KNITE:

  We headed north before we cut east. The southern edge of the capital island saw too much traffic for my liking, and cutting across the midlands held other unwelcome irritants, so my guards and I suffered the craggy hills of the northern coast towards Snowliar.

  Sentient floras, evolved beasts, and roaming marauders ran amok in the wilds of The Islands. The floras, deadly to the untrained but a tiresome nuisance to us, were a persistent annoyance. They hounded the horses as we rode, disrupted my people’s sleep when we camped, and altogether pestered us at every opportunity. The evolved beasts were a more pleasant encounter. We’d only come across one assembly of any note: a pack of wolves, their fur a deep brown, the smallest of them my weight and half again. Their leader padded into our camp with his eyes averted, his head hung low, his tail tucked between his legs, and his pack, who mirrored his supplication, straggling behind him. He lay his stomach bare at my feet. The wolf’s actions had saved his pack that day.

  Of the two bandit parties who had the misfortune of crossing our path, the first was a disappointment. I’d sensed their hideout a little ways off the northern coast, a lagoon of flatland marooned by tall outcroppings of rocks. Nature had dug a small crevice into the formation, the entrance hidden by its angle of entry and the tangle of rotting roots and brush the bandits had covered it in. The motley crew of thieves and cutthroats were weak and plentiful and entirely too cowardly to be any fun. A few fought. They died. Most surrendered. Them we left to the poor souls they’d cooped up in cages like cattle. From the screams that bid us farewell, I counted them all dead, too. From the smile on Helena’s face, so did she.

  Some of the captives shuffled after us. They spoke not a word, but each of their expressions screamed past their dirtied faces to beg for salvation, glazed eyes, sniffling noses, and quivering lips pleading for all they were worth. Most were women and children. Roche found it challenging to ignore their pleas. He insisted we provide them safe passage to the nearest free city. I insisted he went about his whims alone.

  Snowliar was in sight when we came upon the second troop of bandits. They thought flying a house flag justified their actions and saved them from being bandits. I disabused them of the notion by sentencing them in a court not their own. Roche and Helena robbed their gold and slaughtered them to the last.

  All in all, it took us five days to reach the northern coast of the capital island and the city that sat there. It's ironic they called it a free city. It was ironic they called any free city ‘free,’ but more so for this sinkhole of liberty; the place would’ve long ago fallen without the commerce of slavery. It was, therefore, fitting for its hard and callous nature to be reflected in its appearance. Built upon one of the rare flats of the capital island’s northern coast, Snowliar was a place of stone and metal, of harsh greys and pale browns, with little in the way of flags or decoration or any form of art, and without the usual bustle of life. The outer walls, by far the tallest of their structures, were made of large slabs of crude stone, giving the city the air of an oversized prison.

  We approached the southern entrance, one of only two—the other was linked to the harbor and reserved for those who traveled by ship. Archers watched us from barred arrow slits high on the wall, the sun in our eyes and to their backs. The wooden portcullis, covered in sheets of metal and wide enough to allow six battle steeds to pass side by side, creaked open as we approached. Behind it stood a squadron of soldiers dressed in studded leather. From among them, an unpleasant woman with thin eyes stepped forward.

  “Name?” she asked Sanas, who, clad in robes of scarlet, sat to my right atop a stallion of pure white seventeen hands high.

  I kicked my horse forward—a black mare as pure in color and as significant in stature as Sanas’ stallion. Delightfully aggressive, the creature strained to snap at the guard's face. I yanked on her reigns and ran a hand down her dark mane.

  “Some know me as Merkus,” I said. It was a popular name for commoners and godlings alike. “I would like to charter passage to the city of Halor for me and mine.”

  The guard turned her snarl my way, then smiled. Her snarl was ugly; her smile was uglier. “You and yours?”

  “Yes, me and mine.”

  The ugly woman nodded at Sanas. “She has the look of a godling about her.”

  “And?”

  “How is it a commoner comes to claim ownership of a godling?”

  “How is it of any of your concern.”

  “No banner?”

  “None we carry.”

  The guard captain’s smile grew, and it did not surprise me to find her more hideous for it. “Then you’re a free citizen?”

  “For today.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  I shrugged.

  “Are you traveling for trade? What city do you hail from?”

  “Again, I fail to see how that is any of your concern.”

  The woman shook her head. “You are fraying on my nerves. Are you or are you not a free citizen?”

  “As I said, we simply want to charter passage to Halor. Either you will aid in this endeavor, or you will not. Regardless, I shall not be indulging your questions.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But it is late, and no more ships will depart this today. A silver each will get you into the city.”

  More like a town, I thought. You could fit a hundred Snowliars into Halor, the smallest of Evergreen’s capitals.

  “Another will find you a room in the inn,” she continued.

  “The inn?”

  “We don’t often entertain travelers.”

  “What of slave traders and island delegates?”

  “The former have estates within the city, and the latter are invited to stay in the castle as custom dictates.”

  I reached into my cloak and threw her a gold coin. They cost me nothing. I’d long ago learned how to replicate the coins Grono created as Evergreen’s currency. “I assume that is enough for entry and an escort to the inn. I will pay them another for the rooms we’ll need.”

  The head guard turned and headed into the city without ceremony. We followed. With a wave of her hand, the soldiers—all women—marched into the deep, stone passageway beyond the gate.

  What little we saw of it, the free city of Snowliar was much the same inside as it was outside, which is to say it was abundantly grey. Walls of grey brick, cobbled streets of grey stone, roofs of grey shale. Even the wood they used was of a pale birch. No building had more than four stories, and the tall city walls loomed in every direction, melding with the sky so that even it looked grey from within the city’s confines.

  Our destination was a mere fifty paces from where we entered, a three-story building with an attached stable that was the same grey as the rest of the city.

  The head guard turned to me as we came upon the place. “The name’s Sishal.” She took out and fingered the gold coin I’d given her. “If you need anything, mention my name to any of my guard patrols, and they will bring you to me or me to you.” She was a dedicated liar. I hated liars.

  I ordered Helena to take our horses into the adjoining stables while Sanas, Roche, and I headed inside. The inn was empty of guests. None who saw the place would wonder why. The rough-stone floors were filthy and stained, the wood of the tables and chairs half rotten, and the air conquered by a stench of mold and mildew too entrenched to ever be deposed. Worst of all was the barkeep. She was one of the most revolting creatures I’d ever laid eyes upon, the Painting of a fair maiden she covered herself with useless against my sight. She was a blubbering, pustule-ridden, toothless thing with beady eyes and patchy, short-cropped hair. Admittedly, she was a rather talented Painter; only Roche and I noticed her true self.

  “Welcome,” she croaked as we came in. Sanas and Helena enjoyed a cheerful melody. Roche and I endured a guttural slobber as the creature’s wet, oversized tongue slipped and stumbled over the words.

  “I am not staying here,” Sanas said.

  Roche put a hand on her shoulder. Without the deep wrinkles, paunchy weight, hunched posture, or slow mannerisms of his disguises, he looked barely past his prime. Though, like so many of the Named, his stark white hair lent him some years. “A quarter-century in the crypts of The Bridge, and within days, you’ve reacclimated yourself to your lofty standards.”

  Sanas’ eye twitched. Roche’s busy mouth tended to run ahead of him at times. We all knew he meant nothing by it. There was but one person who cared for Sanas more than he.

  “The rooms are much better,” the creature explained. “My regulars have ruined my tavern with their nightly antics, but they seldom have reason to go upstairs. You will find the sleeping quarters clean and in good repair.”

  “We’ll see,” Sanas said. She flittered across the room and bounded up the stairs two at a time, one hand over her mouth and nose, the other pulling at her robes to spare them the greasy muck staining the floors. Roche followed close behind.

  I turned to the creature and placed a gold coin on the counter. “Four rooms for the night.”

  “Lord,” Helena called from behind me. “The horses are secure. Should I put Merkon in with you for the night?” The boy was slung over her shoulder. He’d yet to wake. Only my nightly suffusions of sensus were keeping him alive.

  “Yes,” I said. “Then you may retire.”

  ***

  They attacked an hour before dusk, long after the last of their rowdy patrons had left, long enough to think the lullaby of silence had sung us to sleep. I suppose they meant to take us straight to their docks, chained and gagged and ready to be sold.

  I had other ideas.

  I got up from the desk where I’d been preparing letters, grabbed my twin swords, and made my way down. Merkon was still in hibernation. Roche slept fitfully. As did Helena. I could hear her slow and heavy breathing through the walls. She always did find the sound of rain soothing. Sanas was still crying, muffling the sounds as best she could. I did not comfort her. Like myself, she despised lies, and only the comfort of lies might soothe her pain.

  Figures swarmed the inn. Twenty-two of them. For a group of ordinary folk, such a number was excessive. For four warriors of some repute, it was prudent. For me and mine, it was suicide. In truth, even with my true strength shackled by prudence, I alone guaranteed their failure—or deaths, if their souls allowed. But then again, they didn’t know me or mine, and thankfully, nor did they know of the promissory fetters I wore, which, more often than not, were altogether more restrictive.

  I descended the stairs. A soft glow faded up the walls, one or two of the candles in the tavern still lit. Five persons clad in a medley of greys crept by the door leading to the stables, taking pains to soften their footsteps. Another five were by the main entrance. Both groups had the same number standing outside. Waiting. Listening. Those inside the inn stilled as my blurred outline cut into the glow of the lanterns.

  Sishal sashayed in, her movements the infernal inevitability of death, all ugly and sure and dangerous. “How did you know?” she asked, cheerful arrogance lacing her every word.

  “Your questions,” I said.

  “That’s it? A few questions—questions any of the gate guards at any free cities would ask—and you suspected our intent.”

  “And the rooms were too clean.”

  “Too clean?”

  I nodded. “I imagine grime and dust are unavoidable casualties when scrubbing away the blood of defiant victims.”

  She smiled in amusement. “Anything else?”

  “Too empty.”

  “Too empty?”

  “Will you be doing that often?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Repeating my words back to me in the form of a question?”

  “Oh, how delightful. Once all is said and done, I think I’ll keep you.” Sishal brushed loose strands of damp hair from her sharp face, retying them into her short tail. “So, too clean and empty. Anything else?”

  “In a city full of slavers known to supply Halor, any man who isn't owned would, as a matter of course, be perceived as a potential slave.”

  Sishal vibrated, giddy with excitement. “I’m going to enjoy you. It's always fun to break the clever ones.”

  I salivated, imagining the feast of fear and pain I could wring from her soul. Black as it was, my promises remained quiet at the thought. Hunger flooded my mouth with anticipation. I swallowed. Hard.

  “Afraid?” Sishal asked. A similar hunger glinted in her ravening eyes. “Where is the reckless bravery that allowed you to run into a trap you saw coming?”

  Unleashing my soul was out of the question. Whoever felt it would have to die. The prospect was endearing, yet I would not kill them all; there were those among them too innocent to find death by my hand. It's funny how the soul can tell apart obligation and cruelty, even when the act itself is evil, even when the mind confuses one for the other. Patience, I told myself, taking a deep breath. My feast will come.

  “Seeing as you hold the city’s entrance,” I said, “I presume you carry some device that allows you to converse with the city’s ruler?” There was no need to presume. I could feel the threads of sensus.

  Sishal furrowed her brow. “What of it?”

  “And seeing as your mistress’ dealings account for a notable portion of Halor’s slave trade, I presume the device can communicate more than sound?” Again, there was no need to presume. I could feel the matrix of Meaning on the device and smelled my brother's hand in its creation. A commendable acquisition on their part. Grono never sold his wares. What need has a god for money? No, his creations were far more expensive than mere coins, especially since gold was never more than a pulse of sensus away from him.

  Sishal’s furrowed brow evolved into anger. “I am beginning to find you more tiresome than telling. What’s your business with my master.” My amusement must have been apparent because her sword slid out, the metal silent against the hardened leather of its sheath. “You think yourself in a position to be amused?”

  “A slave who owns slaves is an amusing paradigm, don’t you think? So yes, I find you quite amusing. And yes, I find I’ve not been struck so witless by your attempts at intimidation to let the irony go unappreciated.”

  Sishal was a natural Vapor; her namat needed no matrix for the fingerbreadth of wind that sprang to coat the edge of the sword she swung at me.

  I covered the tips of two fingers in sensus and pushed against the flat of her blade, dispelling the wind matrix and deflecting her swing to my left. Her surprise at my skill didn’t slow her next attack. She went low and used the momentum to rotate and bring her leg around in a low sweep meant to take my legs from under me.

  I stepped back. A sound choice on my part.

  A controlled gale aided her into a second rotation, and she swept her sword up from my left. Finding me sure-footed. She’d planned for me to jump, meaning to cut at me while I was airborne and less able to evade. A kick to her wrist put a stop to her scheme. Momentum stolen, she landed hard and prone.

  I don’t think Sishal expected to lose. I don’t think her underlings did, either. They watched me, calm and assured, waiting for their leader to reveal her embarrassing fall to be nothing but a ploy. I think they were used to her playing such games because she enjoyed toying with her victims as much as I enjoyed savoring mine.

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  The three weakest attackers fainted when the raw tentacle of sensus I lashed at them broke through their aura, past the protections of their trinkets, and bruised their souls. I took another four out of the fight with the small knives I threw at their feet. The blades dug through flesh, bone, and stone, pinning them where they stood. None looked ready to pull it out and face me.

  The innkeeper was next. A flick of my wrist sent a small blade through her right eye. She died. She had to. Thankfully, the black of her soul permitted her death; she’d heard Roche’s comment about Sanas’ imprisonment. Her illusion shimmered out of existence as she slumped to the ground. Rows of shelves followed, jugs, bottles, cups, mugs, and bowls crashing to the floor and shattering into shards.

  The doors roared open, and reinforcements streamed in.

  “Do you want your guards slaughtered for the chance at such meager sums?” I asked.

  Sishal looked up at me, a cruel lust in her eyes. She’d shifted into a crouch, ready to pounce and deliver her violence. “One clash, and you think yourself the victor?”

  I looked down at her. “Quiet, child. I’m trying to have a conversation.”

  “Your slow death will bring me untold joy,” she said. “So slow you might die of old age before I am done.” Excitement rolled off her. Mine tried to rise in response, but I pushed it back down.

  “You’d best speak up,” I said. “I can’t keep from decimating your numbers for much longer.”

  Just as Sishal tensed, meaning to spring into action, a voice came from a green gem pinned to her collar.

  “Stay your hand.” The womanly timbre of the voice, for it was distinctly feminine, crackled with age. Everyone froze. “Dear guest, I invite you to my humble abode, whereupon your arrival, I will offer you my deepest apologies and, if you allow me to be so arrogant as to assume myself capable, provide you sufficient compensation for the error I’ve made and the mercy with which you responded.”

  “Master,” Sishal screamed. “I want him! He’s—”

  “Bring my guest to the grand hall,” the voice said, cutting off her protest.

  “No,” I said. “As I’ve explained to your hound, we but want passage to the island of Halor.”

  “Very well,” the voice said. “I will send an escort within the hour. They will lead you to the docks and provide the funds for whichever ship captain you find an agreement with. Again, my apologies for the disturbance.” As if the stone could direct the voice, her following words fell on Sishal. “Return to the gate. By my order, no harm or insult is to befall this man and his party.” Then the voice, somehow a physical presence of its own, departed.

  Sishal went red with the effort to follow her orders. I’d caught her unaware, and she was teeming to prove she could take me. Such an insult pained her far worse than a sword to the gut. Above all, whether she knew it or not, she lusted after a chance to break apart my sanity and reaffirm her own. Better foes than you have tried, I thought. I wished her the opportunity and relished how she’d fracture when her efforts bore no fruit, for I could not be broken. Lucky for her, I hadn't the time. Not yet.

  Fear was what moved Sishal in the end. I could see it dig through her desire, strong as it was, and make its way to feed her obedience. Still, the bloodthirsty hound of a woman lingered by the door, the last to leave. Her hand gripped the doorframe, the wood splintering under her crushing hold.

  “Another time,” she promised.

  “I look forward to it,” I said, and I meant it. Evil like hers was a rare delicacy.

  ***

  The captain was from the far eastern lands we knew so little about. Like most of her people, few though I’ve encountered, she was religious about dressing as scantily as she was allowed to get away with; only propriety and her love for profit clothed the petite woman in the loincloth and chest wrap she donned. I found I didn’t much mind their nakedness.

  “A half-gold each,” she said, waving and directing her crew as they tugged and prodded chained men into the ship’s hold.

  “Each?” I asked, amused.

  The short captain craned her neck to look up at me. “For the risk of bringing in three free men, yes, a half-gold each.”

  “And our horses?”

  She shook her head. “Five. Each.”

  “And how, pray tell, did you come by that estimation?”

  “I hate horses. They’re bulky, flatulent, and entirely too fond of shiting where they stand. Besides, I’ll have to leave behind some of my merchandise, and since I’ve already purchased them, they’ll cost me twofold in storage and late fees.”

  “Fine,” I said, shrugging.

  “Five horses and five persons, then?”

  “Just the one horse. We’ve already sold the others.”

  She nodded. “Seven golds and five silvers, then?”

  I waved over our escort. The woman, her skin cracked like dry earth, stalked over from beside the wide stairs leading up to the city.

  “Eight, according to the captain,” I told her.

  “Silver?”

  I shook my head.

  The escort regarded the captain with the same wooden expression she'd worn since she’d collected us from the inn. “For a cargo of five?”

  The tanned captain looked between the soldier and me like a child about to be reprimanded for some act of mischief. “And a horse.”

  “Reestimate the cost, Captain Jule. Remember, this fare is being commissioned by Mistress Stone herself.”

  The captain sighed in defeat. “I suppose it is only proper to count my trading rights as payment enough.”

  The escort nodded and turned to me. “I believe my duty is done. On behalf of my mistress, I bid you farewell.”

  Within a quarter turn, we’d embarked and set sail. I think the captain had planned to put us in the hold. Because of Sanas’ adamant refusal, she ended up giving us use of the berth deck, forcing her disgruntled crew to bunk beside the slaves. Roche found their complaints amusing and, being who he was, felt the urge to make his amusement known. The man would be more trouble than he was worth if he wasn’t worth so much.

  Settled, we set sail for Halor.

  Half a day into our journey, in the calm of night, Merkon awoke dazed and confused. He barked incoherent ramblings and swung at anyone who tried to nurse him. When he tired, we gave him water and fed him fish, which troubled his constitution to no end. He dripped with sweat for hours and spewed back all our efforts. Finally, deep in the night, overworked by his mental and physical woes, he fell asleep. When next he woke, late the morning after, his fever had broken, and his mind had shaken off most of its deliria.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Roche, Helena, and I turned to the boy. Sanas was on the upper deck. She had refused to come down. I think the berth reminded her too much of The Bridge. From how she hugged herself, rocking back and forth, the upper deck, with its view of the Dead Sea, wasn’t much better.

  “Why?” Merkon repeated. He stared at the ceiling and made no move to sit up from his sweat-stained bedroll.

  “Because you were unlucky in birth,” I said.

  Tired, stricken eyes searched my expression. I could see the boy weighing my words, a slow dance of meanings working their way across his thoughts, transforming confusion into understanding. “My parents—”

  “Are not your parents,” I said.

  Merkon stiffened. His emotions did the opposite. I decided to comment before his anger bubbled to the surface and gave thought to the assignment of blame.

  “Their child died in his cot. They did not know. In place of his corpse, I gave them a strong, dutiful son. I gave you a doting family when you would’ve had nothing but a torturous childhood. I think all but Lorail should thank me for the kindness.”

  “Lorail is…” He choked on the thought.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Then I am…”

  “A Fiora.”

  “And you took me from—”

  “The hardship of her attention.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you already have the answer to that question?”

  “No,” Merkon said. “You told me why I should accept your actions with gratitude, not why you chose to play righteous god with my life.”

  I smiled. I knew I liked the boy. Roche, lying on a hammock and carving a flower from a block of pale wood, tittered in agreement.

  “Why am I here?” Merkon winced as he shifted into a sitting position. “I am a mere guard—an inexperienced, weak guard at that. Why am I not dead?”

  “You underestimate yourself. You mightn't have any worthwhile training in sensus, but your martial skills are laudable. Nevertheless, it was not your skill but who you are that placed you in these circumstances. What is it you last remember?”

  “Our duel, then… the rush of water.” Shadows of fear crossed his face. “I tried to fight it, but the water was dense. Too dense. I knew I was in the Dead Sea. No matter how hard I pushed and pulled and clawed at the water… Eventually, the water… I tried to cough it out. I remember the bubbles brushing against my face, blinding me. Then darkness came, and I knew no more.”

  I looked over at Helena. She sat crosslegged, crushing herbs in a small mortar and pestle. She had enough wherewithal to avoid my gaze.

  “I apologize for my incompetent servant,” I said. Helena bristled. If nothing else, she’d long been a proud woman. I could not hold it against her; I gave her the source of her pride. “Her mission was to orchestrate your death so others would think me gone. She’d taken some liberties with how she went about the task.”

  “How could my death help you disappear?”

  I got up and kneeled beside him. A hand to the back of his head, a brief flash of sensus, and the mask he never knew he’d always worn crumbled away in a mass of facial twitches. I had deactivated the disguise before my arrest so his supposed death put an end to my alias, reactivated it when we left the city so others would not take note, and eradicated it now because we were far enough from any who knew this version of me that it didn’t matter.

  Merkon’s fingertips explored the unfamiliar contours of his face. “What have you done to me.” Features I’d worn for the last eighteen cycles gazed back at me. The hair remained light brown, though its soft curls straightened to dangle down to his nose. His eyes, now a little closer to his hooked nose, had brightened from umber to tawny.

  I took out a small mirror and handed it to him. “As the price for the death I spared you, I borrowed something of yours. This is me giving it back.”

  ***

  It took two and a half days for us to get to the shores of my sister’s Island. We disembarked a little ways off the coastal city of Haloryarey. Despite its derivative nature—the city’s name translated to ‘little Halor’ in the ancient language—and general poverty, as one of only two landing points and the place of choice for priming slaves, the city, behind the isle's capital itself, was the largest settlement in Lorail’s domain.

  We marched up a winding road amid packed carts, some carrying grain and livestock, many full of slaves, and all led by women. Roche and I trailed behind the horse, hoods up, heads down, and trying our best to appear submissive. Merkon, whose weakness demanded he ride my mare, earned glowers and murmurs for daring to partake in a privilege banned to men of The Island of Betters. Only the presence of Helena and Sanas leading the horse prevented those glowers from swelling into action. I was glad the journey had tamed the mare’s temperament for a time. Seasickness had leached away her fractious energy.

  Past the last bend of the beaten road, with no outer walls or gates to hide its form, the city lay sprawled before us. The soil here was dead, stiff, and lacked any greenery but for = stubborn clumps of dry weeds whose thirst had turned them into brittle, bent canes of amber. Low sandstone buildings, their imperfection indicative of having been mundanely constructed, spread along wide streets of packed earth, none more than two floors. Despite its copious population, few of the inhabitants walked the streets. And no wonder. The subjugation of slaves was best done out of earshot, which in this case meant deep underground.

  Helena found a horse trader operating her business on an isolated field on the edge of the city. The trader, a squat woman whose thick, compressed stature seemed ill-suited to her profession, came out of the stables to meet us.

  I watched absentmindedly, my mind focused on a hooded figure skulking in the shadows of the nearest buildings. A curiosity, to be sure. They’d been trailing us ever since we’d disembarked from Captain Jule’s vessel. Why? I’d find out.

  “What can I get you?” the horse trader asked.

  “Four horses,” Sanas said.

  The horse trader wiped her hands on the equally dirty rag hanging from her belt. “Preferences?”

  “Geldings of stout constitutions,” Sanas said.

  The woman glanced over Sanas’ shoulder, frowning when her eyes found Merkon atop my mare. “I can get you a cart for your men if need be.”

  Sanas shook her head. “No need.”

  “Are you sure it is wise to let your slaves ride horses?”

  Sanas tensed. She’d abhorred slavery even before she spent a lifetime as a slave to the Research Institute. “And if I was?”

  The woman offered nothing but a halfhearted shrug as a protest. “New to Halor, I take it. No business of mine what you let your slaves do, but I’d be remiss not to remind you where you are.”

  The hooded figure began to move away from us.

  I leaned in to whisper in Sanas’ ear. “We have a shadow. Take whatever horses are available and ride west. I shall find you when I’ve unveiled the identity our mystery pursuer. Now, nod as if you're permitting some request of mine. It wouldn’t do for the trader to think me an out-of-control slave.”

  “Be careful,” Sanas whispered back.

  I turned into an empty street and took to the thatched roofs. Traffic was thin, and a man running through the streets would not wait long to be detained. My target walked a convoluted route of alleys and intersections, venturing ever deeper into the city. I tried to touch their soul and see beyond the emotions my soulsight revealed to me, but the dark hood hid more than just their face. Unsurprising. On an island full of Augers, no one dared leave their soul out for plunder.

  After a lengthy chase, the figure broke into a large square, the area unusually quiet. I knew better. No soul escaped my sight. I dropped from a single-story building of brick and strolled into the open space where the cowled figure stood waiting.

  “Fast in body but slow in mind,” she said, lowering her hood. Captain Jule. “Like a wild stallion unaware he is being led by the reins. Gods, I hate horses.”

  I began to strip away my weapons. Fleeing was out of the question. I’d been caught—on purpose—and, in truth, had but two viable options left to me now that I’d gotten this far into the trap they’d laid: fight and be captured or submit and be captured. There was a third course of action, but it was as undesirable as it was conceivable. I chose to obey. On occasion, my promises seemed too heavy a burden. But the thought was transient, so fleeting as to be half-complete; I need only ever glimpse the consequences to reharden my resolve.

  I dropped my twin swords. My other blades followed, clattering atop one another. Once the last of my weapons lay before me, I fell to my knees. Jule did not comment, but her smirk remained. Only the thought of making her death slow and painful kept my thirst for her at bay.

  “Maybe not that slow,” she said.

  “How?” I asked. “All the other captains were clear in their duplicity—I could smell their greed as if their intent was fresh manure piled at my feet on a humid summer day. You, on the other hand, seemed fond of coin but otherwise more… scrupulous. Yet I was wrong. I am rarely wrong.” I did not mention her soul being different from the one I’d met in Snowliar. Darker and far more stained.

  “Superior skill can take—”

  “Spare me your games,” I said. Jule flinched at that, and I released a slow breath to calm my urges. “You’ve won. Answers will cost you nothing.”

  She grinned proudly, happy to brush past her spike of fear. “My namat is a rather useful sort. Particularly for—”

  Guards interrupted any exposition she might’ve offered. They gushed out of the surrounding buildings, dozens of them, their hooded cloaks wrapped around their dark-blue uniforms, their weapons drawn, their matrixed charged. I was surrounded. Forty wasn’t so many, but…

  Their leader separated from the crowd and ambled forward, her fur-trimmed armor drawing in the late afternoon sunlight. She gazed at me behind the narrow slit of her helmet. “Broken before capture? My mistress will not be pleased.”

  “Not my problem,” Jule said. “I get paid for delivery, and now that he’s in your custody…”

  The slave trader strode away, barging past a pair of guards to leave the encirclement. I stared after her with fantasies of how I’d dance her on the edge of death, of letting her befriend pain as it took her on a slow journey into madness.

  “Arse on heels,” the armored woman commanded.

  I did as she asked. “No need to raise your voice.”

  Her gauntleted fist struck me on the jaw. The matrix-carved metal bent on impact, and she pulled her hand back with a hiss. I, of course, hadn't moved.

  “Fucking Reapers,” she hissed. “You’ll pay for that.”

  “There’s really no need. I am, for now, committed to obedience.”

  Her hand reached into the folds of her uniform and pulled out a slave collar. The intricate matrixes on its surface gleamed menacingly. I grimaced at the sight.

  Metal bands snapped shut around my neck, shutting off my sensus. Next, my captor called for rope. One of her people handed her a bundle of corded twine. She looped it around my wrists, pulled it stiff, tied a series of knots, then grinned at me. There’s a certain look sadists get when they're about to indulge. I knew the look intimately. So, too, was I familiar with the particular brand of pleasure their souls emitted in anticipation of fulfilling their vice, an oozing, salivating aura of foulness. My captor reeked.

  She drove her fist into my stomach and struck the air from my lungs, her physical strength impressive for a Halorian.

  “You will pay for that,” I groaned.

  “Silence.” She turned back to her subordinates. “Bring me my horse!”

  ***

  The horse came to an abrupt stop. Momentum dragged me across and over hard-packed earth and sharp gravel. Clothes ruined, ribs bruised and broken, my left wrist dislocated, and a nasty collection of cuts and scrapes decorating my front, I decided the helmeted woman would die.

  Someone heaved me to my feet. Two someones. One on either side. Head hung low, feet dragging, I was hauled past a set of gates. We stopped. My carriers let go. I hit the ground, the rough, coarse fragments of stone and rock digging into my hands and face. I looked up. We’d arrived at a beautiful mansion at the edge of the cliff. It was four stories of marble—the only building with more than two floors. Surrounding the path I lay on were beds of flowers and evenly cut grass, and beyond, a line of trees circled the inner perimeter of the outer walls—the only plant life I’d seen since stepping into the city. A sensual woman dressed in a silken dress of deep blue stood between two magnificently carved pillars that marked the edge of the vast portico. An older man stood by her side, his back ever so slightly bent forward in that constant bow slaves were instructed to maintain.

  The woman in blue stepped toward me as I perused my surroundings. “They tell me you’re a slave I might be willing to own. Care to tell me why?”

  I hopped to my feet. There was a cut on the inside of my cheek, filling my mouth with blood. I spat it at her feet. She giggled a little—an odd thing for a woman as old as her. It was one of the many foibles she adopted in pursuit of emulation. I was glad Roche was not there to see her wicked grin. Much of his pain was wrapped up in a smile all too similar.

  “I suspect my favorite acolyte was rather upset about having to let you go,” the godling said. “She loves a challenge almost as much as I do.”

  I sighed. I should’ve known. My niece had always favored the more volatile sort, hence Sishal.

  “What are you worth?” Lira asked. “I might enjoy conquering you, but I prefer it when my leisurely pursuits gift me with more than just pleasure.”

  I stayed silent.

  Lira turned back to her slave. “Danar. Was Jule expecting me to be impressed by his resistance alone?”

  The man stepped forward and bowed deeper. “Captain Jule’s messenger said he was sent by Stone, Master. Personally.”

  “Ahh, I see. So the crone herself has deemed him worthy.” Lira turned back to me. “Crowol?”

  “She was there, Mistress,” the slave answered, “in case the matter had escalated. She has, however, already returned to her quarters.”

  The guard, who’d come off her horse and knelt on one knee, spoke up. “Might I speak, Mistress?”

  Lira nodded her assent. “Speak.”

  “Although we captured him without incident, he did exhibit a control and capacity for raw sensus that dwarfs my own.”

  Lira scoffed. “My little Ralaha, that does not mean as much as you seem to think.”

  The guard bowed deeper. “As you say, Mistress. I meant to say I think his abilities could, if barely, contend with Captain Crowol’s.”

  Lira quirked a brow at that. “Really? My Crowol? If that were true, I reckon he’d certainly have attempted an escape. Oh well, I suppose we’ll see. Danar, take him to the training pens. I will see about uncovering the truth of it when he has had time to ripen.”

  Danar hoisted me onto his shoulder with little effort. He lugged me around the mansion on a smooth mosaic depicting harems of men, then into a small building at the back of the rear garden. An underground staircase spiraled down into darkness. With every step, his shoulder dug into my ribs. One such step pushed a broken rib hard enough to puncture a lung. If he’d heard my wheezing, he made no mention of caring. Every ring of stairs met us with a Tunnel. The first three were full of muffled moans and the stench of sweat. Whatever sounds came from the fourth were subdued by the screams of the fifth and sixth. There, the air was thick with the scent of fresh blood. The seventh, despite the cries of the floors above, was eerily silent. Here lay my destination.

  Danar strode a little way into the tunnel, opened a metal door, snatched off my slave collar, and threw me into a room barely big enough for me to lie in. My back hit the far wall a moment before the door slammed shut.

  I slid to the floor. Nothingness enveloped me. There was no smell, no sound, no light. When I spoke, the words were plucked from the air before they reached my ears. A skeleton cage, then. A good one. Not perfect, mind you, for whoever had built it was far from comparable to my brother, but it was good. I remained where I lay, closed my eyes, and consigned myself to wait.

  Everyone always thought I had a grand plan. I didn’t. I never did. What I had—and have—was the ability to adapt and adjust as needed. Whenever I succeeded, others saw the fruition of a thorough strategy. I think they undersell my talent and overestimate my mysticism. Complex schemes, such as they accuse me of, require everyone and everything to adhere to the limits of expectations. In a world full of chaos, a strategy would necessitate the power of a god. There are no gods, and none of those I’ve met who proclaim divinity possess the gift of omniscience. So without certainty, without true gods or deities, and when all else seems against me, my talent reigns supreme.

  My niece would not wait long to suffer this gift of mine.