradise as Araam had done, the women could be enslaved by these monsters.

    Twenty-six didn¡¯t want to believe that another Ocean Rover could equal his cowardice, but what if the dirters managed to get one of his people to their king? Twenty-six had seen what the prince could do with blood magic. What if the king could extract the way to Cryst¡¯holm from an Ocean Rover? Then it wouldn¡¯t only be men and women that they could take, but children and elders.

    His hand tightened on his cup until the pottery groaned. He had to kill the dirter king during the spring grafting. No matter what Izak said or did to deter him, this time, the king would die.

 Chapter 63: Those Who Stand in the Way

    The Siu Carinal natives couldn¡¯t remember ever having seen a colder winter. The river mouth froze over completely for the first time since the Plight, trapping barges and river boats at the docks, and killing bloodslaves and other livestock.

    Snow fell. Most of the locals had never seen more than a dusting in their lifetimes, but huge wet flakes drifted down through the ghost city and made slushy banks deep enough to spill over boot tops and soak hemlines to the knee.

    The lively gaiety of the Jewel of the Delta ground to a halt. No goods came in or left. Market Street sat empty. The ever-present musicians hid away in taverns and gambling houses. The promenade, normally filled with gaudily dressed uphill folks, lay blanketed in silent, dingy snow.

    Beggars, close-rats, and strays shivered themselves to death in the streets. With no food coming in, the frozen corpses didn¡¯t stay in place long enough for a dead temperer to collect them. Most didn¡¯t even lie there long enough for new snow to cover them.

    The Festival of Winterlight was a solemn, quick affair. Even the priests, who had exertion and the blazing bodies of the sacrifices to keep them warm, shivered at their work. As soon as the sacrifices were burning, the royal family, nobles, and wealthy folk of the delta hurried back to their residences, and the peasants returned to their hearths. No dancing or tarrying in that bone-snapping cold.

    ¡°Seleketra shined even brighter in the dark of Winterlight,¡± Athalia told Pretty, hugging the girl close to her side as they watched the flames flickering in the high place from the warm safety of the Daylily¡¯s townhouse. ¡°Wait ¡¯til word gets out about the gambling house boss who gave his body up to the priests for the demigoddess.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll die for you, Seleketra,¡± the man had said, his eyes glittering with madness and reflecting the green glow from hers. ¡°I¡¯ll burn for you forever on the high places.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s mighty good,¡± Pretty forced herself to say, leaning her head on Athalia¡¯s shoulder.

    He¡¯d made those promises, and then he¡¯d screamed and screamed. He had burned for Seleketra, just like he said, and no matter how often Athalia promised that the hysteria of the demigoddess¡¯s admirers would eventually pass, no matter how proud of her and how happy with her Athalia was, Pretty still heard the screams.

    ***

    Under the veil of falling snow, as the Winterlight sacrifices burned low and a new sun tinged the horizon with gray, the crown prince and his men rode into the outskirts of Siu Carinal.

    When they reached Mistfen¡¯s stable yard, Etian fell off his horse as much as climbed off, stumbling on legs crawling with icy needles and handing over the reins with hands he hadn¡¯t felt in hours. His cloak and clothing groaned with ice every time he moved.

    He ordered that his men be fed and boarded, then showed the royal grooms the horse that had started limping miles back. Shoe coming loose, it looked like.

    The stable hands were ecstatic to converse with their favorite prince again and more than happy to do the bidding of the greatest hero since Josean himself.

    Etian felt as if he were watching the conversation from afar. Every sound was muffled. His glasses had frosted over up north at the beginning of winter, and it felt as if he¡¯d been fighting to clear the night-forsaken things ever since. They had proven almost as much a hindrance as help. If he hadn¡¯t learned to fight blind as a child, he would have been dead a hundred times over.

    The cold here was damp and ugly, but not strong enough to keep snow from turning to slush overday. Up north, the first winter blizzard had dumped snow level with a destrier¡¯s back and frozen it in place. All fighting had stopped, leaving the armies just trying to survive. Etian hadn¡¯t wanted to desert the men he¡¯d fought and struggled alongside, men who had charged headlong into every battle at his word, but a missive from the king had called him back.

    Despite the wet flakes splattering his face and lenses, the prince stood staring up at Mistfen for long minutes.

    Etian hadn¡¯t bathed properly in months, washing up in icy streams when possible and at inns a few times on the ride south, but going without more often than not. Somehow he hadn¡¯t felt as filthy in the mud and blood of the battlefield as he did now a hundred yards from warmth and luxury.

    Inside, he found servants going about their early morning tasks. Each time their eyes fell on his face, the servants stared open-mouthed, then, realizing who they were gaping at, shook themselves and bowed.

    Right, the scar. He¡¯d forgotten. An ugly hack that would have taken off the top half of his head if Ruis hadn¡¯t hurled him out of the way. The Thorn¡¯s reward had come in the form of a Helat ax buried in the back of his skull. Meanwhile, Etian had escaped with nothing but a jagged leer carved into his left cheek.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    He needed to speak to Vorino. Gander had already returned Ruis¡¯s thornknife to the masters at Thornfield, and he must have told them about the battle when he did, but Etian felt like he owed Ruis greater acknowledgement than that. His former sword tutor would know how best to go about it.

    But first, a bath.

    By the time he reached the residences, Etian dripped melting ice with every step. He¡¯d grown so used to the cold that he was sweating despite Mistfen¡¯s poorly insulated walls. The result was an uncomfortable combination of wet and hot everywhere but his extremities, which still prickled with cold.

    He pushed open the door of the room across the corridor from Pasiona¡¯s bedchamber. The room was formerly Izak¡¯s, but Etian had commandeered it the year before as a safe distance away from his wife to sleep.

    From behind him came a sound that stopped him in his tracks. Halfway between a grunt and a cry. A ragged breath, almost too tiny to hear, and then that cry again.

    Etian¡¯s feet turned him around and brought him instead to his wife¡¯s bedchamber.

    Low red burned in the hearth, joining the pale green ghostlight from the window to give the room a soft glow. Pasiona reclined on the couch before the fire, shushing a small bundle at her breast.

    Her face was like nothing Etian had ever seen. Joy and love and wonder and contentment and warmth. Her beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes lavished all of their attention on the bundle of blankets.

    A chunk of ice dropped from Etian¡¯s cloak onto the stone floor.

    Pasiona didn¡¯t startle at the unexpected noise. She didn¡¯t gasp when she saw his face.

    She beckoned him over.

    ¡°Reuel,¡± she said in a low, soothing, songlike voice as she turned the bundle toward Etian, ¡°meet your father.¡±

    Etian felt like he¡¯d been taken out at the knees. He sank onto the rug at Pasiona¡¯s feet.

    The last infant he¡¯d seen had been Kelena, but he and Izakiel hadn¡¯t been allowed this close to her. Were all babies so small, so red? Did they all have that thin coating of fuzz, or were his lenses fogging over again?

    ¡°His eyes are blue, like yours,¡± Etian said. He sounded dull, stunned. He¡¯d heard men dying of headwounds make more intelligent remarks.

    He should have prepared for this. But how? This wasn¡¯t a battle, it wasn¡¯t fencing or war or training. There was nothing to win. Nothing to gain. This was something fragile and tiny and infinitely breakable.

    Pasiona smiled at his expression. ¡°He¡¯s Josean-blessed, just like you.¡±

    Black sickness washed up from the pit of Etian¡¯s stomach.

    ¡°No,¡± he choked. ¡°No, he¡¯s not like me.¡± His eyes stung. It was hard to breathe. The cloak was strangling him. He stood up and tore off the offending garment with stiff jerks. ¡°He¡¯ll be nothing like me.¡±

    Etian strode for the door.

    ¡°I¡¯ll make sure of it.¡±

    ***

    Being once more amongst the royals left Etian uneasy. He couldn¡¯t think of them as his family. Keil and Hack, who had ridden back with him, and the men he¡¯d left up north were his family. They had seen the same ugly, awful, incredible things, shivered through the same cold and boredom, suffered through terrible food of which there was never enough. They had fought together, bled together, mourned and celebrated together.

    The nobles in residence at Mistfen marched past Etian like children¡¯s toys, shiny and unreal. Hazerial hovered in the distance like a gathering storm. Pasiona was a dream of fiery, icy yearning, within reach but impossible to touch, unwilling to spend even a moment away from their son. The infant was fear and perfection united, waking Etian from sound sleep to steal into his wife¡¯s bedchamber and check that the boy hadn¡¯t been taken by the monster from his terrors.

    Whether that monster was the mad queen or the Eketra-blessed king or Etian himself varied, but it didn¡¯t matter. The ultimate solution would be the same. His son had to be protected. That clean, perfect purity had to be preserved.

    While Etian awaited his summons for an audience with the king, he made plans.

    And while he made plans, his unwitting prey stalked him.

    ¡°Poor blind prince, home from the cold lonely front, but no wife to warm him,¡± Jadarah purred at dinner. ¡°Some women stop being women when they have a babe. Feeding a child makes them forget all about the hungers of a man.¡±

    Etian wanted to cut out the mad queen¡¯s tongue for even speaking about the infant. He didn¡¯t want Jadarah to know about the boy, didn¡¯t want her existing in the same palace as the boy did, didn¡¯t want her twisted mind to whisper a thought about him.

    ¡°If turning her full attention to motherhood keeps her from sacrificing our son to the strong gods, I¡¯d say she¡¯s entitled to it.¡± He adjusted his lenses. ¡°The rest is none of your concern.¡±

    ¡°Poor Josean. Even in his second coming he has to act as if he doesn¡¯t hunger like every other man.¡±

    Jadarah traced the scar along his cheek with one filthy finger. He let her for as long as he could stomach it, then smacked her hand away when it reached his lips.

    She chuckled and ran the offending hand over her breast, down her stomach to press her skirts against the apex of her thighs.

    ¡°Some of us are still women, blind prince. Some of us know a starving man when we see one.¡±

    He didn¡¯t have to fake distaste at his body¡¯s reaction to her. He hated that she still had this effect on him, despised her and the lust he couldn¡¯t separate from his disgust and fear and awe. But if he couldn¡¯t control his response, at least it served to lure his prey closer.

    ¡°Even a starving man will turn down a poisoned meal,¡± he said.

    Jadarah laughed. ¡°Only until he gets hungry enough.¡±

    ***

    Jadarah came to his bedchamber a few days later. She treated sex like a weapon, and he treated ploughing her like a scouting foray into enemy territory. He studied her Thorns, noted their blades and formations, assessed their commander, picked out their weakest man and their strongest.

    The Thorns must have been able to feel some frisson of imminent danger, because they wouldn¡¯t leave the mad queen alone with him. They hovered at the edges of the chamber. One turned his flushed face toward the wall; the other three watched, mouths gaping stupidly, breath heavy, eyes glazed with pleasure.

    Etian could have rammed a dagger through Jadarah¡¯s black heart and cut her Thorns down before she finished convulsing. But if fighting the Helat had taught him anything, it was that timing made the difference between victory and death. In this case, the deaths of the very people he was trying to protect. He couldn¡¯t move while his wife and child were within Hazerial¡¯s reach.

    He would lay his trap and wait.

    He didn¡¯t see the pale eyes like blue ice watching through the view port in the upper recesses of his chamber, but Jadarah felt them. She cackled with glee at driving her poisonous stake between the blind prince and his frozen princess.

 Chapter 64: A House Divided

    ¡°Morrow night, Lord and Lady Zinote leave for their country residence,¡± Etian told Pasiona. ¡°You¡¯re going with them.¡±

    House Skalia hadn¡¯t run home for winter like many of the nobles had. They had stayed through the killing cold, hovering over their daughter and playing with the newborn when she would allow them close enough. Only the crown prince¡¯s order to pack up their household had convinced them to go.

    Pasiona didn¡¯t look up from the infant asleep in her lap. ¡°You¡¯re sending us away because of the queen.¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± There was no reason to lie.

    ¡°I saw you with her.¡± Pasiona¡¯s voice was the river outside Mistfen¡¯s walls, frozen solid. ¡°Reuel was fussing, and I wanted to walk with him where others couldn¡¯t see us. There are secret passages in all of the royal residences with viewing ports in nearly every chamber. Whoever built these palaces certainly enjoyed voyeurism.¡±

    ¡°Mikuel the First was Teikru-blessed.¡± Etian hesitated. Pasiona hadn¡¯t been his opponent in years. He had to reset, regain control of the sparring ground. ¡°You told me to tell you about other women before the court gossips got wind.¡±

    ¡°With four Thorns watching, you think it¡¯s not already all over Siu Carinal?¡±

    He conceded the point. ¡°Even more reason for you to leave. You and the boy have to be far away until¡­ until this is finished. I¡¯ve let your ladies know you¡¯re going. They¡¯ll be here soon to pack your things.¡±

    ¡°So the gossips can say you sent us away while you consorted with your father¡¯s wife?¡± She smoothed wispy black hair from the child¡¯s forehead.

    Etian adjusted his lenses, searching as he did for the viewing port into this chamber. If he told his wife the truth¡ªthat he only wanted her, but what a man wanted, what he knew was right, was the first thing that had to be sacrificed to win a war¡ªwould that be a misstep? There was every chance that revolting witch was watching them even now.

    ¡°Your hair is still wet from the bath,¡± Pasiona said bitterly. ¡°Though I suppose I should be grateful you washed after touching her.¡±

    ¡°Tell me you¡¯ll do as I say.¡± He¡¯d meant for it to be a request, but it came out an order. ¡°For your sake and the boy¡¯s.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll agree to it all if you call him by his name.¡± For the first time since Etian had come through the door, her icy blue gaze met his. ¡°Not the boy, not the child, not our son. Reuel.¡±

    Etian looked down at the sleeping infant.

    It was just a name. Just a collection of sounds.

    But even that was sacred. Even that had to be protected.

    Outside the chamber door, he heard women talking to Gander. Gander who he used to trust. Gander, the king¡¯s Thorn.

    ¡°Your ladies are here,¡± he said, wishing he could make her understand that if he could hear them, they could hear him.

    Pasiona took a seething, frozen breath.

    Etian considered everything he could say to his wife, every desperate desire he felt for her and his revulsion at the thought that a monstrosity like him was allowed to stand this close to her and to their son.

    None of it was safe to say out loud.

    Instead, he told her, ¡°Do as I ask. Please.¡±

    ¡°I am the crown prince¡¯s servant,¡± she said, staring at the far wall.

    It was a victory that felt like a defeat. But he¡¯d seen more of those on the front than he had of victories that felt like victories.

    Etian went to let in the ladies who would whisk her away.

    ***

    After his wife¡¯s departure, Etian returned to his demanding nightly routine of blood magic and fencing as if he had never spent time away from the palace. Although Royal Thorns were known to carry gossip like rats carried plague, no one outside the queen¡¯s guard seemed to have caught word of what had passed between Jadarah and the crown prince¡ªwhat continued to pass whenever the mad queen took a notion to sink her claws deeper.

    Fencing was a welcome exercise after weeks on the road. The royal guard had turned over since Etian had left. Most of the older men had died in service or advanced to other positions, such as the king¡¯s armor bearer or, in Vorino¡¯s case, the commander¡¯s second.

    After a childhood of fighting adults, it felt strange to fence with men so close to his own age. Men who had just left Thornfield where, in another life, Etian would have been preparing for the day he would be grafted to Izakiel.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Between matches, Etian made inquiries. As expected, the palace Thorns had dozens of worthy suggestions.

    When he¡¯d gathered enough leads, he turned the conversation to his brother. Most of the younger members of the king¡¯s guard claimed to be on good terms with Izak. More than a few swore they were close friends.

    ¡°Don¡¯t listen to them,¡± Ondreus, one of the past year¡¯s graftings, said. ¡°They¡¯re just deluding themselves because your brother talked to them once or twice. He¡¯s well-liked by everyone at Thornfield, masters included, but he¡¯s only in confidence with his roommates, the pirate and that little thief Nine.¡±

    ¡°That sounds like the sort of crowd he would fall in with,¡± Etian said. If for no other reason than to annoy the king, Izak would have enjoyed the disreputable company.

    ¡°Pardon me, Your Highness.¡± A nervous-looking retainer bowed to Etian. ¡°The king summons you to attend him at your earliest convenience.¡±

    Etian washed and dressed, considering possibilities. This could be the meeting the king had called him back from the front for, or it could be that Jadarah had grown bored of him and decided to turn him over to the king.

    He hadn¡¯t expected the latter this early. What he knew of the mad queen made him certain she would want to draw out this travesty for as long as she could, but one could never predict madness. As such, he¡¯d prepared a contingency.

    When he¡¯d sent Pasiona away, Etian had posted Hack, one of the men who had returned with him from the front, at an inn outside Siu Carinal. Hack had been left with sealed instructions and the route the princess and her family were taking back to the House Skalia holdings. Before Etian left to meet with the king, he sent word to Keil, another of his trusted few, that he should ride out to alert Hack if Etian didn¡¯t contact him before sundown.

    A few short years ago, Etian had trusted Gander and Ruis with every critical task he needed done, but a Thorn¡¯s ultimate allegiance was to the man who had driven the thornknife into his heart. Whether Gander wanted to betray Etian or not, he had to obey his king. The only men Etian could trust now were the ungrafted soldiers who had proven their loyalty to him on the northern front.

    ***

    Hazerial received Etian in the war room.

    ¡°A fashionable battle scar,¡± Hazerial said.

    The crown prince leaned over the table bearing the enormous map of their continent. ¡°It seemed like the correct accessory for a man playacting the second coming of Josean.¡±

    ¡°Leave the sarcasm to your brother. You don¡¯t possess the wit for it.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Your Majesty.¡±

    What was that flicker of rebellion behind the prince¡¯s smoked lenses?

    Perhaps a reminder as to who held the warhorse¡¯s reins was in order.

    ¡°The night of our triumph approaches,¡± Hazerial said. ¡°Kelena is ready.¡±

    The peak in the prince¡¯s throat bobbed, and his glasses caught the firelight as he looked away.

    Hazerial gave his son a cold smile. ¡°No need for modesty, Etianiel. Your dedication and obedience has brought us to the point of victory. You should be proud that you had the backbone to do to what was necessary.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Your Majesty.¡± This time, the response was properly subdued.

    ¡°In the spring, we send the Cursed of the Strong Gods with our emissary into the heart of enemy territory. We will bring Kelena to Shamasa Redout to meet her husband, Lord Clarencio. The wedding will take place during the Festival of Springlight.¡± Hazerial tapped the map. ¡°The Helat escort is set to meet him here, where the Salt River crosses the border into their land. It is assumed they will travel north along this route.¡±

    With his finger, Hazerial veered away from the river, taking a winding path through the Kingdom of Day before returning to the Salt, where sat the only settlement marked on the Helat¡¯s stolen realm.

    ¡°According to our source, this is the highway they will take to their imperial city¡ª¡± Hazerial indicated the settlement. ¡°¡ªwhich straddles the Salt here.¡±

    ¡°Do you believe your source is correct?¡± Etian asked. ¡°The Royal Archives speak of the ancient Helat utilizing barges with heavy horses when towing upriver. It¡¯s the most direct path.¡±

    ¡°And yet rarely used these days, owing to bandits and thieves haunting its banks. Apparently, the accepted travel route now is this highway. Our inquisitors confirmed his information.¡±

    Hazerial dismissed that tangent with a wave of his hand. ¡°It matters little either way. The strong gods have chosen to unleash the fruit of their thousand hells from Kelena at the height of the coming summer, during what will forever after be known as the Endless Night of Judgment. The question is where the Josean-blessed prince believes his army should be positioned to take advantage of the slaughter.¡±

    For several long minutes, Etianiel studied the map in silence.

    Hazerial felt a tingle of impatience that he knew came from the strong goddess. Eketra had never had tolerance for Josean¡¯s slow, methodical approach, despite so often using it to her advantage.

    Finally, the prince spoke. ¡°Your source didn¡¯t mention the terrain?¡±

    ¡°Only that it was heavily forested for as far as he rode along the highway, and that he saw cliffs on the eastern bank before the road departed from following the water.¡±

    ¡°Handy ambush territory, if they used it,¡± Etianiel said absently. ¡°Was this information given to Lord Clarencio?¡± At Hazerial¡¯s affirmative, the crown prince said, ¡°If he¡¯s taking the overland approach, then I want the river. Your source only traversed the western side?¡±

    ¡°Twice, first alone and then with the Helat accompanying him to make certain he crossed the border rather than turned back.¡±

    ¡°What did he say about the imperial city? You mentioned it spanned the river.¡±

    Hazerial nodded. ¡°Quite an impressive sprawl, I¡¯m told. Buildings of ivory stone, with walls of the same enclosing it on both banks.¡±

    ¡°Bridges?¡±

    ¡°Three connecting the walls, stretching from one side of the river to the other.¡±

    Etian grunted. ¡°If the distance from there to the border has been correctly estimated, the overland route will take a month, possibly two, depending on the weather. Will Kelena have time to make it to the imperial city by this Endless Night of Judgment?¡±

    ¡°Easily. It will follow our Summerlight Festival, four days after.¡±

    The prince fell to silent calculation, likely weighing the longest possible travel delays against the prophesied night of attack. Finally, he nodded.

    ¡°Then I¡¯ll move in on the eastern bank and push north. Small enough force to remain unknown, large enough to make sure no one survives to spread the word.¡±

    Etianiel straightened from his study of the map and adjusted his lenses.

    ¡°Your Majesty, I would like to make an unusual request.¡±

    Eketra was intrigued, and so was her chosen king.

    ¡°We will hear it.¡±

    ¡°I have a few skilled soldiers in mind to bring along, but a small contingent of Thorns would be ideal for this maneuver. I would like to graft my first Thorns before I ride out, Izak included.¡±

    Hazerial grinned as bloody webs twisted and clung to one another. ¡°We had planned to ride to Thornfield early this year. It will suit our purposes perfectly to have the crown prince claim his first Thorns alongside his king.¡±

 Chapter 65: Family Reunion

    As soon as the roads were passable again, a messenger arrived at Thornfield carrying the news that the yearly grafting would take place early, at first thaw. To accommodate the king, the spring mock tournament was moved forward to the tail end of winter.

    Along with the change in scheduling, the king had sent Grandmaster Heartless an unusual order. In addition to the king¡¯s requirement, Crown Prince Etianiel would be grafting eight Thorns. To make up for the painfully low number of seniors, six of the third years would have to be grafted.

    As these premature graftings were becoming more commonplace, the third years had adapted¡ªeither consciously or unconsciously¡ªby taking names earlier and earlier.

    Prince Izak would undoubtedly be at the forefront of his brother¡¯s graftings, as Commander of the Crown Prince¡¯s Thorns. He was still going by ¡°Four,¡± but it was no mystery what name he would choose.

    The best swordsman in their year, the pirate, was another obvious choice for early grafting. Twenty-six had yet to declare a name, but Grandmaster suspected that was due to a lack of trust in his fellow students, not indecision.

    Normally, Grandmaster would have included Lathe in his list for the king and heir, as the half-blind berserker was right on the prince and pirate¡¯s heels for skill level, but Heartless couldn¡¯t in good conscience give the boy to either his current sovereign or the future king.

    He filled the spot that would have been Lathe¡¯s with Fifty-one. Compared to the berserker, the bastard of West Crag was slower than frozen honey, but he would make a solid support man, and among ranks of natural show-offs and gloryseekers, that quiet dependability was as rare and valuable as gold.

    If Fifty-one and the pirate landed in the same guard, there was a chance they would plague it with infighting, but Grandmaster put that in his report as well, along with the suggestion that under Izak¡¯s command, the prince might be able to keep the pirate in line.

    ***

    The first- and second-year brackets were nothing spectacular in Lathe¡¯s opinion. Scabs lost his first match and spent the remainder of his bracket gambling and hanging around with his enterprising friend Thirty, who had taken up the job of student bookmaker after Ondreus was grafted.

    It looked as if Thirty would take the second-year championship through a deftly applied combination of poisons, bribery, and intimidation.

    Lathe raged at the thought that Thirty might win, and even worse that Scabs¡ªwho had listened to his friend¡¯s advice and laid heavy bets on the merchant¡¯s son to take the championship¡ªwould soon be flush with coin.

    ¡°We¡¯ll find another way to bribe his mouth shut,¡± Izak assured in a low voice her while they watched the championship bout.

    ¡°Who¡¯s caring about Scabs¡¯s mouth?¡± Lathe muttered. ¡°It¡¯s bad medicine, them flux-piles getting what they want.¡±

    ¡°Have you ever noticed that bad medicine is anything you don¡¯t like?¡± Izak asked.

    ¡°¡¯Course I don¡¯t like it! What kinda silt brain likes bad medicine?¡±

    ¡°Do not do anything rash,¡± the pirate warned her.

    Lathe didn¡¯t have any rash actions planned. But she was standing right there when Thirty and his opponent pushed their match up against the crowd. Impulse spoke up, and Lathe had never been one to ignore an impulse.

    While the young men and boys around her were scuttling out of the way of the fighters¡¯ blades, Lathe threw her weight into a punch to Thirty¡¯s liver.

    Then she scuttled back.

    Thirty¡¯s face went from pink to gray to green, and he collapsed. His opponent, a powerful second-year who hadn¡¯t been susceptible to Thirty¡¯s intimidations and had yet to catch a dose of paralyzing poison, put his longsword to Thirty¡¯s neck.

    ¡°Winner!¡± Fright announced, slipping between the young men. ¡°Sixty-two!¡±

    Thirty regained color as he pushed up to his hands and knees, passing his usual pink flush for a livid red.

    He rounded on Lathe. ¡°You cheating, scum-guzzling¡ª¡±

    ¡°In a real skirmish, there will always be unforeseen circumstances,¡± Lathe said in a solemn imitation of Grandmaster Heartless. The mimicry fell apart when she shot Thirty a nasty grin. ¡°I might be scum, me, but least I didn¡¯t lose a whole championship ¡¯cuz I wasn¡¯t lookin¡¯ where I was goin¡¯.¡±

    Multiple bystanders had to intervene to break the two of them up. Lathe was still screaming insults as her roommates dragged her bodily away. Thirty seethed in the grasp of the other students, his livid complexion draining away to be replaced by a curtain of lethal white.

    With the onlookers alternately egging the fight on and complaining that the delay was interfering with the next bracket, no one noticed Scabs smiling to himself.

    ***

    Kelena wasn¡¯t used to being around her father for more than an hour at a time, so the carriage ride from Mistfen to Thornfield was a tense and uncomfortable affair. She squeezed into the corner of the seat across from the King of Night, trying to breathe in what little air his suffocating presence didn¡¯t banish and attract as little notice as possible.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    Perhaps going unnoticed was one skill she actually possessed. For the better part of the journey, the king only acknowledged her existence when they had to stop for her sake. Thankfully, that could almost always be taken care of when the whole entourage stopped for the day at an inn or public house.

    If Mother had come along, the queen might have called attention to Kelena¡¯s idiocy more often. She would have pointed out all the ways Kelena was failing the most basic tests of existence and reminded Kelena what a tax she was on everyone around her. But Mother and a flock of priests had traveled ahead to Shamasa to prepare a suitable high place for the Springlight sacrifices and the coming wedding.

    Kelena couldn¡¯t bring herself to relax in the king¡¯s presence, but she took solace in the knowledge that she had been released from her training.

    ¡°The crippled lord requested it specially,¡± Jadarah had sneered when she pulled Kelena from the last ritual. ¡°And Eketra¡¯s favorite king agreed. Lucky for Little Nothing that Mother finished what they started. They don¡¯t care what happens to you when the strong gods finally turn their scorn your way, but Mother does.¡±

    Kelena shivered as the carriage rolled across the sandy strip of land. She tried never to think about the strong gods¡¯ hatred for her. When she got too close to the thought, her mind turned to nothing and hid. She would return hours later and find herself somewhere else altogether, the trek having gone on without her.

    Better by far to remember the Lord of the Cinterlands and their conversation that beautiful, shining day. The shimmering colors and sweet music, his kind concern. Lord Clarencio had been as handsome as she remembered, but not frightening at all. He had seen how stupid she was, how obviously empty, and still he had spoken to her as if¡­ as if she existed.

    Hooves thumped outside the carriage, and a shadow crossed between the moonlight and the window.

    The first time that had happened on the journey, Kelena had screamed, terrors fluttering up from the depths of her mind to prove what an idiot she was. Now she knew it was just one of the Royal Thorns delivering a message.

    Hazerial pulled the curtain back farther, and her brother¡¯s glasses bounced moonlight into the interior of the carriage. Kelena cringed away from the refraction.

    She didn¡¯t know why, but her skin buzzed whenever Etianiel was near. She couldn¡¯t look directly at him; it made her feel as if she were draining away whenever she tried.

    At least the crown prince didn¡¯t spend any time in the carriage, preferring to ride with the Thorns. He had tried to speak to her once since leaving Mistfen, but she had barely been able to hear him over the buzzing in her skin, and she¡¯d stumbled through her answer so badly that she couldn¡¯t blame him for not trying again.

    ¡°We¡¯re coming up on the Thornfield gatehouse now,¡± he reported to the king.

    Hazerial nodded and let the curtain fall by way of dismissal. His dark stare turned to Kelena.

    She tried to shrink without moving. She wished she was a worm or a speck of dust, something so small he couldn¡¯t even see her.

    ¡°You will remain at our side the entire time we are at Thornfield,¡± Hazerial said.

    Kelena hastened to nod obediently. Something about the way the king said it made her think he would lay out more proscriptions, but Hazerial fell silent again.

    The carriage slowed. Outside, patrols and Thorns shouted back and forth. The conveyance leaned slightly as it turned. The wheels rattled over a grating, then quieted as they returned to sand.

    The carriage stopped. The door opened.

    ¡°Follow,¡± Hazerial ordered. He rose and descended into the ghostlight.

    Kelena swallowed, her heart thundering in her ears. Out there under the night sky, the ghost city would be glaring down, waiting for the Nothing One to dare to stand beneath its glow.

    On numb legs, she inched toward the door. A footman offered her a hand down, but Kelena didn¡¯t see it. Instead she grasped the frame of the carriage as she climbed down. Mud slicked her fingers.

    Idiot! Why hadn¡¯t she realized that would happen? The green ghostlight pressed down, loathing her as she bit her lip and hid the offending appendage in the folds of her cloak.

    A prickle of unease drew her attention. A feeling of being watched by more than the ghost city. She raised her head.

    A thousand eyes were fixed upon her every move. The terrors were there in the middle of the night, staring at her, breathing at her, shouting at her. They would descend upon her and there would be nowhere she could escape to. She would be back in it again, trapped in the black.

    Her head spun, darkness washing in from the edges of her vision.

    ¡°Kelen?¡± The familiar voice cut through the muffled rushing in her head.

    She looked up to see Izakiel pushing his way through the crowd. A crowd that was nothing more than a mass of men and boys, no terrors at all. They were smiling and jostling with one another to see something.

    To see her. They were all looking at her.

    Heedless of the gathered crowd, Izakiel scooped her up and spun her around like he used to when she was a child.

    Was any of this happening? Had she imagined it all? Could she truly be far away from the black and hugging her elder brother again? She buried her face in Izakiel¡¯s neck and breathed in his scent.

    A lifetime of memories came flooding back¡ªhim tossing her into the air, teasing her, calling her names, letting her ride around the courtyard with him, swearing to her that every word out of Mother¡¯s mouth was a lie, telling her never to listen¡­

    Tears burned Kelena¡¯s eyes. Always crying, always such an idiot.

    With a final squeeze, Izakiel set her back on her feet, grinning that dimpled grin she had missed so dearly. Still the hero of her childhood, but different. His angles were sharper, the boyish softness she remembered chiseled into manhood.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe how you¡¯ve grown, Kelen.¡± Funny how it used to annoy her when Izakiel called her the boy¡¯s version of her name¡ªnow it only added to her love for him. He tapped her on the nose. ¡°You¡¯re so much taller and less ugly.¡±

    She laughed through her tears. ¡°You too, but you smell worse.¡±

    ¡°I been trainin¡¯, me! Ain¡¯t had no time for baths.¡±

    ¡°Why are you talking like a peasant?¡± It felt as if all the laughter he¡¯d taken with him when he left three years ago had rushed back into her at once.

    ¡°Kelena.¡± Hazerial¡¯s cold voice strangled the giggle in her throat.

    She retreated to the king¡¯s side, her head lowered.

    ¡°Forgive my loss of decorum, Your Majesty,¡± Izakiel said.

    At the edge of her vision, she saw him sketch a sarcastic bow, and her heart surged.

    Izakiel still wasn¡¯t afraid of anything! Not the King of Night, not Mother. Just being near him again made her feel stronger.

    ¡°Enough.¡± An elderly man with white hair shoved Izakiel back toward the wall of young men. He raised his voice and ordered, ¡°Everyone return to the match.¡±

    They went, reluctantly tearing their eyes from Kelena. Izakiel went with them, but not before sending her a conspiratorial wink.

    The older man, who introduced himself as Grandmaster Heartless, led the king and his entourage into the keep. Etianiel stalked out of the royal chambers almost immediately, leaving Kelena alone with the king once more. Her shoulders tensed until the muscles in her back screamed.

    ¡°I am sorry, Your Majesty,¡± she whispered, the weight of the ghostlight out the window pressing down on her heart and lungs. ¡°Please forgive me for¡ªfor being so frivolous when I saw Izakiel. It was hardly becoming of a princess.¡±

    Hazerial scowled. ¡°You cannot be held responsible for that asinine pest. Eketra will deal with him as she sees fit. Put him from your mind. You have a much greater task ahead, and you cannot afford distraction.¡±

 Chapter 66: A Thousand Better Ways to Die

    ¡°I cannot use blood magic during the tournament,¡± Twenty-six said while they pretended to watch the match between Eighty-eight and Lathe.

    Izak nodded. ¡°I was going to suggest the same thing.¡±

    The attention of the boys and men surrounding them was divided. The runt was in excellent form, outpacing the giant rustic despite the speed and skill he¡¯d gained over the past year. The fight was proving as exciting as any Thornfield had seen, excluding the yearly showdown between the prince and the pirate.

    But there was also a beautiful young princess not fifty paces away, watching the fights alongside the king. Worshipful adoration drew most of the eyes in the bailey to Kelena.

    Izak shifted his weight, annoyance building like a storm cloud. Annoyed at the naked stares roving over his sister, annoyed at being unable to watch Lathe¡¯s fight more closely because of the stupid pirate¡¯s stupid death wish.

    Their bracket would end tonight. The fourth-year bracket would follow and likely consume the next two nights, then on midnight after its conclusion, the spring grafting.

    Four nights at the most, then his friend would kill himself trying to kill Hazerial.

    Izak raked a hand through his hair. ¡°Is there some sort of paradise for good little pirates who kill enough dirters? Is that why you¡¯re so desperate to die?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t deserve paradise,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°I will protect my people and redeem the blood debt. That is my reward.¡±

    Izak felt sick. He tried to laugh but could only manage a halfhearted grunt. ¡°Not even a legion of beautiful seductresses waiting for you on the other side?¡±

    The pirate didn¡¯t answer.

    In the center of the cheering, shouting crowd, Lathe pinned the hulking Eighty-eight to the thorn tree with a sword on either side of his thick neck.

    Izak clapped with hands that felt heavier than the grave. ¡°Any unreasonable final wishes to saddle me and Lathe with?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t let them put me in the dirt,¡± Twenty-six said, finally taking his gray-green eyes off the match and meeting Izak¡¯s stare. ¡°Give me back to the ocean.¡±

    ¡°Right. Send the pirate scum out with the tide. Got it.¡±

    A hand clamped down on Izak¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Izakiel¡ªIzak.¡±

    Izak turned around to stare into the smoked lenses of his younger brother.

    ¡°Etian!¡± Izak slung an arm around his brother¡¯s neck, shaking him happily, then slapped his scarred cheek. ¡°Strong gods, look at that! Kelena got prettier, and you got uglier.¡±

    Etian adjusted the glasses Izak had knocked askew. ¡°And you¡¯re not as fat as you were.¡±

    ¡°Still lazy, though. They can¡¯t take that from me.¡± Izak twisted to look for Twenty-six, but the pirate had moved off into the crowd, probably well aware that Izak wanted to introduce his friend to his brother. ¡°I hear congratulations are in order. How is the future queen? Peonie, wasn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Pasiona,¡± Etian said. ¡°She¡¯s staying with her parents at the House Skalia estate until I return. Kelena¡¯s wedding is taking place at Shamasa Redout¡ªwe¡¯re riding out immediately after the grafting¡ªand I didn¡¯t want my wife at an active fortress in the middle of a war.¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    ¡°So Hazerial is going to marry Kelena off after all?¡± Izak glanced through the crowd at the chairs that had been brought out for the king, princess, and Grandmaster Heartless. ¡°I imagine the mad queen was furious.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re at war, it doesn¡¯t matter what she wants,¡± Etian growled.

    Izak blinked. There was a viciousness to his brother¡¯s voice that he couldn¡¯t remember ever hearing before.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t find you to talk about her or Kelena,¡± Etian said. ¡°Is there somewhere private we can speak?¡±

    Izak smiled to diffuse the tension. ¡°Everyone¡¯s watching the tournament. No one will be in the barracks. Come on.¡±

    Removing themselves from the crowd seemed to soothe some of the crown prince¡¯s agitation.

    ¡°You heard I¡¯m here to graft my first Thorns?¡± he asked as they walked.

    ¡°News gets around. I heard one of those lucky graftees is your handsome elder brother.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll be my commander, of course.¡± Etian glanced over his shoulder. ¡°The wedding is being held at Shamasa so I can take a small force into the Kingdom of Day right after.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s idiocy,¡± Izak said. ¡°The wedding could¡¯ve been held in Siu Rial without putting Kelena in danger. It¡¯s just as easy to ride north from there.¡±

    The spectators roared behind them. Someone had won.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be fully apprised of the situation later. For now, you only need to know that this was the best positioning for all parties,¡± Etian said as the cheering tapered off. He lowered his voice. ¡°The grafting wasn¡¯t Hazerial¡¯s idea. I requested the Thorns specifically for this attack.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t expect the old man to offer anyone power of his own free will.¡±

    ¡°He agreed, Izak. That means he¡¯s desperate for my assault on the Helat to work. Whether it¡¯s just his ego goading him or there¡¯s a deeper motive we can¡¯t see yet¡ª¡±

    ¡°Maybe Eketra promised to make him her consort.¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t a joking matter.¡± Etian scowled. ¡°Hazerial was desperate enough to give me command of the army last spring. He spent all winter listening to lords praise me and bards sing songs about the second coming of Josean leading the Children of Night to victory, and he was still desperate enough to chance me gaining the support of the entire kingdom by sending me.¡±

    ¡°Maybe he¡¯s hoping you¡¯ll be killed.¡±

    ¡°He knows that¡¯s not likely with my blessing. If we succeed with this assault on the Helat, the Kingdom of Night will turn to me¡ªto us, Izak. They¡¯ll look to us and they won¡¯t shed a tear for him.¡±

    Behind the lenses, Etian¡¯s eyes burned with a chilling light.

    Goosebumps prickled across Izak¡¯s skin. ¡°Don¡¯t say things like that unless you¡¯re joking.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the only way.¡±

    ¡°No, it isn¡¯t! You can die a thousand different ways, all of them far more pleasant.¡±

    Etian grabbed Izak by the padded jacket and slammed him up against the stone wall.

    ¡°I have a son,¡± he growled. The scar twisted one side of his grimace into an insane grin. ¡°I have a son, and he¡¯ll be just like I am if we don¡¯t end this farce of a family before it can poison him too.¡±

    Izak planted a muddy boot in Etian¡¯s stomach and tried to kick him off, but Etian slammed him into the wall again. Lights flickered behind Izak¡¯s eyes. His little brother was stronger than he remembered.

    Gradually, Etian¡¯s grip loosened, and the snarl faded from his expression.

    Izak shoved him off and stepped free, straightening his disordered clothing.

    ¡°For the strong gods¡¯ sake, Etian.¡± He massaged his forehead. ¡°Why can¡¯t you just want a whore and a bottle of good wine like any other man?¡±

    Etian stared across the bailey toward the tournament he would have been participating in if things had gone different three years before.

    ¡°Are you going to tell me that you wouldn¡¯t be asking for the same thing in my place? That you would wait and hope he grew old and died¡ªassuming he can die of old age¡ªno matter who or what he destroys before then?¡± He turned back to Izak. ¡°He and Ahixandro managed it against Ikario. They found a way to kill their father and take the Blood of the Strong Gods.¡±

    ¡°And you don¡¯t think that¡¯s constantly at the front of the old man¡¯s mind?¡± Izak hissed. ¡°That he¡¯s not always watching for it? Have you considered that I won¡¯t even be able to fight him? Once I¡¯m your Thorn, I can¡¯t harm anyone in your direct bloodline, descendant or predecessor.¡±

    ¡°Unless he¡¯s trying to kill me,¡± Etian said.

    ¡°If he¡¯s trying to kill you, you¡¯re already dead.¡±

    Etian¡¯s lenses caught the glare of the ghost city. ¡°I know you¡¯re not afraid of him. He knows you¡¯re not afraid of him. Why are you so against this?¡±

    ¡°Of course I¡¯m afraid of him!¡± Izak snapped. ¡°He¡¯s got you and Kelena trapped in his fist and all he has to do is squeeze. I¡¯m scared to death, and I¡¯m right to be!¡±

    ¡°Izak.¡± The scar stretched the hint of a smile on Etian¡¯s face into a leer. ¡°He¡¯s only got Kelena and me until Shamasa.¡±

 Chapter 67: Tournament Show-Off

    Kelena hadn¡¯t seen a tournament since the royal progress to Lord Zinote¡¯s estate. It was a much different experience without Mother looming over her, purring lewd accusations into her ear or sighing and licking her lips at every hint of blood.

    Moreover, Grandmaster Heartless had assured Kelena that no one would be killed in this tournament. That lifted a great weight from her chest, especially when Izak stepped to the center of the crowd for his match.

    Her brother carried a staff taller than he was, with a long blade on the end. His opponent¡ªa boy heralded as Lathe¡ªwas shorter and oddly shaped in the body for someone with such a lean face and slender arms and legs. The boy carried a matched pair of swords.

    ¡°Fight!¡± the master between them shouted, snapping a silk handkerchief.

    The boy, Lathe, turned to a blur, his swords flashing. Izak backpedaled and spun his staff.

    They were moving so quickly that Kelena could hardly see them. Loud clangs and solid cracks rang out every time the staff and swords met.

    Kelena scooted to the edge of her seat. How could anyone move so fast? The boy was everywhere, an army unto himself.

    And yet Izak fended off every blow. He parried and struck back, circled and lunged. Pride in her brother¡¯s skill filled her chest. It was beautiful and terrifying and graceful.

    A trickle of blood colored Izak¡¯s jaw. Kelena pursed her lips, heart fluttering. She hadn¡¯t even seen him get cut. Meanwhile, the smaller boy was completely uninjured.

    Kelena clasped one hand over the other in her lap. She wanted Izak to win, and win decisively.

    A gasp of hot air blew through the chilly spring night. The boy¡¯s steps stuttered. Izak opened the distance between himself and his opponent. The boy tried to close again, but Izak took one hand off his swordstaff and caught the boy¡¯s blood energies.

    Kelena¡¯s clutched fingers relaxed. No one could defeat Izak¡¯s royal blood magic. Now he would win.

    But the boy just cackled. ¡°You figure on lockin¡¯ me up?¡±

    Then suddenly the boy was behind Izak, one sword to Izak¡¯s throat and the other along the inside of his thigh.

    ¡°Lock that up, howabout!¡± he crowed in Izak¡¯s ear.

    The bailey howled as the master strode out to them, his handkerchief raised. Raucous cheering, accompanied by a minority of booing and hissing, filled the night.

    ¡°Winner!¡± the man shouted over their crowd, aiming the silk at the boy. ¡°Lathe!¡±

    The king grunted. ¡°Still too soft to kill.¡±

    Kelena sat back in her seat, her heart sinking for her brother¡¯s loss. He¡¯d failed a test right in front of their father. In front of everyone here.

    At the center of the bailey, Izak laughed.

    ¡°You stupid little show-off.¡± He thumped the smaller boy on the head affectionately. Kelena could just barely hear her brother¡¯s voice over the noise of the crowd, and only because it was the dearest voice she knew. ¡°You won¡¯t get away with that against the pirate scum.¡±

    ¡°I ain¡¯t stupid, me,¡± the boy said. ¡°¡¯Sides, I already know how I¡¯m gonna whup him.¡±

    ¡°¡­the other roommate,¡± Grandmaster was telling the king. ¡°The three of them are in contention for their bracket¡¯s championship every tournament, but this is the first time Lathe has beaten Four.¡±

    ¡°Will the pirate fight tonight?¡± Hazerial asked.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    ¡°If he wins this next match, he¡¯ll face Lathe for the championship afterward.¡±

    They went on talking, but Kelena hardly heard them.

    Izak had failed spectacularly, and he didn¡¯t even care. The consequences¡ªconsequences that followed every single test; when one failed, when one succeeded, when there were no tests¡ªthose consequences hadn¡¯t dared to touch him.

    ***

    Twenty-six won his fight with Fifty-one in swift, brutal fashion, twisting the bastard¡¯s blade away with the swordbreaker, kicking his knee out from under him, and laying the cutlass against the back of his neck.

    The whole match took less than a minute. Izak watched it with Lathe on one side and Etian on the other. One wouldn¡¯t stop chattering; the other didn¡¯t say a word.

    When it was over, Master Fright called Lathe out for the championship match.

    The pirate swiped the sweat from his forehead with a sleeve, then raised his cutlass and swordbreaker to Lathe. She grinned at him.

    ¡°Ready to get whupped, pirate scum?¡±

    ¡°Talk is meaningless,¡± Twenty-six said. ¡°Speak with your blades.¡±

    ¡°My blades say I¡¯m gonna shave your beard for ya.¡± She jostled his cutlass with one of her twin swords. ¡°How¡¯s about that?¡±

    ¡°Fight!¡±

    Lathe leapt at him, but Twenty-six met her in the air, slipping beneath her blades and ramming his shoulder into her gut. The air whoofed out of her lungs.

    The runt punched her basket hilt at the pirate¡¯s neck. He blocked the blow with his swordbreaker, the serrated blade scraping down the side of her fist and drawing blood. She planted a foot in Twenty-six¡¯s gut and kicked off, hitting the dirt and rolling away.

    She popped to her feet. ¡°Best give up now afore I hafta make you look bad.¡±

    ¡°Boast when you¡¯ve won,¡± he said.

    She laughed, then appeared behind him. But as Izak had predicted, the pirate expected the move. He slashed his cutlass toward her gut.

    It sliced through empty air.

    Twenty-six dropped to his knees, arching backward. Invisible blades rasped against beard. The breeze caught the shorn whiskers and scattered them in the mud.

    Lathe appeared at his side, driving a sword at his heart. Twenty-six threw his cutlass out in the opposite direction. Steel clashed against steel.

    Izak grinned. The runt was mirroring her image now, not just her shadow, and somehow that night-forsaken pirate had figured it out.

    Etian had noticed as well. ¡°The foreigner¡¯s fighting by sound.¡±

    ¡°More likely by smell,¡± Izak said. ¡°The runt isn¡¯t fond of bathing.¡± She could mirror sound too, but Izak assumed that if she wanted people to know that, she would show them herself.

    Twenty-six whirled on his knees, following Lathe¡¯s mirrored blows. He blocked her flurry of attacks as he climbed back to his feet.

    Did he realize she was herding him toward the thorn tree?

    Lathe disappeared the moment the branches passed overhead. Twenty-six¡¯s head snapped up. Lathe dropped on him. The pirate put the cutlass to her throat and shoved her back against the tree¡¯s trunk. She dropped her swords in defeat.

    Then Twenty-six went still.

    A twin sword appeared, pressed against his back, over his heart, while Lathe held the other to the base of his skull. One image of her was still pressed against the tree, defeated, while the other held the pirate at sword point from behind.

    While Izak watched, the Lathe against the tree dissipated like smoke.

    ¡°Winner!¡± Master Fright yelled. ¡°Lathe!¡±

    Ever the gracious victor, Lathe jumped up and down, hooting with joy.

    At Izak¡¯s side, Etian watched the runt¡¯s egregious celebration and the pirate¡¯s solemn sheathing of his blades. Behind the scar and the lenses, the Crown Prince of Night looked wistful.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be able to train with them on the ride north,¡± Izak said.

    The lie rang hollow to his own ears, but maybe that was just the knowledge that one of his friends wouldn¡¯t be leaving Thornfield alive.

    ¡°It isn¡¯t that.¡± Etian suddenly looked much older, leaving Izak with the strange sensation of being surpassed by time and his younger brother. ¡°I was just thinking that the foreigner is the only one here who stands a chance against the Helat. The rest of you rely too heavily on blood magic. You¡¯ll be torn apart.¡±

    It was getting harder and harder to smile around Etian.

    ¡°Everyone shows off during the tournament,¡± Izak said, a touch of annoyance leaking into his words. ¡°That¡¯s what it¡¯s for. Lathe is an incredible swordsman even without blood magic. Excluding the pirate, you won¡¯t find a better one. But when you want to differentiate yourself from a hundred other incredible swordsmen, you take every advantage available, blood magic included.¡±

    ¡°The boy¡¯s style is ugly, but effective and less haphazard than a casual onlooker might realize. If he was so skilled, he could have differentiated himself with that.¡±

    Izak rolled his eyes. ¡°I forgot that the Josean-blessed are never wrong.¡±

    ¡°I forgot that the Teikru-blessed get offended when you point out their friend¡¯s flaws. He cocks his head, too. It¡¯s pulling his balance.¡±

    ¡°Light, Etian, fight him yourself! You¡¯ll see he¡¯s worth his steel and more. You won¡¯t find a better friend, either. The runt¡¯s loyal as the sunset.¡±

    ¡°The grafting supplies loyalty,¡± Etian said. ¡°It¡¯s a redundant quality for a Thorn.¡±

    Izak watched his friends through the throng pushing toward the dining hall. Lathe was receiving congratulations without the slightest hint at poise, while Twenty-six broke away from the crowd and headed for the barracks alone.

    ¡°There¡¯s a world of difference between a man who¡¯s forced to obey and a man who¡¯s loyal,¡± Izak said. ¡°Ask Hazerial. No one knows it like an Eketra-blessed king who doesn¡¯t have any of the latter.¡±

 Chapter 68: Cold Blooded

    The fourth-year bracket concluded two nights later under more subdued circumstances. Though the fourth-years were as skilled and capable as any fighters to come out of Thornfield, it was generally agreed that the bad luck was theirs to be so outshined by the class below them. In a hundred years, they couldn¡¯t match the excitement the prince, the pirate, and the berserker could drum up.

    But the grafting would come the next night and the fourth-years would have their due. Between Crown Prince Etianiel and the king, every man of the seniors was needed, and several third-years.

    The bailey was quiet that afternoon, slowing down for a long day¡¯s rest after the excitement of the tournament and the massive supper the kitchens had prepared to impress the royal visitors. Spring clouds were blowing in a storm, but the sun poked through here and there. A couple first-years left the stables and headed for the bathhouse to wash away the remains of their daily chores before bed.

    Four had already retired for the day, and somewhere up on the wall, Twenty-six was on patrol with a handful of other third- and fourth-years.

    Lathe lounged on the stairs to the keep, idly tapping one sword against her boot. The old crow ought to turn up soon. If he didn¡¯t, she could caw at him for being late and lazy for once.

    ¡°Well, lookit who¡¯s layin¡¯ around like a real big britches,¡± Scabs drawled, strolling out of the keep.

    Lathe hadn¡¯t seen anybody come from the dining hall in a good long while. Either Scabs had taken his time eating or he¡¯d gotten scullery duties in the kitchens. She hoped it was the latter.

    She pierced him with her left-eyed glare. ¡°Lookit who¡¯s walking around like ain¡¯t nobody got twin blades with his name writ on ¡¯em.¡±

    ¡°I am feelin¡¯ mighty fine, me.¡± Scabs hooked his thumbs in his belt and rocked on his heels. ¡°The king¡¯s here, ya know.¡±

    Lathe shrugged. ¡°I done seen him three times. But might be you ain¡¯t got the experience with royalty like I got. You¡¯re just a little first-year.¡±

    ¡°First-year this. If¡¯n I go to the king today and talk, a certain brat¡¯ll get throwed outta here on her ugly little snoot. I never been safer. One word from me, and you¡¯re back on your knees, pleasin¡¯ the uphill folk.¡±

    Lathe turned her blade so it caught the gray afternoon light. ¡°Mighty hard to tell tales with a sword shoved down your throat.¡±

    Scabs grinned. ¡°I already knowed that, so I figured a solution. See, I got a friend watching. If I get dead or hurt, he¡¯s fixing to run a-hoopin¡¯ and a-hollerin¡¯. But if I give him the right wave, he comes on out and we all three of us have a good time.¡±

    A bad medicine feeling crept into Lathe¡¯s gut. She glanced upwards to see whether the moon was fixing to hide behind the ghost city when the sun went down.

    ¡°What about if I pop a hole in your gut, shove my fist up inside, and make you wave like a street puppet?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯ll see that afore you¡¯re done getting your hand all the way up in there.¡± Scabs patted his stomach. ¡°I¡¯m stringy as a old cat, me.¡±

    Lathe thumbed her blade¡¯s edge. ¡°How¡¯s about you quit your yakkin¡¯ and tell me what you want already?¡±

    ¡°Me and my friend been wantin¡¯ a little uphill pleasin¡¯ our own selfs. We¡¯re figuring on Brat¡¯s old specialty, us. Without all the snottin¡¯ and cryin¡¯, a¡¯course.¡±

    Normally, impulse would have sent Lathe flying into action long before that point. This time, impulse was strangely quiet¡ªmaybe because she¡¯d been plotting this murder all winter. Her chance had finally come, and she wasn¡¯t fixing to mess it up.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    She squinted up at Scabs like he was stupid. ¡°You fixin¡¯ to do the bad stuff right out here, wheres anybody could walk by?¡±

    ¡°My friend got us a shed where nobody ever comes in. He uses it all the time, him.¡±

    ¡°With little first-years too scairt to tell on him. I already knowed it was Thirty.¡± She stood up. ¡°Well, let¡¯s go, us.¡±

    ¡°You can leave them steels right ¡¯chere.¡±

    Lathe jammed one sword into a crack between worn stone steps and let the other one drop where it was. Nobody would believe she left her twin swords behind of her own free will. The old crow ought to be around shortly, and Twenty-six would pass by at any minute and spot the abandoned blades from up on the wall.

    But hopefully not soon enough to stop her.

    ***

    Grandmaster Heartless gave his report that afternoon to the king and the crown prince while the princess sat nearby, ostensibly reading. The young woman was like a stone statue, serene, silent, and still. Heartless didn¡¯t think she turned a page in all the time he spoke about the fourth-years.

    Then it was time for the third-year students who would fill the gaps.

    ¡°You¡¯ve seen the top three,¡± Heartless said. ¡°Prince Izak, the foreign pirate Twenty-six, and Lathe, the boy who won the third-year bracket. Lathe¡¯s an excellent swordsman, favors the twin steels, but he¡¯s not a strategist. He¡¯ll need someone in authority to keep him in line and direct his energy. Under normal circumstances, I would advise the boy be among the graftings, Your Majesty, but this time I must caution against it.¡±

    Hazerial made a gesture of allowance. ¡°We will hear your reason.¡±

    ¡°Lathe is blind in his right eye. He¡¯s learned to overcome the defect, but a Thorn with his weakness will always be a potential liability. I recommend a private posting, under an exceedingly command-oriented Thorn.¡±

    Prince Etianiel spoke up for the first time. ¡°My brother said the boy¡¯s best quality is his loyalty. In light of the grafting¡¯s effects, what value do you place on loyalty for prospective Thorns?¡±

    Grandmaster¡¯s brows twitched together. The prince¡¯s question was one Heartless would have expected to hear from Ikario, back when he¡¯d served the previous sovereign.

    ¡°It¡¯s indispensable within the ranks, Your Highness. Infighting and mistrust can destroy a unit, rendering them worthless to their master.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s loyalty to their master that I¡¯m asking about. You¡¯ve been grafted, Grandmaster. You¡¯re uniquely poised to speak on the subject¡ªespecially since you¡¯re renowned among the Thorns for openly disobeying Ikario.¡±

    Another direction Heartless hadn¡¯t expected, and this with the man who had killed Ikario in the same room.

    King Hazerial¡¯s dark eyes gave no indication of his feelings on the subject. He merely waited for Heartless to speak.

    Grandmaster composed his reply carefully. ¡°Your grandfather was an enormous presence. My loyalty to him was what drove my disobedience. It saved his life, and he rewarded me with retirement.¡± He touched the thornknife at his side. ¡°But I would gladly have served him to my death.¡±

    That last was a bit dangerous to admit. Had things gone that way, fate could have put Heartless between Hazerial and Ikario, but it was the truth.

    Still no reaction from His Majesty.

    ¡°Was your loyalty driven by your grafting or your personal sentiment toward the man?¡± As Etianiel spoke, he angled his shoulders a fraction, his lenses flashing in the late afternoon light from the room¡¯s sole window.

    It was a motion Heartless recognized from the best of swordsmen. Making minute, almost imperceptible changes of position to set up for the finishing thrust. Heartless couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that if the crown prince¡¯s attack were aimed at him, he would never have seen it coming. So for whom was Etianiel positioning?

    ¡°One drives the other,¡± Grandmaster Heartless said while all this passed through his mind. ¡°I was devoted to the crown and to my place in the kingdom long before I was grafted. I saw becoming a Thorn as both an honor and a duty. After my grafting, it took very little time before I became friends with Ikario. Perhaps the grafting sustained my faith in him longer than it ought to have. Perhaps without it, I would have acted against him sooner.¡±

    ¡°And the boy, Lathe?¡± Etianiel asked.

    ¡°The staff calls him the berserker, after the ancient warriors of Far Qilon. He¡¯s wild, impulsive, runs entirely on instinct, but he loves Prince Izak and the pirate. He would do anything for them, and I suspect they would do whatever they could for Lathe, within the bounds of reason. If Lathe came to love his master as well, that man could expect unwavering protection and service, unbounded by reason. But that recklessness is why I suggest he be grafted with a Thorn who has a firm hand, someone who can control his wilder impulses.¡±

    Hazerial hmmed, finally rejoining the conversation. ¡°What would you say if the boy were grafted along with Prince Izak and the pirate?¡±

    The crown prince frowned at the king, but said nothing.

    ¡°There wouldn¡¯t be a man alive with a more powerful trio of Thorns,¡± Heartless said without hesitation.

    ¡°Blind eye included?¡± the king asked.

    Grandmaster Heartless nodded. ¡°They perfectly complement one another. What one lacks, the others supply. The man who holds all three of those thornknives holds the world in his hands.¡±

 Chapter 69: Death Come Due

    Thirty was waiting at the door of the old tack shed around the corner. The ramshackle structure was in a blind spot against the keep¡¯s eastern wall, hidden from nearly every vantage point Lathe could find.

    She scowled. ¡°You couldn¡¯t see me none from here. I coulda chopped this lyin¡¯ fool¡¯s head off and you never woulda knowed.¡±

    ¡°Shows how dumb you are,¡± Scabs sneered.

    ¡°I don¡¯t need line of sight,¡± Thirty said. ¡°I can see around corners with blood magic. Now get inside and get those clothes off.¡±

    She hocked up a wad and spat it on his shirt. ¡°Get that off howabout.¡±

    Thirty grabbed her by her short hair. ¡°You¡¯re going to lick that off, you piece of trash.¡±

    ¡°Might be trash, but I¡¯m about to be trash who killt me a fat pudge and a betrayer.¡±

    She snagged Thirty by both cheeks, her nails digging in like claws. He gritted his teeth, struggling to pull his face out of her grasp and wrestle them both into the shed without screaming and attracting attention.

    Lathe slammed her knee into his crotch. His pink face turned red, and they stumbled sidelong into the door. Thirty¡¯s fist slammed her head against the shed. Pain bloomed in her ear, setting the shell and lobe on fire, and slivers from the old wood stuck in her cheek.

    He yanked her back for another whack, but she dug her fingers deeper onto his doughy face. Soon they were locked in an impasse, both sets of arms shaking as Lathe strained to pull herself closer to Thirty, while Thirty tried to bash her skull flat on the shed door. She had been training with heavy swords for nearly two years and had arms like hammered steel wire, but he was bigger and naturally stronger.

    ¡°Do it!¡± Thirty growled at his accomplice.

    Impulse yelled out loud and clear then, and Lathe listened. She threw out a hard kick to her blind side. Scabs¡¯s knee folded sideways with a crunchy sound.

    The moment of distraction lost her the tug-of-war, but as her head bounced off the shed door again, Thirty leaned in too close. Lathe bit him on his fat nose. Meaty fists pummeled her head and shoulders, but she dug in like a snapping turtle waiting for thunder.

    Blood flowed through her teeth, and she drank it down, using the stolen medicine to fuel her strength. Her teeth met in the middle with a clack. The lump of gristle came off in her mouth.

    Thirty let out a wheezy scream. She spat the tip of his nose at his face.

    ¡°You rabid whore!¡± His fists twisted in her shirt, ripping it to shreds, and he slammed her against the shed wall with enough force to slant the aging timbers.

    Lathe barely felt the impact through the medicine she¡¯d taken from him. People-blood did a whole lot more than sipping energies or drinking rat blood. She cackled at the flush of power.

    Boosting her strength with the medicine, Lathe dragged the wheezing Thirty closer inch by inch, snapping her teeth at him. The fathead scrabbled at her face and chest, trying to hold her off, but he couldn¡¯t stop her. She tore into his throat like a hungry dog. Blood dripped down her chin and soaked her shredded shirt and the girdle beneath.

    Thirty punched and pried and slammed her against the groaning shed, but he was losing strength fast and Lathe¡¯s medicine was only growing with every gulp. Impulse said if she drank it down to the last drop she would have more power than she¡¯d ever felt.

    Thirty¡¯s strength was giving out. She was going to drink the nasty lard dry. Teach him to lay a hand on her! He jerked, scraping Lathe along the leaning wall of the shed. Her torn shirt snagged on the splintery wood.

    Something stung her leg, and the limb buckled.

    Greedily, she hooked an arm around Thirty, unwilling to get pulled away from taking every last drop of medicine from her prey. But whatever it was that stung her kept doing it.

    Lathe snarled down at the affected leg.

    Scabs was on the ground with a dart in his fist, the same kind Thirty had shot into her at the tournament the year before. Over and over again, that betrayer stabbed the poisoned dart into her calf and thigh.

    Suddenly, Thirty¡¯s dead weight pitched forward onto Lathe. One of his hands tangled in her girdle. She tried to lever him off, but with the poison creeping up her leg, it wasn¡¯t working. They dropped to the dirt, Thirty¡¯s mass pinning her numbing lower body.

    Scabs¡¯s face went slack with relief.

    ¡°You figure you got me?¡± Lathe said.

    She poured on the healing medicine, undoing the nasty stuff he¡¯d stabbed her with. Giving a twist of her shoulders and a buck of her hips, she threw off Thirty¡¯s bulk.

    Scabs scrambled back, still clutching the dart in one shaking fist. His eyes showed white all around.

    ¡°Yeah, you best be scairt.¡± Lathe gave him a bloody grin as she climbed to her feet. ¡°I¡¯m the baddest medicine. I¡¯m a fell miasma and a howlin¡¯ wind and the moon hidin¡¯ behind the ghost city. I¡¯m the bad hurt when ain¡¯t nobody comin¡¯ to save you, you untrue, vile betrayer, and I hold everything you ever done to your account.¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Scabs shook his head. ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± He lurched back another scuttling hop, then his elbows gave out and he sprawled onto his back. ¡°Don¡¯t hold it to my account, Brat!¡±

    ¡°Every close-rat you ever sold¡­¡± Lathe prowled forward, blood dripping from her chin as she pronounced judgment. ¡°Every first-year you helped Thirty take after¡­¡±

    ¡°I was hungry! I hadta eat! You done what you hadta do¡ªwe all done so! Don¡¯t hold it to my account!¡± He remembered the dart in his fist and stuck it out between them like a knife. ¡°Don¡¯t you dare take another step! I¡¯ll holler fit to wake the tempered dead.¡±

    ¡°Not for long you won¡¯t.¡± She licked the blood from her lips. ¡°Account¡¯s come due, betrayer.¡±

    Scabs whimpered, scrunching up his face.

    She grabbed Scabs and hauled him up by his hair.

    ¡°Lathe? Seventeen? What¡¯s going on here?¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    Impulse warned her there was no time to waste. She¡¯d been found out; now she had to finish it before somebody stopped her.

    Lathe snapped Scabs¡¯s neck and let his twitching body drop before turning to face the gold-eyed latecomer.

    ¡°Just settlin¡¯ with a betrayer,¡± she told Saint Daven. ¡°The Cormorant¡¯ll figure on his everlastin¡¯ punishment.¡±

    Saint Daven frowned, looking from her to the dead fools on the ground and back to her. His brows twitched downward in confusion.

    Belatedly, it struck Lathe what the old crow was staring at. She snatched the tattered shirt closed over the torn, bloodstained girdle.

    ¡°Don¡¯t say nothing,¡± she said.

    The weapons master didn¡¯t.

    ¡°It ain¡¯t what it looks like!¡±

    Silence.

    Fear trailed a cold finger up the back of her neck. It was all about to fall apart. She could feel it. No grafting. No gold. No way to get Pretty out of the Closes. It was all swirling away like dirty water after flood season.

    ¡°I just made myself look like a gal ¡¯cuz I knowed Thirty and Scabs been takin¡¯ after first-years¡ª¡±

    ¡°Lathe.¡±

    ¡°It ain¡¯t real!¡± She stomped a foot. ¡°Four learnt me how to do illusions, and I¡¯m a fair study, me, so¡¯s I made it look like¡ª¡±

    ¡°Two students are dead, and you¡¯re¡­ We¡¯re going to talk to Grandmaster. Now.¡±

    Lathe skittered back a step and bumped up against the leaning shed. Nowhere to run.

    ¡°I ain¡¯t going nowhere to talk to nobody! You tell a tale on me, you old crow, and I¡¯ll tell everybody at Thornfield about you!¡±

    Saint Daven stopped where he was.

    ¡°That¡¯s right, I know! You ain¡¯t twins¡ª¡± She stabbed a finger at the weapons master like she was lining up one of her swords. ¡°¡ªand if you don¡¯t let me be, I¡¯ll tell the whole place!¡±

    His gold eyes narrowed. ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t give me none a¡¯ that! I knowed it ever since I cut you with my basket hilt.¡± She tapped her chin, then pointed at his. ¡°When I knocked you clean out, it cut you and left that little scar right there. If anybody else had half a brain, they coulda seen it, too.¡±

    A strip of muscle in the weapons master¡¯s bony jaw twitched, but Lathe went on, heedless of the warning.

    ¡°That scar¡¯s on you and it¡¯s on Master Saint Galen! Right there, in the same spot, ¡¯cuz you ain¡¯t two people! You¡¯re just one crazy old crow!¡±

    For a heartbeat, the accusation hung in the air between them.

    Then the weapons master disappeared.

    Lathe did the same, throwing herself to the side.

    Too slow. A hand grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall of the keep.

    A point of cold invisible steel pressed the meat below her good eye, and Lathe froze. She squeezed both shut, knowing it wouldn¡¯t help if he rammed that blade in, but unable to fight the instinct to protect the sight she had left.

    ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± She tried to scream it at him, but his grip on her throat turned the word into a pleading croak. ¡°Don¡¯t poke it out!¡±

    Her boots kicked and scraped at the stone of the keep, shedding mud and sandy dirt clods, but finding no purchase. She clawed the air with one hand, fingers catching in the unseen material of a shirtsleeve. She dug her nails into the meat of the hand clutching her throat.

    ¡°You don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about,¡± Saint Daven growled. ¡°Gale¡¯s not dead.¡±

    The fist tightened. Pressure built behind Lathe¡¯s eyes. Her pulse pounded in her temples. She kicked and connected with a solid body, but his grip didn¡¯t loosen.

    ¡°I had to do it to save him. I had to!¡± He shook her like a rag, and a gasp of precious air slipped through. ¡°You think they don¡¯t already know?¡±

    ¡°Think you¡¯re crazier¡¯n a dead temperer drinkin¡¯ his own potion,¡± she choked out.

    Suddenly, the hand on her throat froze, holding her in place. For long seconds neither the crow nor the close-rat moved.

    Saint Daven reappeared, his weird gold eyes glaring into hers. Lathe glared back. It felt like her eyes were going to bust, but she didn¡¯t blink. If she blinked, she was dead.

    His chest heaved, sucking in all that air she couldn¡¯t get to. Her lungs bucked and screamed. Nothing mattered but not blinking.

    Finally, mercifully, his grip on her throat slackened.

    Lathe dropped to the ground, gulping down huge breaths. She twisted away and backed out of the crazy old crow¡¯s reach, over the tack shed¡¯s threshold and into the shadows.

    ¡°Grandmaster knows,¡± she realized. ¡°When I asked him if the twins had run off on him, he said what twins?¡±

    Saint Daven bent to stick his dagger back in his boot. He was starting to look halfway sane again.

    ¡°And he always calls you the wrong name.¡± Lathe rubbed the pain in her throat. ¡°No matter which one of you he says¡ª¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t about us. You can¡¯t stay here, Lathe. You can¡¯t become a Thorn.¡±

    ¡°If fake twins can, I can!¡± Yelling hurt.

    Saint Daven stripped off his jacket. ¡°Put this on. We¡¯re going to talk to Grandmaster.¡±

    Lathe ignored the garment. ¡°I can do the disappearin¡¯ trick, and I done proved I can beat everybody here. I can be a Thorn¡ªI can be the best Thorn!¡±

    Saint Daven wrapped the jacket around her. ¡°You don¡¯t understand what the grafting does. No girl should be grafted to a man¡ªnot even a good man. Your master can make you do anything, and you can¡¯t refuse him. You won¡¯t want to refuse him. You¡¯ve heard everything Jadarah does with her Thorns.¡±

    ¡°Then I won¡¯t tell nobody I¡¯m a gal. I¡¯ll stay a boy.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s now how grafting works. Your master will know what you are immediately. You can¡¯t become a Thorn.¡±

    ¡°But I gotta get grafted.¡± Hot tears cut paths in the blood drying on her cheeks. ¡°I gotta get money.¡±

    ¡°This isn¡¯t the way to do it.¡±

    ¡°Please, please, leave it be.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t.¡± Saint Daven took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the keep. ¡°Come on.¡±

    ***

    With his report completed, Grandmaster Heartless returned to his study. He hoped to have the few short hours before sundown to think over the conversation with the king, but he found his weapons master and Lathe waiting for him.

    The boy was covered in blood, wearing a too-large jacket over torn Thornfield clothing and looking as if he¡¯d just been sentenced to execution.

    Grandmaster stopped in the doorway. ¡°What happened?¡±

    ¡°Thirty and Seventeen are in the bailey by the old tack shed,¡± Saint Daven said. ¡°I sent healers to move them, but they¡¯re dead.¡±

    ¡°They took after me,¡± Lathe said, but his defense lacked its customary heat. The boy glared sullenly at the floor. ¡°I had to kill ¡¯em or they woulda done the bad stuff.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not the only reason we¡¯re here,¡± Saint Daven said. ¡°Lathe is a girl.¡±

    ¡°Nobody woulda knowed if you¡¯da kept your mouth shut! See¡ªGrandmaster didn¡¯t know, he¡¯s surprised as anybody, him! If you¡¯re all too stupid to see it, I oughta get to stay.¡±

    ¡°I already told him¡ª¡± The weapons master stopped and corrected himself. ¡°I already told her she can¡¯t become a Thorn. I explained about the grafting¡ª¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯s caring about the grafting?¡± Lathe snapped. ¡°I¡¯m talkin¡¯ about I can teach here at Thornfield. Masters make money, don¡¯t they? I¡¯m faster¡¯n anybody, and I got blood magic fit to choke a mule. I¡¯ll teach students how to mirror stuff, me. Let me stay a boy and teach. Ain¡¯t a student that¡¯ll figure it out. None did so far.¡±

    ¡°Except Seventeen and Thirty,¡± Saint Daven said.

    ¡°Scabs knowed me afore I come to Thornfield, and Thirty only knowed ¡¯cuz Scabs told him.¡±

    The weapons master gestured toward the bailey. ¡°And look what happened.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Cuz they was bad medicine! Ain¡¯t everybody like that. Four and Twenty-six never took after me, and they knowed since first year.¡±

    Wearily, Heartless closed his eyes and rubbed them. He crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair at his desk, wincing at the protests in his joints.

    ¡°We should have sent you away the day we learned you were blind,¡± Heartless said.

    ¡°Grandmaster, you gotta¡ª¡±

    ¡°Master Saint Daven, please retrieve Lathe¡¯s belongings from the barracks.¡±

    ¡°Yes, Grandmaster.¡± The door closed behind him.

    ¡°Kick me out and I¡¯ll curse you somethin¡¯ awful! I know granny medicine!¡±

    ¡°Lathe, you can sleep here today.¡± Heartless indicated the cot he kept in the corner for the nights when work kept him in the study from dusk to dusk again. ¡°At sundown, I¡¯ll have the kitchens bring you breakfast. When you¡¯ve eaten, one of the masters will escort you to the closest village. I¡¯ll give you enough coin to get a decent set of lady¡¯s garments and take you anywhere you need in the kingdom. If you want work, I can give you a letter of recommendation that will get you a job in the kitchens at any one of dozens of reputable estates.¡±

    ¡°I ain¡¯t scourin¡¯ no more pots, me!¡±

    Grandmaster slapped a hand flat on his desk, and Lathe jumped.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been an amusing student, but don¡¯t confuse that with privilege. I send scores of boys to their deaths every year. Duty demands it. But I won¡¯t have the death of a young woman on my conscience.¡±

    Lathe¡¯s mouth worked. She shook her head, her chest heaving.

    ¡°End of discussion.¡± Grandmaster stood up. ¡°Get some rest. You¡¯ve got a long night ahead of you.¡±

    As soon as the door shut behind him, glass shattered against it. Most likely the lamp from his desk. Another crash might have been the stool beside the cot.

    He grabbed the key from the top of the doorframe and turned it in the lock.

 Chapter 70: A Poisoned Gift

    Breakfast the next night was a solemn affair. Twenty-six wouldn¡¯t speak, just glared up at the king seated at the masters¡¯ table, and after dealing with a homicidal brother and a suicidal pirate for so many nights in a row, Izak was sick of carrying the conversation. If Lathe had been there, she would¡¯ve filled the dour silence with her endless prattling.

    But she wasn¡¯t.

    Master Saint Daven had barged in in the middle of the day and picked up Lathe¡¯s extra pair of clothing. If Izak hadn¡¯t demanded to know what was going on, he doubted the weapons master would have told them that Lathe had been found out. Scabs had got them in the end after all.

    ¡°Were you sleeping with her?¡± Saint Daven had snarled.

    ¡°Of course not!¡± Izak had replied, insulted.

    The master had turned his strange gold glare on the pirate. ¡°What about you?¡±

    ¡°I am not a dirter,¡± Twenty-six had growled in disgust. ¡°I would not take advantage of someone who trusted me.¡±

    By the end of breakfast, word of what had become of Thirty and Scabs was all over Thornfield. Speculation ran rampant about the fate of their killer, but Izak and Twenty-six refused to comment.

    From the seat of honor at the masters¡¯ table, Hazerial noted the absence. ¡°Grandmaster, we do not see the half-blind boy.¡±

    ¡°The fault lies with me, Your Majesty. It was discovered late yesterday that Lathe was in fact a young woman masquerading as a boy. She¡¯s being sent away. In apology for my failure, I will reimburse the crown for the time she spent at Thornfield under false pretenses.¡±

    Hazerial swirled his wine, staring out at his eldest son. Events began to take on a different color. Eketra nudged.

    ¡°We wish to speak with her.¡±

    Grandmaster Heartless¡¯s white brows knitted in confusion. ¡°Your Majesty?¡±

    ¡°Now, Grandmaster.¡±

    ***

    Lathe had seen fancy folk in their uphill finery, lords and ladies riding in the decorated carriages of the Carnival of the Dead. A few, she and Pretty had seen too close, thanks to Scabs.

    But she¡¯d never knelt before the real, slap-ya-dead King of Night.

    King Hazerial looked like Four, but there was something different in him. Lathe could lounge around a room with Four or hang on his shoulder or lean over him to snatch food off his plate.

    Lathe wouldn¡¯t snatch food off the king¡¯s plate. Not even if he swore to the Cormorant that she could.

    The king sat in Grandmaster¡¯s chair as if it were a throne. He looked bigger than human, big enough to fill up the study.

    He was smiling, too, and that made a pair of dimples poke into his cheeks on either side of his mouth while another pair cut slash marks into his cheekbones. Just like Four. Except Lathe couldn¡¯t stop feeling like the dimples and the smile and even the skin stretched across the king¡¯s bones was a mask. Like there was something underneath she ought to be running from.

    ¡°Grandmaster Heartless tells us you¡¯re quite the swordswoman,¡± the king said. ¡°We saw the proof of it for ourselves in your championship victory. An impressive display.¡±

    ¡°Your Majesty is very gracious,¡± Lathe said just as sweetly as if she¡¯d been teaching courtly manners lectures longer than Master Fright.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°It has also come to our attention that, until quite recently, you were lodged with our son. You know him as Four. The pirate, too.¡±

    Lathe swallowed. ¡°Yes, Your Majesty.¡±

    ¡°Tell us, what is the nature of your relationship with these men?¡±

    She should lie¡ªno question about that¡ªbut how much?

    ¡°They figured I was a girl right away, Your Majesty, but I held ¡¯em captive ¡¯til they agreed not to tell nobody.¡±

    ¡°And you performed favors for them?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Course I did. We¡¯re brothers, us. We help each other. They helped me plenty, too.¡±

    Most folks were ready to believe Lathe was as dumb as a post the minute they heard her talk, but King Hazerial wasn¡¯t swallowing none of it. He gazed down that nose that looked like Four¡¯s nose until Lathe felt like she might scream.

    She fidgeted, trying to find a more comfortable position for her knees on the wood floor. She dug at one ear with a shaking finger.

    His cold, terrible eyes bored straight into her brain, telling her he knew that she knew what he¡¯d really been asking.

    Lathe hung her head.

    ¡°I never done none of those kinda favors for ¡¯em,¡± she told the floor. ¡°I never wanted to do the bad stuff with nobody, Your Majesty, and Four and Twenty-six never made me.¡±

    ¡°Why did they remain silent when they learned that you were female?¡±

    ¡°¡¯Cuz we¡¯re brothers, us.¡±

    ¡°Grandmaster tells us that you would do anything for your brothers.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Course I would,¡± Lathe said. ¡°Whatever they need, I¡¯d do it. That¡¯s what brothers is.¡±

    ¡°Lathe, a young woman has never before been grafted as a Thorn.¡± Hazerial uncrossed his feet, then adjusted his robes to recover them. ¡°Indeed, the effects could be ruinous.¡±

    Fire blazed up in Lathe¡¯s bones. Her throat was suddenly dry. The words sounded like the king was preparing to send her away, but the tone of his voice sounded like something else.

    ¡°However, we believe your brothers need you, Lathe. To separate the three of you would devastate them.¡±

    The king rose. Lathe bowed her head. A cold, long-fingered hand came to rest on her hair.

    ¡°Will you be grafted?¡± he asked. ¡°In spite of the dangers, in spite of the unknown, will you lay down your soul for your brothers¡¯ sake?¡±

    She choked back a shriek of joy, her whole body trembling with the effort to keep kneeling like she was supposed to.

    ¡°Yes, Your Majesty, yes!¡±

    They were going to be Royal Thorns together, her, Four, and Twenty-six! They would get gold, and they would buy that uphill placement for Pretty!

    Lathe kissed the hem of the king¡¯s robe. ¡°Thank you, Your Majesty!¡±

    ***

    ¡°Surely you¡¯re not going to let this happen?¡± Saint Daven¡¯s demand was breathy from his sprint up the tower stairs, harsh from disbelief and anger and shock. He¡¯d sought out Grandmaster the second he¡¯d heard, pounding on the study door until the old man had finally opened it. ¡°You can¡¯t.¡±

    Heartless ushered him inside and shut the door. ¡°The king gave a direct order. It cannot be denied.¡±

    ¡°Everything about this is wrong. She¡¯s a child!¡±

    ¡°We graft scores of children here.¡± Grandmaster sank into the chair behind his desk. His usual wingback had been destroyed in Lathe¡¯s tantrum the night before, so a wooden chair had been brought up from the kitchens. ¡°You were one. I was one. If Lathe were a young man, her fate would be no different.¡±

    ¡°Of course it would! You know the grafting works differently between a man and woman. The elements change. If Lathe were a young man being grafted to the king, you wouldn¡¯t be sending her to that¡­ that violation.¡±

    ¡°Yet when the queen grafts six young men to her service and they are all wasted on horrible deaths, forced against their will to lust after that awful creature, no one raises a protest.¡±

    Saint Daven felt the ground shift sickeningly beneath his feet. ¡°Lord Paius was right.¡±

    ¡°I daresay he was.¡± Heartless sighed. ¡°I understand your frustration. Believe me, I do. You spent the better part of three years investing in Lathe, shoring up what could be shored up, teaching her to circumvent what couldn¡¯t. You¡¯ve watched her grow and improve. Perhaps you even see her as a stand-in for the daughter you lost. But this cannot be circumvented. The king has spoken. You must trust what you taught Lathe to carry her the rest of the way.¡±

    Saint Daven hated begging. Saint Galen hated him for doing it.

    ¡°Grandmaster, you defied one king.¡± He glared down at the desk, unable to look up while he forced the words out. ¡°Please, just one more time.¡±

    ¡°Ikario I could defy. We were friends, in our own way, and my grafting required it of me to protect the man from himself.¡±

    ¡°But now that you¡¯re free, you won¡¯t do the same to protect your student?¡±

    ¡°My duty is to send every student who comes through Thornfield to their death, Master Saint Daven.¡± Heartless took out his thornknife and turned it over in his scarred, leathery hands. ¡°I prepare them the best I can so that some few might live to be retired, but I am fully aware that most will have their thornknives planted out there among the dunes. I tried to send her away¡ªtried when we learned she was blind in one eye, tried again yesterday¡ªbut the strong gods don¡¯t care for the will of men.¡±

    Grandmaster laid the thornknife gently on the desktop.

    ¡°For better or for worse, this is the course they have put Lathe on, and they will not be diverted.¡±

 Chapter 71: Lathe

    A rain shower began just before midnight, turning the already muddy bailey into a chilled, sandy soup, but no student or master at Thornfield ever missed a grafting. It was a final show of support for their fellows and an opportunity to see their future.

    There was also an element of morbid fascination that most of the students would have denied. They didn¡¯t want to see the men they had trained with die. But anything could happen. Especially this time. No Thorn had died by the king¡¯s hand in over thirty years; Hazerial was far too practiced now to botch the ritual.

    The crown prince, however, had never performed a grafting before. Old horror stories of previous first-time graftings by the heirs to the throne had begun to make the rounds as soon as Etianiel had ridden into the bailey with the king¡¯s carriage. He was Josean-blessed, certainly, and the second coming of the warrior god, most likely. But could he wield a thornknife with the required precision to bring a man back from the dead?

    On top of that, rumor had it that Lathe, the girl who had lied to them all and murdered two of their fellow students, was being rewarded with a grafting. If they hadn¡¯t seen her standing there in the bailey among the seniors and the chosen third-years, most of them would never have believed it.

    Izak didn¡¯t want to believe it. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you just say no?¡±

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you just shut your mouth?¡± Lathe wriggled excitedly on the spot, boots squelching in the muck. Her breath steamed in the cold air.

    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what he promised you, Lathe, it won¡¯t be what you think. He¡¯s a liar.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what everybody said about me, and lookit, here I am.¡±

    Izak turned to Twenty-six for some kind of help, but he may as well not have wasted his time. The pirate¡¯s face was set in a glare of grim determination. He wore his clean set of Thornfield clothing, every stitch in perfect place¡ªhe¡¯d even scraped down the stubble on his cheeks and trimmed his beard. Couldn¡¯t go to hell looking scruffy.

    These were the friends he¡¯d been saddled with. A suicidal fool who thought he could assassinate the Chosen of the Strong Gods, and a younger, dumber fool who thought she¡¯d been given the chance of a lifetime, never mind that it had come from the deadliest of spiders ever to spin a web.

    The graftings began with the fourth-years. Izak flinched with every crunch of breastbone. Every pained scream and grunt seemed to cut into his guts. The ghost city flickered out, thornknives glowed with the souls of the men they were resurrecting, and the ghost city shone anew. Men bowed their heads and pledged their swords and their lives to their master, the King of Night.

    Izak hadn¡¯t prayed sincerely in more than ten years¡ªnot since he¡¯d given up on the Blasphemous One. But as the number of new Royal Thorns grew and the number of men between his friends and the thornknife shrank, Izak closed his eyes and entreated the god who had abandoned his uncle.

    Save them. Save the idiot pirate and the little liar. Don¡¯t let whatever Hazerial is doing succeed. Stop him. I know you hate him and the strong gods, so stop him and stop whatever he¡¯s doing. Don¡¯t let him or Eketra get what they want tonight. I know you can¡¯t hear me. I know you don¡¯t listen to us, and you only love the Helat, but please, save my friends.

    The last of the fourth-years was swallowed up by the crowd¡¯s congratulations, and Lathe was called forward.

    For the first time since the graftings began, Twenty-six acknowledged Izak¡¯s presence with a nod. They were her seconds. They followed Lathe out into the center of the bailey.

    Master Smith stood nearby with a gorgeous pair of twin steels. Unlike some of the masters who were still outraged at the thought of a girl being grafted¡ªnever mind the fact that she¡¯d been duping them for three years now¡ªMaster Smith¡¯s eyes shone. It was well-known that the big man had always had a soft spot for the troublesome runt and the mischief she caused.

    Lathe knelt in the mud where thirty men had knelt before. A shirt with lacings down the front had been provided for her, an attempt at some preservation of modesty. She fiddled with the strings for a moment, then finally the shirt opened to reveal a strip of pale skin down the center of her chest all the way to her navel.If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Hazerial stepped forward.

    Please, Izak prayed. He¡¯d lost all coherence in his desperation; the only word he could form now was please.

    He and Twenty-six took Lathe by the arms.

    It had to be a clean blow¡ªclean path in, clean path out. That required resistance on the part of the one being grafted, but sometimes they couldn¡¯t provide enough on their own. Hence the seconds to hold the prospective Thorn in place. Izak widened his stance and braced himself. From the corner of his eye, he saw Twenty-six do the same.

    Hazerial raised the thornknife.

    Please. Izak¡¯s heart pounded so hard that it hurt.

    Lathe took a deep breath and blew it out. Her arms flexed beneath Izak¡¯s grip, wiry, stringy muscles over sharp elbows and wrists, preparing for the wooden knife to plunge into her heart.

    Hazerial struck. Izak felt the impact resonate through the runt¡¯s body, felt the crunch of her breastbone in his stomach.

    Lathe spasmed, her arms yanking inward. Izak clutched the arm he held to his chest, screaming please over and over again in his head.

    Hazerial tore the thornknife free, and Izak felt the scrape and suck of the blade in Lathe¡¯s wound as if it were dragging against his own bones.

    She was supposed to go limp now. She was supposed to be peacefully dead and awaiting resurrection. But Lathe¡¯s legs squirmed in the mud, sliding, a slow flailing. She gave a single sob and fought to drag her arms away from Izak and Twenty-six, but only succeeded in pulling them in close in a horrible mockery of a hug.

    Mud splattered them. Izak¡¯s arms cramped with the effort of holding on. It was useless, he already knew it was, but he couldn¡¯t let go.

    Steaming blood bubbled from the hole in Lathe¡¯s chest, gushed out in weak pumps, slipping down to soak the waist of her pants. It was all perfectly visible in the unwavering light of the ghost city that should have flickered to black while her soul was drawn into the thornknife.

    Little by little, Lathe¡¯s struggles calmed. The bubbles slowed, then stopped. Her body went limp. Her eyes stared unblinking at the ghost city while raindrops fell into them.

    Izak released his grip and slumped on his side in the mud, the muscles in his arms still burning.

    On her opposite side, Twenty-six sat back on his heels and closed his eyes. Maybe he was talking to his pirate god.

    The bailey was silent except for the falling rain.

    Someone wept.

    Kelena, Izak realized numbly. Kelena was crying for a dead girl she didn¡¯t even know. Meanwhile Izak¡¯s eyes were dry.

    Because I knew all along this would happen.

    Izak looked up at his father and saw a monster willing to waste every life that came his way. Innocent, guilty, good, bad, young, old, it didn¡¯t matter to Hazerial, just as it didn¡¯t matter to the strong gods. To any god for that matter. Even Lathe¡¯s precious Cormorant hadn¡¯t bothered to save her.

    ¡°Ha.¡± Izak stood up and bellowed at the top of his lungs, ¡°Ha!¡±

    He laughed until he doubled over and put his muddy hands on the knees of his mud-slick trousers. He laughed until Twenty-six hauled him upright and punched him in the mouth.

    ¡°Be a man,¡± the pirate ordered in a low growl.

    Izak nodded. He wiped the mud from his lips with his sleeve, then massaged the jaw that felt as if it had come unhinged from the blow. Somewhere at the far edges of his mind, it hurt.

    ¡°I guess it¡¯s your turn to die now,¡± he muttered.

    Twenty-six gripped Izak¡¯s forearm. It was the first time in three years that Izak could remember the pirate ever making an outward gesture of friendship.

    ***

    Pretty fell into bed, exhausted from Seleketra¡¯s night of gaiety on the arm of the Lord of Siu Carinal, followed by a day in his bed. In public, the aging lord was brash and annoying; alone he was grumpy and fumbling, constantly trying to blame Seleketra for his failings.

    Pretty hoped Athalia would tell her soon that Seleketra¡¯s time favoring the lord was over. There were other inquiries, after all. The Daylily had gone out earlier that evening to meet with one. She might already be back with a more suitable proposition.

    For now, however, Pretty wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep. She sank into the downy depths of her bed, warmth spreading from her skin into the mattress and blanket. She pulled a pillow close, cuddling up to it like she used to cuddle up with Brat in their little bolt-hole.

    Pretty never cried over Brat anymore. She had seen a man burn alive for her. Men had killed each other trying to win her companionship. Brat was an old bruise in a heart that had since had to endure much worse to survive. Athalia was right, it never stopped hurting, but Pretty had gotten harder around the pain.

    Except this time, the dull ache didn¡¯t fade as Pretty slipped toward sleep. It was getting worse. She twisted her hands in the covers, tears welling up in her eyes. Her stomach bucked, and she shoved her face into her pillow to stifle the sound of her sobs.

    She hadn¡¯t cried over Brat in a long while, but tonight she couldn¡¯t stop herself. The ache was sharper than it had been since she¡¯d first lost Brat, as bright and fresh as icy cold spring melt flooding into the Closes. It fell on her like a collapsing tunnel. Brat was gone, and Pretty would never see her again.

    Pretty hugged her pillow and sobbed fit to wake the tempered dead.

 Chapter 72: Alaan

    Master Malice directed a handful of first-years to carry Lathe¡¯s corpse to the rubbish pit. The rain picked up, splattering off the muddy ground and soaking the onlookers.

    Twenty-six stepped forward and knelt in the place where Lathe had just died. She and Four were supposed to be his seconds, but Fifty-one stepped in to fill her place. They tried to take his arms, but Twenty-six shook them off.

    ¡°I am a man.¡± He glared into the eyes of the blood drinkers¡¯ king as he whipped off his shirt and threw it aside. ¡°I do not fear death or dirters.¡±

    The king¡¯s face stretched into a grin. ¡°As you like.¡±

    Grandmaster brought forth the thornknife and the bit of parchment with Twenty-six¡¯s name written on it, handing them to the king.

    Hazerial glanced at the word on the parchment. He chuckled as if the name of the man who would destroy him were amusing.

    Twenty-six slowed his breathing, his pulse steadily thrumming out death. He had prepared the attack from his own blood. His hands were empty, but he was the weapon. He was the name on the scroll, the darkness of the ocean that would swallow the dirter king. From the day he had been dragged onto this cursed earth, with every step further into their filth, with each new concession to their evil, he had become this.

    Tonight, the blood debt would be redeemed.

    Instead of stepping closer and raising the thornknife, however, the dirter king retreated.

    Icy cold solidified in the pit of Twenty-six¡¯s stomach.

    The king handed off the thornknife.

    No.

    The princess, Four¡¯s sister, stepped forward with the wooden blade in her hand.

    Hazerial¡¯s frozen-mud eyes sparkled.

    ¡°No!¡± Twenty-six didn¡¯t realize he¡¯d spoken until he saw the cloud of steam in front of his face.

    He shot to his feet, the thorny magical blade bursting from the heel of his hand. The bailey became a haze as Twenty-six raced toward the only thing he could see clearly¡ªthe grinning face of the dirter king.

    The Mark seized him.

    The Mark had been the greatest obstacle in his and the prince¡¯s training. When the intention to kill flowed through Twenty-six, the Mark stopped him, froze him where he stood. He and Four had searched for a way around it, but there was no clean way to evade its grasp.

    That was when Twenty-six had thrown away the last hope of ever being allowed to return to the God of the Waves. That was when he had become the abomination.

    In the bailey, under the dirters¡¯ glowing ghost city, as the dirter king¡¯s Mark tried to stop Twenty-six where he stood, he unleashed the monster of hatred and vengeance that he had been training in his own blood. The abomination sank its teeth into the Mark, ripped and tore. With claws of rage, the monster shredded the Mark¡¯s hold on him.

    Royal Thorns¡ªold and newly grafted¡ªraced to kill him before he reached the king, but they were too slow. He ducked their blades and parried with the conjured swordbreaker growing from his fist.

    Twenty-six lunged for the king¡¯s throat.

    A sword crashed against his conjured swordbreaker. The steel swung with his parry, maintaining contact with the thorny blade. Its wielder couldn¡¯t be thrown aside like the others; the man rolled effortlessly with Twenty-six¡¯s attacks.

    Smoked lenses reflected the green light from the ghost city overhead. It was Four¡¯s brother, the crown prince.

    A snarl formed in Twenty-six¡¯s throat. He would kill whoever it took to get to the king.

    But the crown prince matched him blow for blow. With a cutlass, perhaps, Twenty-six could have defeated him, but with nothing but a swordbreaker, he stood no chance. Twenty-six could see the skill and feel the power behind the crown prince¡¯s attacks. Even in this dirter forging ground for swordsmen, the man was a leviathan among eels.

    Clarity returned as the killing fog began to lift from Twenty-six¡¯s mind. In his peripheral he saw the Royal Thorns forming a wall around the king, pushing the filthy monster away from danger. That precious moment of advantage he¡¯d had evaporated.

    Men fell upon Twenty-six from behind. They dragged him to the ground in a crush of bodies.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    Wicked spikes like those covering the bailey¡¯s thorn tree burst from Twenty-six¡¯s flesh, tearing into their skin. The closest men to him grunted and tried to escape, but there were too many. They pressed each other down onto his thorns.

    The crown prince of the dirters stomped on Twenty-six¡¯s wrist and sliced the thorny swordbreaker from his fist. The blade splashed to the ground, returning to the blood it had been conjured from.

    Twenty-six closed his eyes. His head dropped backward onto the cold, wet mud.

    He had failed. Again.

    ***

    While the Thorns and Etian wrestled Twenty-six to the ground, Izak snatched the crumpled scrap of parchment from the mud.

    Kelena¡¯s eyes were wide with terror, her mouth hanging open in shock. The thornknife Hazerial had given her dangled forgotten in her hand.

    Izak grabbed his sister by the arm and pulled her aside.

    ¡°Look at me, Kelena.¡± Light, she was shaking worse than he was. ¡°Shove the thornknife into his heart with every ounce of strength you have. It¡¯s got to go through the bone. Do it fast¡ªin, out. Then draw the cross-mark you¡¯ve seen Hazerial drawing all night, right here, on his forehead, and call him back. Don¡¯t let Hazerial say a single word before you call the pirate¡¯s name. Do you understand? Show me you understand.¡±

    Kelena took a shuddering breath, then nodded.

    ¡°You can do this.¡± Izak squeezed her hands, then pressed the crushed scroll into her palm. ¡°This is his name. Do it now, while they¡¯re holding him. Hurry!¡±

    At his last barked directive, the princess spun around, sliding a little in the soupy mud, then crossed the few paces to the struggling mass of arms, legs, and heads.

    Izak¡¯s longer stride pulling ahead of hers. He yanked a mud-covered body out of the way, uncovering Twenty-six¡¯s trapped animal snarl. Izak leaned a knee on his friend¡¯s throat, caught a flailing fist, and stretched out, pinning the appendage in the slippery mud.

    ¡°Now, Kelena!¡±

    She lunged, the thornknife clenched in her fist.

    The pirate¡¯s breastbone cracked like thunder. Kelena fell onto his chest, driving the thornknife to the hilt.

    Twenty-six went limp beneath Izak¡¯s grasp.

    Slowly, the mud-covered Thorns began to realize that the pirate was no longer struggling. One and two at a time, they climbed off the dead man.

    A moan of panic escaped Kelena. She was pulling, but she couldn¡¯t get the thornknife out.

    Izak took his knee off his friend¡¯s corpse, but didn¡¯t get up. Should he help Kelena? Would assisting in the thornknife ritual kill the man being grafted? What if she wasn¡¯t strong enough?

    Giving a final shout of effort, Kelena gritted her teeth and gave a vicious yank. The wooden blade squelched free. She traced a hasty cross on Twenty-six¡¯s forehead in blood.

    ¡°Alaan!¡± Kelena¡¯s shout rang out across the bailey, strong despite the sickly pallor of her face. ¡°I command your service!¡±

    The corpse spasmed.

    Izak¡¯s heart crashed against the back of his throat.

    Overhead, the ghost city disappeared. Blackness blanketed the bailey.

    This wasn¡¯t darkness as Izak had seen it during the other grafting ceremonies. This was a chasm that went on forever, the infinite black of a lightless midnight reflected by an endless depth of ocean, a void of black water smothering all else.

    ¡°Alaan, return to your master.¡± Though Kelena was right beside Izak, her voice echoed with distance, as if she were calling from the bottom of a well. ¡°I command your soul to take residence where it cannot be driven out.¡±

    The thornknife in her fist glowed like a moonbeam. The blackness tried to smother the light, but only managed to push back its rays.

    A ragged gasp echoed through the blackness. The dead man¡¯s chest shuddered beneath Izak¡¯s hand.

    Eerie green ghostlight flooded the bailey once more.

    Mud gurgled and sucked as the pirate got up. Thorns prepared themselves to tackle the savage again, but when he was perched on one knee, the pirate stopped. He scowled down at the closing hole in his chest.

    His gray-green eyes rose to Kelena.

    The princess took a quick step back, losing her precarious balance in the churned mud. Izak lurched to his feet and caught her arm to stabilize her.

    ¡°He¡¯s¡­¡± Kelena stammered. ¡°Izakiel, he¡¯s¡­¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re almost there,¡± Izak whispered. ¡°You¡¯ve been commanding him like the Queen of Night so far, don¡¯t stop yet.¡± He nudged her hand. ¡°The thornknife.¡±

    Shaking, Kelena held out the wooden blade, slick with the pirate¡¯s blood.

    ¡°Alaan, your soul resides within this thornknife until such a time as you die again or I release you from my service.¡±

    The pirate¡¯s teeth bared in a silent grimace. His head lowered an inch at a time as if it were being forced onto an executioner¡¯s block by an unseen hand. The cords in his neck stood out as he fought and lost the battle to resist.

    ¡°I am yours,¡± he growled.

    Silence.

    Masters and students alike stood in shock.

    ¡°Master Smith,¡± Grandmaster prompted softly.

    The smith started as if he¡¯d been awoken from a dream. He hurried forward and gave Kelena a cutlass and swordbreaker of glowering black steel.

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen pirate steel of late coming into the markets.¡± Master Smith looked nervously at the snarling new Thorn, speaking more to him than to the princess. ¡°Think I did a fair job of replicating the process.¡±

    Kelena bent, holding the blades out to the pirate.

    Twenty-six¡ªAlaan, now¡ªhefted the heavy curve of the cutlass, lifted the wickedly serrated swordbreaker.

    ¡°It¡¯s customary to name them,¡± Izak told his friend.

    For a moment, the pirate studied the teeth of the swordbreaker, his expression as dark as the steel it was forged from. Slowly, he raised his gray-green eyes to the king.

    ¡°This is Mehet, Heroine of the Sea, Eater of Abominations.¡± Then he raised the cutlass. ¡°And this is Haelbringr, her wedding vessel. They never rest. They never tire. They fight beyond life, beyond death, beyond defeat. Their sheath is the heart of a king!¡± he spat. ¡°Their sharpening stone is his bones! Their oil is his blood!¡±

    By the end of his tirade, Alaan had to shout to be heard over the dissenting rage of the students and Thorns and the chuckling of the king he must know he could no longer touch.

    As the chaos carried on, Etian came to Izak¡¯s side. ¡°I admire your friend¡¯s determination.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t let him hear you say it.¡± Izak glanced sidelong at his brother. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you let him kill Hazerial? He probably wouldn¡¯t have managed it, but you could have swept in and finished the job.¡±

    ¡°Poor timing is the same as wasted effort,¡± Etian said. ¡°Why were you in such a hurry for him to be grafted?¡±

    Izak watched the pirate climb out of the muck.

    ¡°Kelena just took control of the strongest Thorn ever to come through Thornfield.¡± Not Etian, not Hazerial, not the mad queen or some sycophant lord. The pirate was Kelena¡¯s alone to command. ¡°Nothing can touch her ever again.¡±

 Chapter 73: Izak of House Khinet

    The final graftings were those of the future Royal Thorns, the men who would serve the Crown Prince now and, if they survived long enough, when he ascended to the throne.

    As commander of his brother¡¯s Thorns, Izak was first in line. Eighty-eight and Fifty-one, both of whom would be grafted soon after Izak, acted as his seconds. Twenty-six¡ªAlaan, rather, Izak reminded himself¡ªhovered near his new charge, unable to leave Kelena¡¯s side so soon after the grafting. Royal Thorns crowded around her and the pirate, weapons drawn, ready to run Alaan through if he twitched in the wrong direction.

    Izak had heard the stories circulating about royal botch-jobs, but he didn¡¯t suffer from any undue concern. Etian lived with a blade in his hand. There was no one he trusted more to shove a wooden knife into his heart and tear it back out.

    Sure, their roles were reversed, the elder was about to serve the younger for the first time since Khinet had put his second-born son in service to his firstborn, but Izak wasn¡¯t afraid. He¡¯d seen the worst that could happen. The runt¡­

    Well, hadn¡¯t he known all along that the rubbish pit was where he belonged? If he ended up tumbling down the sandy slope alongside Lathe, at least she wouldn¡¯t rot alone.

    Etian raised the thornknife.

    Izak braced himself, the breath hissing in and out through his gritted teeth. Fifty-one and Eighty-eight gripped him tighter, holding him in place.

    The ghost city flared off Etian¡¯s lenses as he plunged the wooden blade toward Izak¡¯s chest.

    Bone crunched. Izak let out a choked cry as pain exploded outward from the site of impact. The air clotted in his lungs.

    He died.

    Izak expected the stillness of the grave he had so often imagined, a dark and peaceful nothingness, but he was surrounded by the eerie green of ghostlight. Surrounded and filled with it. It was as if the ghost city that mirrored Thornfield every night had rushed out of the sky and into him.

    And there they were.

    Josean. Bent, broken nose over a grim scowl. Scarred, rippling muscles. Spear dripping the blood of enemies and the blood of innocents.

    Eketra. Long hair wound into an intricate, orderly coil. Delicate fingers tipped with clawed nails plucking at endless bloody webs.

    Teikru. Hungry lips, darting tongue. Burning eyes. Open arms and open legs beckoning to a bottomless pit.

    The strong gods.

    Izak couldn¡¯t move. He had no body. He was nothing more than thoughts, and even those seemed stunted and slow.

    Teikru smiled. ¡°This Son of Khinet is a faithful worshipper at my altar.¡±

    The god-goddess spoke without a motion of the lips. Warm, dark, inviting, suggestive, Teikru¡¯s voice was as familiar to Izak as his own. He¡¯d never heard it before, but he knew it.

    ¡°Not always.¡± Josean spoke with the same unmoving countenance, though his voice was harsh. ¡°This is a blasphemer and a heretic.¡±

    ¡°Once he was.¡± Teikru ran a hand across voluptuous curves and sculpted sinews. ¡°Now he buries himself in me. He feeds on my sweet, ripened fruit and drinks the wine of my passion.¡±

    ¡°He is the prince of the stolen crown.¡± Eketra¡¯s cold voice was familiar as well, though Izak didn¡¯t know why. She cocked her head slightly. An artful curl dangled from her coil of hair. ¡°Do you seek the return of your stolen throne, Prince of Loss?¡±

    Teikru chuckled. ¡°He seeks pleasure and oblivion. All other paths are closed to him. Even blasphemy fails him.¡±

    It had failed his uncle, that great man. It had failed Lathe, dirty little runt crushed under a world too big for low street brats. If the pirate had cried out to his pirate god for help assassinating the king, then that blasphemy had failed, too.

    What was there of Izak to fail? He¡¯d given all he had over to drowning himself in women and liquor because that had been the fastest way to escape. He hadn¡¯t even truly believed in the strong gods, but he¡¯d seen their influence¡ªviolence and greed and lust. They were powerful, and they were everywhere.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°Then he is ours,¡± Eketra said.

    Izak. Your service is commanded.

    Josean scowled. ¡°Will he serve his purpose?¡±

    ¡°I have blessed him,¡± Teikru said. ¡°He cannot fail.¡±

    ¡°It is decided,¡± Eketra said. ¡°Send him north.¡±

    Return to your master. Take root where your soul will not be driven out.

    The world shifted around Izak. He felt rain on his skin. Mud caked his clothing, made it hang heavy. He felt hands clutching his arms. Darkness surrounded him but for a single glimmer of light, a pure silver moonbeam.

    Breath grated in his throat and tore at his lungs like claws of ice. Fifty-one and Eighty-eight struggled to hold him. The rustic had fallen to one knee, and the bastard¡¯s boots slipped in the mud as he fought to remain upright. Their harsh panting made great billows of steam in the chilled night.

    The moonbeam winked out, and the green light of the ghost city illuminated the bailey.

    Blood cooled as it trickled down the flat planes of Izak¡¯s stomach. The wound in his heart was sealing. He twisted his arms free of his friends¡¯ grasp and prodded the rapidly scabbing hole. He could feel the negative space inside his chest growing together, filling with scar tissue.

    Then a strange magnetism drew Izak¡¯s attention, something inside his skull pulling, insisting, like fingers hooked into his eye sockets.

    Etian stood in front of him, holding out the thornknife.

    ¡°Your soul resides within this thornknife until such a time as you die again or I release you from service,¡± his brother recited.

    The magnetism grew more pronounced, somehow a pull and a press at the same time. It buzzed with the demand that Izak finish the ancient rite.

    He bowed his head. ¡°I am Crown Prince Etianiel¡¯s.¡±

    Relief.

    Footsteps in the mud. Master Smith handed Etian a swordstaff.

    The ebony haft was polished to a dull gleam and inlaid with silver. It was topped with a curved blade as bright as the full moon. Black stain had been worked into the steel¡¯s intricate etchings.

    ¡°Your weapon.¡± Etian presented it.

    The beauty of the piece overwhelmed Izak. His throat closed. His eyes stung. It was the most gorgeous thing he¡¯d ever seen, and all he¡¯d had to do to receive it was watch his little runt die and chain his unwilling best friend to his sister until death.

    The swordstaff came to rest in Izak¡¯s hands, perfectly balanced, as heavy as memory, as light as promise.

    He was supposed to name the weapon when he took it, but Izak hadn¡¯t thought of a name. He hadn¡¯t believed he would make it this far¡ªin three years, he hadn¡¯t once believed he would be kneeling here.

    Prince of Loss, Eketra had called him. He lost those he loved, he brought loss to others. He lost faith and interest and hope, and he laughed every time because nothing was less funny than loss.

    Izak swallowed.

    ¡°Her name is Loss.¡± He raised the swordstaff and pressed his forehead to its haft. ¡°My blood, soul, and blade are grafted to your service, Etianiel. Let nothing part us from you or from each other.¡±

    ¡°So be it,¡± Etian said. ¡°Rise, Izak of House Khinet, Commander of the Royal Thorns of the Crown Prince of Night.¡±

    ***

    Seven more Thorns were grafted to the crown prince, among them the bastard Fifty-one and Eighty-eight, the huge rustic whose art Izak and so many others at Thornfield had enjoyed. Fifty-one took the name the Hare of West Crag and received a hand-and-a-half sword he named Spite. Eighty-eight became Sketcher, and his longsword Lovely.

    Etian struck true each time, and when the graftings were finished, no one but Lathe was dead.

    As the riotous congratulations shifted toward the dining hall, Izak realized that only the ungrafted students were moving freely. He, the pirate, and every other Thorn remained close by their masters. That overwhelming draw grew stronger whenever he thought of moving away from Etian.

    Ondreus, a grafting from the year before, was among those who had escorted Hazerial to Thornfield. He smiled when he saw Izak¡¯s expression.

    ¡°Just remember it eases with time,¡± Ondreus said. ¡°At least for Royal Thorns.¡± He aimed a nod of the head toward Kelena and the pirate. ¡°Private Thorns don¡¯t have as many fellow guards to spread the burden over.¡±

    The king followed Grandmaster into the keep, surrounded by his newly grafted Thorns. Most had their weapons drawn as if an assassin might leap out of the ghost city onto their heads.

    Izak recalled the eerie green light in that place of the strong gods and glanced up at the mirror of Thornfield in the sky. Perhaps it wasn¡¯t an entirely unfounded fear.

    Etian made to go inside, but Izak stopped him.

    ¡°Just a moment.¡± Izak waved to his sister. ¡°Kelena!¡±

    The princess hurried to his side. Alaan followed, his face stony with hatred, cutlass and swordbreaker drawn.

    Hare, Sketcher, and the rest of Etian¡¯s Thorns moved to intercept the pirate.

    Izak leveled Loss at Alaan¡¯s throat before realizing what he was doing. Izak shook his head in attempt to clear the compulsion to attack. The pirate wasn¡¯t a threat to his master. Not an immediate one, anyway.

    With great effort, Izak stood the swordstaff up and addressed his siblings.

    ¡°There¡¯s something we have to do before we join the feast,¡± he said, though he had his doubts as to whether he could eat anything right then, that magnetic droning in his brain was so intense. ¡°I know it¡¯s raining and cold, and everyone¡¯s starving.¡± He looked from his brother to his little sister. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t ask this, but Twenty¡ªAlaan and I can¡¯t leave your sides yet. I think it might drive us insane to let you out of our sight so soon after being grafted. Please just humor me.¡±

    ¡°Anything,¡± Kelena promised, though she was shivering and white from the cold downpour.

    Water dripped from Etian¡¯s hair and lenses. ¡°What is it?¡±

    Izak looked at the pirate and saw fury warring with accord in his friend¡¯s glare.

    ¡°We have to give our brother to the ocean,¡± Izak said.

 Chapter 74: Bitter Goodbyes

    The first-years had dumped Lathe into the side of the rubbish pit closest to the walls and left without covering her in sand, probably in a hurry to get rid of the corpse and get back to watching the successful graftings.

    One arm was twisted beneath her back, and her head hung too loose on her neck, glassy eyes half-lidded, one waxy-white ear resting on an old joint of pig. The runt¡¯s shirt gapped open, exposing her breasts and the bloody wound between them.

    It occurred to Izak that the first-years might not have covered her with sand because they¡¯d been too busy gawking, laughing at her or lusting after her, and for the first time in his life he wanted to kill someone.

    He skimmed down the sandy slope, sinking to his knees in the refuse at the bottom. Odds and ends stabbed at his calves and crumbled beneath his boots. He jerked her shirt closed and tied the laces, his eyes burning.

    Between Izak below and the pirate above, they managed to wrestle her out of the pit. She was much heavier in death. No more scrawny bird-boned brat.

    Rain hissed on the sand as Alaan carried her down to the water¡¯s edge. With a gentleness that belied the scowl on his face, he washed the sand and bits of refuse from her face and hair.

    Etian and Kelena stood a ways off, out of the surf¡¯s reach. The crown prince¡¯s Thorns gathered around him, the princess shrinking away from her brother and the unfamiliar men.

    Izak¡¯s grafting urged and begged and clawed at him, demanding he return to his brother. Alaan must be feeling the same insistent draw toward Kelena as he scrubbed the mud from Lathe¡¯s clothes, hands, and boots. Over and over again, the pirate looked back at his new mistress as if to reassure himself that she was still alive.

    ¡°Why not leave Lathe in the pit?¡± Alaan asked, his voice low enough that it wouldn¡¯t carry. ¡°Isn¡¯t that what dirters do with their dead?¡±

    ¡°Depends on how important you are. Royalty get tombs, merchants get graves.¡± Izak tried a laugh, but it caught in his throat. ¡°Likely the runt wouldn¡¯t even have had that if she¡¯d died in Siu Carinal.¡± He wiped the rain from his brow, then scowled at the stink of rotting trash and grit of sand on his hand. ¡°Little idiot should¡¯ve stayed there.¡±

    Alaan sat back on his heels and hooked the wet hair from Lathe¡¯s forehead with one finger. She was as clean as she was going to get.

    ¡°I just didn¡¯t want her down there alone,¡± Izak said.

    It occurred to him that Scabs and Thirty¡¯s bodies were somewhere in the rubbish, already covered in sand, but in many ways that was worse. Buried forever with two men she hated.

    The pirate¡¯s stony scowl deepened. He scanned the waves. He glanced over his shoulder at Kelena again, then turned back, resting an elbow on his knee.

    ¡°There¡¯s a riptide there.¡± He pointed southeast. ¡°It will take her body out to sea instead of returning her to the shore.¡± He glared down at Lathe¡¯s still face, and a note of apology bled into his voice. ¡°I cannot go farther than this. Can you?¡±

    Etian had become the magnetic pole of Izak¡¯s universe. Imagining swimming away from his brother made cold fingers of dread squeeze Izak¡¯s chest. Anything could happen while to Etian he was in the water.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    But there were seven other Thorns watching over his brother. If what Ondreus had said was true, then the pull must be seven times worse for Alaan. The pirate was the only one protecting Kelena.

    ¡°I¡¯ll take her,¡± Izak said. ¡°Point that tide out to me again.¡±

    The pirate did. ¡°When you feel the grasp of an underwater hand, let her go and swim back. If you wait too long, the ocean will pull you under.¡±

    Izak picked up the runt¡¯s body. Water cascaded from her clothes and short hair, making a sound as if the surf were boiling around his feet.

    Alaan pressed his hand to Lathe¡¯s forehead and closed his eyes. ¡°God of the Waves, be merciful to her. Wash her clean in the sun and the salt and take her into your hand.¡±

    Izak swallowed the pain in his throat and hefted the runt to get a better grip. He squeezed her against his chest and felt the waxy resistance of cold, wet, dead flesh. He wished there was something he could say to her, for her, but all that he could think was that she¡¯d made everything so much more complicated. Even this.

    The pirate let his hand drop.

    Izak walked out into the water. The pull to turn back and run to Etian grew stronger the farther he went. The waves crashed against him, trying to knock him over with his burden.

    Once he made it deep enough, he was able to rest Lathe on the surface of the water and simply guide her forward. Waves splashed into her nose and mouth, washed over her half-open eyes, but she didn¡¯t care. Water wasn¡¯t bad medicine anymore. Nothing was.

    He passed the point where his feet could touch and began to wonder whether he would recognize the riptide or miss it completely. Through his boots and pants he might not feel the grip the pirate had mentioned. Suppose he¡¯d already swum past it. Suppose he had swum too slowly and it was already gone. Izak didn¡¯t know anything about the ocean; he was the last person who should have volunteered for this fool¡¯s errand. Light, he was likely the reason Hazerial had killed Lathe in the first place. If she¡¯d never met Izak, she might still be alive.

    These dark considerations broke off suddenly when something grabbed at Izak¡¯s legs. He kicked backward instinctually, felt it tangling with his limbs, tearing at his clothing, dragging him down.

    That was the riptide, then. He kicked harder, breaking free of its claws.

    Izak kissed the runt on the temple, treading water.

    ¡°Lathe wasn¡¯t a stupid name.¡± He gave her a shove toward the current. ¡°I was just jealous that you got to choose it.¡±

    The riptide took hold of her. She swirled slowly, head falling back, baring her pale throat and pointing her chin to the sky, before that invisible hand jerked her under.

    Underwater, tiny bubbles drifted up from her nose and mouth and the hole in her chest. She was visible for a moment, a dancer hanging midturn, and then Izak couldn¡¯t see her anymore.

    How easy would it be to follow her down? Everyone would think it had been an accident. Or treachery by the pirate; that he¡¯d sent the prince out to die.

    The grafting wouldn¡¯t let Izak go. Etian needed him. Etian had to be protected. Etian¡¯s wellbeing was Izak¡¯s first consideration from now until death.

    A salty wave flowed into Izak¡¯s mouth. He spat it out. ¡°If the Blasphemous One exists, Lathe, he owes you an apology for everything he stole from you.¡±

    Another tug from the riptide. Izak turned around and kicked for shore.

    ***

    Hidden from sight and a measure of the rain in the lee of the wall, Saint Daven watched the half-blind berserker swallowed up by the waves.

    Four returned to shore. The prince and the pirate followed their new masters and the contingent of Thorns to the gatehouse.

    A symptom of a people who worship death and eat their own children. That was what Lord Paius had called Thornfield.

    ¡°Shook his fist at it with one hand and held the thornknife with the other,¡± Saint Galen muttered.

    ¡°He was a good man.¡± Saint Daven pushed away from the wall and started for the village. ¡°And as much as it makes me sick to say it, his son¡¯s a better one.¡±

    ¡°Guess that¡¯s it for our teaching career.¡±

    Saint Daven walked backwards a ways without answering, taking what he hoped was his last look at Thornfield¡¯s stark, utilitarian battlements through the curtain of droplets. The shadowed tower of the keep and the thorny, dead-looking branches of the great locust tree loomed over it all.

    ¡°Grandmaster was right about one thing.¡± He turned around and faced the direction he was going. ¡°A Thorn doesn¡¯t have the luxury of retreating. We push forward, always.¡±

 Chapter 75: Thorns

    Alaan couldn¡¯t eat. He couldn¡¯t drink. He could barely force himself to breathe past the hatred constricting his throat.

    He stared at the back of the dirter king¡¯s head while the students and masters of Thornfield gorged themselves on the celebratory feast. Alaan¡¯s hands shook. His ears whined like they had for weeks after his swim across the Deep Chasm, when he¡¯d dived down too far into the alaan darkness and felt the pressure like an awl in his ears. His skin buzzed.

    That last sensation wasn¡¯t his. Neither was the constant undercurrent of fear. He felt no fear anymore. The worst had already happened. There was no room left in him for fear.

    The foreign feelings came from the princess seated before him. Her pale hand shook as she plucked at her goblet and picked at the food set before her, moving it around without eating.

    Alaan felt the pulse of terror rise when her father looked her way. The buzz in her skin grew almost loud enough to hear when the crown prince came close to her.

    By contrast, when Izak was around the princess, Alaan felt warmth and happiness swell within her. She felt safe with Izak near.

    And one or both of them, Alaan and the princess, felt confused. The emotions surrounding Izak tangled like loose lines in a storm. Betrayal, esteem, fury, dedication, frustration, gratitude. Neither Alaan nor the princess could wrestle their portion free of the other¡¯s.

    Izak had saved his life. Izak had imprisoned him. Izak had taken Lathe out of the dirter pit and given her honorably to the ocean. Izak had made redeeming the blood debt impossible.

    No, not impossible. He was Alaan, the shadow in the night-black depths of the sea, the fear of every dirter who dared to sail Ocean Rover waters. He would find a way, no matter what it required of him, no matter how long it took, no matter that he was chained to protect this frightened, cringing princess and every filthy dirter in her direct bloodline. Even the king.

    While Alaan lived, there was hope of protecting his people and bringing justice to the blood drinker king.

    And beneath the seething, choking fury, Alaan knew he had Izak to thank for it.

    ***

    Thornfield¡¯s royal suite was broken up into the sitting room, bedchamber, and a bathing chamber from which the basin had been removed and a cot brought in.

    As day fell, the royal household retired. The king, with his full complement of newly grafted seniors, took the bedchamber. The new Royal Thorns rifled through the room thoroughly, searching out every potential entrance and exit and making certain no corner or crevice concealed deadly treachery.

    While this was going on, the crown prince and princess attempted to work out their sleeping arrangements.

    ¡°You can have the sitting chamber,¡± Etian told Kelena. ¡°I don¡¯t mind a cot. It¡¯s nicer than some of the places I slept up north.¡±

    While Izak appreciated his brother¡¯s gallantry, he¡¯d also seen the royal bathing chamber. With Etian on the cot and eight Thorns crammed around the edges of the room, it would be a long, cramped day. If an assassin crept in, they would massacre each other just trying to draw their weapons. The soul of a Thorn whose master died under his protection shattered along with his broken grafting; Izak hated to see what might happen to a Thorn who accidentally disemboweled his master.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    Kelena stumbled over a reply that Izak could barely hear, something about ¡°no trouble¡± and ¡°hardly comfortable.¡±

    ¡°One man can hold the smaller chamber better than eight,¡± Alaan intervened. ¡°She will sleep there.¡±

    ¡°Thank the strong gods someone sees reason.¡± Izak clapped his friend on the shoulder. ¡°I was trying to think of a delicate way to tell Kelen I didn¡¯t care about her comfort as much as I do mine.¡±

    His sister thought that was funny, but the pirate shrugged off Izak¡¯s hand. Without another word, he took the princess by the arm and directed her to the bathing chamber.

    Right. The shock of the night¡¯s events must have passed and left the anger to set in.

    As commander of the crown prince¡¯s Thorns, Izak organized Hare, Sketcher, and another pair to search the sitting room for dangers. Izak knew the pair¡¯s numbers¡ªSixteen and Ninety-one¡ªbut he was still learning their chosen names. Two more he posted at the sitting room door with orders to trade off with himself and the last man, Seventy-eight, in a few hours.

    Just as Izak was about to suggest everyone who wasn¡¯t currently guarding the entrances and exits lie down and try to sleep until their watch, Etian announced that he was going to bathe. Nothing Izak said could change his brother¡¯s mind.

    The organization and assignment of duties began all over again at the bathhouse. Six Thorns inside, Izak and Seventy-eight outside.

    Seventy-eight¡¯s new name was Wraith or Rake or something like it, but Izak was worn too thin to bother asking again. He wouldn¡¯t remember anyway, and the longer the day stretched on, the less he cared. There would be time to put names to faces between Thornfield and Shamasa Redoubt, and then time to put those names on graves when Etian¡¯s insane plot to murder Hazerial killed them all.

    Assuming any of them survived the campaign into Helat territory to come back to the Kingdom of Night and partake in such a mad conspiracy. Maybe Etian would push them all the way to the Helat¡¯s northern coastline. Maybe a year from now, Izak would be sending more bodies of dead friends out to sea.

    Light, he needed some rest. Better yet, a trip to the village to drown all thought in a bottle of wine and Casia or Danasi¡¯s company. As long as he was wishing, make that Casia and Danasi.

    It was customary for the procession to stop at Sandshells when the new graftings left Thornfield. A secondary celebration paid for by the older Royal Thorns to welcome them into the guard and mark the end of their Thornfield-imposed celibacy. Izak tried to look forward to it, tried to enjoy the thought of pretending to have just laid eyes on the public house girls for the first time, tried to savor the fantasy of gathering the beauties into his arms and leading them up the stairs while a roomful of envious Thorns glared daggers at his back.

    But it was all hollow. It felt as if the girls would crumble like ash on his fingers, turn to ash on his tongue.

    The runt was dead. That was what he would be telling Casia and Danasi when they stopped in Sandshells¡ªthat their favorite low street brat had suffered and breathed her last the night before, and that he had done nothing to stop it, nothing to save her. If he had argued harder, if he¡¯d locked up the energies in her blood and hidden her away, if he¡¯d just done something¡­ Instead, he¡¯d held her in place for the slaughter.

    The feeling of Lathe writhing as she died came back, that scrape of thornknife on bone as it pulled out of her chest. He heard her pained sob.

    Izak closed burning eyes and leaned his head back against the wall of the bathhouse.

    Prince of Loss, Eketra had said. There was his scepter to prove it, ebony staff worked with silver clutched in his fist, blade shining in the afternoon light.

    ¡°Sleeping on the job, Commander?¡± Seventy-eight asked.

    Izak laughed. ¡°Just enjoying some happy memories of dying.¡± He scratched the thornknife scar on his chest. ¡°The part where the strong gods weigh and evaluate you and find you worthless was a bit deflating, wasn¡¯t it? Why do you think no one ever mentions that when they talk about the grafting?¡±

    Seventy-eight smiled as if a joke had just gone over his head. ¡°The part where what?¡±

 Chapter 76: The Ragged Hole

    The evening after Pretty¡¯s strange attack of misery, a caller come visiting at the Daylily¡¯s townhouse. Athalia received the man in the parlor while Orika helped Seleketra array herself in her best finery.

    When Pretty finally made it down to the parlor, the man waiting with the Daylily wasn¡¯t at all what she had been expecting.

    Normally, callers were lords or wealthy merchants. This man had a different look altogether. Burly, scarred, hair shaved close to his head. He didn¡¯t dress in uphill finery but the sort of roughspun clothing dockworkers and stablehands wore. He even had a sword hanging by his hip. She couldn¡¯t believe nobody had turned him away at the door.

    ¡°Seleketra,¡± Athalia said, beckoning her in. ¡°We¡¯re so grateful you agreed to favor us with an audience.¡±

    Hiding her bemusement behind Seleketra¡¯s haughty fa?ade, Pretty took a seat where the demigoddess could look disinterestedly at or through both the Daylily and the visitor with her glowing ghostlit eyes.

    She waited. Demigoddesses did not ask for explanations. Humans gave them or suffered her wrath.

    The man swept a clumsy bow, then at her glare, he dropped to one knee. ¡°Forgive me for intruding on your night, beautiful Seleketra, but I¡¯ve been sent on urgent orders from my lord. He wishes to engage your, uh, services.¡±

    Seleketra turned her eerie green stare upon the Daylily. The minutest twitch of Athalia¡¯s face told Pretty that Athalia wanted her to eventually agree. This offer must be much better than the one to tame the old lord¡¯s ill-mannered son. The Cormorant must¡¯ve heard Pretty¡¯s prayers and sent her some invisible medicine, just like Brat used to talk about.

    ¡°What sort of lord sends a common ruffian in his place?¡± the bored demigoddess asked.

    ¡°A warlord, mistress. I know I don¡¯t look like much, but I can be trusted. Most of the finer folks in my lord¡¯s circles can¡¯t.¡±

    Pretty could believe that. She knew a thing or two about slippery uphill folks.

    ¡°A warlord?¡± Seleketra was supposed to know a thing or two about those. After all, Eketra had made her specially for the warrior god Josean. The demigoddess inclined her head imperiously. ¡°I shall hear his offer.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, mistress.¡± The man bent awkwardly at the waist in his one-legged kneel, then reached into his doublet and pulled out a missive. ¡°He sent this contract of terms.¡±

    The demigoddess motioned. The Daylily took the contract, bringing it closer and kneeling to present it to Seleketra. Pretty caught the intense look of excitement and pride and fulfillment on Athalia¡¯s face before the Daylily bowed her head reverently.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    The wax closing the contract had been stamped with the royal seal of House Khinet.

    ***

    The procession left Thornfield at sundown the next night, under a pouring rain. Newly grafted seniors rode all around the carriage, one rode on top with the driver, while three crammed into what was normally the footman¡¯s position. The older Royal Thorns laughed and rode at a distance where their mounts wouldn¡¯t trample one another, but they remembered the urgent need to be close to their master in those first maddening days after grafting, that incessant drive to protect their king from even imagined threats.

    The only Thorn allowed inside the carriage, Alaan was the envy of the king¡¯s newest swordsmen. He sat at his mistress¡¯s side across from the dirter monster, barely a cutlass length from the man he¡¯d sworn to kill. The whine in Alaan¡¯s ears grew louder with every mile he rode staring at that satisfied smile and those frozen-mud eyes.

    ¡°We wouldn¡¯t dream of separating our daughter from her new Thorn,¡± Hazerial had said in the bailey while they readied the ugly land vessel. He had rested his cold, long-fingered hand on Alaan¡¯s shoulder and told his outraged Royal Thorns, ¡°We trust the pirate with our life.¡±

    The rain pounded on the roof of the carriage, and Kelena huddled in the corner, just trying to keep breathing between the crush of her Thorn¡¯s hatred and her father¡¯s amusement.

    Izak rode alongside Etian in the downpour, scanning the runnel-washed dunes for attackers he knew weren¡¯t there and wishing his brother preferred the luxury of a nice dry carriage.

    ¡°I rode into Thornfield three years ago stinking of wet horse,¡± he yelled to Etian over the crash of the storm-tossed surf. ¡°Now I¡¯m riding away stinking of the same. The strong gods love their symmetry.¡±

    ¡°Get used to it,¡± Etian said. ¡°I doubt we¡¯ll find many bathhouses between Shamasa and the Helat imperial city.¡±

    The procession stopped briefly in Sandshells for the customary revelry, but the public house was locked. A dark garland hung on the door.

    ¡°They found the publican¡¯s daughter with her throat cut,¡± a regular from a neighboring home told Izak. ¡°Casia. Sweetest thing. Can¡¯t imagine who would do something so senseless.¡±

    After relaying the information, Izak climbed back on his horse and the procession rode on. No time to stop and mourn a murdered pub girl. There would be other public houses and taverns and inns.

    As his horse plodded down the sandy streets, Izak thought he saw Danasi watching from the pub¡¯s upper window. He waved, wishing a gesture could carry sorrow and sympathy and comfort from one person to another.

    Danasi turned away. It looked to Izak as if she crumbled to ash then, but she must have fallen onto the bed to weep for the sister someone had stolen from her.

    One more death too few people cared about. One more life wasted with no recourse.

    Nothing to do but live on in the ragged hole left behind.

    <hr>

    Epilogue

    Thump. A lump of muscle that hadn¡¯t been used for years shuddered.

    Water pulled and pushed. Water splashed. Water battered down from above in stinging droplets.

    Thump. The lump of muscle was weak. It hadn¡¯t been needed in so long. It had lain silent for years, while its other half¡ªthe half the body had swallowed from its twin long before birth¡ªpumped on.

    But the other half had been destroyed. There had been a crunch of bone, a sharp stabbing pain, and that stolen half had fallen silent. That half had died, like the twin the body had absorbed in the womb.

    Tha-thump.

    While the water swirled and pitched and shoved, Lathe¡¯s disused second heart shook off its years of rest and took up the beat.

    Tha-thump.