The Last Goddess

Chapter One

Haven’s grand bazaar smelled like wet gorillas. Nathan Rook had thought as much from the first moment he stepped into the city four years ago. It didn’t matter that he’d only seen a gorilla once, or that the hulking beast had been as dry as an Ebaran summer at the time. Rook just knew that the eclectic mix of imported animals, fabrics, and spices filling the bazaar always reminded him of damp primates, and he wouldn’t describe it any other way.

Uh oh, Van muttered, squinting off towards a moving caravan to their left.

Trouble? Rook asked as he pretended to inspect a ring from a jewelry stand.

Maybe. I think those merchants are Sunoan.

Rook frowned. Damn. That probably means they have dresses.

And shoes, Van added. Don’t forget shoes.

Rook did his best to keep a straight face while risking a furtive glance over at Rynne. To her credit, she hadn’t even dignified their taunts with an annoyed glare. She remained perfectly in character encased in her battered armor, the Vakari-style war paint around her cheeks and eyes glistening in the afternoon sun. Still, he knew they would hear about it later.

No sign of Marek, Van said after another minute. You sure he’s—

He’ll be here, Rook soothed, placing the ring back on the rack and eliciting a disappointed sigh from the shopkeeper. Let’s go check out those Kimperan weapons.

They made their way across the bustling street, his two bodyguards doing their best to intimidate people without actually touching them. At six and a half feet tall and bristling with muscle, Van didn’t need much help with that. Rynne, standing barely over five, required assistance from some impressively padded boots, but most of the people here understood the danger of messing with a Vakari mercenary—even a short one—and gave her a wide berth.

Rook nodded politely to the weapon merchant and glanced idly over the stock. As usual, Kimperan innovation didn’t disappoint, but he wasn’t really paying much attention to the new flintlock pistols or extended-cartridge crossbows. Instead he peered past them towards an unassuming blonde man descending the bazaar’s south ramp.

That’s our guy, Van murmured. Same meeting spot?

No reason to change it, Rook said.

He waited a full minute before stepping away from the merchant stand and angling off towards an open cantina on the west side. Marek and the two burly men flanking him arrived at about the same time, and the two groups wordlessly found a table.

Mr. Rook, Marek said with a half nod as he sat down. Glad you could make it.

I told you I’d be here, Rook replied coolly. I just hope you have something worth my time.

Van loomed just off to his left, crossing his burly arms over his chest and glaring down the opposing bodyguards. Rynne slid next to Rook’s right shoulder and not-so-subtly fingered the crossbow hanging on her hip.

Marek didn’t even flinch. Oh, I do. Honestly, I’m more worried about you having the drakes to pay for it.

Rook cocked an eyebrow despite himself. Confidence, feigned or otherwise, wasn’t typically the hallmark of a petty scavenger like Marek. He drifted meagerly from job to job, selling whatever he could find to collectors or other merchants. Rook had done business with him a handful of times and had never seen anything worth more than a hundred drakes. But this time…

Everything about Marek seemed different today. His posture, his glimmering eyes, his cocky grin…he looked exactly like a man who had struck it big and believed himself invulnerable. Of course, that painted him as even more of an amateur given the fact he didn’t have the resources to protect anything so important. Regardless, Rook had to admit his interest was piqued.

He grunted as derisively as he could manage. Spit it out, Marek.

The scavenger leaned back and smiled widely. I take it an educated Ebaran businessman like you knows all about the legend of Septuria.

I hope that’s a joke, Rook growled. You’d only be about the thousandth kreel in Haven to try and peddle off ‘legitimate Septurian relics.’

It’s no joke. All these religious fanatics going on about restoring Septuria, and I found a real piece of it not ten miles outside the city.

So you are wasting my time, Rook said, standing. Don’t contact—

I’m telling you the truth, Marek insisted, glancing nervously at the nearby tables to make sure no one was looking. Just let me explain.

Rook glared down at the man for a full thirty seconds before letting out an exaggerated sigh and dropping back into his chair. It was so much easier to fake annoyance when most of it was genuine. You have one minute. Don’t waste it.

Marek’s smile returned and he nodded. I already told you Prince Kastrius paid us to start digging a few weeks ago. Given how much the Empress wants to distance herself from her son these days, it made enough sense to hire us instead of using his own people.

It keeps his hands clean whether you find something or not, Rook reasoned.

"Right. I don’t know where he got the tip, but we could tell within hours that this wasn’t another futile gorm hunt. This was a real Septurian building—a mortuary, at that. It took a week to dig it open, but it was worth it. All the symbols you see the fanatics waving around these days? They were all there—this is the real deal."

Rook casually folded his hands in front of him. Marek certainly believed what he was saying whether it was actually true or not. That was a step up from his normal routine, at least, but it was still important not to seem too interested. Go on.

There’s more to the legend than just the city falling from the sky, Marek said. I’m sure you’re familiar with the story of the Kirshal.

A trite messiah fantasy concocted by bored priests, Rook replied dismissively, a warning tingle working its way down his spine. He knew a lot more than that about the Kirshal, naturally, and he also knew how many charlatans had claimed to unearth her remains over the years. But something in Marek’s eyes…

 They say that before the Sundering, Edeh placed a fraction of her soul into one of her priestesses, the man went on. The idea was that this woman would survive Septuria’s destruction, and then one day she would awaken and bring about this great restoration. Some even claim she would have the power to free the gods from the Fane.

It was a succinct but accurate summation of the ancient legend, and Rook’s warning tingle abruptly transformed into a full-blown chill. He would have expected a man like Marek to rely on outright lies or tack on some thick hyperbole, especially given how many over-the-top Kirshal myths were out there. The fact he was telling the truth was somehow even more disturbing.

As I said, a fantasy for kreel who should know better, Rook replied, though he could hear the rising tension in his own voice. My patience has limits, Marek. Get to the point.

The point is, Marek said, his lips twisting into a crooked smile, I found her.

You found the Kirshal? Rook asked skeptically. How exactly do you identify the Messiah from a pile of bones?

Marek shook his head. Not bones. You don’t understand. I found—

Trouble, Rynne warned in her best Vakari accent. Over by the ramp about fifty yards.

Rook tried to ignore the knot forming in his stomach and craned his neck to get a better look. There, coming down one of the ramps with a full detail of Faceless bodyguards, was Cadrien Naen, a prominent member of the Assembly of the Six Gods. It wasn’t unusual for politicians to visit the bazaar, of course, and patrols of Faceless were a common sight anywhere in the city. But then, that wasn’t what she was worried about.

Naen always puts on a show whenever he goes anywhere, Marek said. I wouldn’t worry about it.

I’m not worried about him, Rook murmured.

There by the silk vendor, you see? Rynne asked.

Yes.

Marek, flustered, shook his head and tried to follow their gaze. What are you talking about?

The pack of Balorites waiting for him, Rook explained, hopping to his feet. The only weapons he had brought with him were a single shot Kimperan pistol concealed under his jacket and a slender dagger stuffed in his left boot. Hardly worth mentioning if this turned out like he suspected it was going to…

It’s a Darenthi city—there are Balorites and Edehans everywhere, Marek pointed out. I don’t see the probl—

They’re not just any Balorites, Rook interrupted. These fanatics have been hounding Naen for weeks, ever since he declared his support for the Empress’s peace treaty.

I think they’re magi, Rynne added. Shakissa’s mercy…

Marek shook his head desperately. Magi? How can you tell?

There they go, Van warned, unsheathing his sword and terrifying the other cantina customers in the process. Rynne leapt over next to him, drawing her crossbow—

And then, in a single moment of fire and screams, it all went straight to the Void.

One of the Balorite cultists, tactically separated from his peers by a dozen yards, abruptly tilted his palm upwards, and a second later a brilliant ball of orange-white flame flashed in his hand. With a flick of his wrist the sphere streaked across the market and detonated on the ramp right in front of Assemblyman Naen. The explosion instantly reduced a pair of adjacent merchant stands to ash, but mercifully none of the nearby shoppers had been hit. They shrieked and sprinted off in all directions before the lingering flames could engulf them.

Naen was not so lucky. The assemblyman screamed in agony as he flailed about, desperately trying to extinguish the fire dancing across his clothing. Two of his Faceless bodyguards immediately charged forward, their swords and shields already drawn. Their jet black armor wasn’t even singed, but that shouldn’t have surprised anyone—any mage, even the most fanatical cultist, would understand that Faceless were impervious to magic.

Which meant that somewhere in the crowd, more Balorites were lying in wait.

Zandrast’s blood! Marek swore. He‘d already managed to stuff himself under the nearest table, and his bodyguards had done the same.

Just stay down, Rook told him, scanning the chaos-strewn bazaar for inspiration. The Faceless thoughtlessly shoved past civilians to get at the Balorite mage, while the Assemblyman, badly burned, screamed in agony as his two remaining guardians hauled him away.

They’re flushing him up the ramp, Rynne said.

Yeah, Van agreed. Look—that first group is baiting the Faceless away.

Rook grimaced and glanced down to Marek. Do you have any weapons?

What? the man stammered. You’re not serious?

I take that as a ‘no.’ Rook looked up again. We might be able to cut them off up there.

Van blinked, and even Rynne cocked her eyebrow at him.

Rook smiled. I like having politicians indebted to me. Come on.

He lunged over the cantina’s meager railing and drew his one-shot pistol mid-leap. Sections of the ramp were still alight with flaming debris, but the path was wide enough to easily maneuver around the rubble. Rook took the lead, knowing the others would follow him even if they thought he was crazy—which they almost assuredly did. And to be fair, they were probably right.

He reached the top of the ramp just as another explosion rocked the area, this time just off to his left. Naen shrieked as the blast narrowly missed him, and his two remaining Faceless guardians lunged forward in a vain effort to reach a small group of Balorite attackers up on the rooftops.

Death to the Empress! they shrieked in unison. Glory to Abalor!

Rook dove for cover behind a statue, then swiveled his weapon up at the cultists. For all its other benefits, this pistol had pathetic range, but perhaps he could at least spook them enough that they’d fall off…

A sharp thump sounded next to his ear as Rynne fired a shot from her crossbow. It pelted one of the cultists in the shoulder, and the man dropped his weapon and toppled from his perch. Before he even hit the ground she’d already fired a second shot, this one ripping through a second cultist’s leg and dropping him flat. The third and final cultist shifted his aim to face them, and Rook finally squeezed his trigger.

It was, in any measurable sense, far less impressive—but it got the job done. The bullet blew apart a shingle near the man’s foot, and it startled him so much he lost his balance and tumbled over with his companions. Almost immediately, the two remaining Faceless lunged forward and mercilessly hacked the wounded men to pieces.

See, Rook said, standing. I told you we’d—

The hand of the statue above him shattered, and Rook dropped back into a crouch. He caught a glimpse of three more attackers charging from the other direction, bellowing a mix of insane chants as they fired their crossbows.

You really don’t pay me enough for this, Van muttered as he rolled out, shield leveled in front of him. He grimaced and charged, and Rook couldn’t help but wince at each thud as Van’s shield caught bolt after bolt. A second later the three new attackers drew steel to meet the big man head-on, and Rynne slid a fresh cartridge into her weapon before firing another volley of her own.

Rook rolled to his right and pulled the dagger from his boot, suddenly regretting not buying one of those new flintlocks earlier. He popped into a half crouch, waiting for the opportunity to at least throw the screlling thing once Van was clear…

And then yet another barrage of shots whistled over his head from behind. He turned to see Marek and his two henchmen firing away with their hand-held, easily concealable crossbows.

In a matter of seconds, it was all over. The last Balorite group lay crumpled in a bloody pile in the street, Van standing triumphantly over them. And most importantly, it didn’t look like anyone had suffered more than a scratch. 

No one travels in Haven without a weapon, Marek commented dryly. And I kind of like the idea of an Assemblyman being indebted to me, too.

Rook grinned and put his dagger away. Naen was still cowering behind a stone column with his two guards and would probably stay there until some healers arrived.

You know, I’m not even sure he’s worth it, Rook murmured, his smile fading. Farther down the ramp, what seemed like a whole platoon of Darenthi soldiers had arrived on the scene, both Faceless and the still-human variety. It was a nearly-averted massacre and yet another chapter in the endless Holy War between the Balorites and Edehans.

They’re getting bold, Rynne said. Attacking the Empress’s people in broad daylight.

Rook nodded. They’ve been fighting for a thousand years. I don’t think anyone expected this recent truce to last forever.

Marek grunted. Haven—the great ‘City of Unity.’ I wonder if anyone ever actually believed that.

Rook pursed his lips. You said you found something.

Yes, I did, the man replied quietly, his eyes thoughtful. Though it belatedly occurs to me that it might just make things even worse around here.

The corpse of the Edehan Messiah?

Not the corpse, he corrected. The Kirshal in the flesh—and alive.

Rook eyed the other man carefully. Again, the scavenger didn’t appear to be lying. You’re serious.

It’s something you’re going to have to see yourself to believe. Once you do, we can negotiate payment. Marek glanced down to the soldiers attending to the wounded and the Assemblyman still crying out in pain. I don’t want anything to do with this mess.

Rook nodded and sighed. Change draws blood, the old saying went, and here in Haven it was just as true as ever. Nearly a dozen nations vied for power over Esharia, and within each of them, even one as heavy-handed as the Darenthi Republic, were hundreds of smaller factions with their own beliefs and agendas. Haven wasn’t the city of unity, but it might have been the city of the future—or at the very least a harrowing glimpse at what was to come.

 I think you’re right, he said softly. Even if Marek was lying, Rook didn’t really want to stick around here much longer anyway. Political favors or not, he’d rather not face the scrutiny of a Faceless inquisition. I think it’s time you showed me what you found. 

Marek smiled. I thought you’d never ask.

***

Rook had been in the business long enough to expect hyperbole and spot out-right lies. What he was far less accustomed to dealing with was the truth, and that made everything Marek showed him that much more impressive.

I tried to tell you, the man said, gesturing towards the storeroom now packed full of open crates containing everything from sculptures to jewelry, but I guess I can’t blame you for being skeptical. This is the real deal.

So it would seem, Rook commented idly. Rynne had already given him the confirming nod that most of this stuff was indeed genuine, at least as far as she could tell at a glance. Actual Septurian artifacts…outside of temple vaults or wealthy independent collectors, they were almost unheard of.

You’re welcome to buy whatever else you want, but this is what you came for, Marek said, leading them over to an open stone coffin. This is what a lot of people in Haven would kill to see.

Rook looked down into the coffin, and the knot that had been slowly forming in his stomach twisted like he’d just been stabbed.

Van peered over his shoulder. You found her in that?

Sealed shut, Marek confirmed.

Rook glanced to Rynne; her face had gone completely white—which meant she had come to the same conclusion he had. Namely, that this was bad. Very, very bad.

The woman inside was tall and statuesque with long red-blonde hair, and she was wrapped in a sari-style dress and halter combination he had only seen in paintings. An intricate pattern of tattoos decorated her bare stomach from beneath her belly up to the folds of cloth covering her breasts, and a striking emerald crystal pierced her navel. It was shaped like a small leaf—the holy symbol of Edeh.

She’s not breathing, Van pointed out. How do you know she’s alive?

Marek leaned down and placed a hand against the woman’s face. She’s still warm. There’s some type of magic keeping her asleep. That’s about all I could get from my people—none of them are actual magi.

Rynne leaned down over the coffin. Shakissa’s mercy...

I’ve heard the Vakari don’t believe in the Kirshal, Marek said. I think this just might prove you wrong.

There are other explanations, Rook whispered.

Really? So I take it I should offer this to someone else?

Rook bit his lip. I’ll buy it all.

The scavenger smiled. I thought you might. Now, let’s talk price…

Fifty thousand, Rook said. And your word that you leave the city and don’t tell anyone else about this.

Marek raised an eyebrow. Fifty? I think you can do better than—

More than fifty and my people take it from you—right before they drive you out of town, Rook warned. It’s the best offer you’re going to get. I suggest you take it.

Marek could have protested. Many men would have in his position, even if they didn’t have the resources to defend their prize. He certainly couldn’t ask the city guard for help—the moment anyone outside this room got wind of this, he would lose it all. And of course, if Prince Kastrius ever found out he had sold all these relics…

Fifty it is, Marek said. And don’t worry: I don’t think any of us plans on sticking around much longer.

Start packing it up. I’ll have my people come over shortly.

Marek nodded. Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Rook.

He stepped away to give his people orders, and Rook knelt down next to Rynne. You recognize the markings?

Of course I do, she whispered. She’s real. It’s all real.

Van grunted. You can’t know that for certain.

No, but it’s all there, Rook said gravely. The coffin, the tattoos, the dress, the—

The legend, Rynne breathed, shaking her head. The Kirshal, the Restoration, Septuria…

Van sighed. So you’re telling me this woman has been stuffed in a coffin for a thousand years and somehow survived? I’m sorry, but that’s a load of drek.

Rynne glanced up to him. Of course she survived. She’s carrying the soul of a goddess!

Van wrinkled his nose. You don’t believe that, do you, Nate?

I don’t know, Rook whispered. But we’re going to find out.

Chapter Two

For nearly a thousand years Sandratha had been the seat of power in Esharia, originally for the Darenthi Empire and now for the Republic that followed it. A few sections of the city even pre-dated the first imperial settlements, while others had been destroyed and rebuilt a dozen times. A decade earlier, its splendor had been blinding, from the trio of crystalline towers at its center to the enormity of the Royal Palace on its southern bank.

All of those structures were still in place today, but they felt…tarnished somehow. As the Empress became more and more of an apologist and less of a leader, entropy had begun to mar the majesty of the forgotten capital. It was a slow and subtle thing, manifesting only in a few chipped walls and unkempt streets off the main path, but its presence was unmistakable nonetheless.

And it was growing. Prince Kastrius Malivar could feel it, and if he didn’t take action quickly, his mother was going to let the greatest city in the world—and the republic that sustained it—crumble to dust. All to appease a continent full of agnostics and heretics who couldn’t see the truth even though it was right in front of them.

He grimaced at the thought as he stared out at the gray sky and light rain drizzling over the city. Entropy wasn’t the only thing he could feel right now. The other was just as powerful and far more annoying: boredom.

There was precious little for him to do other than wait for reports from his agents or listen to the court nobles blather on about whatever idiocy was currently holding their attention. He hadn’t even been able to find a whore worth a damn in the past month. If that wasn’t a sign of Sandratha’s decay, nothing was.

Kastrius walked over to the liquor cabinet on the far wall and poured himself a glass of Sunoan wine. He made sure to grab the 998—drinking out of boredom wasn’t worth one of the more precious vintages. But it was sweet enough, and it soothed his nerves as he watched the impending thunderstorm gather in the distance.

He had slipped completely into reverie by the time booted footfalls approached outside his door. With luck it would be something important and not one of his annoying servants with yet another petty problem to bring to his attention…

My prince, a deep voice called from outside the door. I have news.

Enter.

The door opened, and two men strode inside. The first was short and overweight, with only a few strands of gray hair peppering his wide scalp. He was Senator Kord Veltar, leader of the Balorite opposition in the Senate and one of the most influential people in the Republic.

His juxtaposition with the second man couldn’t have been more striking. General Andar Bremen was broad and tall, and his thick silver armor shone as if it had just been polished despite the myriad dents and scratches on its surface. His head was shaven bald and tattooed with the holy symbols of each of the Five True Gods—Illyria, Shakissa, Venar, Zandrast, and, of course, Abalor. He looked at once menacing and professional, just like a man of his military legacy should be.

Gentlemen, Kastrius welcomed, setting down his glass. You spoke of news.

I have a report from your missing expedition team near Haven, Bremen said, the annoyance in his voice obvious. We have a problem.

Kastrius closed his eyes and resisted the urge to swear. They betrayed me.

Senator Veltar snorted. You act surprised. This is what you get for hiring dregs off the street.

As opposed to using my own men and having my mother watch their every move? Kastrius countered. He shook his head and looked at Bremen. What happened?

Their leader insists they found ‘nothing of value’ and asks for your forgiveness, Bremen replied.

The prince slammed a fist on the table. So he found another buyer.

Or he’s looking for one, Bremen agreed. Either way, he may not realize what he’s getting into. If word of this leaks out, every faction in Haven will be coming after him.

Only those that believe in this nonsense, Veltar said dismissively.

"Whether or not you believe doesn’t really matter, Senator, Bremen said coolly. Dozens of factions will try to exploit this opportunity. They’ll parade her around and gather support all across Esharia. You know the Edehans in particular will consider it a resounding victory for their cause."

Veltar sighed and rubbed at his temples. "I told you this was a waste of time. We should be directing our efforts on tangible matters. The Unity Day celebration is two weeks away, and the Empress has all the support she needs to ratify the alliance with Ebara. Defeating that treaty must be our primary focus."

Kastrius glared at the man. They might have been political allies—at least for the time being—but that didn’t mean they had to get along. Unfortunately, the simple truth was that right now they needed each other. Veltar controlled the Balorite political faction and their considerable resources, but Kastrius had royal blood. The Senate might have been the real power in the Republic, but the people still looked to leadership from the royal family. No matter what political coup Veltar thought he might pull off, it didn’t have a prayer without true Darenthi blood on the throne.

Still, working with the man was an exercise in patience. He was nothing if not single-minded in his opposition to the Edehans in general and the Empress in particular. He couldn’t even appreciate the boon the Kirshal represented to their cause. Bremen, on the other hand, understood it well—probably too well. While all three of them worshipped Abalor in their own way, both the prince and the senator’s interests were primarily political. Bremen, however, was a True Believer. Religious zealots had always made Kastrius uncomfortable, even if they did occasionally have their uses.

Our focus hasn’t changed, but we can’t afford to let her escape, the prince said. Do your people have any leads?

Bremen nodded. My adjutant reports the expedition leader—Marek, I believe—met with a local merchant before he sent the missive. It was around the same time as yesterday’s attack on Assemblyman Naen, incidentally.

"Yes, that, Kastrius nearly spat as he glared at Veltar. You’re not going to wane my mother’s support by attacking civilians in the center of the Haven bazaar."

I had nothing to do with it, the senator insisted. Some extremist group, most likely.

Kastrius grunted. You know as well I do the Edehans will exploit the opportunity and claim that all Balorites are twisted killers.

And we will do the same the next time one of their fanatics attacks us, Veltar replied calmly. It’s called politics, my prince.

 Yes, thank you, I’m familiar with the concept, Kastrius growled. He glared at the man for a moment longer before turning back to Bremen. Did your adjutant get a name for this merchant?

Yes, Bremen told him. An Ebaran named Nathan Rook.

Veltar hissed between his teeth. Rook is no merchant.

The prince cocked an eyebrow. You know him?

He fancies himself an ‘information broker’ and sells dirty little secrets to the highest bidder. He owns a dozen front shops in the city and has an impressive network of contacts.

Kastrius pressed his lips into a thin line. Sounds exactly like a man who would recognize the value of a religious icon.

I doubt he’d put much faith in a legend, Veltar muttered.

But he assuredly understands her value to those who would, Bremen pointed out. He has a reputation as a calculating, methodical man. He’ll probably be making discreet inquiries for a while before unloading her. It should give us some time.

Some, Kastrius whispered, his eyes narrowing in thought. He turned back to his window and suddenly wished he hadn’t finished that last glass of wine. Find out where he’s holding her.

It could be dangerous. Your mother keeps a close eye on my people.

We don’t really have a choice. Just make sure they don’t do anything especially stupid.

As you wish, Bremen said. If I may be so bold, my prince, I would prefer to go to Haven and handle this myself.

Kastrius spun back around to face him. Risky. Mother will definitely be watching you.

The general smiled thinly. I can use that to my advantage. If I leave now and press hard I can arrive within two days. We can’t afford to waste time.

Agreed, Kastrius said. Good luck, then, General. Let me know when you get there.

Of course, my prince, Bremen replied with a curt nod. He glanced briefly to Veltar, then turned on a heel and left the room.

Now that we’ve dealt with that nonsense, perhaps we can focus on important matters, Veltar said tartly. We’re two weeks from a confrontation with the Empress, and you remain vulnerable. I think you’ve put off dealing with your Siphon long enough.

The prince sighed and folded his arms across his chest. I wondered when you would bring that up.

The threat is real and you know it. If your mother or any of her sympathizers manages to escape, they could kill your Siphon and—

I know how it works, Kastrius muttered, pacing off to the side. The senator was right about this, but that didn’t make it any less of a nuisance. Like most Darenthi magi, the prince could tap into the Fane by drawing upon a convicted prisoner called a Siphon. It was a brilliant workaround to the Flensing, the goddess Edeh’s lasting curse upon mortals who wished to weave her Fane. Normally a mage had to feed upon his own body to power his magic, and he could literally kill himself if he pushed too hard. The Edehans insisted that it was the natural price of power, an eternal reminder from their patron that all life was connected. A Siphon, however, allowed a mage to use another’s life energy in his stead, so to speak.

But Siphons did have their drawbacks—namely, that if either party was slain, the other would quickly follow. Fortunately, they were kept safely comatose and incarcerated inside a huge prison fortress just outside Sandratha. Under normal circumstances, the Siphons gave Darenthi commanders a very effective leash over their magi. If one of them became reckless or went rogue, the Siphon could easily be killed to eliminate the threat.

In Kastrius’s case, however, it meant his mother also had the power to kill him should he step too far out-of-line. She claimed to abhor the use of Siphons and had been gradually weaning the Republic off their use, but so far she had rather conveniently failed to remove those from her son or many of her less-than-loyal associates. As far as he knew, only the Empress herself and his sister, Tryss, had ever severed their bonds.

It’s best we waited until now so mother didn’t sniff us out, Kastrius said softly. But you’re right: I do need your help to get into the prison. At least two magi who know the breaking ritual, a stash of varium crystals, bribes for the guards…

Leave the details to me, Veltar told him. I just needed to know if you were ready.

The prince sighed. It was a high price to pay, to be sure. The Siphon granted him extreme flexibility and endurance with his power. But then, it wasn’t like he had much use for magic while exiled inside this damned tower.

I’m ready, he murmured.

Good. Then I will leave you to your preparations. I’ll be departing for Haven in the morning as well—my men will contact you shortly about your Siphon.

Fine, Kastrius said. I’ll let you know if Bremen finds anything.

The senator grunted derisively. Perhaps he’ll discover a pot of gold while he’s at it.

With that, the man strode out of the room and shut the door behind him. Kastrius gazed vacantly at the wall for a few long moments before reaching down to his desk and pouring himself another glass of wine.

In reality, he had very few preparations of his own to make. It was one of the more disconcerting elements in their little arrangement. The balance of power was not in his favor—both Bremen and Veltar had far more resources to call upon than he did. And soon his magical might would be depleted as well. His only lingering value would be the Darenthi blood in his veins. For now, at least.

But that would change. Soon the Empress and her followers would suffer for their insolence, and he would have the full power of the Kirshal at his disposal. No one in Esharia, let alone the Republic, would be able to stand against him.

Kastrius sat down in his chair and took a long sip of wine, content to dream about the future and his glorious role within it.

***

Princess Tryss Malivar lowered her left hand towards the suit of armor on the opposite side of the chamber, and a second later a roaring plume of flame flashed from her fingertips. The metal plating glowed faintly as the fire danced briefly across its surface and then vanished. Once again, it hadn’t left even a single scorch mark.

Tryss hissed in frustration. She could weave more destructive spells, but not many. She had unleashed nearly her full repertoire already—shifting the temperature from searing heat to bitter cold, magnetically ripping apart the plates of his armor, sundering the metal itself at its component level—and nothing had worked in the slightest. Now the Flensing threatened to stop her altogether. Pain throbbed up and down her limbs, and as she extended her arms she could see her veins threatening to burst beneath her skin. A thin sheen of sweat coated her brow, and even without looking in a mirror she knew she had certainly ruined this dress for the day.

Biting down roughly on her lip, she reached out to the Fane once more. Normally she was subtle, measured, as if she were gingerly dipping her hand into a tub of scalding water—but not this time. She dove in head-first, and the intensity of the heat nearly overwhelmed her. Her entire body throbbed as the Flensing took another bite, but Tryss did her best to ignore it. With practiced ease she wove the raw Fane energy into a familiar spell, and electricity crackled up and down the length of her arm. She extended her fingertips, and a bolt of lightning arced between her hand and the suit of armor—

And vanished. It should have been hot enough to melt a sheet of metal into slag or burn a naked man to a crisp. Instead the armor barely even shimmered as the energy dissipated harmlessly across its surface.

Faceless are not toys, my lady, Lepton’s voice scolded from behind her.

Tryss released her hold on the Fane but didn’t turn. No, they’re abominations. Having one less in the world would be doing it a favor.

The elderly man sighed. He is a loyal soldier of the Republic and your personal guardian. It would behoove you to show him the respect he deserves.

He’s an automaton who does what he’s told, she scoffed, waving her hand in annoyance. "And it would behoove you to address me properly."

Of course, my lady, he said plaintively. She could feel him flinch without even looking at him. I was merely making a suggestion.

Tryss let out a long, slow breath and rubbed the sweat from her forehead. She winced when she saw the throbbing veins on the back of her hand. They would settle in time, but if she had pushed much harder, the damage could have been permanent.

I should be the one apologizing, she murmured. You know I appreciate your candor.

Might I make another suggestion, then? Perhaps you should draw a bath and change before your betrothed returns from his hunt.

I’m rather certain he’ll be too tired to care.

From the hunt or from trying to convince his bride-to-be not to Flense herself to death?

Tryss couldn’t help but smile. Lepton was an impudent little man when he wanted to be, but she had always respected him for it. Well, not always, exactly, but at least since she had grown old enough to appreciate that he wasn’t just a nagging old man. Even here in Haven, a hundred miles from the Darenthi court in Sandratha, honesty was something to be appreciated. It was probably even rarer—at least at home, she only had to worry about the treachery of the court nobles and her own family. Here in Haven she had the diplomats and spies of a half dozen other nations to contend with. 

Aston doesn’t control me, she said.

So you saw fit to remind yourself of that?

Her smile widened. That was the reason, of course, even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself until just that moment. Ever since her mother had arranged this ridiculous marriage, Tryss had been stretching her limits more and more every day. It was as if she needed to remind herself that she was still in control of one aspect of her life, no matter how meager it was. It wouldn’t have been an issue if she still had her Siphon, of course, but now the Flensing was hers to face alone—and for some reason, pushing herself so close to death made her feel so much more alive. Her mother thought it was foolish and so did Lepton, and they may have even been right.

But Tryss knew it wasn’t her fault that she was trapped in the middle of one of her mother’s political stunts. Since taking power near the end of the last war, the Empress and her Edehan followers had promised to bring about an end to the Siphons. In principle, Tryss agreed with them—the very notion of leeching off another sentient being like a parasite was sickening. But she also never really appreciated the crippling limitations of the Flensing before having to face it each and every time she wove a spell.

She could deal with the pain, though. Her fiancé, on the other hand…

Is it such a crime? Tryss asked softly. I need to know that I’m still me.

Marriage doesn’t take that away from you, my lady, Lepton told her. It is a union to strengthen both partners, but that doesn’t mean you have to lose yourself.

So you say, she murmured. Your wife was kind and strong. My future husband is a simpering kreel.

Lepton sighed and rubbed at his eyes. If you give him a chance, perhaps he will come around.

He’s a torbo from a wealthy family who hasn’t worked for anything in his life, Tryss said haughtily.

And you are a Darenthi Princess born into power and prestige.

She glared at him. Who has spent fourteen years in training and was just offered a Magistrix position at the Haven Academy. Aston has done nothing. You’ll forgive me if my expectations remain low.

Perhaps that’s why all you see are his vices and not his virtues.

Bah, she grunted, waving a hand in frustration. Draw me a bath, then. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.

It is already waiting, my lady, he said.

Figures, she muttered before starting up the stairs out of the practice chamber.

Aren’t you forgetting something?

Tryss glanced down to the Faceless soldier standing in the corner, looking for all the world like a perfectly cleaned statue despite the magical barrage she had unleashed upon it. She had called it Tiber since it was given to her as a child. She had no idea what its actual name had been before the transformation.

Follow me, she commanded, fingering the control crystal in her necklace.

Yes, mistress, it replied with a hollow, metallic voice, and then did as it was ordered.

For a moment she felt a twinge of remorse for the thing. It wasn’t its—his—fault that he had been duped into undertaking the Faceless ritual to protect his country. Nearly a century’s worth of rulers had convinced thousands of men and women to do the same, separating their souls from the Fane and fusing them into their armor. As a military force, they had completely shifted the balance of power in Esharia over the last hundred years. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, they were the only reason the nation had survived this long. Besides, at least Tiber was obedient, which was more than she could say for Aston.

Bring me a tray of fruit when you have the chance, she told Lepton. Unless Aston returns first. Then wait twenty minutes.

Of course, princess.

As it turned out, twenty minutes had been exceedingly generous. Tryss had just finished her bath when Aston returned, drunk, dirty and proud of his successes on the field. He gave her a quick summary, then, in his typical boorish fashion, grabbed her by the shoulders and brought their lips together. She didn’t protest until his hands made their way down to her waist and strained against her knickers.

No, she said, pushing him away.

But you are so magnificent, my love, he cooed like a drunken fool. I’m not sure I can wait.

You’ll manage, she told him, stepping over to her dresser and throwing on a loose robe.

Aston watched her with a crass smile. He wasn’t an ugly man, at least, though he was short and already showing signs of balding in his mid-twenties. He only seemed to shave intermittently, and today obviously hadn’t been one of those times.

My friends are all quite envious, he said.

I’m sure they are, Tryss thought to herself. Most of his friends were even less cultured than he was. A side effect of Ebaran plutocracy, no doubt. Though perhaps it wasn’t such a poor tradeoff for the fools in the Darenthi court…

Aston poured himself a drink and downed half the glass in a single gulp. Father has been asking about us. He was still hoping you would be pregnant not long after the wedding.

I guess he’ll have to be patient, too. I told you I don’t want children. Not for a long while.

His eyes flicked down and he twirled his glass. I had just hoped you might change your mind. People are talking, you know.

People always talk, she reminded him, sitting at the edge of her bed and crossing her long legs. Surely you’ve been around politics long enough to know that.

It makes our marriage look even more political than it is, he said. But in this case, it’s also more…personal. They see that my fiancée, the great mage, would rather spend her days alone weaving than bear me a child.

She closed her eyes and rubbed at her forehead. By any reasonable standard he was an oaf, but he also happened to be the son of the Ebaran president. Her mother believed it was the perfect opportunity to mend relations with their southern neighbors and long-time enemies. Their marriage would be the apex of the Unity Day celebration two weeks from now, a grandiose little demonstration of the inevitable blending of cultures and bloodlines.

Just thinking about it made her nauseous. In her darker moments, she almost wondered if it would be easier to slip poison into his evening brandy or order Tiber to throw him out a window.

Gods, you almost sound like your brother, she scolded herself. As angry as she might have been, Tryss wasn’t a killer. All she really wanted was to be left alone to her studies. It didn’t seem like so much to ask, and if her brother had been more trustworthy, she might have even gotten her wish. Instead her mother knew the Republic’s future was bound up in her daughter,